I frowned, curious. “Watson what?”

  “Watson frequently confided he felt the same way.” He looked directly at me, which was always unusual. In the entire six days we had known each other his eyes had rarely rested on mine for more than a fleeting moment, particularly since that night he’d saved me from the tiger snake. Then he looked away, as though worried that if he gazed at me for too long, he might discover something about himself that he was not ready to admit.

  “I can’t apologize for my intelligence,” Holmes continued. “I don’t rank modesty among the virtues. To underestimate oneself is as wrong as to exaggerate one’s powers.” He looked toward my feet as he tended to do when he was going to drop a crumb of compliment. “Still, I really must acknowledge my appreciation to you as a helpmate, Winslow. And also as a close . . .” His eyes flitted around while he struggled to find a word he could be comfortable speaking, finally settling on. “. . . confidante.”

  Okay, I smiled inwardly, that’s acceptable.

  Still looking down, he continued. “I confess my dear . . . Doc-tor, that I am very much in your debt.”

  Then he met my eyes directly again. Twice in a row? Was it trending?

  “You are a conductor of light, Winslow. Some people, without possessing genius themselves, have a remarkable power of stimulating it.”

  “Wow, Holmes.” I smiled wryly. “That is probably the single most backhanded compliment I have ever received.” I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to thank him or hit him with a pie. But knowing how difficult it was for Holmes to confide in anyone, I tried to remain gracious.

  Then I drew a breath. “So. What’s your plan now?” I asked quietly, surprised that I was feeling some trepidation about what his answer might be. “A return to England?”

  He looked at me and—was that a flicker of actual emotion, faintly similar to when I was lying on top of him at Civita’s house?

  “In time, perhaps.” He looked away again. “But I would be just as much of a stranger there. Presently I am quite content to further explore the possibilities of being a consulting detective here in San Francisco.”

  I heard a knock at the front door and went to answer, feeling warmed by the idea of Holmes remaining nearby. I glanced back at him over my shoulder, saying, “Good.”

  As aggravating as he could be, this man brought fascinating possibilities of adventure into my fairly conservative existence. He also brought, as I discovered when I opened my front door, Mrs. Hudson.

  “Oh, good morning, Dr. Winslow! Soooo good to see you, lass!” She gave me a loving hug, then blew right on in with a Scottish flourish, wearing a bright blue Berkeley sweatshirt, which gave her a spunky look. She set her large carry bag to one side. Holmes stood up, smiling, and nodded a greeting to her.

  I stood there, blinking. “Uh, yes, Mrs. Hudson. Good to see you too.” I was trying to get some clue as to why she had suddenly landed in my living room. “What a . . . nice surprise.”

  “It was for me too, lass.” She hugged me and kissed my cheek. Then, grasping my shoulders, she looked with her bright hazel eyes deeply into mine. “Bless your heart. Thank you so much for inviting me to move in here with you.” She headed back toward the front door.

  Had I heard right? “Inviting you to . . . ?”

  Mrs. Hudson called to someone outside, “Right up this way, boys.”

  I looked out the front window and saw a moving van unloading furnishings that I recognized from Captain Basil’s house in Marin County.

  I turned to stare daggers at Holmes, who whispered to me, “Well, the estate is being sold out from under the old dear, and you do have that unused artist’s garage.”

  “Well, yes, I do, but—”

  “Really, Winslow, where else were she and my belongings to go?” He casually strolled over to peer out the front window. “I mean, you did invite me to remain in residence temporarily, did you not?”

  I realized that my face was frozen in a wide-eyed mad-clown grin as I struggled—for the sake of Mrs. Hudson, who was likely in earshot—to keep from exploding all over him. I spoke with a combination of poison and sweetness, “Why yes, Mr. Holmes, I did.” By then I was smiling through gritted teeth, speaking sotto voce, “With the emphasis on temporarily. But it never occurred to me that you would invite—” A moving man nearly knocked me over while carrying in the 1899 Edison cylinder phonograph.

  Holmes shrugged as though it were all so obvious. “The police told me it would take a fortnight or more for the reward money from the seizure of that boatload of cocaine to make its way from Sacramento. And really, we couldn’t very well turn kindly old Mrs. Hudson out to sleep on a bench with Lefty, could we?”

  “Lefty?” I blurted. “Who is—” Before I could get it out, another voice was heard. An angry one.

  “Yo, Holmes-boy! We gotta talk some serious shit, mofo.”

  Zapper and Slick had burst into the living room, adding to the festivities. I almost expected to see Groucho Marx show up next from A Night at the Opera and order two more hard-boiled eggs. Zapper and Slick were not happy. “Hey, man,” Zapper growled, “bustin’ those guys was like totally cold and all, but why didn’t you tell us we had our hands on a gazillion bucks in coke?”

  “Oh, didn’t I?” Holmes said, with feigned innocence.

  “Don’t you be dissin’ us!”

  “Julius!” Holmes looked astonished, as though his manhood had been challenged with a filthy epithet. “I would never dream of ‘dissing’ you. Or anything of the kind!”

  “Then how you plannin’ to get us our vig?” Zapper demanded as I sank onto the arm of a chair to watch the drama play out.

  “‘Vig’ from the Russian vyigrysh,” Holmes deduced, “being payment, portion, percentage, I presume?”

  “Goddamn right, percentage! We put our asses on the line for you, man, and—”

  “So you did. Very effectively, with clear heads, wonderful panache, and—”

  “Cut the bullshit, man!” Zapper was practically jumping up and down.

  “Calm yourself, Julius.” Holmes remained unruffled. “I promise that you, Slick, and all your chums will share in the reward money, and so you shall. I’m told it will be quite a handsome amount, and I have no intention of rubbing you off or—”

  “Ripping,” Zapper corrected.

  “Right!” Holmes said snappily. “But more importantly, I plan to offer you gentlemen gainful employment as my new Baker Street Irregulars.”

  Slick’s beefy face scrunched up curiously. “Say what?”

  Holmes gazed with delight toward the days ahead. “Ah, I foresee many future investigations in which your combined street sense and skills could prove invaluable.”

  “And perhaps on the right side of the law,” I prompted with a stern edge.

  “At least the moral side,” Holmes acquiesced. “Investigations for which you and your comrades will always be amply rewarded.”

  The two boys were mulling it over as Holmes continued. “Additionally, I’ve arranged for you, Julius, to have an apprenticeship with a security firm. I expect they’ll find your particular skills eye-opening and very useful.”

  Zapper was impressed, possibly even intrigued by the idea. Then Mrs. Hudson pushed in past him. “Excuse me, Mr. Holmes, but someone has come calling.”

  Oh great, I thought. Maybe it’s Lefty! Or the whole San Francisco Chamber of Commerce welcoming committee!

  Holmes seemed to know better. He turned and casually took a seat in the chair opposite me, turning away to pour himself a cup of tea as he postulated, “Doubtless it is a distressed, attractive young blond female prostitute who has read today’s newspaper story and come seeking our aid.” Without looking up from preparing his tea, he said. “You are staring, Doc-tor. Are you Big Willy?”

  Indeed I was. “How would you know that about her?”

  “How—as you of all people should know by now, Winslow—is one of the most consistent FAQs I hear. The answer, as always, is elementary: because looking out the window, I just ob-served the young woman eyeing our house from across the street.” He sipped his tea. “She was frowning, troubled, and clutching the newspaper that carried the article about us. Her brassy attire presents her availability as a ‘lady of the evening’: white ankle boots and an extremely short white dress with red fringe and piping that reveals so much leg and bosomy cleavage as to leave no doubt of her profession being the world’s oldest.”

  Zapper and Slick exchanged a lascivious glance. “Let’s check her out, bruh!”

  They nearly knocked me off my perch on the arm of the chair in their eagerness to scamper outside. Regaining my balance, I saw that Holmes was smiling arrogantly and authoritatively about his latest deduction. Despite my vexation I laughed at him.

  “She’s no hooker, Holmes. You just described a cheerleader for the 49ers.” I glanced at Mrs. Hudson who was smiling and eagerly nodding confirmation of my own deduction.

  “What?” he blinked. “I never read that the men who came to dig gold in 1849 had women to cheer them on.” He considered it a moment, “And if they were all dressed like she, it’s no wonder there was a gold rush.”

  “No, no, no,” I said, stifling a laugh in order to regain my annoyance. “You are unquestionably a master of many things, but you still have quite a bit to learn about the twenty-first century.” Then I needled, “And the proper etiquette for a temporary house guest.”

  Holmes exhaled a belligerent, imperious puff. I smiled inwardly. God, it was wonderful to have the upper hand on him, if only for a fleeting moment.

  With a tight-lipped and decidedly pissy expression, he placed his teacup precisely back on its saucer, then stood fully upright, clasping his hands behind his back. He looked into the air above my head, speaking with acidic formality, “I realize that I’m a difficult fellow to share rooms with, but”—he could barely force himself to say it—“might I have your ‘permission,’ Doc-tor, to continue partaking of your hospitality whilst pursuing my contemporary education and ascertaining the cause of the young woman’s distress?”

  I did enjoy making him dangle uncomfortably but admitted to myself that meeting and working with this irascible character was the most fun I’d had in years. As I later heard Zapper sum up so eloquently, “The dude might be more humble, but there’s no police like Holmes.”

  I had to agree, and I was proud of the success we’d already achieved and wondering what other intriguing, exhilarating, or even perilous experiences might lay ahead.

  As I studied the remarkable Englishman standing at attention before me, I also felt deeper issues stirring. I still puzzled over that night after he’d returned from Pier 7, when we gazed at each other for such a long, uniquely connective moment. And also that rush of surprisingly intimate feelings that had sparked a physical reaction—seemingly in both of us—during our breathless face-to-face close encounter on Lieutenant Civita’s floor.

  It all inspired a deep curiosity within me about how our relationship might evolve.

  After pondering all of that, I slowly stood up to fully face him, determined to address his request with a formality equal to his own. I took a regal breath, endeavoring to channel Queen Victoria, and spoke quite firmly.

  “Mister Holmes . . .” My uncharacteristically severe posture and bearing caused his eyes to flick to mine, revealing the slightest wisp of insecurity. Exactly what I’d hoped for. Then, emphasizing my commanding role as mistress of the manor, I said with a polite but cautionary tone, emphasizing that he should take my pronouncement very seriously, “For the time being”—I paused, making him wait for it—“I will allow you . . . to be my guest.”

  Holmes squared his shoulders and lowered his eyes while courteously inclining his head as though accepting a knighthood. He said, almost respectfully, “Doc-tor.”

  Two movers had just brought in his favorite high-backed Victorian chair and set it down behind him. Without even looking back, he eased himself down upon it as if it were his throne. From his frock coat pocket, he drew his cherrywood pipe and deigned to give an audience. “Mrs. Hudson, show the young lady up, if you please.”

  Mrs. Hudson gave a delighted curtsy, turned to scurry out, but remembered something and looked back, smiling. “Oh, also, Mr. Holmes, I did just as you asked: I personally brought, in my own car, those other three cases of your special wine.”

  My jaw dropped. I stared, gobsmacked.

  Holmes ignored me, saying exuberantly to her, “Excellent, my dear lady!”

  As I stood there flustered, Holmes placed the pipestem between his haughty lips, then struck a match with such utter, irreverent cockiness that I saw red. Instantly regaining my full queenly bearing, I inhaled to bellow—then remembered that a monarch need not exercise her lungs. So in a low voice, with deadly, quiet power, I decreed, “No.”

  He glanced up at me, lit match in hand, so startled that I was barely able to keep from laughing. And I met his gaze with my own imperial authority, declaring, “Only. On. The porch.” Then, summoning my most charming Mona Lisa smile, I enjoyed the ultimate pleasure of having the steely-eyed, emphatic, final word: “De-tec-tive.”

  He registered the turnabout import of the moment. He slowly lowered the burning match, looked away while arching his left eyebrow with annoyance, and sucked in a long breath through his unlit pipe.

  Sooner than expected, we received the reward, which was a startlingly handsome amount. Zapper and friends were bedazzled by their shares, which are now reshaping their lives for the better. We were also easily able to purchase the wonderful old Marin County estate. We moved all of its furnishings back there, where they belonged. Mrs. Hudson continues to live there and takes pleasure in tending her beloved gardens. To my extreme personal delight, I am writing this as I enjoy a cup of English breakfast tea, while curled up in a comfy chair by the fireplace in our beautiful Victorian sitting room in Marin.

  We still use my house on Baker Street, but the estate is both a retreat and an alternative venue for Holmes to meet more privately with prospective clients who have particularly sensitive issues to resolve. He has a long and growing waiting list.

  The prodigious reward also allowed us to establish the Arthur Conan Doyle & Elizabeth Appling-Winslow Foundation, which provides scholarships to medical students in need—in return for their pledges to keep “paying it forward,” following the ethics that my mother passed down to me. The foundation also supports Doctors Without Borders, plus the good work that Charley Moriarty and others do to help San Francisco’s underserved communities.

  I divide my time between the foundation, my duties as a pediatric surgeon, and assisting Holmes on many investigations, such as our second escapade, which quickly had us off and running: the bizarre and now notorious Case of the Evaporating Quarterback—who mysteriously disappeared from the fifty-yard line of Levi’s Stadium during the Pro Bowl before sixty-eight thousand witnesses.

  Thus continued the most intriguing, dangerous, and invigorating set of incidents, which I’ve now begun to chronicle: my adventures and misadventures with this singular, extraordinary, and often totally exasperating genius.

  The astonishing Mr. Holmes.

  A portion of the author’s proceeds from this work goes to benefit Doctors Without Borders

  (Médecins Sans Frontières).

  Acknowledgments

  You would not be reading this book were it not for these people, to whom I am very indebted. They are . . .

  Italia Gandolfo and Renee Fountain at Gandolfo Helin & Fountain Literary Management for immediately jumping onboard with my story and so quickly finding the ideal home for it at Blackstone.

  Valerie Nemeth, my splendid counselor, for astutely handling the legal aspects.

  Josie Woodbridge and Ananda Finwall, my key contacts at Blackstone, for their truly extraordinary collaboration—not just on the novel itself but also for their receptivity to my suggestions throughout the entire publishing process. They could not have been more welcoming or nurturing.

  Dana Isaacson not only brought skills that one would expect from such a seasoned editor, but also posed sharp and probing questions that inspired me to dig even deeper. Michael Krohn as copyeditor carried on that inspiration, nudging me to take fresh looks from different angles at many passages, paragraphs, and individual words as we fine-tuned the manuscript.

  Alenka Linaschke thoroughly captured the concept I had in mind for the book’s artwork and internal design. I’m particularly fond of the figure Alenka created of the Victorian genius standing stalwart on San Francisco’s Pier 7 and looking challengingly right at us from the book cover, with the glorious city in the background and mysterious wisps of fog creeping in.

  And as always, I am thankful to my wife, Susie, not only for her unswerving support, generosity, and unparalleled humor, but also for her literate taste. From the decades we’ve spent together, I generally know instinctively as I write a sentence whether it would pass muster with Susie. And if it would, I know I’ve succeeded.

  Finally, we all—including readers everywhere—are indebted to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He received his knighthood partly in appreciation for his creation of the many wonderful stories featuring characters that have become—and will always be—iconic and beloved.

  It is with humble thanks that we all bow to you, Sir Arthur.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Kenneth Johnson is the bestselling author of numerous books including The Man of Legends and The Darwin Variant. He is a successful writer-producer-director of film and TV. Creator of the critically acclaimed landmark TV miniseries V, Kenneth also produced The Six Million Dollar Man and created the iconic Emmy-winning series The Bionic Woman, The Incredible Hulk, and Alien Nation. Recipient of multiple Saturn Awards from the Academy of Science Fiction, Kenneth lives with his wife, Susan, in Los Angeles. Visit him at KennethJohnson.us and Facebook.com/KennethJohnsonAuthor.