Elementary

Image: Olga Tereshenko Artistry

“Get me out of here Watson,” he said calmly as he reached for his Moroccan leather briefcase, lifting a wooden briar pipe between his lips only to stare at the A Passing Storm painting in the corner of the room.

Dr. John Watson aggressively stomped his antler-handled cane towards him well-aware it was merely a psychological condition. “We have yet to stumble upon a stimulating case, but you still refuse to do a minor deed for Mrs. Hudson!? And get you out of what exactly? I’ll have you know this generous lady lets you proclaim 221B Baker Street yours as if it were some fancy office we’ve established. The least you could do is help her,” argued Watson.

“Get me out of this burdensome obligation I feel towards this woman, who rarely does her job as our landlord. I shall not expend my time and energy for her granddaughter’s foolish blunder,” Holmes snapped uncomfortably. The French Morbier grandfather clock struck noon as gentle footsteps progressed up the spotless mahogany staircase into their abode. It was Mrs. Hudson in her blue silk Victorian gown, a sweet yet wealthy old lady with only a frown to greet Holmes and Watson.

As she stepped further into the room with her tray of afternoon tea and sliced cucumber sandwiches Mrs. Hudson said, “Sherlock, I beg of you to find Moriarty and dispel our distress. This household struggles to exist peacefully without knowing his whereabouts at all times. I myself have delayed my daily errands to address this matter.” Sherlock Holmes reluctantly signaled Watson to the door as he placed his afternoon tea aside and grabbed his charcoal Burberry trench coat and cashmere scarf.

As Holmes rushed out the door with his pipe, Watson mumbled from behind, “Unbelievable. He wouldn’t listen to me, but he allows some afternoon tea to be the deciding factor. For God’s sake Holmes, wear the damn hat!” Sherlock fixated his eyes and mind on Baker Street which seemed endless, frozen in time as Watson’s voice continued to scold him in the distance and the nippy air brushed against his face.

11:39 AM. Watson’s vexing presence enters the room to explain Moriarty is nowhere to be found. Judging by the black tea stain on his left breast pocket, he must have been in the kitchen downstairs with Mrs. Hudson committing the same mistake I did by consuming that horrendous afternoon tea. The meal was also tasteless and cold meaning Mrs. Hudson was not putting forth her ordinary effort. She must have made the sandwich well before the tea even though she knows I prefer it in the opposite sequence. She could have been speaking with Mrs. Bedford next door… but no no she sets aside time for that after Watson and I are off investigating. Something is out of place. Moriarty must have been a nuisance earlier today when Mary was sent off for her schooling. School! Moriarty must have followed Mary to school, but why?

“Watson! Summon a carriage,” shouts Sherlock with enthusiasm to solve Mrs. Hudson’s predicament quickly. Trotting down Baker Street’s uneven cobblestone road and through a crowd of Englanders, the driver of an enclosed, horse-drawn carriage stops in front of the residence in awe of his passenger.

“Pardon me Dr. Watson, is that him? Mr. Holmes, is that really you? It’s an honor sir,” the excited carriage driver says looking through his rear window.

An impatient Watson replies, “We simply require transportation from here to the Chesterbrook Academy please. No unnecessary attention and you will be compensated for your services.”

How unappealing, Moriarty is making this dilemma far too predictable. What could have been his justification for this? Making a decorated veteran such as Watson as anxious as a canine without its master and driving Mrs. Hudson mental.

Watson and Holmes observe numerous stone chimneys contribute to the noticeable pollution in London. Young paperboys ran from bakery to bakery flashing The Daily Telegraph distracting the adults from impoverished children stealing the fruits of their labor. Finally, the carriage arrives at Great Titchfield Street in West London, in front of a C-shaped building two stories high with a vast lawn and a walk path to the main doors.

“Private detective Sherlock Holmes, and this is my acquaintance Dr. John Watson. Have you seen a miniscule Victorian Pug within your premises? I fear he may have wandered onto your property in search of its owner’s granddaughter,” says a curious Sherlock to the amused headmaster seated behind his large cherry wood desk.

“Yes, as a matter of fact he is with all the children in the playground as we speak,” responds the headmaster. As the three gentleman traveled to the courtyard, Holmes spoke of his daily life as a high-functioning sociopath with the headmaster while Dr. Watson harbored a rigid face eager to secure Moriarty. Soon enough, a pair of large, dark eyes with a cream coat and a tightly-curled tailed appeared at their feet.

With a smirk on his face Holmes shifts his attention to his relieved partner and says, “Elementary, my dear Watson. Moriarty will bring us no further trouble.”