Sherlock Holmes and the Engineer's Thumb 1 | Page 17

Caitlain McAuley
It’s quite the usual for me to write about the frequent cases that we immerse
ourselves in, and most are formatted in a similar (if not identical) manner. As I began
to take pen to paper it became apparent that in this account things would be
extremely different.
It all began one dreary morning in the early days of December. Typically it should’ve
been snowing, yet all that tumbled to the ground were pellets of ice, and the
thunderous rage of the wind had all but cleared. Naturally we were cooped up inside,
hiding from the rain as if we were young children in a state of delirium at the sheer
prospect of a storm.
Other than the billowing rage that lay in wait for us if we dared to open the door,
everything seemed as it should within the cozy walls of our snug chambers. Holmes
was, as I had slowly become accustomed to, wandering around our communal living
room with his pale hands clasped tightly behind his arched back. It was particularly
easy to note that he was in a high state of tension at this time. I had guessed that
with the immense storm that has frequently plagued our area, few people had
situations dire enough to knock on the door of 221B Baker Street.
Boredom was a highly dangerous state of mind when it came to my com panion; he
became rash, unexpected and most destructive. Unfortunately for our bank records,
the wall had taken substantial amounts of damage over the years. This had left us
with holes in the walls and larger holes in our pockets, draining us of what little we
had in the world.
On this particular day, I had to have spent a good hour or so convincing Holmes not
to retrieve his trusted gun and unleashed its wrath unto our wall yet again.
Periodically, Mrs Hudson would appear with yet another cup of tea requested at his
will, but that was the only link we had with any individual save ourselves. It’s
important to note that the dear Mrs Hudson was not most keen of his stress and
strange longing for tea. Regardless, she was dutiful even when it was not required
and kept us in (fairly) good spirits.
Most of the conversation is not worth any mention, yet there are some extracts that
may have been worth something in connection with the events that lead me to begin
writing this memoir.
“John!”
At the sound of Holmes’s voice, I had found myself whipping around in my chair,
eager to know of development, progress and any miscellaneous news that may