The hibernal streets of London bustle with an intensity that, like the Empire over which it presides, rises each year without any sign of abatement. I was reflecting that assuredly neither the bustle nor the Empire would not let up for at least another hundred years - but what would it look like then?
I was just returning from my evening perambulation. There can be no finer meal to titillate one’s taste buds after a long day, than Mrs Hudson’s devilled tripe, but experience has taught me it must not be allowed to settle in one’s stomach without some brisk movement, or it shall induce some internal discomfort that evening.
As I turned into our quarters at 221b Baker Street, I could not but notice my heart beat a little faster in the hope of bumping into our new neighbour. She had hurried past me with the scantest of acknowledgements previously, and Mrs Hudson had been uncharacteristically coy about sharing any more than her name: Miss Clara Valentina de la Cruz.
Sadly her apartment door which faced our own quarters was firmly shut and I dejectedly turned into the rooms I shared with Holmes.
I walked in briskly and just after closing the door, I stopped in my tracks. Holmes was holding his index finger aloft to indicate he wished not the slightest disturbance. I had seen this intensity before and dared not move a muscle. The fate of the chancellories of Europe could be hanging in the balance for all I knew.
"Stop right now! The Game is up!” suddenly roared Holmes, at a volume that shook the house itself, as he launched towards me.