Sherlock Holmes and the Discarded Cigarette by Fred Thursfield

Chapter 1
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    London, September 1895
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    It had been raining almost steadily for most of the month of September, the atmosphere this inclement weather had created in the city was a cold gray and damp one, these were the kinds of conditions that made you go about your daily business quickly if you were forced to be out of doors for any length of time or made you stay indoors with a warm coal fire in the hearth if you didn’t need to be.
    I hadn’t really taken much notice of the weather myself what between attending to my morning rounds at St. Bartholomew’s hospital, seeing patients in my surgery during the afternoon then home to spend the evening with my wife Mary. About the only time I ever noticed the miserable conditions at all was while I was stepping in and out of hansom cabs on my way to or from daily appointments.
    The only person I was worried about the most during this time of year was my friend Holmes who unless he had a case to unravel, a problem that needed to be solved or some scientific experiment to conduct that would further add to his knowledge of crime I could imagine him pacing about in his rooms at 221B Baker street like some trapped animal looking for a way out.
    Of course Holmes always had a “solution” (as he called it) to this problem which he kept safely locked in his desk drawer, I only hoped that a case worthy of his talents would come to him soon via some messenger or that I might have a cause to visit with him thus keeping “the solution” safely locked away where it was.
    For years I had gradually weaned him from his habit which had threatened more than once to check his remarkable career now I knew that under ordinary conditions he no longer craved for this artificial stimulus, but I was well aware that the fiend was not dead, but only sleeping.
    A reason for visiting my friend after a long absence presented its self a few days later when one evening after dinner when my wife announced she had just received a letter in the morning post from her sister in Brighton inviting Mary to come for an extended visit.
    Next morning before heading to St. Bartholomew’s hospital to conduct my morning rounds I escorted my wife and her luggage to Paddington station in time for her to board the London to Brighton train that would take her to her waiting sister.
    Waving a fond fare well while standing on the station platform next to her carriage I found myself surrounded by a small group of people waving good bye to their friends and loved ones. I marveled at and watched as the large black steam engine, with two short blasts of its whistle came to life and slowly started pulling the collection of passenger carriages away from the station and down the tracks that would eventually take it to its passengers to their final destination then I made my way to the hospital to start my day.

Chapter 2
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    After my hospital rounds in the morning and attending to my surgery in the afternoon I hurried back to my home to pack a bag containing a change of clothes, my shaving kit and my service revolver then stepped outside in hopes of hailing a handsome cab that would take me to my friend.
    The reason for a medical doctor a medical doctor owning a service revolver (from my time as a physician in the British Army medical corps in Afghanistan), much less having the knowledge of how to use it might seem to be a bit of a contradiction but the phrase “Quickly Watson, get your service revolver!” rang through my head as I was packing. All too often Holmes and I had found ourselves facing some dangerous and unpredictable characters in the course of solving a crime and I wanted to be prepared.
    Seeing a black handsome cab arrive shortly in front of our house through the large parlor window I picked up my bag, headed out the door locked it and then seated myself in the cab “Where to Gov?” came the cab drivers booming voice from behind and slightly over head of me.
    I gave