Here's a story I've been working on for the last couple of weeks, ever since school holidays. That was when I was first introduced to Jeremy Brett's work though when I went upstairs to get my book, ready to write this… I found out that I had the book with his picture on. Talk about being unobservant.

Now, I'm not particularly known for writing disclaimers at the start of every chapter but this will count for the rest of my story. I do not own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, 221b Baker Street, Mrs Hudson or the case that I have written about. Though they are in the public domain, soul rights rest with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the amazing Scot.

However, I do own Luna Watson (Well, not her last name.) I do own everything else about her though like her personality, her clothes and her soul.

Since the unexpected arrival of my dear younger, and only, sister, Holmes' behaviour hasn't vastly improved but some of the small differences that have taken place are quite spectacular to witness. Despite his usual attitude towards the fairer sex, he seems to have taken a genuine shine towards Luna. Many a time during her stay with us as 221b Baker Street, that wasn't planned, which I was assured of by Sherlock, I've walked in on them discussing past cases in great depths. She would tell him what had been placed in the papers, he would regale her with the true details and with those, she managed to guess all the theories we used while investigating it. To my amazement, he would smile and then reward her with another.

Another thing that, still to this day, doesn't fail to steal the air from my lungs is that he had awarded my sister with a large variety of pet names. Only once have I heard her name leave his lips and that was when they were first introduced, late October of last year. When they were acquainted, the close friendship between them began to grow, almost as quickly as that between him and myself. I honestly couldn't tell you what it is about the Watson family but Holmes seemed to be a magnet of some sort, attracting us with that promise of danger because he didn't overlook that fact when offering her lodging under our already shared roof and for that, I was truly grateful. I would not have been able to find the strength to turn my own flesh and blood away at the door when it was her time of need, especially with all the care she provided me with when I was serving with the army.

I don't think that any of my adventures with both my sister and Mr Sherlock Holmes opened quite so abruptly, or so dramatically, as that which I now associate with The Three Gables. I had not seen the pair for a number of days and had no idea of the new channel in which their shared activities had been directed. He was in a chatty mood that morning, however, and had settled me into the well-worn low armchair on one side of the fire, while he curled down with his pipe in his mouth on the opposite chair. Sat by his feet, a place which she seemed to occupy constantly, was my Luna, her legs folded elegantly by her side and covered by the deep amethyst silk of her gown. It was only a moment after I'd been seated that our visitor arrived. I beg of you to believe me; if I had said that a mad bull had arrived, it would have given a clearer impression of what had actually occurred.

The door was flung open with incredible force, ricocheting off of the wall behind, to reveal strong man of African-American descent. He would have been a very comic figure if he not been so intimidating in appearance, for he was dressed in a bold grey check suit and a flowing salmon-coloured tie. His broad face and flattened nose were thrust forward, as his sullen dark eyes, a smouldering gleam of malice burning within them, turned from me to the other two occupants of the room.

"Which of you gentlemen is Mister Holmes?" he asked, his voice gruff and his eyes lingering on the lady of the room a little too much for my liking for every protective instinct in me flared up at that moment.

Holmes raised the pipe, a languid smile settled on his lips.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" inquired our visitor, coming with an unpleasant, stealthy step around the angle of the table. "See here, Mister Holmes, you keep your hands out of other folks' business. Leave folks to manage their own affairs. Got that, Mister Holmes?" I noticed that as he spoke, one of Luna's hands carefully touched my friend's shin, as if to reassure him though it didn't seem like a conscious effort, while the other crept towards the cane she forever carried, despite the fact that it wasn't needed in order to aid her walking.

"Keep on talking," Holmes said, his eyes briefly glancing down to the woman at his feet as he spoke his next sentence. "It's fine."

"Oh! It's fine, is it!" growled the savage, seeming to miss the meaning behind his words or the direction in which they were directed. "It won't be so damn fine if I have to trip you up a bit. I've handled your kind before now, and they didn't look so fine when I was through with them. Look at that, Mister Holmes!".

He swung a huge knotted limp of fist underneath my friend's nose, allowing him to examine it closely with an air of great interest though the same could not be said for my sister. Her blue eyes seemed to glow in anger as she carefully observed the man's actions. At the side of her, she held a tight grip of the golden orb that mounted her oak cane, ready to brandish to the cleverly concealed blade that rested within the hollow case.

"Were you born so?" he asked, his mouth open as he was about to continue but Luna bet him to the punch as they say. Slowly revealing the sinister looking blade and pointing at such an angle that he would have been impaled in the stomach if he moved an inch closer, she finished our mutual friend's sentence.

"Or did it come by degrees?"

It may have been the icy coolness of my friend's voice, the composed mask of my younger sister or the slight clatter which I made as I picked up the poker from our fireplace. In any case, our visitor's manner became much less flamboyant.

"Well, I've given you fair warning," said he. "I've a friend that's interested out Harrow way—you know what I'm meaning- and he doesn't intend to have no butting in by you. Got that? You aren't the law, and I am not the law either, and if you come in I'll be on hand also. Don't you go forgetting that."

"I've wanted to meet you for some time," Holmes admitted. "I won't ask you to sit down, for I doubt me and my companions would be able to stand the smell of you, but aren't you Steve Dixie, the bruiser?"

"That's my name, Mister Holmes, and you'll get put through it for sure if you dare to give me any lip."

"It is certainly the last thing you need," said Holmes, staring at our visitor's hideous mouth. "But it was the killing of young Perking outside of Holborn—bar what! You're not going?"

The man had sprung back from my friend, his face was leaden. "I won't listen to no such talk," he said. "What have I to do with this here Perkins, Mister Holmes? I was busy training at the Bull Ring in Birmingham when this boy done gone into trouble."

"Yes, you'll tell the magistrate about it, Steve," Holmes claimed, staring at the man. "I've been watching you and Barney Stockdale—"

"So help me the Lord! Mister Holmes -"

"That's quite enough for now, any longer and I fear my sense of smell shall be far from the point of being able to make a successful recovery." Luna hissed harshly, glaring at our visitor without moving the blade. As she stared at him, I noticed Sherlock's eyes soften slightly, hardly visible to the untrained eyes but mine had improved during my time with the consultant detective. His lips twitched at the corners before he carefully took hold of her wrist, lowering the weapon back to her side where she could do no harm.

"Good morning, Mister Holmes. I hope there aren't no hard feelings about this here visit?"

"There will be unless you tell me who sent you."

"Why, there aren't no secrets about that, Mister Holmes. It was the same gentleman you have just done gone mentioned."

"And who set him on to it?"

"Help me. I don't know, Mister Holmes. He just said,' Steve, you go see Mr Holmes and tell him his life isn't safe if he goes down Harrow Way.' That's the whole truth." Without waiting for any further questioning, our visitor bolted out of the room almost as precipitately as he had entered. Holmes knocked the ashes out of his pipe, his spare hand seeming to settle gently on Luna's head, with a quiet chuckle.

"I am glad that you were not forced to break his woolly head, Watson. I observed your manoeuvres with the poker and our darling's while handling that blade. He is really rather a harmless fellow, a great muscular, foolish, blustering baby and easily cowed, as you have both seen. He is one of the Spencer John gang and has taken part in some dirt work of late which we may clear up when we have the time. His immediate principal, Barney, is a more astute person. They specialise in assaults, intimidation and the like. What I wish to know is, who is at the back of them on this particular occasion?"

"But why do they want to intimidate you?" Luna asked, her head resting lightly against his knee, her mahogany curls standing out against the black material of his suit trousers.

"It is this Harrow Weald case. It decides me to look into the matter, for it is worth anyone's while to take so much trouble, there be something in it."

"But what is it?"

"I was going to tell you when we had this comic interlude. Here is Mrs Maberley's note. If you care to come with me and my lovely lady, we will wire her and go out at once."

Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes:

I have had a succession of strange incidents occur to me in connection with this house, and I should much value your advice. You would find me at home anytime tomorrow. The house is within a short walk of the Weald Station. I believe that my late husband, Mortimer Maberley, was one of your early clients.

Yours faithfully,

Mary Maberley.

The address was 'The Three Gables, Harrow Weald.'

"So that's that!" said Holmes. "And now, if you can spare the time, Watson, we will get upon our way."

So, Do you like it? Do you hate it? Just drop me a review.