The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes

Somewhere in the vaults of a bank in London...

is a tin dispatch box with my name on it.

It is not to be opened until 50 years after my death.

It contains certain mementos...

of my long association with a man...

who elevated the science of deduction to an art...

the world's first, and, undeniably...

most famous consulting detective.

To my heirs...

In my lifetime...

I have recorded some sixty cases...

demonstrating the singular gift of my friend...

Sherlock Holmes...

dealing with everything...

from "The Hound of the Baskervilles"...

to his mysterious brother Mycroft...

and the devilish Professor Moriarty.

But there were other adventures which...

for reasons of discretion...

I have decided to withhold from the public...

until this much later date.

They involve matters of a delicate and, sometimes...

scandalous nature...

as will shortly become apparent.

It was August of 1887...

and we were returning from Yorkshire...

where Holmes had solved the baffling murder...

of Admiral Abernetti.

You may recall that he broke the murderer's alibi...

by measuring the depth to which the parsley...

had sunk in the butter on a hot day.

I wish you'd give me a bit more warning...

when you come home unexpected.

I'd have roasted a goose, had a few flowers for you.

My dear Mrs. Hudson...

criminals are as unpredictable as head colds.

You never quite know when you're going to catch one.

I'll unpack your bags.

Here's an advance copy of "Strand Magazine."

They've printed "The Red-headed League."

Very impressive.

Would you like to see how I've treated it?

I can hardly wait. I'm sure I shall find out...

all sorts of fascinating things...

about the case that I never knew before.

Just what do you mean by that?

Oh, come now, Watson.

You must admit you have a tendency to overromanticize.

You've taken my simple exercises in logic...

and embellished them, embroidered them...

exaggerated them.

I deny the accusation.

You've described me as 6'4"...

whereas I am barely 6'1".

A bit of poetic license.

You've saddled me with this improbable costume...

which the public now expects me to wear.

That is not my doing. Blame it on the illustrator.

Made me out to be a violin virtuoso.

There's an invitation...

from the Liverpool Symphony to appear as soloist...

in "The Mendelssohn Concerto."

Really?

The fact is, I could barely hold my own...

in the pit orchestra of a second-rate music hall.

You're much too modest.

You have given the reader the distinct impression...

that I'm a misogynist.

Actually, I don't dislike women.

I merely distrust them.

The twinkle in the eye and the arsenic in the soup.

It's those little touches that make you colorful.

Lurid is more like it.

You've painted me as a hopeless dope addict...

just because I occasionally take a 5%% solution of cocaine.

A seven percent solution.

Five percent.

Don't you think I'm aware you've been diluting it...

behind my back?

As a doctor, as well as your friend...

I strongly disapprove...

of this insidious habit of yours.

My dear friend, as well as my dear doctor...

I only resort to narcotics...

when I'm suffering from acute boredom...

when there are no interesting cases...

to engage my mind.

Look at this.

An urgent appeal to find some missing midgets.

Did you say midgets?

Mmm, six of them. The Tumbling Piccolos...

an acrobatic act with some circus.

Disappeared between London and Bristol.

Well, don't you find that intriguing?

Extremely so.

You see, they're not only midgets...

but also anarchists.

Anarchists?

By now they have been smuggled to Vienna...

dressed as little girls in organdy pinafores.

They are to greet the czar of all the Russias...

when he arrives at the railway station.

They will be carrying bouquets of flowers...

and concealed in each bouquet...

will be a bomb with a lit fuse.

You really think so?

Not at all.

The circus owner offers me five pounds for my services.

That's not even a pound a midget.

So, obviously, he's a stingy blighter...

and the little chaps simply ran off...

to join another circus.

It sounded so promising.

There are no great crimes anymore, Watson.

The criminal class has lost all enterprise...

and originality.

At best, they commit some bungling villainy...

with a motive so transparent...

that even a Scotland Yard official could see through it.

Mrs. Hudson!

Yes? What is it?

What have I done now?

There is something missing from my desk.

Missing?

Something very crucial.

What?

Dust!

You've been tidying up against my explicit orders.

Oh, look, I made sure I hadn't disturbed anything.

Dust, Mrs. Hudson, is an essential part...

of my filing system.

By the thickness of it...

I can date any document immediately.

Well, some of the dust was this thick.

That would be...

March 1883.

Oh! How can you stand this?

Why don't you let me air the room out?

Please, Mrs. Hudson, he's working on...

a definitive study of tobacco ash.

Oh, I'm sure there's a crying need for that.

In our endeavors, it is sometimes vital...

to distinguish between, say, the ashes...

of a Macedonian cigarette and a Jamaican cigar.

So far he has classified 140 different kinds of ashes.

All of which will wind up on my rug.

That will be enough, Mrs. Hudson.

All right...

if you gentlemen want to stay and suffocate.

She's right. I am suffocating.

Oh, let me open the window.

Not from lack of air. From lack of activity.

Sitting here, week after week, blowing smoke rings...

staring through a microscope... there's no challenge in that.

Personally, I consider it a major contribution...

to scientific criminology.

How I envy you your mind, Watson.

You do?

It's placid, imperturbable, prosaic.

But my mind rebels against stagnation.

It's like a racing engine tearing itself to pieces...

because it's not connected up...

with the work for which it was built.

Holmes.

Holmes...where's your self-control?

Fair question.

Aren't you ashamed of yourself?

Thoroughly...

but this will take care of it.

There was nothing I could do...

when he went on one of his cocaine binges...

except hope and pray that some interesting case...

would come along to snap him out of it.

Why are you being so stubborn, Holmes?

Why won't you go?

It's the final performance of the Imperial Russian Ballet.

The house has been sold out for months.

Tickets are going at a guinea apiece.

That's precisely it.

Why should someone send us two free tickets?

Anonymously, at that.

Well, whoever sent them must be in great distress.

The note says...

"Please, you are the only man in the world who can help me."

I suspect it's some sort of plot.

You mean, somebody wants to lure us into a trap?

Somebody wants to kill me.

Kill you?

That's right.

It's a plot to bore me to death.

I detest ballet.

But this isn't just any ballet.

It's "Swan Lake."

You know, of course, Holmes...

that swan isn't really a swan.

It's an enchanted princess.

Mmm.

Fabulous woman.

Don't you think so, Holmes?

Who?