About the Author: Michael Mallory is the author of the "Amelia Watson" and "Dave Beauchamp" mysteries series, as well as eight nonfiction books on pop culture subjects. His short stories have appeared everywhere from "Fox Kids Magazine" to "Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine." By day he is an L.A.-based entertainment journalist.
Most would argue against the probability that the dearth of patients passing through the door of my surgery could be blamed on the appalling weather that had thrown a sodden blanket of gloom over the city of London for the past fortnight. Simple logic should dictate that people will continued to suffer from illnesses and injuries in inclement weather as well as fair, yet I had seen fewer people since the skies above had turned hostile than at any time since I had purchased this small practice in the Paddington district, more than a year ago. However, as my friend and colleague, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, has said so often in the past when ruminating over the solution to a case, once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. Because of that, I vowed to throw probability to the wind and maintain my belief the London weather was indeed the causative factor for my dwindling practice, at least until a better explanation could be derived.
I had no sooner finished ruminating about my situation when I heard the door open and the sounds of someone entering. I rose up from my desk and went out to greet my first patient in more than a fortnight. He proved to be a well-built sturdy chap of roughly my age (I am approaching my thirty-eighth birthday), with slightly thinning hair, made up for by a luxuriant moustache. Upon second look, I thought I recognized him. ‘Good heavens,’ I uttered, upon the third examination of his face, ‘is that you, Treves?’
‘Hello, Watson,’ Frederick Treves replied, sticking his hand out for me to shake. ‘It has been a long time.’