A year with Holmes
Movement I – A Study in Scarlet
I open the book. Its weight is familiar,
like the pulse of a patient I have tended.
The spine creaks, whispering:
“You know my methods. Apply them.”
Outside, Southern Boulevard is still,
lamps muted, the night folding over itself,
and Kenosha Street exhales in its sleep.
I sip sherry, sweet warmth sliding down my throat,
wafer dissolving slowly on my tongue.
Bruegger sighs beside the bed,
ears twitching at sounds I do not hear,
the quiet heartbeat of loyalty.
He is Toby reborn,
yet softer, gentler.
“There’s a scarlet thread of murder
running through the colourless skein of life.”
I read and feel it in my own hands:
the crimson of ICU tubing,
monitors glowing in the half-light,
alarm shrieks cutting the air
like some distant hound’s baying.
The baseball announcer calls a home run;
static swallows the cheer.
London fog drifts through memory,
crowd and hansom cab,
all merged in the still night.
Bruegger nudges me,
tail tapping once—
reminding me that method, patience, and presence
are as important as any detective’s clue.
Scarlet thread, radio static,
Bruegger’s sigh, the case not yet closed.
__________
Night One
I read A Study in Scarlet at length,
the night folding over the street like a gray blanket.
Holmes crouched over the scene:
RACHE written in blood,
his eyes sharp, dissecting the obvious,
penetrating the impossible.
“There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.”
I whisper this aloud,
thinking of families waiting by ICU beds,
hands clenched, prayers barely audible.
The impossible is never finished with us;
we pursue it nightly.
The radio hums—baseball, static—
the crack of the bat,
the cheer fading into hiss.
Outside, Bruegger sighs,
and I trace the scarlet thread in my mind,
fingers ghosting the pages as if they were veins.
I pause at the short story The Gloria Scott:
“Memory,” Holmes said, “is like a ledger of the past;
it must be balanced against fact.”
I think of patients whose histories I carry,
whose past lives slip between my fingers
even as I read the ledger of symptoms.
Sherry empties slowly;
I unwrap another wafer.
Bruegger moves closer, nose warm to my hand.
I read again:
“Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing.”
I nod. In the ward, it is so.
A look, a monitor beep, a fleeting expression—
circumstantial, yet vital.
Scarlet thread, radio static,
Bruegger’s sigh, the case not yet closed.
__________
Night Two
Fog presses at the window.
The radio hums a football game now,
quarterback calling cadence,
Bruegger’s ears twitch.
I pour sherry, unwrap sweet.
The book opens on A Study in Scarlet:
Holmes examining traces of the murderer,
his mind racing ahead of evidence,
his reasoning meticulous,
relentless.
I follow him through London streets,
through alleys and fog,
the stairwells of crime,
feeling the pulse of another life,
another city, another time.
The story The Musgrave Ritual interrupts:
“It is a point of observation,” Holmes said,
“to see the absurd in the ordinary.”
I smile, remembering the absurd in my own nights:
alarms, monitors, the occasional mistake,
the small kindnesses that make a bed a home.
Bruegger sighs again.
I trace his back with one hand,
sherry in the other.
The scarlet thread seems to pulse between the pages
and my own fingers,
red as the night-light over the ward,
as the memory of lives saved and lost.
Scarlet thread, radio static,
Bruegger’s sigh, the case not yet closed.
__________
Night Three
I read The Lauriston Garden Mystery now,
noticing Holmes’s eye for minutiae:
a footprint, a clay fragment, a scuff
that reveals the culprit.
I think of my own minutiae:
skin color, pulse, oxygen reading—
traces of life to interpret.
“Education never ends, Watson; it is a series of lessons,
and a patient is the hardest teacher.”
I nod, sherry warm, wafer melting.
Bruegger shifts, nose nudging my arm.
I feel the truth of the phrase:
learning is not over,
it cannot end,
and it sometimes comes in silence.
The radio static swells with a crowd cheer.
Outside, fog presses the glass.
Inside, I sip, read, breathe.
Short stories appear: The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb,
The Adventure of the Stockbroker’s Clerk,
each one a bead on a rosary of nights.
I am both nurse and detective,
tracking the subtle signs,
reading the unseen.
The scarlet thread winds everywhere.
Scarlet thread, radio static,
Bruegger’s sigh, the case not yet closed.
__________
Night Four
The final chapters call me:
Holmes solves, explains, unravels.
“We balance probabilities, Watson,
and act upon the most likely solution.”
I feel it in my own hands,
in the ICU, in the night, in my rituals.
Bruegger stretches beside me.
Sherry is gone, sweet dissolved.
I look at the street,
the quiet lamps,
the silence punctuated by radio crackle.
Short stories: The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle, The Adventure of the Speckled Band.
I pause at each one, tasting the absurd and the terrible together.
Life teaches, death teaches, and Holmes teaches:
observe, reason, act.
I close the book for the night.
Bruegger stands, tail wagging softly.
I open the door.
Moonlight, grass, Southern Boulevard asleep.
The scarlet thread rests for now.
The case is closed.
The case is unclosed.
Scarlet thread, radio static,
Bruegger’s sigh,
the case is closed,
the case unclosed,
night by night.
_________________________
Movement II – The Sign of Four
Night One
I sit again with the book, sherry in hand, wafer on my tongue,
Bruegger curled at my feet,
the radio murmuring a football game across the room.
Outside, Southern Boulevard breathes quietly,
Kenosha Street folded in fog.
Watson has fallen in love.
Mary Morstan, steady-eyed, devoted.
Holmes snorts at the notion:
“You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism,
as if you worked a love-story into the fifth proposition of Euclid.”
I laugh quietly,
Bruegger lifts his head, ears twitching.
I feel the absurdity of my own nights:
alarms, monitors, fleeting lives, small joys,
and yet, like Watson, devotion persists.
Even amid chaos, some things endure.
The Thames rises in my imagination:
steam launch rocking through black water,
lanterns swinging in fog,
Holmes chasing the assassin’s boat.
I see myself in that pursuit:
tracing signs in the dark,
reading patterns others overlook,
discovering truth amid confusion.
Scarlet thread, radio static,
Bruegger’s sigh, the case not yet closed.
__________
Night Two
The book opens on The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb.
A story of greed, betrayal, and uncanny cunning.
Holmes observes:
“It is my business to know things.”
I nod, remembering my own nights,
my own cases,
when I must know quickly to prevent tragedy.
I sip sherry, let wafer dissolve,
Bruegger shifts, tail tapping once.
The football announcer shouts across static,
a crowd roaring, echoing in the quiet room.
I think of treasure hidden in plain sight:
Watson’s heart captured,
Holmes’s deductions,
patients whose survival rests on a timely decision,
all treasures waiting to be uncovered.
The Sign of Four teaches patience, endurance:
I see Watson and Mary, trust building,
while Holmes, ever precise, dissects the situation
like a surgeon.
I recognize my own role at the bedside:
constant observation, small interventions,
moments of courage, of faith.
Scarlet thread, radio static,
Bruegger’s sigh, the case not yet closed.
__________
Night Three
I open the story The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle.
A goose and a stolen gem.
Holmes says:
“I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies.”
I laugh. Bruegger snuffles,
nose nudging my hand.
The absurdity of it all is a balm to the night.
The announcer calls another play.
Outside, fog presses the window.
Inside, I sip sherry, taste the wafer,
and follow Holmes down streets filled with shadows,
clues, human folly.
I reflect on devotion:
Watson’s love, my own nightly ritual,
the steady presence of Bruegger,
small acts that make life and home whole.
Interlude: The Adventure of the Speckled Band
“Violence does, in truth, recoil upon the violent.”
I think of the ICU, of harm circling back,
hands clenching, hearts racing.
Bruegger sighs, a living benediction,
as I close the moment with a soft exhale.
Scarlet thread, radio static,
Bruegger’s sigh, the case not yet closed.
__________
Night Four
I read of the treasure hunt, the Agra treasure,
of betrayal, contracts, hidden jewels,
and the complexity of human desire.
Holmes observes:
“Education never ends, Watson; it is a series of lessons.”
I sip sherry, wafer melting on my tongue,
Bruegger nudges closer.
I reflect on lessons learned in my own life:
how devotion persists,
how careful observation preserves life,
how love, loyalty, courage intertwine.
The radio hums, static punctuated by cheers.
Short story vignettes interlace the chapters:
The Adventure of the Stockbroker’s Clerk,
The Adventure of the Norwood Builder,
The Adventure of the Reigate Squires.
Each story a bead on the rosary of nights,
each a lesson in patience, vigilance, and human folly.
I breathe with Holmes and Watson,
with Mary Morstan,
with Bruegger at my side.
Scarlet thread, radio static,
Bruegger’s sigh, the case not yet closed.
__________
Night Five
I finish the novel,
Watson’s devotion steadfast, Holmes triumphant,
the treasure accounted for,
the criminal caught,
justice delivered.
But the night stretches on.
The radio is quiet.
Bruegger sighs, rests his head on my knee.
The lamp glows softly over the open book.
I recognize the rhythm:
cases resolved, yet life ongoing;
scarlet thread always running,
radio static always whispering,
Bruegger’s presence always grounding me.
“When you have eliminated the impossible,
whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
I taste the truth,
savor the ritual,
hold it as tenderly as Watson holds Mary.
Scarlet thread, radio static,
Bruegger’s sigh, the case not yet closed.
_________________________________________
Movement III – The Hound of the Baskervilles
Night One
I open the book, sherry in hand, wafer dissolving slowly on my tongue.
Bruegger rests beside me, ears flicking at static from the radio.
Outside, Southern Boulevard exhales in fog,
Kenosha Street blanketed in silence.
Holmes crouches over his papers.
“The footprints of a gigantic hound!”
The words curl through the pages and into me.
I think of alarms in the ICU,
hands clenching, breaths held,
red flashing on monitors.
The radio hisses a crowd cheer,
static swallowing voices.
I trace the scarlet thread across the pages,
through the moor, through the blood,
through fear itself.
Bruegger sighs, a gentle thump of reassurance.
Even he knows that the night holds its own truths,
that monsters can be tamed, that fear can be mapped.
Scarlet thread, radio static,
Bruegger’s sigh, the case not yet closed.
__________
Night Two
Fog presses the window, cold and persistent.
I sip sherry, unwrap a wafer, Bruegger snuffling at my hand.
Holmes examines the moor:
hollows, footprints, phosphorescent light
that glints like the edge of truth.
“It is my business to know things,” he says.
I nod, feeling the weight of the same responsibility
in my own work:
reading the unseen signs in patients,
interpreting silent alarms,
deciphering the pulse of life.
Interlude: The Adventure of the Copper Beeches
A house with secrets,
a girl threatened,
Holmes observing what others dismiss.
I think of vigilance,
of noticing small shifts,
of staying alert to danger while maintaining care.
The radio hisses. Static curls over the announcer’s call,
a football play swallowed in distance.
I close my eyes briefly,
feel the rhythm of breath in the room,
Bruegger’s tail thumping softly,
scarlet thread weaving through body and mind.
Scarlet thread, radio static,
Bruegger’s sigh, the case not yet closed.
__________
Night Three
Holmes confronts legend:
the hound, black, monstrous,
eyes glowing in fog.
I shiver, remembering the way fear amplifies,
how shadows loom larger than life.
Outside, the announcer’s voice strains across the static;
the crowd’s cheer is another kind of chase,
another race through tension and expectation.
I sip sherry, taste wafer,
Bruegger nudges my hand.
I realize the parallel:
I chase calm amid chaos,
solve mysteries of vital signs,
interpret patterns of life and death.
Short story interlude: The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot
The poison, the smoke,
Holmes calculating method and risk.
I think of contagion, of care,
of vigilance necessary at night.
The lesson folds into my own ritual:
patience, observation, and courage.
Bruegger sighs again.
I trace the scarlet thread through fog, through book,
through memory,
through my own heartbeat.
Scarlet thread, radio static,
Bruegger’s sigh, the case not yet closed.
__________
Night Four
The hound revealed,
its terror grounded in truth:
not supernatural, but human greed,
malice, cunning.
Holmes explains, Watson records,
I read, absorbing method and humanity:
“You see, Watson, it is always the obvious that is overlooked.”
I think of ICU alarms, overlooked signs, subtle indicators
that can make life or death.
The radio murmurs another game,
calls muffled by static.
I sip sherry, dissolve a wafer.
Bruegger lies at my feet,
steady as the lamp’s glow.
Short story interlude: The Adventure of the Dancing Men
Symbols, hidden meanings, messages to decode.
I see the patterns in my own life:
patient charts, monitor tracings, the pulse of routine.
Each sign a clue, each breath a piece of evidence.
Fear has been tamed tonight.
I feel it unwind in my hands,
as Holmes untangles the hound,
as I untangle myself from worry.
Scarlet thread, radio static,
Bruegger’s sigh, the case not yet closed.
__________
Night Five
Holmes and Watson walk the moor,
victory in intellect, justice done.
I close the book for now,
yet know the scarlet thread runs on.
Bruegger rises, stretches,
tail wagging softly.
The lamp clicks dim.
Radio silence fills the room.
I breathe, steeped in lessons of courage and method,
of observation and patience,
of vigilance and care.
The night holds me,
the hound laid bare,
my own fears quieted by ritual.
“Education never ends, Watson; it is a series of lessons.”
So I sip sherry,
trace Bruegger’s fur,
read the world in patterns,
solve the small mysteries of the night.
Scarlet thread, radio static,
Bruegger’s sigh, the case is closed,
the case unclosed, night by night.
________________________________________
Movement IV – The Valley of Fear
Night One
I lift the book from the shelf, familiar weight in my hands.
Sherry warms my throat, wafer dissolving slowly on my tongue.
Bruegger curls beside me, nose twitching at the radio static.
Outside, Southern Boulevard breathes under fog.
The Valley of Fear opens like a shadowed map.
Ciphers, codes, secret societies.
Holmes bends over the pages,
his eyes sharper than any lamp in the room.
“The old wheel turns, and the same spoke comes up.”
I nod, thinking of my own nights:
alarms repeating, patients repeating,
hands clenching in silent prayer.
Patterns recur, each iteration unique,
each lesson carved into memory.
Interlude: The Adventure of the Red-Headed League
Absurdity and human ambition intertwined.
I laugh quietly, Bruegger sighing at my side,
the absurd a balm for fear.
I sip sherry, let wafer dissolve.
The scarlet thread threads through everything—
through crime, through life, through ritual.
Scarlet thread, radio static,
Bruegger’s sigh, the case not yet closed.
__________
Night Two
I follow Holmes through treachery and disguise,
through codes written in cipher,
through threats and malice hidden in plain sight.
“Education never ends, Watson; it is a series of lessons.”
I feel it in my own hands:
interpreting faint signs in monitors,
observing subtle shifts in patients,
reading fear as carefully as Holmes reads footprints.
Short story interlude: The Adventure of the Dying Detective
I feel the tension, the delicate balance of life and performance.
Bruegger sighs beside me, grounding me in reality.
I sip sherry, wafer melting on my tongue.
The radio murmurs a distant crowd cheer, swallowed by static.
The Valley of Fear teaches vigilance:
every gesture, every mark, every cipher counts.
Every night in my home, I am both detective and nurse,
reading signs, interpreting meaning,
observing the impossible until the truth emerges.
Scarlet thread, radio static,
Bruegger’s sigh, the case not yet closed.
__________
Night Three
Holmes uncovers betrayal, greed, and hidden malice.
I trace the signs in my mind as I trace them in my life:
patients whose histories repeat,
alarms whose messages are subtle, urgent.
Interlude: The Adventure of the Dancing Men
Symbols dancing across pages, secrets coded.
I think of the small codes I decipher nightly:
skin tone, pulse, oxygen, fleeting expressions.
The radio hisses another play,
static merging with the fog pressing the window.
Bruegger nudges my hand, tail thumping once.
I sip sherry, melt the wafer on my tongue,
and feel the rhythm of observation and care.
Every detail matters.
Every night repeats, yet each is new.
Scarlet thread, radio static,
Bruegger’s sigh, the case not yet closed.
__________
Night Four
The villain revealed.
Secrets exposed.
Ciphers decoded.
Justice, though imperfect, arrives.
I close the book briefly,
thinking of lives saved, lives lost.
The scarlet thread runs through every night,
through the cases I carry from work to home,
through every sip of sherry, every wafer,
through the steady presence of Bruegger.
Short story interlude: The Adventure of the Priory School
Danger hidden in plain sight.
Observation saves lives.
Humor and absurdity provide balance.
I feel it all fold together:
fear, vigilance, care, observation, routine.
The radio is quiet, crowd dissipated into static.
I breathe.
The night settles.
Scarlet thread, radio static,
Bruegger’s sigh, the case not yet closed.
__________
Night Five – Finale
I rise from the book,
four novels, fifty-six short stories complete.
Holmes and Watson rest in my mind,
their lessons etched into my nights.
The lamp clicks dim.
Bruegger rises, tail wagging softly.
Moonlight spills across Southern Boulevard.
I open the door.
Air cold and alive.
He steps out, nose to earth,
detective of scents, witness to the ordinary and extraordinary.
The scarlet thread rests.
The radio is silent.
The case is closed.
Yet I know:
it is never truly closed.
Life continues, patients continue,
alarms will beep, monitors will glow.
I sip sherry, trace Bruegger’s fur,
observe, reason, act.
Night by night.
“The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes.”
I feel it in my hands, in my eyes,
in the ritual that makes a house a home.
Scarlet thread, radio static,
Bruegger’s sigh,
the case is closed,
the case unclosed,
the case eternal,
night by night.
________________________________________
Epilogue – The Last Turn of the Scarlet Thread
I close the book for the final time,
its weight familiar in my hands,
four novels, fifty-six stories,
a year of nights folded into memory.
The lamp clicks off.
Sherry empty, wafer gone,
Bruegger sighs softly at my feet.
Outside, Southern Boulevard sleeps,
Kenosha Street breathes quietly, fog pressing against the glass.
I think of Holmes and Watson,
their reasoning precise, their hearts steady,
and of all the small stories threaded through the nights,
the absurd, the tragic, the human.
I think of my own nights:
alarms silenced, lives held for a moment longer,
hands warmed, eyes reassured.
The scarlet thread runs through everything.
It winds through the pages, through my fingers,
through the fog and the radio static,
through Bruegger’s sigh, soft as benediction.
It binds observation to care, method to devotion,
fiction to life, fear to understanding.
I rise and open the door.
The night is cold, alive, unbroken.
Bruegger steps out, nose to the earth,
detective of scents, witness to the ordinary and extraordinary.
I pause, breathe deep, and remember:
“The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes.”
And I have observed.
I have listened.
I have traced the scarlet thread
and learned the small, infinite lessons it offers.
The case is closed.
The case is unclosed.
The case is eternal.
And I am here, still reading, still learning,
night by night.
Scarlet thread, radio static,
Bruegger’s sigh,
the ritual,
the lesson,
the life unfolding,
night by night.
GB Shaw Jr.
2004 - 2020
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