HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MR HOLMES! by Gary Lovisi

It was in late 1903 after the affair I would eventually chronicle as “The Adventure of the Creeping Man” for The Strand magazine, when my friend Sherlock Holmes seemed to be in an unusual mood of dark disturbance. I could only assume that it was the Abercrombie situation that was playing upon his mind—a dangerous escaped convict who was said to be on his way to London. Holmes would not speak of it and even the press was sparse regarding details, so I put the matter aside for the time being. I had concerns of my own just then causing me considerable consternation.

Mary, my wife, had gone away for a protracted visit to the north country to look after her ailing mother, so I found myself alone and lonely at home without her. I was much buoyed when Holmes suggested I move back into our old lodgings at Baker Street for the next month or two while she was away. It was a generous offer on his part to assuage my loneliness and I felt beholden to do something to reciprocate his generosity—and I knew exactly what I would do to repay my good friend.

“Watson? Now what is it?” Sherlock Holmes asked me with obvious disdain that morning as we finished breakfast. “I can smell the wood burning.”

“Should I stoke the fire?” I asked coyly.

“Hah! Not the fireplace, old man, but you, your very thoughts. Your mind is working in high gear. I fear you may hurt yourself if you tax your faculties so harshly.”

“You…fear…What?” I blurted, holding down my chagrin.

Holmes laughed, allowing a mischievous grin, “You are up to something. I can read the signs all over you, though you are trying hard to hide it. Now I wonder what it can be?”

“Really, Holmes! You can be insufferable at times.”

Sherlock Holmes smiled victoriously. I knew he was playing with me now. “That does it! Now whatever can you be planning? Surely not that execrable birthday party scheme again? Each year at this time you endeavor to harass me with that ridiculous nonsense, and each year I refuse you adamantly.”

“That may be, Holmes, but this is different. This January, the sixth will be your fiftieth birthday, a singular milestone in your life and career,” I spoke softly, imploringly, for I knew his rages and upon this matter he had always been very firm. Nevertheless, I felt I had to press ahead for he was correct, you see, I did have plans. I added, “This is a special moment in your life. You should celebrate this occasion. I wish to celebrate it. Many people would like to celebrate it with you.”

“Then do so. Tip a pint! Tip a dozen pints for all I care, but do please leave me out of it. I have no wish to be put on display, regaled by gawkers with whom I am forced to make pleasantries, while being force-fed food and victuals, then stuffed with cake or pastry, only to finally be presented with meaningless gifts—none of which I need by the way—all the time having to thank the givers profusely. I can think of nothing more loathsome. Why, I should be forced to resort to the cocaine needle or even the opium pipe to assuage my wounded psyche. Thank you, but no thank you, Watson.”

“But, Holmes…?” I stammered, then stopped abruptly for I saw his face had grown dark and grim.

My companion only shook his head sadly and suddenly flung down his Times, then he swiftly arose from his chair with a huff and marched into his bedroom, slamming the door firmly behind him. I believe Holmes had made his feelings quite clear to me upon the subject of birthdays, but I would not let that stop me from planning a party in his honour—whether he wanted one or not!

* * * *

The next day Holmes and I were in our sitting room. He was smoking prodigiously upon his favourite pipe, creating quite the thick fog, no doubt deep in some deductive thoughts. I was quietly perusing my notes of the Carfax Case.

“Holmes?” I inquired softly.

He looked up at me and allowed a grim smile. “Absolutely not, Watson!”

“But…but…”

“No ‘buts’ need be applied. I know you are ignoring my wishes and are planning to have a birthday party for me here on January sixth. I know you will invite friends and even some…acquaintances…”

“Please, Holmes, be reasonable.”

“Reasonable, Watson! You harm me deeply with this request. I want no party. I have never wanted a party. I never celebrate my date of birth. A ridiculous custom. Why should I begin now? In any event, do as you will, but I certainly will never attend such a gathering. Case closed.”

I nodded, subdued by my friend’s firm conviction, but more determined than ever to give him a party to celebrate his life, something he so richly deserved.

“Your birthday party will go on with or without you, Holmes,” I stated firmly.

“Then it shall go on without me,” he replied just as firmly. I could see he was immovable upon this subject, so I would have to amend my plans accordingly. My ace in the hole was his brother, Mycroft, who told me that at the right time he would call Holmes away upon some pretext.

* * * *

The days passed and Holmes seemed distracted by several interesting cases that climaxed at the end of the year. The situation regarding Abercrombie I could tell was now uppermost in his mind, but he would still give me no details.

New Year’s Day, 1904, saw us enjoying a lovely dinner compliments of our landlady, Mrs Hudson. She winked at me as she took away the empty dishes of our feast. She was excited by the idea of the party and naturally was the first person after Mycroft who I invited. She was overjoyed by the idea but had not let on to Holmes her excitement. I believe she was more difficult for Holmes to read than was I. Irrespective of all that, I began to grow concerned because the big event was now just five days away.

Holmes remained as obdurate as ever upon the subject.

“So, my good Watson, you thought your little plan slipped my mind in all the rush of recent cases. I assure you nothing could be farther from the truth.”

“Be reasonable, Holmes,” I implored once more, trying to take a different tack with him.

“Reasonable, yes, by all means, I shall be. My reasonableness extends to the promise that I shall not leave these premises the entire day of the sixth. Ah, but do not celebrate victory just yet, my friend. For I will allow no visitors to enter our rooms either. Nor will I permit you to hang one single party ribbon nor atrocious piece of celebratory bunting anywhere on these premises. If you do so, I will simply pull them down and tear them into tiny pieces. So you see, my friend, your party is effectively aborted. It shall be still-born. Now why not just admit defeat so we can put all this silliness behind us? There is a new magic act at the Lyceum that is all the rage, a female magician by the name of ‘The Young and Lovely Lucille,’ and I have obtained two tickets. What do you say?”

“So that is how you prove to be reasonable? To buy me off! I am sorry, my friend, but I do not accept your offer. January sixth marks your half century and upon my soul, a celebration of your birth will take place upon that day!”

Holmes just moaned, relit his pipe and walked over to our front window to stare down at Baker Street below. I saw him take something from his pocket, look over it carefully, then quickly put it back into his pocket. Was it the tickets or something else? I had no idea what it was about, but he looked grim now. Holmes was quiet and in deep thought and grew morose, as if struggling with something, but he would not tell me and I knew better than to ask. I knew with my friend that all things were made known in their proper time, so I did not intrude upon his thoughts. Since my marriage and moving out of Baker Street, I feared he had gone back to his old secretive ways. He was being difficult. Nevertheless, I did not care, Sherlock Holmes was going to have his birthday party if it was the last thing I ever did—but he had now put up a serious impediment to my plan.

* * * *

When the morning of the sixth approached I felt that all was lost. Holmes was firmly ensconced in our rooms like some grim stone monument, unmoving, inflexible. True to his word he would allow no visitors, not even Mrs Hudson. He would not allow me to decorate the rooms. I was effectively flummoxed. I had the nightmare thought of Holmes standing steadfastly behind our locked door all that evening, chiding our guests by not allowing them to enter. Some of the people I invited were coming from quite a distance. It was looking as if all my plans would end up in utter disaster.

Mycroft was essential to my plans, but upon the morning of the party his scheme to get Sherlock out of our rooms upon some pretext proved futile. Holmes would not bite. He would not take the bait Mycroft dangled before him and leave our rooms. What was I to do? And guests would be arriving later that very evening, just hours away.

As the day wore on my nerves grew more frayed. Holmes just sat there calmly smoking up a storm, a whimsical smile playing across his face as he watched me in my agitated state of quiet dismay. I quite believe he was enjoying my distress. The scoundrel!

The morning passed badly. Later Mrs Hudson brought us up a light luncheon. Holmes graciously allowed her to enter our rooms and she quietly placed the meal tray down before us. She shot me an inquiring look and when Holmes was distracted her lips made the silent words, “What is happening?” I shook my head negatively. Nothing was happening. I could well understand her concern, but I was nonplussed by Holmes’s activity—or lack of it. He would not leave our rooms and I realized by doing so, he had effectively stymied all my party plans.

I had to get Holmes out of our rooms so I could decorate them, then bring up the food and punch that Mrs Hudson had secreted below, and I had to do this all before our guests arrived. Then, even more difficult—I had to somehow get Holmes to come back to 221B. That was the real rub—but I would worry about that later, as I was looking to Mycroft to help me with that obstacle.

After a quiet lunch, the early afternoon was too soon upon us and I was simply jittery with nerves, though trying hard not to let it show. I did not want to give Holmes the satisfaction. For his part, my friend continued smoking and watched me with a rather whimsical leer upon his face. He was quite enjoying my discomfiture and openly taunted me with quick jibes, inquiring how the party was shaping up and if all was in readiness, reminding me that time was growing short.

“You can be abominable sometimes,” I stated, anger covering my hurt pride.

Holmes just sat there glowing in my distress. He even had the effrontery to ask, “Do you need any help decorating?”

“No, thank you!” I barked, quite upset now that he was obviously doing all he could to make me squirm. He was baiting me. Well, I would have none of it, but I forced myself to calm down. I took a deep breath, sighed and asked, “Holmes?”

“No, Watson, not at all,” he stated firmly, but then I was surprised to see him get up from his chair, walk over to the door and put on his coat. Now what, I thought?

“I think I need to get a bit of fresh air,“ Holmes suddenly informed me in a firm tone. “The air in here is a bit stuffy, I believe I will go out for a walk. I shan’t return before the early morning of the seventh, Watson, so have your party if you must, but know that I shall not be in attendance.”

Then Sherlock Holmes left our rooms. I ran over to the front window and saw him walking briskly down Baker Street. I sighed, gathered myself together, astounded by this sudden action but overjoyed, for this was just the break I had hoped for. I immediately called down to our landlady that we were to begin to set the party in motion.

“Mrs Hudson, he’s gone out, the party is on! Full speed ahead!”

“Jolly good, Doctor Watson! Jolly good!”

Mrs Hudson proved a bounty of excellent ideas. First, she helped me move the chairs and sofa out of our sitting room and into Holmes’s bedroom to create more open space. My bedroom would be used for the hats and coats of our guests. Then we moved our breakfast table in front of the fireplace, which created a large open area for guests to mingle. Soon afterwards our landlady brought up plate after plate of enticing finger sandwiches along with her famous rum punch. The guests began to arrive promptly at the prearranged hour of seven o-clock.

Inspectors Lestrade of Scotland Yard was the first on the scene, accompanied by Inspector Tobias Gregson. They were old friends who had known Holmes for almost twenty years, since the case I had chronicled as A Study in Scarlet back in ’87. Also from Scotland Yard were Inspectors Alec MacDonald, the younger Stanley Hopkins and MacKinnon, whom Holmes felt showed great promise and referred to as “Mr Mac.” While it was good to see them all, I thought it a bit odd since my invitation had only gone out to Lestrade. Now there seemed to be many more men of the law arriving than I invited and I barely knew what to do about it. I finally shrugged and accepted it in good order, putting it down to Holmes’s long years of work with the police.

Then Wiggins and his small gang of former street ruffians appeared, whom Holmes liked to call his Baker Street Irregulars. Various others entered the house and our rooms; former clients, people who Holmes had come into contact with over the years. There were so many. It was good to see Holmes’s old friend from Oxford, Reginald Musgrave once again, whose strange problem I had written up as “The Musgrave Ritual” so many years ago; as well as my old friend ‘Young’ Stamford, older now and a distinguished medical man. Stamford was the fellow who had first introduced me to Holmes so many years before. Mycroft Holmes appeared soon afterwards. I was happy to see him, and to see that tonight’s party was important enough for him to uproot himself from his sedentary seat in the Diogenes Club.

“Is Sherlock here yet?” the elder Holmes brother asked me, Sherlock’s senior by seven years. He immediately turned towards the refreshments table and liberally partook of Mrs Hudson’s exquisite rum punch—which was proving to be the hit of the evening. Soon the room filled with still more guests, all of whom were talking softly in little clusters, all seemingly sharing their favourite Sherlock Holmes story or memory. I felt sad that the great man himself would not be here for any of this celebration and that he would miss it all. It was a shame.

“I’m afraid your brother will not be coming,” I told Mycroft Holmes glumly.

I looked around the rooms. They were nicely decorated—Mrs Hudson and I had done a credible job. The party was going full force, with even our bedrooms and the outer landing and stairway filling up with happy chatting guests.

“Oh, I think not, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft told me with a little smile. “I am sure brother Sherlock could never resist such an event, all his protestations aside. However, you may be correct, he certainly is not the birthday type.”

“I know that only too well.” I blurted, my eyes scanning the rooms and outer landing. Something was not right. There seemed to be many more guests than I had ever invited. Though I scanned every face visible to me, I did not see my friend at all. I looked inquiringly at the elder Holmes.

“I do not see Sherlock anywhere.”

Mycroft smiled indulgently. “Perhaps he is in disguise?”

“Disguise? Of course!” I blurted. Yes, of course, that had to be it! The wily scoundrel was in disguise. Holmes’s ego would not allow him to resist being present at his own party so he could investigate all the goings on—but it never occurred to me that he would do so in disguise. I simply assumed he would arrive later, as would any other person, when the party was going full throttle and make some grand entrance. I hadn’t thought that he might already be here, right this very minute. I looked over all the faces once again. I quickly discounted the Scotland Yard inspectors and others I knew by sight, but there seemed to be an alarming number of guests I did not know at all. Men and even women I had never seen before. That was perplexing. Who were all these people? Where had they all come from? There were also a number of rather flirtatious woman present. What were they doing here? I was confused. I planned for a rather small gathering, an intimate party, not this! It was rapidly turning into a three-ring circus. Holmes’s great popularity had apparently grown beyond even my own comprehension.

“Can you tell me which of these men is your brother?” I asked Mycroft hopefully.

“No, Doctor, I do not see him here,” Mycroft replied with a wry grin.

“Then how do I find him?” I asked hopelessly.

“If he is here at all, you must use the deductive methods you have learned from brother Sherlock. If you do so I am certain you cannot go wrong, Dr Watson.” Then Mycroft Holmes walked off with a glass of rum punch to speak to someone who appeared to be a member of the royal family, who was speaking to a man I knew to be the French ambassador.

Now I was in a quandary. Holmes had apparently secretly stole into his own birthday party but was here in disguise and I could not find him. I was sure the fiend was doing this just to annoy me. I feared he might not ever reveal himself, which would certainly put a dampener upon the party. It was all up to me now.

Once again I looked over each of the guests. Some certainly appeared to be rather disreputable examples of the lower classes—or even of the criminal classes. I wondered how many might be burglars, forgers, pick-pockets, or confidence men. I was aghast. I even recognized one man who Holmes had been instrumental in having arrested, wily Jack Thomas, the pocket picker. He, at least, was harmless. I sighed, what was going on here? Then I saw another man who seemed familiar to me. I assumed he was one of the reformed criminals who sometimes aided Holmes. Maybe he knew something? I sidled up to him.

“Glad you could make Mr Holmes’s party,” I stated. Then I introduced myself.

“I knows who you be, I seen you with Mr ’Olmes ’pon occasion. I helps him sometimes. Me name be Rafferty.”

“Rafferty? Just Rafferty?”

“Rafferty will do for today, eh?” he responded with a snicker, showing a mouth full of blackened teeth. Wherever Holmes had met such a disreputable rogue I feared to imagine.

“Well, Mr Rafferty…”

“No mister, just Rafferty,” he corrected me, quite adamant upon the matter. He showed me a fierce demeanour and I grew nervous.

I took a step back, wondering if I might not need my revolver before this evening was over. Had this man come here to…burgle the house? No, my alarm was unnecessary. He was a reformed criminal, who told me he now worked with my companion, so he should prove safe. At least I hoped so. However, as I looked around the room at all the unknown faces, it dawned upon me that there were many people who might wish to do harm to my friend and one of them might even be here at this very party. The thought chilled me.

I decided to put this Rafferty fellow to the test.

“So you have done some work for Mr Holmes?” I asked, looking at him closely.

“That I does, ’pon occasion, as it warrants.”

“Then perhaps you can help me?”

“If I am able, depending ’pon what it be.”

I nodded, then I drew the man in close to me and whispered in his ear. “Listen, Sherlock Holmes is here, but he is in disguise. Can you point him out to me?”

“That is not for me to say. If Mr ’Olmes desires not to be known, he should remain so. He may be working on one of those cases of his,” Rafferty explained in a conspiratational whisper.

I’m afraid I grew exasperated by his defiance. “Oh, come now, my man, this is a birthday party, Holmes is not working on any case. He is just trying to get my goat, punish me for giving him a party that he never wanted.”

The man shrugged and then left me to converse with a group of young ladies. Now who these ladies were I had no idea. I noticed all were rather comely, and if truth be told, well-endowed and quite fetching. I shook my head in despair and forgot the ladies. I was a married man now, my Mary was away, and my friend Sherlock Holmes was doing his best to make me out a fool. Soon each of the guests was coming over to me and asking when Sherlock Holmes would appear. When, indeed!

I was in a quandary.

“Any luck yet?” Mycroft asked as he passed me with someone who looked like the prime minister.

“No, but who are all these people? I invited no more than two dozen guests but I have discovered people all throughout our rooms, out on the landing, the stairway, down through Mrs Hudson’s entire first floor, and even outside in front of 221. What is going on here?”

“My brother is quite the popular fellow,” Mycroft answered with a jolly laugh, then he left to refill his glass with more rum punch.

I watched him walk off and shook my head in despair. I was in a real dilemma.

Gregson and Lestrade next walked over to me. “When will Mr Holmes arrive?”

“Soon,” I answered, then begged off, telling them that I had to speak with another guest on the other side of the room.

It was then that my eyes locked onto an elderly clergyman. He was tall and lean, with long grey hair under a large black slough hat. He carried a book with him under his arm. Probably a Bible. He was talking briskly with one of the ladies. Now here was someone of interest. Hello! Holmes had once used this very disguise years ago in the Adler Affair. I looked more closely at the old cleric. Yes, it made sense. This could certainly be Holmes. My heart leapt with joy, I had him now! I would show him!

I watched the clergyman more carefully. Yes, it could be Holmes, in fact, it had to be Holmes! I looked around for Mycroft, but he was nowhere in sight, so I decided to beard Sherlock myself. I approached the elderly clergyman and stood boldly in front of him. I stared him down. He looked back at me as if he had never seen me before. Just as I assumed he would.

I said boldly, “Holmes, I must compliment you upon your fine disguise, the old weathered face, the lank messy hair, the crazed look in the eyes, but I saw right through it immediately. I have found you out, you scoundrel!”

The old cleric looked at me uncomprehendingly, and it annoyed me that my friend would not admit defeat and insisted upon keeping up his sham in spite of my discovering his charade.

With some annoyance the cleric said, “Disguise? What disguise, young man? I am sorry, sir, but I quite do not know what you mean.”

“You old rascal! Come now, admit I found you out!” I said rather loudly, insisting he come clean with the truth, sure that I had breached his disguise. We were attracting a crowd.

“Come now, sir. Doctor Watson, is it not? This is most unusual.”

“You know who I am, and I know who you are, you wily rogue, you!”

“Well, this is very unseemly behaviour. I have been invited here for a party to celebrate Mr Holmes’s auspicious day and now I find myself verbally accosted by some loud-mouthed mountebank! This is nothing short of outrageous!”

“Mountebank! Why, you old faker, I’ll show you!” I blurted in anger. A crowd had definitely gathered around us now. The men from Scotland Yard, that Rafferty fellow, a tall overweight man who appeared to be a common labourer, another man in a military uniform, Wiggins and Mrs Hudson, all were looking to see what I would do next.

“Answer me, Holmes! I’ve had quite enough of your obtuse behavior, making a fool out of me by coming in secret to your own party and calling me a mountebank!”

“Mountebank is the least of it! You are an impertinent scoundrel, sir!” the old cleric barked in anger.

“Oh, be quiet, Holmes!” I shouted. “I am furious with you. Why, it would serve you right if I just pulled that fake beard right off your face!”

The elderly cleric took a step back, I took a step forward, but then I felt a firm hand upon my shoulder. I turned to find Mycroft Holmes standing beside me. He bowed down and gently whispered into my ear, “I’m afraid you have the wrong man, Doctor. That is the Reverend Mathias James of St Catherine’s. I invited him here myself. My brother did some little favour for him regarding the pilfering of the church’s poor box last month. He only wished to express his gratitude.”

I was utterly embarrassed. I could barely stand there in front of all those people. Thankfully, by then the crowd had moved off and the general party conversation resumed. I well imagined I was the subject of much of that conversation. I took a deep breath and looked to the elder Holmes.

“Not Sherlock?” I asked in a deflated tone.

“Indeed not,” Mycroft replied firmly. Then he pulled me away with him. “Come Doctor, you need some of this rum punch, your nerves seem frayed. Too much excitement for one evening, I gather. The party is simply smashing by the way, a very interesting group and they all seem to be having a fine time of things. You are to be congratulated.”

I walked off numbly following Mycroft, my mind in a whirl. That poor old reverend. I would have to apologize to him later. My God, I had come one heartbeat away from pulling his whiskers right off his face!

“By the way, Doctor, do you have any idea when my brother will show himself?” the elder Holmes asked me confidentially.

I looked at him curiously. “What do you mean? I thought you said he was here, but in disguise?”

“I said he might be here, perhaps in disguise,” Mycroft told me.

“So he is not here?” I asked.

“Apparently he is not,” Mycroft replied simply.

I felt deflated, defeated, and suddenly very sad.

Mycroft handed me a glass of rum punch. I grasped it eagerly and in four long swallows emptied the glass. The warmth of the rum and the sweetness of the fruit did much to restore my spirits.

“What now?” I asked.

“Be patient,” Mycroft said, and then he walked off to speak with the tall uniformed military man I had seen earlier.

I quickly took another glass of rum punch, my nerves were frazzled and I needed the drink. I’d not only made a fool of myself in front of everyone, I’d practically scared the daylights out of poor old Reverend James. He must think me quite insane. This party was certainly not turning out as I had planned.

As the night wore on the talk became louder, the laughter more raucous and no one left 221B. Everyone it seemed was waiting for Sherlock Holmes to make his grand entrance to celebrate his fiftieth birthday. No one was more anxious for that event to occur than I.

I decided to make the rounds, and after a few more doses of Mrs Hudson’s delightful elixir—she seemed to keep the punch bowl and trays of food endlessly supplied—I loosened up somewhat and spoke to some of the guests. I focused especially on those guests I did not know. There were quite a few of them; men of apparently all backgrounds and stations in life. I introduced myself to one and all, looking to see if any of them might be Holmes in disguise. I was much more careful this time. Yet while it seemed that none of them could be Holmes, each one asked me when the guest of honour was slated to appear. I smiled and mumbled something about him having been called away earlier in the day on some important business, but that he would surely be here soon.

“Rest assured,” I told one and all, with a rum punch grin, “Sherlock Holmes would never miss his own birthday party.”

They all laughed and said that was certainly true.

I laughed with them as I walked away. I was a desperate man now. What to do? Where was Holmes? Why was he doing this to me?

Someone was tugging at my sleeve. “Excuse me, Doctor Watson, but can you tell me when Mr Holmes is going to show up? You know the hour is getting rather late.”

The same question was put to me by an ever growing amount of guests until it became a veritable chant. “Where is Holmes! Where is Holmes!”

I swallowed hard, took a deep breath. It looked like I would have to do something soon. But what? It was obvious to me now that Holmes was not going to show up —and if by some miracle he was even here—he was not going to show himself. It looked like it fell to me to do the best I could as matters now stood.

I took another deep breath and marshaled my thoughts. Speaking in my best booming voice, I announced to one and all, “My friends, ladies and gentlemen, friends of Sherlock Holmes, the hour is getting late. I am afraid to tell you that Sherlock Holmes is away on a case and will not be able to join us, so we should have our cake now and then call it a night.”

There were the expected murmurs of shock and disappointment.

“I am truly sorry that Mr Holmes is not able to be with us tonight, but he sends his regrets, regards, and he thanks you all for doing him such an honour on his birthday. I am sorry that I have let you down.”

There were more murmurs of disappointment, some signs of regret. My announcement about Holmes spread a pall over the formerly joyous party. Now a hush had overcome the guests, joined by a low murmur as they all looked towards me, some not too kindly. I realized something more was called for.

I boldly moved to the front of the room, looked at the guests and spoke the only way I knew how, from my heart. “My friends, my good friends, honoured guests, we have joined here tonight to celebrate the fiftieth year of the birth of our good friend Sherlock Holmes. It is fitting we do this. It matters not that Holmes is unable to join us. Holmes is a man who has touched all our lives and in that way he is with us always. He is a man who has made the world a better place, and without him and his work as a consulting detective, we would all be worse off. I known I would be. On a personal note, Sherlock Holmes is my dear friend. He is the most decent man I have ever met. My life without him would be lost. I miss him being here tonight as much as you all do. I am sure the only reason he is not here with us tonight is because he is engaged in important work that may be a matter of life and death. You can rest assured that once I see him I shall chide him without mercy for his absence!” There was a bit of light laughter by the guests at that remark and I smiled. I was winning the crowd. Then I continued, “What I do know, is that were Sherlock Holmes here, he would be overcome by this outpouring of love and affection that you all show him. So many old friends are here together again, and all to honour him. Holmes would be deeply touched and thank you all.”

There was a cheer and then clapping and I quickly wiped the sweat that streamed down my face.

“I think it is time. Now let’s have our cake!” I announced to raucous cheers. “Mrs Hudson!”

By then, of course, everyone was swarming around me, each one wishing Holmes good cheer and congratulations. Lestrade, Gregson and all the Scotland Yard inspectors, Wiggins and his gang, Stamford, Reginald Musgrave, various clients, and even some men Holmes had put away. All offered their good wishes. I noticed another Stamford offer his congratulations, Archie Stamford the forger, and then Mycroft stepped up and shook my hand.

“Well done, Doctor Watson, well done indeed!” the elder Holmes told me and I beamed with pride.

Then the crowd suddenly parted as a familiar female voice called out boldly in a loud Scottish accent, “Come on now, move off, make room! Coming through!”

It was Mrs Hudson holding a large chocolate cake set ablaze with candles – fifty of them if I am not mistaken. She deftly placed the cake down upon the table in front of us.

“Seeing as Mr Holmes is not present, Doctor Watson, why don’t you make a wish for him and then blow out the candles,” she stated. Then she ordered, “Hurry up or the cake will melt and everyone is waiting for a piece.”

I took a minute to look around at all the faces beaming with good cheer and I do believe my eyes misted up for just a moment. At that instance I missed Holmes greatly, so sorry he was missing this celebration in his honour. Then I quickly took a deep breath and blew out all the candles in one great gust of wind.

Instantly those in the room, and all those throughout the entire house, let out with a raucous chant:

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MR HOLMES!!!”

I was obviously touched by the emotion exhibited for my friend and simply said, “Thank you all, Sherlock Holmes thanks you all!”

Then Mrs Hudson cut the cake and began handing it out to the guests on her prized china.

Wiggins then came over to me on the sly. He was the one who put me on the right track.

“Eh, Doctor Watson, you ’ear from Mr ’Olmes yet?”

“You know I have not, you rascal,” I replied a bit short with the young man. I’d known Wiggins since he had been a young pup, just a boy—one of those Holmes liked to call his ‘Irregulars.’

“Well ’e told me you should be on the lookout for Abercrombie,” Wiggins said in a low tone.

“You spoke with Holmes? Where is he?” I asked quietly. “Point him out to me now!”

“I cannot, ’e told me this yesterday and I’ve not seen nor ’eard from ’im since.”

“Abercrombie?” I said softly. That meant something. The escaped convict. Here! What was that about? I looked at Wiggins. “Did he tell you what this Abercrombie looked like or why I should be on the watch for him.”

“No, sir, just that you should keep your eyes open and stay away from him.”

I shook my head in frustration. How could I look out for this Abercrombie or stay away from him when I did not even know what the man looked like? And a dangerous escaped convict at that! Then my eyes spotted the Scotland Yard inspectors talking heatedly in a small circle apparently about old cases and having a fine time of it—Lestrade, Gregson, Hopkins, MacDonald, and the man Holmes liked to call ‘Mr Mac.’

I smiled as I entered their midst, “Gentlemen!”

“Fine party, Doctor Watson,” Lestrade said as he downed more punch and picked up another sandwich.

“Simply smashing!” Hopkins added with a grin. It appeared the rum punch already had some effect on him—as it was having on most of the guests.

“Gentlemen, perhaps you can help me?” I asked cordially. “Have any of you heard of the escaped convict, Abercrombie?”

“Dangerous man,” Mr Mac stated seriously.

“Murderer with no pity,” Gregson added.

I gulped nervously. Those were not the words I wanted to hear, but I expected no less.

“Do any of you know what the man looks like? Could you pick him out in a crowd?” I asked hopefully.

All five inspectors looked dubious and shook their heads in the negative.

Hopkins then explained, “Abercrombie has always appeared the same, shaved round head, clean shaved face, even his eyebrows are shaved. He’s been on the run for over a month, ample time to change his appearance, so unless you see a man matching that description, you’ll never find him. He is probably on a ship to America or Australia at this very moment.”

“I hope so,” I said.

Then they asked about my interest in him. I shrugged and just replied that I had read of him in the press and it was a passing fancy.

I next tried Mycroft and he was also of no help. I found myself back where I had started.

I looked over at the many men in the room, then thought of all the other men throughout the house. I knew that there could easily be a dozen or more men who might be Abercrombie. Which one was he? Abercrombie, the escaped convict! Why was he here? I nodded, now convinced, there could be but one reason. Abercrombie was here to kill Sherlock Holmes!

A deadly chill ran through me. There really was much more to this party than met the eye and if Holmes was truly here, I now hoped he was in disguise and would not reveal himself.

I walked through the rooms and the outer landing, down the stairs and even to the outside steps of 221 for any sign of Holmes—or a man who might be my friend in disguise. There was no one. Where was he? And this Abercrombie! What of him? Obviously, the two were stalking each other in some mad dance of criminal pursuit and criminal revenge. I began to fear for my friend and told my feelings to Mycroft.

“I feel terrible,“ I told the elder Holmes. “I never thought that Sherlock taking on a disguise might be for some other reason—that it was a matter of life and death.”

“Fear not, good doctor. Sherlock has all well in hand.”

“Where is he then?” I asked nervously.

“I think it may be time. Did you notice the military officer in the red uniform?” Mycroft asked me, a slight smile playing across his lips.

“Sherlock?” I whispered softly.

Mycroft did not answer that question, instead he told me, “He is Colonel Sir Ralph Richards. As I say, an interesting fellow. Perhaps you would like me to introduce you to him?”

I nodded. Being a retired Army doctor, I was always eager to meet another military man. Mycroft took me to where the Colonel was apparently holding court. He was busy speaking with various guests, including Reverend James, that Rafferty fellow, and a disreputable man who appeared to be nothing more than some heavy oaf, a down-and-out ne’er-do-well who had apparently crashed the party for the free food and beverages supplied so amply by Mrs Hudson. He wolfed down food and drink as if he had never seen such victuals before. Well, so be it. The poor fellow was apparently hungry. I quickly turned away from the man to look at the other guests.

In a voice loud enough for all to hear, Mycroft Holmes said, “Colonel Sir Ralph Richards, I would like to present to you a good friend of my brother’s, and our host for the evening, Doctor John H Watson.”

The Colonel and I shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. I looked carefully at this military man and was perplexed. He could be Holmes in disguise. He was tall and lean, but the uniform covered much. The cap and longish black hair, the large moustache and mutton-shop whiskers all seemed to disguise him quite well. If it was Holmes. I was not quite sure, especially after my run-in with the Reverend James, who was nearby and watching me closely as if I were some escapee from Bedlam about to go on the bonkers without a moment’s notice. I saw the Reverend take a careful step back. I sighed.

I was considering the possibility that the Colonel might just be Holmes in disguise when that party-crashing oaf, apparently fully drunk and now disorderly to boot, lost his balance and bumped me hard, pushing me with a wild fall into that Rafferty fellow. Well, that fellow got angry and pushed me back even harder. I lost my balance. There was a tussle, a confusion of arms and legs. I tried to apologize for my clumsiness, but just then other men got involved and curses and fists began to fly. I cannot explain how it all happened, but the Colonel, the large labourer, Rafferty, the Reverend, myself, and even Mycroft ended up in some confused mêlée of kicking feet and flying fists. When it was all over, the Colonel lay upon the floor apparently stunned. I immediately ran over to offer him medical attention—one military man to another. Mycroft quickly called over the men from Scotland Yard. I was shocked. Certainly as gentlemen we could work out this little mix-up among ourselves without bringing in the police?

I helped the Colonel to his feet, but just then the large labourer and that Rafferty lout firmly pushed me aside, away from the poor man.

“What is the meaning of this!” I barked.

“We’ll take it from here, Watson.” The voice of Sherlock Holmes spoke suddenly, though I did not see him anywhere. I looked quickly into the faces of the men around me but did not see him.

Mycroft just smiled.

The Reverend James glared at me.

Then I saw the Colonel briskly being handed over to Gregson and Lestrade by of all people that Rafferty fellow, who was holding up a wicked-looking knife that he had apparently found concealed in the Colonel‘s uniform. Rafferty held up the knife and gave it to Lestrade, saying, “’ere you go, the knife he planned to plant into Mr ’Olmes’s ’eart!’

I looked at him, aghast. What was the meaning of this? Rafferty was aided in this action by that large oaf, the party-crashing labourer. I barely knew what to make of it all. Then I heard the voice again.

“Over here, Watson.”

“Where?” I said and turned to look upon Rafferty. He smiled at me, showing blackened teeth, then he pointed to the large oaf beside him. The labourer. I did a double take.

“Hello, Watson,” the man said simply.

“Hello. Holmes? Is it truly you?” I asked in awe, watching as a miraculous transformation quickly took place before my eyes. The man I thought to be some heavy drunken labourer who crashed Holmes’s party for the food and rum, began to shed his disguise. I watched with astonishment as he suddenly withdrew multiple wads of padding from his waist to slim down appreciably. He became rail thin.

“Yes, good old Watson, it is I,” the man said. I watched with astonishment as he took off a fake nose, removed his faux whiskers, and withdrew something from his mouth that had distorted his entire face. The man before me was, in fact, my friend Sherlock Holmes.

“How? Why?” I stammered, full of questions. “And the Colonel?”

“Not the Colonel, but Miles Abercrombie come here to murder me,” Holmes explained. “I put the man away years ago and upon his escape he came here to pay me back in kind.”

I looked at my friend in awe, “I can’t believe it is you, Holmes!”

“Believe, Watson,” he said with a wry smile.

“And—that Rafferty fellow? Who the blazes is he? For a while I even thought he might be you in disguise,” I stated, now watching Lestrade and Gregson busy putting manacles upon the Colonel—I mean Abercrombie. Then two stout bobbies came to escort the man out of 221B and back to prison.

“Ah, yes, Mr Rafferty…” Holmes mused thoughtfully.

“Just Rafferty, if you please, Mr ’Olmes,” he blurted with a lopsided grin.

“Yes, Rafferty. Well, Watson, perhaps you remember Shinwell “Porky” Johnson from the Illustrious Client Case of two years previous? I did a bit of disguise work on his face as well but I am sure he must have looked familiar to you.”

“Indeed he did, Holmes, but I could not place him. So Mr Johnson was your partner in this case?” I asked, somewhat hurt by the realization.

Sherlock Holmes laughed gently, put his hand firmly upon my shoulder and said, “Good old Watson, no one can ever replace you, but I could not allow you to be placed in such jeopardy with Abercrombie running lose. In any event it was hardly a case at all. Porky is a hardened street tough and a good stout fellow in a brawl. I was sure I might have need of his skills to take down Abercrombie—before he took me down.”

“You were playing a dangerous game, Holmes.”

“Indeed, Watson, Miles Abercrombie is a deadly fellow, but your party scheme proved to be the ideal cover for what I had in mind. It all worked out quite well, allowing me to smoke him out of hiding where he could be recaptured,” Holmes stated. Then he added, “But I apologize for being so difficult with you about the party. Please be assured it was all done for your own protection. The less you knew about this little problem, the better for your safety—always a matter paramount in my mind, old friend.”

Holmes’s words touched my heart and they did much to assuage my anger over his actions the recent month. Now that he had taken off all of his disguise, he was the fellow I always recognized.

“Sorry, Watson, but when Mycroft sent me this intelligence I went to Lestrade to invite these men here. I do not like parties at all, but this one certainly went as I would have wished. By the way, I did rather enjoy your little speech, though it rang a bit too much like a eulogy for my taste. I thank you for your kind words, but I am not quite ready for retirement yet—permanent or otherwise.”

“Of course.” I smiled, then looked at my friend and asked, “Well, now that it is done, will you at least have a glass of rum punch with me to celebrate your fiftieth birth year?”

Holmes’s smile was broad and warm, “Why, I would be delighted, Watson. You know, you really have done a fine job on this party.”

“Well, Mrs Hudson helped,” I said as we clinked our glasses together. Then I said, “Happy birthday, Sherlock.”

“Thank you, John,” he said, and we downed our drinks.

There was then a brief moment of silence between the two of us, just two old friends, sharing a drink together.

Holmes smiled broadly. “I really must commend Mrs Hudson on her rum punch, it has quite the kick.”

“I had her make it especially for you.”

“Well, Watson, you and Mrs Hudson excelled with this party—in all of its aspects. I thank you sincerely.”

“It is nothing, my friend,” I replied, grasping his shoulder in good fellowship.

“No, it is very much something, and I truly thank you for it.” Holmes spoke softly to me, then in a much firmer voice he added, “Especially since this is the last time I will ever allow you to throw me a birthday party.”

“We shall see about that!” I replied with a laugh.

“Yes, we shall,” Holmes gently chided, “but for now let us eat a piece of that delicious-looking cake. I swear you have put Mrs Hudson’s homemaking abilities to the test this evening, but she has come through with flying colours, as usual.”

“Why thank you, Mr Holmes…” Mrs Hudson broke in with evident delight. For once it appeared she was getting the last word as she quickly passed my friend a plate with a large piece of chocolate cake upon it. Then she gently kissed his cheek and said, “…and a very happy birthday to you, Mr Holmes.”