[adapted]

by
Arthur Conan Doyle

Part I

Chapter 1.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes

In 1878, I finished my medical studies in London. After that, I trained as an army doctor at Netley. Then I joined the army in India during the war in Afghanistan. The war was very hard for me. At the battle of Maiwand, I was badly wounded in the shoulder by a bullet. A soldier named Murray saved my life and carried me back to the British camp.

Later, I became very sick with enteric fever in a hospital at Peshawar. For many months, I was close to death. When I became stronger again, the army sent me back to England. I arrived with poor health and little money. I had no family in England. I stayed in a hotel in London, but it was too expensive. I decided to find cheaper rooms.

One day, at the Criterion Bar, I met Stamford, an old friend from the hospital at Barts. He was surprised by my thin face and dark skin. During lunch, I told him about Afghanistan and my illness. I said I was looking for rooms at a good price. Stamford laughed. He said another man had spoken about the same problem that morning. The man wanted someone to share rooms with him.

“Who is he?” I asked.

“His name is Sherlock Holmes,” Stamford said. I liked the idea at once. I said I preferred living with another person instead of living alone. Stamford looked uncertain. “You may not like Holmes,” he said. “He is strange in some ways.”

He explained that Holmes studied science, chemistry, and anatomy. But he was not a normal medical student. He learned unusual things and spent many hours in the laboratory. I wanted to meet him.

After lunch, we went to the hospital laboratory. The room was full of bottles, chemicals, and test tubes. A tall man stood at a table in the middle of the room. When he saw Stamford, he smiled with excitement and hurried toward us with a test tube in his hand.

“I found it!” he cried. “A test for blood stains.”

Stamford introduced us. “Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

Holmes shook my hand strongly. “You have been in Afghanistan, I see,” he said.

I stared at him in surprise. “How do you know that?”

He laughed but did not explain. Instead, he showed us his new chemical test. He mixed blood with water and chemicals. The liquid changed color at once. Holmes was very proud. “This test can prove if a stain is blood,” he said. “It will help solve many crimes.”

He spoke with great energy. He knew many famous murder cases and talked about them easily. Stamford joked that Holmes knew more about crimes than the police. Holmes smiled. He said he often worked with poisons and chemicals. I noticed small marks and burns on his hands. Then Stamford explained why we came.

Holmes was happy about sharing rooms with me. He had found rooms in Baker Street. He asked if I disliked tobacco smoke or chemical experiments. I said no.

Then Holmes spoke about his habits. “Sometimes I do not speak for days,” he said. “You must leave me alone then.”

I laughed and told him about my own problems. I said my health was weak, I slept at strange hours, and I disliked loud noise.

Holmes asked one more important question. “Do you mind violin music?”

“It depends on the player,” I answered. Holmes laughed warmly. We agreed to see the rooms together the next day.

After we left the laboratory, I asked Stamford one last question. “How did Holmes know I came from Afghanistan?”

Stamford smiled. “That is one of his special talents,” he said. “Many people ask the same question.” I returned to my hotel very interested in Sherlock Holmes.

Chapter 2.
The Science of Finding Answers

The next day, Holmes and I visited the rooms at 221B Baker Street. They had two bedrooms and a large sitting room with big windows. The rooms were comfortable and not too expensive, so we agreed to take them immediately.

I moved in that evening. Holmes arrived the next day with boxes and bags. Soon we settled into our new home. Holmes was easy to live with. He was usually quiet and calm. He often left the house early in the morning. Sometimes he spent the day in the laboratory or the dissecting rooms. Other times he walked for hours in poor parts of London. At times, Holmes worked with great energy. Then suddenly he would become silent and lie on the sofa for days without speaking much. I did not understand these changes in his mood.

As the weeks passed, my curiosity about him grew stronger. Holmes was very thin and tall. His eyes were sharp and quick. His hands were stained by chemicals, but they moved with great care during experiments. I wanted to understand what kind of man he was and what work he did.

I learned that Holmes was not studying medicine. But he knew a great deal about chemistry, anatomy, poisons, and crime. At the same time, he knew very little about literature, philosophy, or politics. One day I discovered something even stranger. Holmes did not know that the Earth moved around the sun.

I was shocked. “You do not know that?” I asked.

“Now I know it,” Holmes said calmly, “but I will try to forget it.” I could not believe what I heard. Holmes explained his idea. “A man’s brain is like a small room,” he said. “You should only keep the knowledge that helps your work.” I could not understand this idea at all.

After that conversation, I began making a list of Holmes’s knowledge and skills. He knew many things about chemistry, anatomy, British law, and crime. He was also an excellent boxer and violin player. But in many ordinary subjects, like astronomy, literature or philosophy he knew almost nothing. The mystery of Sherlock Holmes only became deeper. In the evenings, Holmes often played the violin. Sometimes the music was beautiful and sad. Sometimes it sounded wild and strange. The music seemed connected to his thoughts.

At first, Holmes received very few visitors. Then many different people began coming to Baker Street. Some were well dressed. Others looked poor or nervous. One of them was Inspector Lestrade. When visitors arrived, Holmes usually asked to use the sitting room alone. He later explained the reason.

“This is my business room,” he said. “These people are my clients.”

One morning, I picked up a magazine during breakfast. An article inside had many pencil marks. It spoke about observation and deduction. The writer claimed that a trained observer could learn a great deal from small details like clothes, hands, or expressions.

I thought the article sounded foolish. “What nonsense,” I said loudly.

“What article?” Holmes asked.

“This one,” I answered. “The writer believes he can understand a person completely just by looking at him.”

Holmes smiled calmly. “I wrote that article,” he said. I stared at him in surprise again. Holmes explained that observation and deduction were the tools of his work. “I am a consulting detective,” he said. “When the police cannot solve a case, they come to me.”

He explained that detectives and private agencies brought him difficult problems. Holmes studied the facts and found answers through logic and knowledge. Then he explained how he knew I had come from Afghanistan.

“You are a doctor,” he said. “But you also look like a soldier. Your skin is dark from a hot country, but your wrists are pale. Your face shows illness and hardship. Your injured arm moves stiffly. An army doctor wounded in a hot country could easily come from Afghanistan.”

The explanation was simple once he said it aloud. I compared Holmes to famous detectives from books, but he dismissed them all. He believed most detectives were poor at their work.

Holmes became restless and complained that London no longer had interesting crimes. At that moment, a large man carrying a blue envelope stopped outside our house. “That is a retired Marine sergeant,” Holmes said immediately. I thought he was only guessing. But when the man entered the room, I asked his profession directly.

“Commissionaire now, sir,” he answered. “Before that, sergeant in the Royal Marines.” Holmes looked completely calm, while I sat in astonishment.

Chapter 3.
The Lauriston Gardens Mystery

I was still amazed by Holmes’s powers of observation. Still, part of me wondered if he enjoyed surprising people.

“How did you know that man was a Marine sergeant?” I asked.

Holmes smiled slightly. “He had an anchor tattoo on his hand,” he explained. “That showed he had worked at sea. But he also walked like a soldier and carried himself like a man used to command. So I knew he had been a sergeant in the Marines.”

“Wonderful,” I said.

“Very simple,” Holmes answered. Then he handed me the letter the messenger had brought.

My dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

There has been a strange death at Lauriston Gardens near Brixton Road. A man named Enoch J. Drebber from Cleveland, Ohio, was found dead in an empty house. There is blood in the room, but no wound on the body. We cannot understand the case. Please come before twelve if possible.

Tobias Gregson

“This is terrible,” I cried.

Holmes seemed calm and interested. “Gregson and Lestrade are the best men at Scotland Yard,” he said. “But they are both jealous of each other.”