Free The Adventure at Baskerville Hall & Other Cases by Kate Lear Page A

amusement as he simultaneously turned out the contents of his pockets onto the sideboard, examined the afternoon's post and cleaned the table of food as thoroughly as, I daresay better than, the Biblical plague of locusts. When he was finished I had expected him to collapse into an armchair and tell me about his day, but instead he paced our rooms restlessly, a cup of tea cradled in one hand. There was something odd about his agitation, and so although I well knew that wild horses could not extract information from him before he was ready to divulge it, I nonetheless queried, "Holmes, is everything quite all right?"
    "Why yes, perfectly fine."
    But he would not meet my eyes, continuing to stand at the window looking down at the street with one hand drumming gently against the window frame. Clearly everything was not fine, but with his head turned away from me I could not see his expression. What I could see, with dizzying clarity, was the long line of tendons in his neck as they disappeared beneath the worn, unbuttoned shirt collar, the point in the hollow of his jaw where his pulse fluttered, and the narrow wrist exposed by the cuff that had fallen back from the arm now braced on the window frame. I felt a stirring of interest in my loins and hastily stood up, crushing my cigarette out and throwing the end into the grate. I reached determinedly for my suddenly ebbing will-power and told myself that I had best gather my things to leave, otherwise I would be late.
    "You look particularly splendid this evening, Watson."
    At my movement Holmes had turned from his contemplation of the London streets (ever fascinating, I grant, but hardly warranting such minute inspection at that moment) to myself and was looking me over with undisguised appreciation, which flickered into amusement as I felt my face flush in response. He approached me, brushed a piece of non-existent lint off my shoulder, and kissed me suddenly and forcefully. I responded instantly, opening my mouth to him, and when he pulled away a few breathless minutes later, the desultory invitation from my old colleagues suddenly seemed more tenuous than ever.
    "Would you like me to stay?" I asked, my voice rasping slightly.
    "Not for the world, my dear fellow." He smiled at me. He had brought a hand up to the side of my face and now his thumb caressed my flushed mouth. "I am afraid I have been neglecting you shamefully this week, and you must surely be bored out of your wits by now. But I would like you to recall that you are spoken for, when you receive invitations from numerous ladies and green-carnationed young dandies this evening. I've half a mind to come along to defend your honour, you know."
    I could not keep a foolish smile from my face as he went into his bedroom and I moved towards the door to leave our sitting-room. However, on my way I happened to glance at the collection of objects that Holmes had extracted from his pockets. Among the peculiar assortment was a package loosely wrapped in soft cloth, about 6 inches in length and an inch or two in diameter. The approximate dimensions, in fact of a syringe or a bottle of cocaine solution. It had been some time since I had seen the red morocco case whose appearance I dreaded so much, but my suspicions were naturally aroused. As was my curiosity, for while I have written that the dimensions were approximately those of a syringe, it was only approximately and therein lay the puzzle. What in the world could Holmes have picked up that bore such a close resemblance to one of the instruments of his self-poisoning and, more importantly, what new and potentially life-threatening course of action was he planning now? Surely if it was something very private of whose existence I was not meant to know then he would not have left it lying upon the sideboard – Sherlock Holmes may be the most untidy man in London but he is also one of the most intelligent.
    But I must stop trying to excuse my actions, for to whom exactly am I