by DAN MONTY
THE RISE OF
SHERLOCK HOLMES
A novel by
Dan Monty
Based on the books by
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
First published in 2021 by Dan Monty
Copyright 2021 by Dan Monty
All rights reserved
Based on the books and characters of
“Sherlock Holmes"
Created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Cover art by Dan Monty
Copyright 2021 by Dan Monty
All rights reserved
No part of this book should be copied, sold, hired out Or reproduced without the prior written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.
By the same author
THE DEPTHS TRILOGY
THE OUTLAW MADRID
WAY OF THE SWORD
ROBIN HOOD
DAN MONTY’S TALES OF TERROR
Non fiction
THE GRANVILLE TRAIN DISASTER
For William Stewart,
My late grandfather whom I miss dearly.
PART ONE
“A SCARLET STUDY"
Based on the novel
“A Study in Scarlet"
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
CHAPTER ONE: THE CURIOUS MR. HOLMES
To tell the story of the great sleuth and master of deduction, Mr. Sherlock Holmes; one must first understand the world. Keen observation and an eye for detail is imperative; without either, such a man would truly be lost. When I came to know him, naturally at first I was not sure precisely what to make of the mysterious gentleman. He just simply had a way.
My name is Dr John Watson, and despite my honourable discharge from military service, I do still consider myself a credible physician. I served in Afghanistan in 2238, assisting the Royal Army as a medical doctor and despite saving many lives, it was not long before I found myself shot, injured and desperately ill from what came to be known as ‘The sickness'.
I woke up in a shuttle bound for London, my fever and ailments causing me great discomfort and excruciating pain. If I was to be honest with you, and frankly I feel it nessecary as I write this, the burdens and bloodshed of war are mostly shut out from my mind, blanketed by thoughts of denial and disregard. The dreaded nightmares of war only interrupt my sleep occasionally, and I honestly struggle to remember why we were over there in the first place.
The great war as it came to be called, was hardly great at all, though I can say that it involved a terrorist plot to destroy countries with a fierce plague. This sickness instead leaked out of the terrorist laboratories, spilling across the battlefield during our invasion, an attempt to destroy their forces and seize these instruments of biological warfare.
The twenty third century gave birth to a vast technological boom on a global scale. Buildings rose higher than ever into the skies, entire countries were given dramatic facelifts and cars were finally made to fly around the buzzing city towers. This made a faster, more efficient world. It also solved some of the world’s more troubling climate concerns.
When I returned to London, it was not the world I left behind. I had become quite used to the sight of flying motor vehicles, but the world seemed darker, more desperate. Certainly the architecture of modern London was enough to dazzle most, but not I. I have always been a simple man of simple tastes. I care not for holographic billboards or flying cars and certainly not for the odd robot walking around. Technology had evolved and been allowed to virtually take on a life of its own; a fact that depressed this Military physician, the limping sight that I am. A week later, I was still getting used to things again.
Stepping out of a shuttle I made my way through the metropolis before me, almost being hit by a red flying double decker London bus that was dropping off some passengers in Westminster. I limped out of the way, stepping over to a park bench.
“You better watch yourself around here, sir! They bloody drop people off fast... wait a minute, John? Is that you?” A voice asked as I turned around to see a short man walking towards me, dressed in a dashing black suit. His thin moustache seemed oddly out of place and for a moment I had no idea who I was looking at. Then it hit me.
“Richard? Richard Stamford? How are you?” I asked, desperately trying to look cool after nearly being taken out by a London bus.
“My, you look a little on the thin side, doctor! I haven’t seen you in years!” Stamford replied and I nodded.
“Yes. I was serving in Afghanistan. Just got back, actually. I’ve only been here a week. Looking for lodgings, that kind of thing,” I went on. I tried not to sound desperate. Truthfully, I’d made a local motel my home of late, but I did want to find more tasteful accommodation. My military pension was sufficient, but not enough to live in luxury and I had decided it would far better serve me to find a shared accommodation if I could.
“You know, some bloke at the pub was saying that today. He was looking for a bloke to share with. Such an odd fellow though, that one. You’d probably be better with someone a little more down to earth.” Stamford said, sipping on a coffee.
“Down to... no, no... I’m interested! I mean... I’d be interested in meeting him! Honestly, anywhere would be better than where I am living now,” I said and Stamford nodded. His coffee smelt good despite only being from Seven Eleven. He smiled at me as if reading my mind and the two of us bought coffee and had a chat as we walked through the park.
“So you know this man?” I asked and Stamford had a slight chuckle as he nodded, rubbing his chin.
“Oh I know him, bloody everyone knows him. He’s what some might call famous around these parts. He’s over on Baker Street. I can introduce you if you like? It’d be no problem at all! Anything for the good Doctor Watson! You are still a doctor?” Stamford asked and I chuckled.
“That will never change I fear. I’d be delighted to meet this friend of yours. Colour me intrigued!” I said and that was it. That was the very beginning of how I came to meet the curious Mr Holmes.
*****
The building on 221b Baker street was not modern in design. I’d wager it had looked the same since the nineteenth century, perhaps even earlier. That said, the building was beautifully painted, two glowing lights on either side of its arched doorway, the door painted a brilliant green, the building number in a shiny black.
Stamford grabbed the door knocker, knocking twice as an elderly woman answered the door, no doubt the land lady whom I would later learn went by the name of Mrs Hudson.
Mrs Hudson led us up a flight of seventeen steps, chatting pleasantly all the way. She was a dear old duck, pleasant and kind. She offered us both tea as she led us to a door to the right on the first floor. She knocked on the door several times and finally a man answered in a dressing gown, his curly, lengthy and dark hair wet, a pipe hanging from his mouth. His nose was almost bird like in length, his features seeming to size us up as he looked us all up and down.
“Yes? What? I didn’t break the vase. It was already broken,” the man said.
“Mr Holmes, you have guests. A man is here to see about the room upstairs...” Mrs Hudson said and Holmes opened the door wider, allowing us to enter.
“Mrs Hudson? tea please" Holmes said and Mrs Hudson placed her hands on her hips.
“I’m your landlord, not your nanny! You’d do well to clean up the mess in there! It smells of tobacco and... is that narcotics?” Mrs Hudson asked and Holmes’ expression didn’t change.
“Absurd! Those are experiments. I think the paint fumes are getting to you. Oh, two sugars please. Hot would be lovely this time" Holmes added as he closed the door.
Holmes’ large,
airy sitting room was... well it was unique. The room was well furnished with two leather chairs, a sofa, several tables cluttered with books and journals as well as several specimen jars that lined a tall oak shelf. There were chemistry sets on a desk, the jars filled with odd liquids and a Bunsen burner set up but not alight. A violin was leaning against one leather chair. There was a fireplace with a mantel, above which were several old photos and there were two broad windows which looked out into the street and were big enough to stand in, though the crimson drapes were closed. The wallpaper was a patterned red and I took note of a cigarette case that seemed rather elegant which rested on a table by a small globe of the world. There were racks of more specimen vials and containers, many of them containing chemicals such as sulphuric acid and various herbs, no doubt some of them narcotics as well. The room was rank with the smell of pipe tobacco and cigarettes, presumably the man smoked often as I noted a Persian slipper with a pouch of tobacco in it. There were various piles of paper documents and old notes and letters lying around. A staircase climbed up, no doubt to the second floor which faced the back of the building. Holmes’ own bedroom was attached to the sitting room, the walls of his bedroom green in colour. So clearly, his room mate would sleep upstairs from the sitting room.
As I looked around I gradually became aware that I had entered the sitting room and not uttered a word. Holmes was looking right at me.
“This is lovely. Really lovely" I said and Holmes looked at Stamford.
“I see you’ve brought me a friend,” Holmes said and Stamford smiled.
“He’s looking for a place to stay. You need a flat mate, so I thought the two of you should meet Stamford said and Holmes nodded, looking back at me.
“Afghanistan?” Holmes offered and I looked at Stamford.
“You told him?” I asked but Stamford shook his head.
“He... didn’t need to. You have a nervous look in your eye, not fear though... no, no... This is something else. The limp in your leg suggests you’ve suffered an injury, the tan on your face suggesting sun, yet you don’t seem like a sun tanning type to me and there’s no tan worthy sun for miles. Your eyes seem to look into the distance as if you’re trying to see past my walls – through them. The slight shake in your hand and sweat on your forehead suggests trauma, possible PTSD. The injury in your leg, the sun tan, the vacant look in your eyes, the nerves; from these alone I was able to deduce you were a man that was forced into a world he did not want to be. A desert, one you most likely were injured in. The only desert that’s seeing that kind of action right now is Afghanistan, meaning you were likely a soldier. Discharged perhaps?” Holmes asked and I stood there, stunned and clearing my throat.
“How could you possibly know that?” I asked and Holmes smiled.
“An injury like yours would not be much use to anyone on the battlefield. I’d say you were sent home because you were injured. They sent you home with a pension, now you are looking for lodgings, which I am happy to provide,” Holmes said, walking across the room and lighting a pipe. He blew smoke around the room as he sat in his leather chair, motioning Stamford to sit on the couch as I was ushered into the other leather chair. Stamford and I exchanged glances.
“This is... er... Sherlock Holmes. And before you ask, yes this is how he always is,” Stamford said with an embarrassed grin.
I noticed a chart of the human brain on his desk, the occipital lobe was highlighted in yellow and I smiled, the function of this section of the brain I knew rather well. Each of the four sections of the occipital lobe were responsible for different visual functions and interpreting information from the eyes. I cleared my throat nodding towards it.
“Yes?” Holmes asked and I smiled.
“What’s your interest in the occipital lobe?” I asked folding my arms. Holmes was a lot of things, and my powers of deduction were undoubtedly not as sound as his own, but I doubted he possessed any medical knowledge, though it would seem looking around he had at least acquired a basic knowledge of chemistry. However, I was curious to know of his knowledge of the human anatomy.
“You’re a doctor" Holmes said and I sighed. He had me again.
“What gave that away?” I asked defiantly and he rolled his eyes.
“Not too many soldiers would know what the occipital lobe was, let alone how to say it with such bravo. You served as a military surgeon. That, as you’re no doubt aware, is one of the sections of the brain, this section connected to the eyes. What we see Doctor. What is your name, by the way?” Holmes asked and I smiled.
“John Watson, and yes I was a doctor in the army. Tell me, what is it that you do, Mr Holmes?” I asked.
“I consider myself a consulting detective, perhaps the only one in the world, if not certainly the best,” Holmes said and I tried not to look confused.
“I’m sorry, you’re a detective?” I asked and he shook his head.
“Consulting, Dr Watson. When the police need another hand... When their little minds are baffled by a conundrum they deem too problematic, which happens more often than you might think, they come to me. If I decide it suits me, I help them but I do get lazy. I have days where I would much rather do nothing at all, just lay on my couch and stare into space. I hope that’s not going to inconvenience you?” Holmes asked as he raised an eyebrow, placing his tobacco in the Persian slipper.
“No, no. I’m a rather quiet person myself. I like to read,” I replied and Holmes bit his bottom lip.
“Yes well I play the violin too. Sometimes very loudly. I’ve probably missed several phone calls because I couldn’t hear my bloody phone ringing over my playing, I trust that won’t be a problem though? You do like violin, don’t you?” Holmes asked and I shrugged.
“It depends I guess,” I remarked.
“Depends on what?” Holmes asked.
“I suppose it depends if it’s being played well...” I offered and Holmes clapped his hands together, startling me.
“Splendid!” Holmes said finally and I sighed.
“I do like sleep, but I’m a rather patient man,” I said and Holmes nodded in agreement.
“I don’t think we will have any problems, Watson! I mean, the occasional fire, my science experiments, occasional drug induced coma and I do like to wear costumes, but aside from that I’m certain you'll feel right at home!” Holmes added and my heart skipped a beat.
“I’m sorry, occasional fire?” I asked but Holmes waved it off as Mrs Hudson stepped into the room holding a tray of tea for us all. Stamford politely refused, standing up and pulling on his coat.
“Thank you Mrs Hudson, but I must be off. I’m very glad to see the two of you get along. Thank you Mr Holmes" Stamford said, shaking his hand before leaving the house.
“So, when would you like to move in?” Holmes asked and I nearly choked on my tea.
“Mrs Hudson, did you poison our new friend?” Holmes asked and Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes. I quickly defended her, sputtering like a damn fool.
“It’s not... no! I just, I haven’t said yes yet...” I stammered and Holmes grinned heading towards his desk.
“No, but you will. I’ll help you grab your belongings if you like. You’re lucky. I’m bored" Holmes said, vanishing into his bedroom to get dressed.
CHAPTER TWO: THE BODY
A few days later, I had settled in upstairs from the sitting room. I kept everything in my room neat and tidy, often reflecting upon the charm of the classic style building that refused to be part of the busy and dystopian futuristic world outside. Within the walls of 221b Baker street was almost like stepping back in time, to a time before technology had taken over. I praised Mrs Hudson for not even taking on a robot to assist her.
“Perish the thought!” she said one day with a smile.
“A bloody machine can’t be trusted to run a place like this! There’s no fine touch with those...mechanical digits! Mr Holmes always says that. It’s true enough. Besides, just because the world decides to move on, doesn’t mean we all have to r
ush to catch up.” she went on.
I had to admit I was inclined to agree. I didn’t like robots at all and it seemed that our good friend Mr Holmes agreed as would be confirmed in time.
Holmes was in the sitting room when I awoke and made my way downstairs, spying Holmes talking to Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, whom I had seen on television. Lestrade was a Scotland yard detective and seemed like a kind man. They sat opposite each other on the two leather chairs.
“Robot forensics? It’s absurd! It’s an outrage! I simply must be allowed to inspect the crime scene before they arrive!” Holmes was saying and Lestrade regarded me with a nod. I nodded back.
“I agree. Look, I need your help. I came to see you and frankly, this one has us stumped!” Lestrade said. Holmes turned to me and pointed.
“Lestrade, Watson, Watson, Lestrade" Holmes uttered, his hand rubbing his chin as if he were lost in thought again. Despite the brief introduction, I shook Lestrade's hand.
“Holmes was telling me he had a new room mate. Nice to meet you, Doctor" Lestrade offered and Holmes suddenly bolted to his feet.
“Quiet! You’re jabbering is breaking my train of thought!” Holmes said, sitting down again and sipping on his tea.
“So you’ll come then?” Lestrade asked and Holmes sighed.
“Fine! If I must, I must. I’ll meet you at the crime scene if I decide it suits me. Don’t let them mess up my crime scene! It’s most unhelpful to me!" Holmes said quickly as Lestrade got to his feet and nodded, walking out of the sitting room.
Not two minutes had he gone when Holmes was suddenly overcome with joy. He whooped with delight, grabbing a long, black coat and scarf from his room and putting them on.
“This is a good day, Watson! There’s been a murder!” Holmes said and I scratched my head.
“I’m sorry, should I be excited?” I asked and Holmes rushed to my side, positively busting with excitement.
