The Sherlock Holmes Canon · Chat

Mrs. Hudson stood on the steps, clutching the newly replaced doorplate, as the floorboards upstairs creaked once more. That young man named Holmes stayed up half the night playing his violin and splashing sulfuric acid over the fireplace. The newly arrived Dr. Watson seemed sensible enough, yet he hadn't complained last night either—he had merely carried a cup of tea upstairs from below. Watson dragged the last trunk into the bedroom, only to see his roommate leaning over the windowsill, gazing at the rooftops across the street. Holmes did not even turn around. "That memoir of yours has a clerical error on page thirty-seven—you wrote a date one day earlier than the actual event. Incidentally, your left arm still aches on overcast days; it will likely rain within three days." Watson gripped the handle of his trunk, recalling that they had only met for the very first time yesterday. At the street corner, Tommy the newsboy was stacking a pile of *The Evening Standard* onto the counter. He caught a glimpse of a tall, lean figure flashing past the curtains of 221B. Tommy did not know his name, only that this gentleman had given him three extra pence when buying a paper last week. As for Holmes himself—he had just shut Watson's book, having written on the flyleaf: "A man worthy of friendship." Below, the scuffing of Mrs. Hudson's slippers, the thud of Watson moving his trunks, and the clatter of carriages rolling over wet cobblestones all wove together in his mind into a crystal-clear web.