with a shake of the head. “But it is not one I have performed before, and it is always worthwhile, I find, to verify for oneself the bland pronouncements of textbooks.” He took a handful of tobacco from the pewter jar on the shelf, and regarded me for a moment over his pipe. “It is a great pity, Watson,” said he at length, “that you and I cannot somehow combine our energies and our work. Between us we might just make one moderately useful citizen.”

“Whatever do you mean?” I asked in surprise.

“You are not yourself,” said he, “that is plain to see.”

“I sometimes fear I never shall be again,” I returned with feeling.

“Tut! Tut!” cried Holmes in a tone of admonishment. “You must not speak so! Time and rest will heal, Watson; I am sure of it! But it is clear that at present you are not in the best of health. You lack energy. On the desk I see a pile of foolscap, an atlas and your other books of reference. You desire, as I know, to pen a personal memoir of your time in India, and of the Afghan campaign especially; your work lies waiting for you to begin it, but at the present you simply do not have the energy to make a start. I, on the other hand, am blessed with excellent health and with energy sufficient for two men. But where is my work? Where is that for which I have trained myself for so long?”

“You have had no case lately?” I queried.

“Not a thing,” he returned in an emphatic tone. “No case, no clients, no crimes, no puzzles to unravel. As you see, I am reduced to working out a few elementary experiments in chemistry, simply to occupy my mind. When I have finished one, I move on to another.”

“In that case, I shall leave you to it,” I remarked with a chuckle, rising to my feet. “Your experiments may serve to occupy your mind, Holmes, but they do tend also to occupy one’s nose somewhat.”

“My dear fellow!” cried he in an apologetic voice, his features expressing dismay. “Do not say I am driving you from the room!”

“Not at all,” I returned, smiling at his expression. “You are not to blame for my feeling like a limp rag! I shall put my feet up for half an hour and then I shall be fine.” I left him busying himself once more with his test tubes and retorts, and ascended wearily to my bedroom.

The next thing I recall is being shaken by the shoulder. I opened my eyes to find Holmes standing by my bedside, a look of concern upon his face. The room was warm and stuffy, for the window was closed, and a fire was burning in the grate. I had fallen asleep fully clothed, and now, as I awoke, my brow was wet with perspiration.

“I am sorry to disturb you, Watson,” said he as I sat up, “but there is a brother officer of yours downstairs.”

“What! A friend of mine?”

Holmes shook his head. “He has come to consult me professionally, but he, like you, has lately returned from Afghanistan, and your presence at the interview might prove of assistance.”

“Is he ill?” I enquired.

“He is not, perhaps, in the pink of health, but his troubles, I fancy, are more spiritual than physical. He is finding it difficult to describe his circumstances to me. The presence of a brother officer, someone whose experiences are similar to his own, might set him at his ease. But do not feel obliged to come if you do not feel up to it.”

“I shall be all right when I have splashed my face with water,” I returned, setting my feet upon the floor. “Give me a minute and I shall be with you.”

I was intrigued by this invitation. During the year we had shared lodgings together, I had taken a great interest in my companion’s work. Indeed, without this interest, my life would have been a solitary and empty one, for I knew very few people in London, and my poor state of health frequently prevented my leaving the house for days on end. But, save in one or two exceptional cases, I had followed Holmes’s work only at second hand, and generally knew nothing of a case until it was completed, when he would entertain me by giving me a lively account of it, and of how he had worked his way to its solution. Whenever one of his clients called, my habit, generally speaking, was to absent myself from our shared sitting room. That he should have specifically requested my presence in this instance therefore greatly aroused my curiosity. In a few moments, I had neatened myself up and joined them in the sitting room.

“Captain John Reid, of the West Sussex Infantry,” said Holmes, introducing his visitor as I entered.

The man who rose to greet me was of about my own age, tall and spare, with sun-bleached, wavy brown hair and a clean-shaven, weather-beaten face. There was, I thought, something stiff and laboured in his manner, as if he was struggling to master his emotions.

“You have been in Afghanistan, I believe,” I remarked as we shook hands.

“Indeed,” he replied. Then he turned to my friend. “I do not recall giving you the name of my regiment, Mr Holmes,” said he, an expression of curiosity upon his features.

“You did not,” returned Holmes, “but your tiepin proclaims as much.”

“How very observant of you!” declared our visitor.

“A trifle,” returned Holmes. “But, to pass from mere observation to deduction, I perceive that though your regiment is based in Sussex, you have not come up from the country today. I take it you stayed in town last night.”

“That is so, but how . . . ?”

“Tut! Tut! Your boots, Captain Reid! Their highly polished condition tells me that you have undertaken no lengthy journey today.”

“Indeed not. I stayed last night at my club, the United Infantry in St James’s Place. It was there, as I was talking to a Captain Meadowes of the Buffs, that I first heard your name, Mr Holmes. Captain Meadowes informs me that you can solve any problem presented to you.”

“Captain Meadowes exaggerates. But, come, let us have the facts of the matter, and we shall see what we can make of them.”

“I scarcely know where to begin.”

“Is your service in India of any relevance?”

“Possibly,” replied our visitor in a hesitant tone.

“Then begin with that. I am sure that Dr Watson, especially, would be most interested to hear it.”

“Very well,” said Reid. His manner as he began to speak was oddly uncertain and nervous, like that of a man who has lost all confidence in his own judgement; but gradually, as he described his time in Afghanistan and heard a little of mine, a strength and vigour returned to his voice.

“I sailed with the first contingent of my regiment aboard the Jumna on the last day of August, 1878,” he began. “The remainder followed two weeks later on the Euphrates, along with a large number of Northumberland Fusiliers and several companies of Gloucesters. After a week in Bombay we all moved up north, to Peshawur. Things were quiet enough at first, but late in the year there were some heavy engagements, in the Khyber Pass, and at Jelalabad. After that it was calmer for a time, but there was a tension in the air, and we were all aware that trouble might flare up again at any moment. That moment came when Sir Louis Cavagnari was murdered at Cabul in September ’79, and all hell broke loose. We were at once placed under the command of Sir Frederick Roberts, who led us at Charasiab, and in the engagements that followed around Cabul. The fighting was severe, and it was many months before things quietened down again and we had full control of the area.

“When news reached us the following August of fighting in the south of the country, and of the dreadful massacre at Maiwand, where I understand you were with the Berkshires, Dr Watson, we set off at once and marched down from Cabul to Candahar to relieve the siege there. As you will know, there was again very heavy fighting before the southern countryside could be considered safe. The West Sussex men did not leave the country until the spring of this year, and my own was practically the last company to do so. Since then we have been on easier duties, around Bombay.”