Sherlock Holmes and the Engineer's Thumb 1 | Page 5

Olivia Peterson
Two knocks. I looked to my partner and watched as a flicker of interest passed
across his face like a cloud on a breeze. It had been a week since our last case and
Sherlock was on his wits end; there’s only so many times the wall can be shot at
before a man begins to grow bored again. He sprang from his chair, barely missing
the corner of the cluttered coffee table with his flailing dressing gown and whipped
the door open, releasing a cloud of dust and filth into the humid London air of our
apartment. My eyes trailed across each severed limb, each piece of blood-stained
lab equipment, each image of grisly crime scenes that were pinned to our obnoxious
wallpaper, and finally, as my partner ran a hand through his messy hair and stepped
aside, they landed on our visitor. Stepping across the threshold, followed by a very
flustered Mrs Hudson, was a man in his late twenties. His face was contorted into a
hideous expression of pain and anxiety, and he was twitching so violently I was
tempted to call for an ambulance, but he hastily expressed to me that he was in no
need of urgent medical attention. He stepped fully into view, and his problem
became apparent: his crumpled white shirt was stained scarlet to his waist, and he
was gripping his left hand so tightly that his knuckles were pure white. I could only
stare in horror, but I noticed my friend’s icy eyes deducing every inch of the wounded
client. I hastily positioned a chair for him to sit in, and we took our places in our
corresponding armchairs. The client had not yet even spoken, and yet I could see
the hidden glint of delight behind Sherlock’s seemingly cold gaze: he was going to
like this one.
“My name is Stanley Harris and I work as an engineer in central London.” the man’s
voice was like a dry sob. He began to shake. I rose from my seat and swerved
around the gradually increasing mess to the kitchen. A wounded man had arrived on
our doorstep with terror on his mind and an undoubtedly fascinating story to tell. Any
respectable British gentleman would know what this situation calls for: tea. I
sweetened it slightly and brought it through for the client, who stared at me with
pleasant disbelief. He hesitated for just enough beats for it to be declared ‘awkward’,
obviously less than willing to release his tight grip on his hand, but eventually he took
it with a polite nod to the ground, avoiding my gaze. Kindness seemed so alien to
him. It was saddening. As I returned to my seat, I exchanged glances with Sherlock.
He gave me that irritating ‘we both know what’s going on here’ look. Normally, I
would be annoyed, but this time, I couldn’t help but feel impressed with myself. For
once, we were on the same wavelength: there was something very, very interesting
hidden behind this client’s plea for our help. Stanley closed his eyes, took a tentative
sip of his tea, and continued. “I was on my way to perform another generic job, you
know, people these days, always requesting more and more of th…”
“Irrelevant.” He paused and shifted uncomfortably as Sherlock cut him off. “Get to it.”
he stared ahead, placing his hands beneath his chin. “Sorry.” I smiled to the nervous