Sherlock Holmes (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle) short stories

Happy Birthday, My Dear Holmes

"Happy birthday!" I shouted jovially, entering the room with a package in my arms.
Holmes was in his favorite chair, brooding over his cherrywood pipe. He had drawn up his long legs and wrapped his arms around them. His dark hair, which was usually combed back or to the side, fell over his face, and he was still in his dressing gown. "Whose?" he muttered, not looking up.
"Yours, of course." I closed the door with my foot. "So again I say, happy birthday, my dear Holmes."
"There is absolutely nothing happy about it," he grumbled.
I sighed and placed the package on the table, where there was an untouched plate of breakfast. "Holmes, you've turned thirty. You need to do something special."
"I will do nothing of the sort."
"I shall make you."
Holmes didn't answer.
Again, I turned my attention to his untouched breakfast. "You really must eat something. You're already naturally thin as a twig, but recently you have been more so."
"I shall eat when I have good reason to do so."
"Isn't you birthday a good enough reason to allow yourself some food?" I asked.
Holmes turned his face towards the window. "No."
"Then what occasion could convince you to eat something before you starve yourself?"
"Murder. Burglary, kidnapping, fraud: all of the above. Then I would need energy. Right now the whole world seems peaceable and lawful."
I wondered at the fact that peace, law, and order, being the very things my friend pursued for a living, could also be so taxing upon his health.
"You need to eat."
"You're not my doctor."
"Yes I am." I placed my hand on his shoulder and guided him out of his chair and to the table. "Let's eat something, and then I will take you to St. James' Square. I hear there's an orchestra performing today at noon, and I will buy the tickets. I also bought you a new violin, seeing as your last one was smashed over Sargent Coney's head."
He reluctantly let me steer him into his chair.
I pushed his plate towards him. "Now, are you going to feed yourself or am I going to do it?"
Holmes smiled at me. "You've always been very persuasive." Then —truly miraculously— he picked up his fork and began to eat.
For a few minutes we ate in silence, neither saying a word to the other.
Finally, I worked up the courage to say, "Holmes, you are my very best friend and I will see to it that you take better care of yourself."
His eyes met mine, and I watched them change form gray to a tea-colored brown as the sunlight from the window hit them.
"Please take care of yourself," I said again. "I'd like to have you around for a good long time, and if you have no regard for your health, that won't be possible."
Just then the bell rang, interrupting our one-way conversation.
"Oh heavens, this place is a mess," I said, standing quickly.
Holmes and I rushed to pick up papers and boxes of old case notes, and once finished, Holmes tied his dressing gown closed over his nightshirt and hastily combed his hair back as best he could.
When the young lady that was calling on us answered, Holmes had sat down in his chair and I stood beside it, trying our best not to look like we had just rushed to clean our apartment.
Mrs. Hudson showed her in. She wore a black dress and veil with a warm over-coat furred at the cuffs and collar, and a troubled countenance had dropped over her beauty like a curtain. Her face was ghastly pale, and she spoke in soft, disturbed tones.
"Which one of you is Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"
Holmes raised his hand in confirmation and I nudged the bundle of papers further behind the chair with the heel of my boot.
"Do sit down, madam," he said, waving his hand to a chair. "Pray tell what is bothering you so."
The young lady accepted his invitation and introduced herself. "My name is Ivy Munson. You may recognize it from the papers."
"Indeed. Your fiancé Gilbert Porters was persuaded dead, was he not?"
Miss Munson lowered her head as she nodded, trying to hide the tears that brimmed her eyelids. "And if you know such, sir, you must know that one Inspector Lestrade of the Scotland Yard has caught the murderer. The court has condemned him to death on this Thursday."
"I am afraid I am without a theory as to why you have come to me. The killer has been convicted, and his sentence ruled out. Please explain yourself, madam, for I am anxious to hear it."
"I believe they have the wrong man," Miss Munson said.
Holmes and I stared at her for a moment, and I saw a flicker of a smile quickly disappear from my friend's face as he fought down his excitement and strove to keep that professionally apathetic composure of his.
"And upon which facts do you base this theory?" he asked, steepling his long, white fingers and leaning his head back.
"Upon nothing," she whispered, extreme emotion clear as day in her shaky voice.
"Nothing?" I asked.
She shook her head, then released a quick flow of panicked words. "I should be satisfied. They told me they had caught the man who had killed my Gilbert. But something just doesn't feel right. I don't know how to explain it to the police: they wouldn't release a man without any proof. That is why I came to you. I know in my heart that he is innocent, and I don't know how. For heaven's sake, I should hate the man! But I can't. No matter how hard I've tried, I can't suppress this feeling that he is going to die for something he didn't do."
"And you have absolutely nothing on which to base this feeling?"
"Nothing at all. The evidence is clear, Mr. Holmes: it tells me he is guilty. My heart tells me he is not."
Holmes stayed quiet for a moment, pondering on what she had said.
Miss Munson rose. "I can pay you well, sirs, the both of you for your assistance. I know it may sound like a wild goose chase, but I am desperate to know if there is any truth behind what my instincts are telling me. I have read Dr. Watson's accounts of your remarkable abilities, and I have faith that you will be able to come up with something before Thursday, whether it assures me of this man's guilt or saves an innocent form the gallows."
"We will do everything we can," I said consolingly to fill in for Holmes' silence. "And with all haste, I assure you."
Her melancholy brown eyes gazed deep into mine. "Thank you. I think tonight I shall finally get some sleep."
I escorted her to the door, and after bidding her good day, rejoined Holmes at the table to resume our breakfast.
"What do you think of it?" I asked.
"I think we must never underestimate the instincts of the woman. I believe there is something behind what she is saying."
"You really think so?"
"Would I be eating breakfast if I didn't?"
"We only have until Thursday, which gives you two days to either prove the man guilty or innocent and put the lady's mind at rest."
Holmes smiled up at me, a spark in his eyes. "Only too easily done, my dear Watson. If my own instincts speak clearly you shall have another case worthy of your written collection. The game is afoot!"