THE SIGNS OF THE FOUR

A Victorian Sherlolly Story

By Emma Lynch

A/N:

This is my entry for the Sherlolly Big Bang Challenge on Tumblr. The artwork featured is part of the amazing set of four pictures done for the story by kiwigirl188 and is featured in full on AO3. Many, many thanks to her and to my fantastic Beta, Sarah Wicks, who worked so hard with my dodgy punctuation and made some sterling suggestions - brilliant ladies!

This is a follow on story to The Tell-Tale Heart, but can also be read as a stand alone. The characters are BBC Sherlock, but veneered over slightly with a patina of Victorian manners and etiquette. Let's face it, Sherlock is Sherlock, in any time zone. :)

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable."
― C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

Prologue

by John H Watson, M.D.

There are four kinds of love.

Classics scholars will attest that the ancient Greeks decreed such an effulgent, dynamic and world-turning emotion could not be contained in mere word of four letters – ergo, there must be four definitions to encompass such a mighty sentiment, and they are listed thus:

Storge: a love derived from familial bonds; given naturally and without question. This kind must come from the heart.

Eros: a love also termed as romance; shown through sexual and irrational desire. This kind must come from the body.

Philia: a love given in friendship, and often involving unquestioning sacrifice and loyalty. This kind must come from the mind.

Agape: a gift of love; a universal, loving kindness and empathy for others which is both selfless and unconditional. This kind of love must come from the soul, and lives forever.

Indeed, there are four kinds of love, and their existence on this earthly plane of ours is visible each and every day, most particularly to those who have the eyes and heart to see them. My account, laid out below, gives narration to one of the more singular adventures belonging to my lifelong friend and companion, Sherlock Holmes. Amongst the criminal attributes, cold-hearted plottings, bizarre talismans and murderous intentions, there came from this case a result that rattled us (we well-established, sedate Victorian gentlemen) from our moorings, and cast us into a sea, a maelstrom, from whose bourn no traveller returns unscathed.

Yes, there are four kinds of love, and both Mr Sherlock Holmes and myself eventually had cause to know them all.

~x~

The cold, early months of 1896 bore witness to a most prolific and unceasing workload for this good doctor, as well as the man I had fair reason to term my best friend.

Holmes indeed had little cause to vitiate the cosy walls of our Baker Street lodgings with his indoor pistol practise, since his professional opinions were being sought both far and wide. Mr Hall Pycroft and his doppelgänger brother, the outrageous kidnapping of Mr Andreas Melas, the marital difficulties of Mr Grant Munroe and the singular experience of Mr John Scott Eccles all came by way of our humble door stoop and the seventeen stairs, all of which led to the most specific and efficient musings of Mr Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.

I have frequently been accused of elevating his simple art of deduction into a `prodigy`, but it was a truth most particular in those cold, wintery months that held our town ransom before the ultimate reward of spring broke its chilly grasp. Seldom would I come down to coffee and a very welcome fire without acknowledging an anxious and often agitated stranger seated before my friend, surrendering to his specific and very particular line of questioning. His long, nervous hands tapping some unknown and silent composition atop the arm of his chair and the occasional slow rotation of an ankle were the only evidence to my practised eye that he was listening carefully before a word of his own would be uttered.

"The reasoner, Watson, should have all the facts that can come to his knowledge, and people rarely appreciate what a very rare accomplishment this can be."

Alas, my dear reader, in regard to this particular case of ours, it happened that neither he nor I were in true possession of all the facts, and it came to pass that Sherlock Holmes himself was deceived by one of the most obvious facts of all.

But more of such things later.

~x~

I had recently ventured to assign more time to building my medical practise, since I had determined it would soon be time for me to find a wife, and so a living must be sought and capitalised upon. Thus, I had taken some rooms at the recently opened Marylebone Dispensary for Women's Medicine funded by the generous Countess Morcar and managed by Dr Elizabeth Garrett Anderson, a skilled and trusted pioneer in such medical meliorism. Although my own patients were a small (yet growing) list, I was able to learn much regarding recent advancements, and vowed to utilise such knowledge as my experience deepened. Recent years have seen astonishing developments in vaccines for cholera, anthrax, rabies, and both tetanus and diphtheria.

"And vaccination for typhoid fever is rumoured just around the corner, Dr Watson! These are exciting times indeed."

Miss Margaret Anne Hooper. Russet-haired and smooth of cheek, she exuded a pinker hue and healthier complexion for certain since she had been taken into the wardship of the Countess and begun the long road to becoming a physician herself.

"Some even whisper (lowering her own voice) of a plague vaccination by the turn of the century- imagine how many more children will survive their infancy!"

Miss Hooper sits across from me, a large expanse of polished mahogany between us. She knows my patients are (as yet) few and far between, and we both enjoy our snatched moments for discourse, discussion (and often Darjeeling) at regular intervals during the day.

"Miraculous, for certain," I comment, smiling at the unbridled compassion radiating from her words and demeanour, a compassion already recognised by others, including the Countess herself, Dr Garrett Anderson, and Mr Sherlock Holmes. For it was he, dear reader, who had proposed that the Great Scotland Yard mortuary was no place for this girl, a girl who noticed, who observed and who saw what others did not. If she, as a humble mortuary maid, could take so much from the silent witnesses therein, she should perhaps make her way amongst the living. Such good sense and empathy would prove tremendous panacea for all.

My musings are arrested slightly as the lady herself rises and makes her excuses.

"You are in lectures this afternoon?" I bow as she makes towards the doorway, my own two o'clock patient still having thirty minutes in which to arrive.

"It is tremendously exciting, Doctor. A scholar of Monsieur Pasteur shall be speaking comprehensively upon germ theory and molecular dissymmetry. It is most fascinating that disease originates from something so small and seemingly insignificant."

"Ah, Holmes will always chastise a person for missing the small and seemingly insignificant- it is the detail with him, always the minutiae others miss."

Nodding her auburn head, my visitor affects an equivocal glance from her brown eyes which leaves me (yet again) wondering.

Medically, we continue to engender such miraculous improvements with far-reaching effects upon public health. But, in the race to arrest our physical frailty, are we perhaps neglecting our emotional health and spiritual well-being? In matters of the heart, does a feather-light grasp of a single aspect lead us to neglect another? The heart is a maze of emotional grapplings and confusions, a place where we must look for signs, and those signs must be followed in order to cure what ails us.

During all of our (almost daily) discussions, Miss Hooper and I have alluded to all topics medical and all social niceties. During my morning and evening discourses with my room-mate, Sherlock Holmes and I have alluded to all topics criminal, all experiments chemical, and nearly everything in-between. But despite my clear and irrefutable knowledge of some understanding that exists (oh, the subtle nuance of the well-bred London gentlefolk) betwixt them both, neither has alluded to the other in casual discourse or passing fancy. A charged silence usually descends if the other is mentioned, and nothing further can be gleaned from the exchange.

As of yet.

You see, there are four different kinds of love, and were four lessons that Mr Holmes needed to learn.

~x~

Sign One: STORGE

"Family love is messy, clinging, and of an annoying and repetitive pattern, like bad wallpaper."

Friedrich Nietzsche

St. Bart`s Teaching Hospital

A quarter of midnight

13th March 1896

I lean in closer to the bone fragment, hardly daring to draw breath, lest I should displace a shard, a splinter, a microscopic element.

Closer …

Closest.

Molecules. Dust? Pieces of humanity are still human, regardless of their size and irrelevant of their age. The fragments I examine with my lens are (most probably) of Neolithic origin and I am both privileged and fascinated to be allowed this window into the wellspring of our ancestry. The remains have been discovered by Sir James Prendergast (a local business man, philanthropist, and erstwhile archaeologist) and are an incredibly interesting part of London's historical mosaic. Sixteen hundred years ours was a walled city, and the bones recently discovered in the shadow of Tower Hill and Blackfriars mark a most essential milestone since Aldgate had long been deigned `too inconsequential` as a burial site. Rewards have long since been proffered by historical journals of great standing to prove the existence of our Stone Age antecedents within these city walls.

Archaeologists, palaeontologists; all searching for what is gone (as I used to do) instead of searching for what may come to pass. I understand little of their techniques, but still, at this late hour, alone in the mortuary at Bart`s, I revel in my special privilege in examining such ancient remains, since I understand most medical students (particularly those of my gender) may not be beneficent of such allowances.

The bulb filament fizzles and dims and I find myself losing a little patience with Mr Edison and his carbonized bamboo. Yet, it is then that I sense a creak, a shift in temperature and a fluctuation in the atmosphere that I may only attribute to a door being opened and a gas lamp being introduced, along with a slight breeze from a singularly cold night. One might purport the idea of perfect timing as being miraculous, if one weren't well acquainted with the irrelevance of such a notion in such a lazy universe. A deep and familiar voice cleaves softly through the night air as I hear my own name:

"Miss Molly Hooper."

"Mr Sherlock Holmes."

And one must see, if one is of an observational nature, how things are.

~x~

"Do you find the German design more favourable?"

He adjusts the coarse, then the fine focus and it is a moment before I realise Sherlock Holmes is asking my opinion of microscope design.

"I – ah, find it adequate."

"Ah, Molly, your standards should aspire for more than `adequate`. A Leitz, or a Zeiss allow for excellent detail at a significantly higher magnification; a privilege seldom afforded by a Powell & Leyland design. I endeavour, as always, to be patriotic, but the aperture diaphragm on this model is infinitely superior. A higher quality device may make all the difference – "

He halts in his declaration, turns and looks at me and I find I am slightly mesmerized by the aperture of light passing through his bright, pale eyes as he smiles.

"This," he declares, softly, "is a beautiful instrument, and more than adequate for the task."

"Then I am more than fortunate," I reply, smiling in return.

~x~

"It simply cannot be."

The coffee I have brewed over the Bunsen is a little bitter, but we are both glad of its warmth when the chill and the hour of the night offer little comfort. Sherlock is as adamant as he ever is, and I find myself a little anxious.

"Sir James Prendergast has officially registered the find with The London Journal of Antiquities; all the paperwork is being filed. I was merely being allowed to indulge a little interest of my own, not attempting to discredit his claim."

"And yet, the soil sample from the bones indicates they could not possibly have been found in Aldgate. The grain, the colour and the acidity proving the soil's origin are further corroborated by the calcium deposits and unusual clay content. This sample is most probably from the Blackheath area, in the southeast, judging by its lower organic composition."

"But, Sir James – "

"Is erroneous in his claims." He stands, picking up his top hat and gloves. "He may wish to speak with his archaeological team, since there are several layers of dishonesty regarding this discovery which may need further excavation."

"You - ?"

"Have no further interest in the machinations of the idle rich. It is nearly dawn and I have an appointment across at the Limehouse Wharf. I need to see a fellow regarding a boat."

"Sherlock, you`ve found it? The SS Appledore?"

He claps the hat atop his head, flattening the curl that even the most potent pomade could not fully tame, and picks up his stick.

"Perhaps; certainly it hails recently from Sumatra, and I must endeavour to follow the clues as they emerge. This is proving to be quite the three-pipe problem, Molly Hooper, and I lay full blame at your door. Had you not presented me with the contents of the belly of a rat, I should not be in such a perplexing position today."

Glancing at his pocket-watch, Sherlock Holmes then gestures towards the door with both head and stick.

"Now, the hour is more than late, it is disgracefully early, and the Countess would be appalled if I allowed you one more moment in this laboratory."

Long, pale fingers dance across the silver top of his cane in an elegant cadence he is quite unaware of.

"Do you wish for my assistance? At the Wharf?"

"Certainly not." He glances down, then at the door, then (brilliantly) back at myself. "I wish for you to take to your bed and sleep. Years of living with Watson have taught me that a tired doctor is of little use to anyone, alive or dead."

And I allow the good sense of his request, yet acknowledge the ancient bones I leave behind with an air of apprehension and presentiment. No good would come of this.

~x~

The Diogenes Club

Three days later

I note Sir James has recently visited the barbers and that his new brand of moustache wax is slightly scented with lime; such pungency so close to one`s olfactory senses induces a slight shudder, but each to his own, I say. I also note his agitation and hot temper to be ill-advised, since his pallor, breathlessness and substantial girth all indicate some dangerous demands being made upon his heart. It appears that philanthropy and fine living do actually manage to coexist quite nicely. Charming.

"Do sit down, Sir James. Your gout must be troubling you greatly."

A crease across his pallid brow in puzzlement, but he acquiesces with as much grace as possible (in the circumstances) and deposits his expensively clad bulk into my oxblood leather armchair (a fitting choice).

"Holmes, this is why I am here about the matter – you know things! You understand how matters must be dealt with."

I contemplate.

"I am merely a minor government official, Sir James. I am greatly flattered by such accolades, but surely, my brother- ?"

A snort emits, noisily and effectively.

"Pah! It seems he was unavailable. His assistant (Watson, I think you call the fellow) informed me that Mr Holmes the younger was engaged in the field with a significant case at present. He suggested speaking with yourself, and I recalled at once that we have had dealings in the past, and I know you to be a man of your word… trustworthy."

I decide that words could be had with Doctor Watson when the time was right, since I detected his puckish sense of humour delighting in my current predicament. Truthfully, Prendergast was a sound enough fellow, if a little distracted by his current obsession du jour – archaeology, I had surmised.

"I shall do my best." I smile a rather waspish smile which, naturally, goes unheeded. The man is a pompous bore, but bestows much needed funds upon organisations deemed helpful to some of the more vulnerable areas of our society. If his most recent vanity project needs a little ... assistance, then a Machiavellian approach might be deemed most worthwhile for the greater good. I take out my pocketbook and select a nib from the tray, dipping it once to show diligence.

"Please elucidate, Sir James- you must tell me the name of the person casting doubt upon your dig at Aldgate, and I assure you that wheels will be set in motion."

This time he responds splendidly (as I knew he would) and swiftly (since his mistress in Pall Mall will most likely becoming impatient) and sits forth, both meaty hands grasping my oxblood leather.

"A ridiculous notion, Holmes, a medical student – a female medical student – what is the world coming to? Name of Margaret, Margaret Hooper."

~x~

Marylebone Dispensary for Women

Three hours later

Now, who would have contemplated such a notion, several notions, in point of fact? Firstly, that a female medical student should muster the audacity and ill-advised strength of character to clash horns with the mighty self-righteousness of the moneyed classes. Secondly, that Miss Hooper`s late doctor father was quite the "radical", petitioning Parliament most vociferously to appropriate funds for clinics in the East End and poorer parts of the city, a man who would not, in such times of political unrest, take no for an answer. My sources inform me that Dr Edward Hooper caused a light sweat to break out upon the brow of the establishment on more than one occasion and was (according to my sources) branded a `person of interest`. Does the apple really fall so far from the tree? Do we now see the daughter of such a campaigner taking on the mantle of `truth at all costs`? Such people are commendable – admirable to be sure – but very difficult to manage, for the greater good. Finally, the third notion, and one which both pains and astonishes me in equal measure but cannot, I fear, be ignored for one more moment Thirdly, there is the notion of Miss Margaret Hooper, a current person of interest also being a rather interesting person to my brother, Sherlock. Now, this is quite the conundrum, and although in its infancy, this sentiment remains quite tenacious and resolute –

And it must be ended.

~x~

It is his brother, of course it is. Mycroft Holmes, seven years his senior and involved in much more than anyone concedes knowledge of.

Mycroft Holmes, dressed in fine worsted wool and silk pinstripe (oddly, a pattern also favoured by my own father), patent-shod and immaculately pressed, not dissimilar to a mannequin, and complete with furled umbrella and golden pocket watch.

Mycroft Holmes, pristine, voice articulated in very similar rhythm to his younger brother, although with a very different pitch and dissimilar jaw-line. The eyes, however, are steel gimlets, imbued with purpose yet veering slightly between good manners and disdain. They are Holmes eyes, and it is in them I see Sherlock the most.

Astonishingly, this dapper gentleman is not alone, accompanied to my place of work by a small, wiry terrier, trotting daintily upon the end of a black leather leash. I am unsure as to what Doctor Garrett Anderson would make of such an invasion, but one look at Mr Mycroft Holmes tells me he is very seldom questioned or refused admittance to anywhere he chooses to enter. He lifts the dog as he sits upon the proffered chair, refusing tea and (after a moment's hesitation) a shortbread biscuit.

"It would be quite unfair to Arthur," he smiles, indicating the grey ball of fur now residing upon those immaculate trousers, and I am abruptly reminded of something vulpine and predatory, since the smile does not manage reach those arctic eyes, and realise I may just be in alittle trouble.

"You have achieved so much, Miss Hooper, and done so well."

"Thank you. I have been tremendously fortunate, and benefitted from the wonderful generosity of others."

"No." He strokes the dog gently, his tone like tempered steel. "No, you underestimate your own will and powerful determination, Miss Hooper. Your excellent brain, indefatigable work ethic and innumerable… assets have cemented you firmly back into the society that cruelly cast you out upon the loss of your father."

"You knew my father, sir?"

"I knew of him. I know him to have been impassioned, much as yourself; I suspect you take much of his character and conviction into your everyday life. I know how much your determination has impressed your superiors here and at St. Bart's, your patron, Countess Morcar, and not least, my own brother, Sherlock."

His eyes are fixed upon me and I hasten to suppress the hitch in my breath, but cannot staunch the rush of blood to my face, and fancy I sense a slightly kinder caste to his tone.

"You loved your father dearly, it is clear."

"Yes, yes I did."

"You work too late and you dine too little, but I see very few reasons why you should not become an excellent physician and marry an impressive man of your own station when the time comes."

Ah, this is how it is.

"So long, Mr Holmes, as this man is not your brother?"

He discreetly inclines his head towards me in acquiescence and I find I can do nought but stare down at the terrier lying listless and quiet.

"Family, Miss Hooper, are the ties that bind. Inconvenient as it is at times, I do love my brother – very much. He thrives upon the works of the brain, and does less well with the works of the heart. You are passionate and… unpredictable. You have deeply disappointed an enthusiastic and generous gentleman, who has done much to benefit many in this city, just as you yourself have been benefitted. He does not deserve the embarrassment and shame of a bogus claim upsetting his already questionable health and digestion. I must ask you to rescind your findings from the Neolithic bones and allow Sir James his moment to shine."

Incredibly, the veneer of chivalrous demeanour and gentlemanly tone merely serve to enhance the menace underlying. I now see a small glimpse of the power of Mycroft Holmes and begin to understand the true extent of such – influence. I find I can say nothing and merely continue to observe Arthur, who is moving remarkably little for such a young animal.

"I do hope you may, at some point, comprehend my reasoning. Although it is Sir James who has approached me, it is my filial obligation to my brother that brings me to your door. It would be advisable if Sherlock knew very little of our meeting today."

Mycroft Holmes appears a trifle puzzled by my lack of response, yet he lifts up his dog and stands, reaching for his umbrella which had been resting against the chair.

"Miss Hooper, I do hope you understand the purpose of my visit, and the dialectics behind it, since – is there something you wish to do to my dog?"

I hold out my arms and he allows the poor creature to be taken into them. Carrying Arthur to the examination table near the window, I reflect on his slight tremble and feeble yelp as I hold his belly. Mycroft Holmes, I imagine, is rarely lost for words, but I suddenly find him strangely silent as he looms over my shoulder and I palpate his dog's abdomen.

"Has he been off his food?"

"I – well, perhaps a little. He is usually quite greedy … Miss Hooper, where is this leading?"

I do not answer immediately, since I am shining a light into the animal's eyes. His lack of interest and weary acceptance disturbs me further.

"A young dog should be livelier than this, Mr Holmes, and his eyesight is not as it should be. Has he been stumbling? Banging into furniture?"

Mycroft Holmes is now very much on his back foot and a distant bell rings to warn me to go no further in perplexing him, but I only see a suffering animal and that bell is ignored.

"It is true, there has been mention made of his lack of agility within the last week or so. Miss Hooper, what is this distraction? Would you be so good as to share your concerns regarding my dog before the day is very much older?"

I turn, my hand still curved around the bony shoulder and trembling form of Arthur and I look Mr Mycroft Holmes directly, without fear or deference.

"Blood. I need, sir, to take some from your dog, and I need to do it immediately."

And I do.

~x~

The lead piping was being replaced in the street behind the Diogenes Club and poor Arthur had ingested more than proved healthy, resulting in the beginnings of lead poisoning. Lethargy, lack of appetite, abdominal pain and eventual blindness were distressing symptoms in humans and are replicated in dogs, often resulting in death if left unchecked.

"Anisocytosis." I tell Mycroft Holmes, as he makes fervent arrangements for a trip to his country estate for poor, beleaguered Arthur, whose stumpy tail manages to thump weakly at the sight of his master returning to his seat. Gone is the aloof and taciturn gaze, gone is the condescension and unspoken threat, and in its place is something much more refreshing and palatable: gratitude.

"Under the microscope, I could see his blood cells were misshapen and abnormally sized- very indicative of lead poisoning."

"I must thank you, Miss Hooper."

"We must both thank Mr. Leitz for his precise and meticulous Germanic engineering. I am told his instruments are second to none."

This time, as I feel him regarding me, I know it is with a slightly less prejudicial audit, and the comportment of a very different visitor.

"Sherlock always favours the Leitz microscope for its unparalleled resolution," he murmurs, gently stroking the head of Arthur, who is snoring softly and shedding a veritable forest of fur across his master's lap.

"Yes, I know," I smile, and am almost giddy as he smiles back.

Standing, Mycroft Holmes attempts to leave for a second time that day, but the icy tundra is no more as he shakes my hand and quietly appraises me.

"I rarely, if ever, apologise, Miss Hooper, but I do so today. I unreservedly beg your forgiveness for making judgements that were not mine to make. It would please me greatly if you affected to erase our conversation from your memory, and when we meet again, I should prefer if you would do me the honour of not treating me as harshly as I deserve. Should you wish to decry the falsified discovery made by Sir James, I shall not attempt to restrain you. Your observations regarding the soil were extraordinary and indicative of a brilliantly deductive brain."

He places Arthur to the ground, doffs his top hat as I curtsey, contemplating when I shall make mention of the truth behind the soil.

He leaves and I stretch my tensed shoulders, letting out a deep breath.

I decide I might leave that revelation a little while longer.

~x~

Two days later

Evening in Baker Street

Spring was proving rather tardy in making its appearance, considers Dr John Watson, struggling past the last stair and pushing open the door to the predictably cosy sitting room of 221B.

"The damp is troubling your leg, Watson," remarks his room-mate, without looking up from a scattered pile of papers. "I felt the wince in every stair - your climbing rhythm is quite irregular today."

Watson tosses his cane across the room, an ill humour emerging since an arduous day of patients and their malaises had prickled his countenance perhaps a little more than usual.

"Excellent diagnostics, Holmes," mutters he, slumping into his chair and dragging half a dozen newspapers from beneath his posterior and casting them savagely to the ground. "It is more the pity you were not on hand this afternoon when Mrs Barclay presented me with a sizeable list of seemingly unrelated symptoms and refused to leave before I had presented her with a diagnosis she found pleasing."

"Mmmm." He was continuing to rifle through what appeared to be a shipping chart, adjusting a brass sextant as he did so, and drawing ruled lines in a multitude of directions. Curious as he was, Watson was in no mood to enquire, since he needed a cup of tea, the warmth of the fire and a platter of cheese and Bath Olivers, in that order, before he would be able to shake loose such a day.

As if sensing an alteration of the air molecules within the room, Sherlock Holmes suddenly lifts his head, much in the manner of a deer determining the smell of a predator being carried on the breeze, and gives his friend his full attention.

"Mrs Barclay? Any relation to Mr George Barclay, the milliner on Grafton Street?" he asks, causing the good Doctor to momentarily forget his woes and focus his thoughts.

"Recently married, a mere six months ago. In true point of fact, the symptoms were not ones suffered by the good lady herself, but by her new husband. She was most agitated regarding his well-being."

Holmes was now leaning towards his friend; hunched forth, he had an elbow upon his knee and one, long finger against his lips.

"He was too ill to attend himself? Could you not have visited their home, Watson, even allowing for your leg – "

"Oh, damn my leg, Holmes!" His sharp and most uncharacteristic outburst allows the accumulated petulance to dissipate, leaving Watson immediately contrite. "Apologies, old man; there was no need for such harshness of tone. The true problem with the Barclays is his obdurate refusal to attend, or be attended by any medical person. His character, you see, has become significantly altered since their wedding. George Barclay has become irritable, withdrawn and affected a depression so deep, his wife can no longer bear witness to the man she married."

"Ah yet, Watson, what is a fine institution for some does not appeal to all of those who naively shrug on the mantle of matrimony; such confinement, coupled with impossible demands from another may ensure a man affects a sense of ennui – "

A raised brow is all that betrays the doctor's contemplation of an opinion he had heard many times before.

"Holmes, they had been a couple very much in love, as I am led to believe. Additionally, there were other symptoms, of a more medical variety."

Holmes has his fingers templed together beneath his chin- his listening pose.

"Pray elucidate and continue in your most interesting narrative, my dear fellow."

"Besides the refusal to attend even the smallest and most informal of gatherings with his new wife, Barclay has also developed quite a tremor, making it difficult for him to handle the materials used in his business of hat-making. Beginning in his hands, the shakes have overtaken his eyelids, his lips and even his tongue. His handwriting, apparently, is virtually illegible, due to the fact he can barely wield a pen. He sleeps very little, presents with headaches on a daily basis and barely has strength enough to lift a bolt of fabric from the stockroom. He is excitable and irritable in equal parts and his wife suspects he may no longer hold her in deep regard; she thinks that he has ceased to love her."

Watson glances up towards his room-mate, who has made reparation to the bookcase and is briskly skimming through pages, wafting each one past as it fails to reveal for what he searches, until –

"Oh, my dear Watson!" Sherlock Holmes juts forth his chin in a triumphant grin, and takes the book across to his desk, where he consults with another.

"Mr Barclay has not fallen out of love with his wife, my dear fellow, he is in the grip of – aha!" He casts a sheaf of paper across Watson's knee.

"Holmes, these are some of my medical papers, from University!"

"I know. I may have had cause to borrow them, on occasion."

"How many occasions?"

"I have most of them in a box beneath my bed – focus, Watson, read the heading."

"`Erethism and its links to Mercury poisoning` - oh, dear Lord, Holmes, was someone poisoning Mr Barclay? Was it Mrs Barclay?"

Holmes turns, wide-eyed, momentarily. "No, no, Watson! I suspect that too much time spent with me and my less than salubrious pastimes have darkly coloured your judgement of others. No, Mr Barclay is a milliner and needs to stabilise the pelts and wools he works with to ensure that they `felt` into a fabric conducive to fashioning headwear for the masses of this great city. The best stabilising agent has always been the element of mercury, but this paper tells of research suggesting long term exposure to such a chemical can result in a condition called erethism, which mirrors almost all of the symptoms described by Mrs Barclay. He is unwittingly being poisoned by his own hand, and the cure will be to find another stabilising agent, and quickly."

Watson slumps back in his chair, in a not unpleasant mixture of admiration and exhaustion.

"Extraordinary. I shall send Billy with a telegram immediately. Holmes, I do thank you and apologise once more for my recent outburst."

"Pshsh! What do I care of outbursts? I have become, Watson, the very model of composure, tolerance and restraint. Only this morning, I learnt of another poisoning you may be interested in, this time involving a dog."

"My dear fellow!"

"Indeed. Do draw your chair closer to the fire, my beleaguered friend, and allow me to furnish you with tea whilst I tell you how Miss Molly Hooper saved the life of Mycroft's favoured pet, and how my dear brother narrowly escaped a sound horse-whipping from his younger sibling. And to think, I woke this morning expecting the dullest of days! How thoroughly enchanting life can be."

And so, the fire crackled in the grate, the tea was poured, and two friends took gleeful amusement in a tale of poison, false claims, threats and apologies. As John Watson warmed his hands and regarded the sparking eyes and expressive hand gestures of his friend so much caught up in his narrative, he happily realised how an enchantment can transform, delight and bring something back to life.

~x~