Tag Archives: Mini Series

Episode 4: The Case of the Tree Stump, Paralysis and Colon Gas

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If you missed the previous episodes, please click here for the first, here for the second, and here for the third.

“Arthur wake up! Wake up Arthur,” was the incessant plea from a female voice. Sherlock knew he was still Sherlock and opened his weary eyes to see a rather attractive woman dressed in – of all things – tight blue pants and a yellow top with short sleeves and a deeply open collar. And no gloves! He tried not to stare but remembered his circumstances and decided to pretend a foggy mind.

“Good morning, hhaaa…” he stuttered.

“That’s okay, Arthur, they told me you had amnesia and it should wear off said the beautiful, trim brunette with red lips and a perfect complexion. Sherlock, knowing he was staring at her for the first time, tried to feign recognition.

“Julia,” she blurted out. I am your personal secretary and chauffer since your wife died, and I live in the guest suite in your house.

“Ah, yes, Julia. I am sorry. My mind is just not working, and I have this terrible headache,” retorted Arthur ( Holmes in his adopted disguise). “What do we do now?” he asked, hopeful for some direction. He was still staring at Julia and her wardrobe wondering how fashion design had evolved to this. But this was a new modern world and he needed desperately to understand what it was that brought him here and how he could manage to learn enough about it as quickly as possible. The appearance of Arthur’s personal secretary and driver was a plum in an otherwise distasteful pudding.

Julia brought fresh, “modern” clothes for Arthur to don. Sherlock was amazed at the perfect fit. The knit shirt he put on was navy blue and had the crest over the left breast of a polo player’s silhouette. The trousers were a beige color with no cuffs and a smooth cool texture that must be cotton or fine linen he thought as he buckled the belt he was more than appreciative of the ingenious use of a leather strap and amazed at the lack of need for suspenders. Socks and shoes matched the wardrobe in color and simplicity, and felt well broken in. Sherlock came out of the dressing room and looked to Julia as if to say take the lead here. Julia read him like a book and said, “Lets go, Arthur. We have a lot to do today.” He followed out of the room behind her and then suddenly stopped.

“Julia,” he queried. “What have they done with my friend, Dr. Watson?”

Julia froze and then grimaced. “Arthur,” she retorted, “he is not who he says he is. I don’t know how you met him or got connected to him, but the police and the hospital can’t seem to identify him. He has no ID and claims to work as a physician in England. They have inquired from the British government, the passport control office and even Interpol. There is no record of him.

He had emergency surgery last night but with no means of identification they placed him on a public ward and he is suspected of vagrancy and perhaps even attempted robbery. They are considering charging him with assault on you but they need you to recover from your amnesia so you can be a witness.

“Assault on me?” he’s my friend I have known him for a long time. “That’s not possible.”

“Now, Arthur,” Julia sighed. “You’ve had a concussion, your memory is gone and until your amnesia is over you will have to trust someone.”

“But, Julia, you have to trust me to…..”

She cut him off. “Someone broke into your home, ransacked the place and took some of your files on Mayor Moriarity! We discovered this when you went missing for a day and showed up in St. Francis’ Hospital.”

Sherlock (as Arthur Doyle) stood mouth agape. He was lost for words and trying to get his mind around this conundrum.

Julia continued, “They suspect he abducted you and even premeditated it by bringing a costume for you to wear, as if any one could be so stupid as to think they could hide you in plane sight of the public.”

“Moriarity’s files?” Sherlock inquired. Julia nodded.

“They also have another suspect who was found loitering around your property. He is in the public ward as well. When the police attempted to arrest him he fell backward over that tree stump on the side of your house. He landed hard on his back and complained of severe pain and was unable to walk. The police arrested him and with no ID took him to the hospital to be checked out. They admitted him as John Doe under police guard in the public ward.”

Holmes/Doyle looked pacified for a moment. Then he turned away from Julia back toward the Hospital entrance.

“I will see Dr Watson and interview him myself.” He announced and Julia turned and followed him back.

“Well, at least you are starting to behave like your old self,” she uttered almost under a whisper.

 

 

 

Episode 2: The Case of the Tree Stump, Paralysis and Colon Gas

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Sherlock Holmes pipe

If you missed episode 1 of this miniseries, please click here.

Sherlock Holmes lay on the other gurney, the backboard holding his head straight by the application of red canvas straps. He strained to catch one more glimpse of Dr. Watson as they took him away to St. Francis Hospital. He managed a peek as they loaded him into a shiny white and red box-shaped truck that roared black smoke from underneath.

He was in awe when they hoisted him up as well and latched his gurney to rings on the inside wall of another red ambulance and departed. “It must be a fine set of horses that can pull this rig at this speed,” he said and then was even speechless when he noticed that there clearly were no horses.

Radio chatter squeaked from the dashboard console and the voice of men not present could be heard. “Ambulance crew number 12. Do you copy?” Yes, a young man in a neat blue uniform spoke with a Boston accent – one that was almost abrasive to the English language, in Holmes’ mind at least. “Do you have ID on the victims?”

“Not at this time, but the taller fellow with the tweed jacket seems a bit delirious. I recognize him from the newspaper. He is the detective novelist that bought the Mark Twain estate in Hartford. I recall his name is Arthur Doyle.”

Holmes gave a look of frustration when he realized the communication was about him and apparently they had him mixed up with some unknown author in Hartford, Connecticut. “I am Sherlock Holmes,” he protested with the finest English accent to his voice and he searched for a match to light the Meerschaum pipe he had drawn form his waist coat pocket.

“Hey, you can’t light that thing in here.” the uniformed man ordered. Holmes dropped the pipe with start. “You are on oxygen and there is risk of explosion.”

Holmes remembered Watson’s face and condition. He was out cold and nothing gave away the man’s profession except a Royal hospital name badge fastened to his broad double-breasted lapel. Watson’s pockets were turned inside out and his right arm pulled from his winter coat where a needle entered a bulging vein in his muscular forearm. Watson, on holiday with Sherlock at his forensics laboratory, had three days of fresh stubble on his face, a way of relieving the pseudo folliculitis barbae from which he suffered with due to his tight curls of red hair. A rudimentary stethoscope was just barely visible, the ear pieces just peaking out of the inner coat pocket.

Holmes was jostled about as his own rescue truck began to tear up the road. A siren roared from the racing vehicle. An uncomfortable ride resulted from quick turns, sudden lurches and potholes. Tension resulted especially from not understanding what propelled the bright red ambulance through the mysterious streets in Hartford, Connecticut.