Warlock Holmes--A Study in Brimstone Read Free Page A

said, with more relish than I felt.
    “Then, Stamford, you stand unbound,” said Holmes with a dismissive wave.
    Stamford released a profound sigh, turned to me, grasped both my hands and said, “Dr. Watson! Thank you! Oh, by God, thank you! And… I’m sorry.”
    With that, he turned and fled the room. Holmes watched him go with a knowing grin, and then turned his gaze on me. Strangest thing, his eyes grew softer and his smirk transformed into a genuine smile.
    “Yes. Thank you, Dr. Watson,” he said. “I am an excellent judge of character and I can tell already that you are perhaps the most suitable companion I might have found in all this wide city. I am glad of you. I am… not well suited to being left alone for any great period of time.”
    We shook hands and parted. I had more than ten hours to fill before midnight and precious little to do. I forced my feeble legs to drag me back to the Strand, packed my few possessions into two steamer trunks, cajoled the landlord to have them delivered to Baker Street the next day, and sat down to rest. I left for Baker Street early, lest my progress was slower than hoped. On the way out, it occurred to me to scan the grounds for Holmes’s unique red puddle. I found none.
    I arrived shortly before midnight to find Holmes standing just inside the threshold of his rooms, expounding on how glad he was that I had come. As eager as he seemed to welcome me, he nonetheless stood in the doorway—all but a door himself—barring me entry until the clock in the hall struck the hour.
    I was weary with walking and almost broke my neck, tripping backwards over the threshold as I entered. Nevertheless, I was thrilled when I saw the place. I had not thought to inquire as to furniture and indeed, if there had been none, I was scarce in a position to remedy the situation. Happily, I entered a well-appointed sitting room—not ostentatious, not cramped. There was a dining table and chairs set by the small back windows, and before the front window that looked out onto Baker Street were two overstuffed armchairs and a small sofa. They sat before a clean brick hearth upon a tasteful rug (which I admired, despite the fact it was clearly Afghan). Off the main room was a hallway, which ended in a bathroom with—to my great relief—indoor plumbing. On opposite sides of the hallway stood two doors. The bedrooms I presumed. I inquired as to which room was mine.
    “Ah, I am only just arrived myself,” Holmes said, “so I am not yet installed. You may take whichever you please.”
    As I examined them, my heart fell. On the Baker Street side, the room was large, airy and luxurious. The room across from it might easily have been mistaken for a closet, if it were not for the fact that it
had
a closet. There was no fireplace in the small room and only one tiny window, which gave no visible sign that it could even be opened. The room must have been designed by a sadist—sure to be sweltering in summer, freezing in winter and cramped all year round. 221B, it seemed, had been intended to accommodate one gentleman and one wretched slave. Which room did I prefer? Of course, there could be only one answer.
    And yet, my total contribution to this venture was to be one sovereign. Ever. Just one. I took a deep, doleful breath and announced that the smaller room was ideal for my needs.
    Warlock’s face drew into worried lines.
    “You may have your choice, of course,” he said, “but if one is as good as the other, to you… well… I would be obliged if I might be allowed that room.”
    “The smaller? That one?” I asked, incredulous.
    “I have always preferred having walls close by me,” he said. “And besides, that large room has a western window! Oh, I do not care for so much light, Watson. I don’t know how I’d abide it. I know we have only just met, but… you would have my enduring thanks if…”
    Scarcely believing my luck, I entered into by far the more luxurious of the two rooms and flung