Disclaimer: I do not own the Sherlock Holmes Canon or anything contained in it. I also do not own Doctor Who or any related subject. I only own the plot and some of the character, whom you are about to read about.

Thank to my Beta Readers who helped me make my story presentable and are currently reading the next few chapters: storyranger and Foxcat93

In the fogs of late nineteenth century Baker Street, people bustled about with their own interests and lives in mind. A pair of old business partners rode down the street in a horse-drawn cab. A happy young couple strode down the walkway as they talked about future plans for their wedding. A middle-aged bachelor gentleman walked passed his fellow passersby with a quick greeting and a tip of his hat.

It was this seemingly perfect afternoon in autumn that Dr. John H. Watson made his way back to his room at 221b Baker Street with a heavy heart and tired eyes. His practice was taking a lot out of him and he was perfectly happy to find his way back to the sitting room, where Holmes was most likely to be taking in some client that had some mystery that could take Watson's mind off of the drawbacks of his career. He wasn't surprised when he came to the door and heard Holmes playing his violin from the front stoop.

Mrs. Hudson, the ever-faithful housekeeper and landlady, answered the door with a smile.

"Ah, Dr. Watson. Back already?" She said with a hint of hesitation.

"Yes," Watson said forlornly as he stepped across the threshold, "One of my appointments was cancelled at the last moment."

"I understand, sir." Mrs. Hudson said as she closed the door behind him. "Lunch will be served in half an hour, if you'd like."

"That sounds lovely, Mrs. Hudson." Watson said, making his way to the sitting room.

Holmes' playing paused for a second as he came into the room, then started to play a new tune.

The sitting room was in messy order, contrary to the neat disorder as per usual. Things seemed to be exactly where he had left them that morning, with exception for Holmes' violin and its case. The tobacco-filled Persian slipper remained hanging on the mantle. The various past case files were sorted by date in various parts of the room. Holmes' laboratory set of chemicals and instruments, which could be seen in Holmes' room, was in neat order.

Watson let himself sink into the settee by the fire, letting his tensions flow away. Holmes noticed his friend's discomfort and started to play one of Watson's favorite tunes. Watson's stress visibly faded as the music filled the room. Neither spoke until the music was finished.

"Thank you, old friend," Watson said. "I really have had a trying day, and the day isn't even over yet."

"Do tell." Holmes said as he placed his violin and its bow on the nearest table.

"Have I told you of an old client of mine, Mr. James Caradeen?" Watson said in a solemn tone.

"No, I don't think you have." Holmes settled himself in the basket chair as to give his attention to Watson's story.

"Well, Mr. Caradeen has been my client since I first started my practice. He has been well known, among friends and co-workers, for his charitable nature, for being a perfect gentleman, and for having very few enemies. He was in very good health, I never really had to do much but to come around about once every two or three months to check up on his and his daughter's health."

"He 'was'?"

"Yes. I'm sure you heard something back there about one of my appointments being cancelled. Mr. Caradeen died, not four days ago. I heard about it just today. He and I had an appointment scheduled for today.

"I'm so sorry, Watson. How did he die?"

"That's the thing. According to the coroner, he died of some sort of nervous attack, but neither he nor any of his known relatives, and the list is quite extensive, has had a history of nervous disorders, let alone nervous attacks. Mr. Caradeen had a strong heart, smoked only once a week, and drank only a little around the holidays. He was in the best of health."

"Hmmm," Holmes stood up with that dreamy look of thought in his eyes. "Very curious." For a few moments he paced about the room, smoking on his pipe, then he broke the silence again. "What was his profession?"

"I believe he was a stockbroker. He owned his own firm," Watson said as Mrs. Hudson came in and put lunch on the table.

"Hmmm." Holmes continued to pace for a moment as Watson sat down to eat. "Not married, I presume?"

"No," Watson said between bites.

"And where has the daughter's mother gone?"

"No idea. Mr. Caradeen took her in from the streets when she was 8 years old."

"How old is she now?"

"21, I think. Poor thing. She was very attached to him."

"Hmmm." Holmes settled back into the basket chair to contemplate the matter. "I trust he left a will?"

"I believe so. I would have no doubt if he left most of his estate to his daughter. She was as much to him as he was to her. From what he told me when he first became my client, he hadn't even thought of hiring a personal physician until he took Diana in."

"Diana?"

"The daughter. A very fine young woman, Diana. Very witty, exceptionally beautiful, and what a wonderful singing voice! She's a very artistic soul. Every time we had an appointment, she was humming some popular piece that she and Mr. Caradeen had heard a few nights before."

"Very singular young woman indeed." Holmes made his way to the window and gazed out at the passersby. "No doubt she's had her fair share of suitors in the past few years."

"No doubt, but it seems she has one in particular that has caught her attention. The past few appointments she was blathering on about her childhood friend, Basil. According to her, he's a very handsome young man, a proper gentleman, and a follower of the arts, like her."

"That's odd." Holmes said as he gazed out the window.

"Why's that?" Watson said as he finished his last bite.

"Because he seems to be at our door at this moment." Holmes quickly looked in Watson's direction with a smirk and sat himself in the basket chair as they heard Mrs. Hudson answer the door.

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