Preliminaries: Hey folks! I started writing this with the intention of exploring one particular aspect of Holmes' character, but as I went, I realized that, to do it properly, I was going to have to send the boys off on an adventure. I actually started with what is now the second chapter, but again, it simply wasn't going to work without some padding. I'm afraid it's going to take away from my initial emphasis, but so it goes.

This has been sorted into the category of the Book canon, but I have to admit, my thoughts were on the Granada-verse. Relationships, phrases, and idiosyncrasies have been synced from Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke's portrayals. You'll also notice that I did not opt to take this from the perspective of Watson writing up a Holmes' case for publication.

Lastly, I suppose I should date this. I settled on some time after 1895. Not quite 1900, but somewhere in between. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the case! And I hope that, at the end of it, I will still have adequately explored what I had first intended and displayed it for you to munch on. Thanks!

Chapter One: Case

"Mr. Oliver Benton?"

The tall man waved an arm gracefully to an armchair facing the window before turning towards the fireplace. The trim, mustached man at the door blinked uncertainly. He caught the sympathetic gaze of a calm but stern faced man seated at a writing desk, who gently nodded.

This was the usual routine of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Despite the reputation for Holmes to be clinical, even bracing, in his demeanor, clients were oftentimes taken aback by their first encounter with him. Watson too, who sometimes illustrated himself a bit too simply than he deserved, found himself on the receiving end of surprised looks. Despite his plain appearance and kind demeanor, there was a hardness in his composure and smile. When people looked closely, they would see the ghost of the soldier and, with an increased sense of wariness, get the feeling that the kindly Doctor was more experienced with the darker things of this world than he initially let on.

It was not for nothing, then, that clients often hesitated at the door of their consulting rooms at Baker Street.

Benton steadied his thoughts and sat inside the offered chair. Holmes turned around again with a pipe in his mouth. "I should hope you do not mind if I smoke?"

The man shook his head absently. Holmes took a moment to light his pipe. Drawing it to flame, he then pulled out his watch. Glancing at it, Holmes spoke once more. "It is a serious matter indeed that has forced you from the bank so early in your shift."

Benton stiffened, eyes growing wide. "H-how? How did –"

Holmes cut him off with an amused wave of his hand. From the writing desk came a tired sigh. "It is of no matter, my man. Your clothes and the note you sent to me sometime around noon indicate your profession. I have made it a concern of mine to be able to identify certain particulars in parchment and from where they might be acquired. Whatever occurred to agitate you – for I do see your agitation written clearly in the scrabbling of your shirt cuffs and the trembling of your fingers – must have become apparent to you at the start of your shift, for I see the remainder of your appearance quite maintained and polished. It is now only—" he glanced at his watch again, pocketing it away now in satisfaction, "exactly thirty-seven minutes past two o'clock. Quite odd hours for an ordinary working shift, are they not?"

Watson sighed once more as he observed the steadily paling features of the man before him. "Holmes," he admonished lightly. The taller man raised an eyebrow at the reprimand, but took the hint. Watson smoothly continued the conversation. "Has Holmes accurately read your condition, Mr. Benton?"

The man sat straighter, trying to regain control of his nerves. Just as Holmes had described, Watson noted the man's hands tugging at the cuffs of his shirt. "Yes, actually, he has, Doctor Watson. It's nice to meet you, by the way, after all I've read in the Strand." It was Holmes' turn to heave a tired sigh. Watson's publications were a matter of continued debate between the two men. "Mr. Holmes deduced it soundly. I've been a teller at the bank for only a year and a quarter now. This afternoon, I received a most villainous and singular t-threat on my l-life." From the pocket of his waistcoat, the man procured a folded piece of paper. This he placed in Sherlock's outstretched hand. The detective unfolded it and read in silence.

"Quite melodramatic, don't you suppose?" Holmes said finally, brow furrowed. "It is quite lengthy, Watson." He handed the letter over to the doctor.

Mr. Oliver Benton,

It has come to mine and my subordinates' attention that you have located certain numerical anomalies in the bank documents charged to your care. I strongly urge you to forget them, for the sake of your health.

My position is a delicate one, and I'm sure you would understand my desire to make certain of your loyalties? You may have two days and an evening to consider the matter. Collect a sum of £30 and entrust it to the care of an envelope; then, deliver said envelope to the inside of the eighth lamp post from the Piccadilly entrance of St. James Park.

If your monetary assurance is not delivered, I will be forced to take extreme measures. Doubt not that, should you go against me, you shall not see the dawn of the third day.

Lastly, Mr. Benton, discretion is advised. No police, if you please, or our agreement shall come to an end.

Watson's lips had tightened into a firm, furious line. "Why, this is intolerable nonsense!"

Benton nodded, swallowing once or twice. "I thought so myself, Doctor. To be honest, the document so baffled and disconcerted me that I decided to dismiss it as a bluff or ruse. Truly, it is all so outrageous!"

"Is that to say that the anomalies the letter described were fictitious?" Watson asked.

"No, they are true enough. In my time at the bank, I have noticed occasional… slips in the balances." Benton grimaced. "I regret to say that fear for my job's security kept me from speaking up. I assumed that the issues were mistakes, but recently, I performed a certain amount of research."

Sherlock spoke up now, pipe in hand at the corner of the room. "You discovered that other employees have been making careful withdrawals from accounts not belonging to themselves?" he phrased delicately.

Again, Benton nodded. "Even so. I had finally come to the decision to notify someone in authority when I received this warning."

Sherlock moved to a chair and sat. "If you did not take the note seriously when you received it, what made you change your mind?"

"As you said before, Mr. Holmes, it was a strange time for me to leave my shift at the bank. As it happens, I had left less than a quarter after two o'clock from the bank on business, fully intending to return within the half hour." He took a shuddering breath before continuing. "While I was crossing a length of street, I found myself followed by a cab. I moved out of the way, but discovered that it followed me still. The situation became a bit desperate as I realized that the action was deliberate. Someone tried to run me over!"

He reached this time into his jacket pocket and removed a crumpled scrap of paper. "I only just jumped out of the way. When it passed, this note, tied to a rock, was lobbed at my head."

As he handed the second note to Holmes, Watson frowned, "At your head? Are you alright?"

Benton smiled a bit wryly. "Physically, yes. My head may be a bit sore, but that is nothing to the fear in my heart."

Sherlock read the note aloud. "So that you may not doubt the seriousness of my claim... Your confidence, or your life." He turned the paper over several times in his hands, observing every feature. Finally, he sighed, setting aside the note. "Mr. Benton, you were right to come to me. This case seems very dark indeed, and I do not doubt that your life is very much in danger."

The unfortunate teller closed his eyes and hung his head. "It is as I feared, then." Watson stood to pour a glass of brandy, offering it to their client who gratefully accepted. "What must happen now?"

Sherlock stood and walked over to the writing desk. He wrote two quick notes before calling for Mrs. Hudson. As she appeared, he thrust the letters into her hands. "Please have this first paper delivered to Mr. Charles Baker. It is of primary importance. This second send out with one of the Irregulars." Watson smiled to himself at the mention of Baker Streets informal agents.

Mrs. Hudson nodded a bit wearily and turned to perform her duty, Holmes brusquely shutting the door behind her. "Mr. Baker is an old contact of mine. For the remainder of the case, you shall be spending your time under his protection. I am afraid that his premises are neither clean nor welcoming, but they are safer than the broad daylight of central London, I may assure you.

"Unfortunately, it will likely take him half the day to prepare your safe-house. Until then, you shall remain here at Baker Street. Watson may escort you to your home so that you may collect whatever clothing you may require."

Holmes grabbed his coat and hat in a quick flurry of movement. Benton stuttered, rising uncertainly from his chair. "O-of course. What shall you do in the meantime?"

"I would like to take some account of your workplace and conduct some research of my own." He turned his attention to Watson. The two men had begun to understand each other quite well. While Benton considered the Holmes' sudden energy abrupt, Watson had long since become accustomed to the ebb and flow of a case. Holmes smiled. "Watson, I'm sure you are alright with this task I have set before you?"

The doctor stood and smirked. "Of course, old man." Holmes opened his mouth to say something more before Watson cut him off. "My revolver. Yes, I know."

Holmes nodded with a smirk of his own. "Indeed. I will see you gentlemen again for supper!" With that, he strode through the door.