Mrs. Hudson, your landlady, stood on the threshold, her face pale and her shawl clutched tight. In her hand, a damp and crumpled telegram.

The familiar, worn leather of your coat felt heavy as you shrugged into it. The cab ride through the gaslit, rain-slicked streets was a blur of yellow fog and the steady clop of hooves.

St. Bart’s loomed, a grim fortress of brick and mortar. The air inside was thick with the smell of carbolic acid and damp wool. A harried nurse directed you down a long, echoing corridor to a private room.

The door was ajar. Inside, propped against a mountain of white pillows, was Sherlock. His right arm was in a sling, his temple marred by a stark white bandage, and a spectacular bruise was flowering across his cheekbone. His eyes, however, were as alert and penetrating as ever.