This story takes its title from one of the many ACD canon adventures that John Watson teases but never elaborates on, so it’s more of an imagining than an adaptation. It’s distantly related to The Devil’s Heart, but in contrast to that story, I wanted Eddie Ricoletti And His Abominable Life to take a much darker direction. The real aim of writing it, though, was to depict Sherlock’s growth into a better friend to John. It’s set, as all but one of these Sherlock stories are, well after the events of the TV series, and over time even Sherlock Holmes can be expected to grow up a little.
Prologue
Eddie Ricoletti sat at the kitchen table, carefully paying the monthly household bills. He wrote slowly, punctiliously, and kept a meticulous record of each payment as he wrote the cheques. A calculator helped him ensure accuracy: He had no confidence in his ability to keep proper records without it. He reached for the next bill in the small stack, then hesitated when he saw that it was from the orthopaedist.
Even after all these years his deformity was still a source of shame to Eddie. The doctors had done their best to correct his feet and had largely succeeded, although there was nothing they could do about the fact that Eddie’s parents hadn’t sought help for his condition until he was almost a toddler, so his right leg still revealed to a careful observer traces of the club foot he’d been born with. It was a minor defect, on balance, though he’d never been able to run as fast or to play with the same agility as his schoolmates. But then, he’d never been as clever as his schoolmates, either. “Slow in body, slow in mind,” his mum used to say, but he firmly believed that she’d meant it kindly, because he knew that she loved him.
He made out the counterfoil, then painstakingly wrote the cheque for his built-up shoe. Next was the butcher’s bill. Eddie looked it over, tilting the paper to the light streaming in the kitchen windows. No charges for knife sharpening this month, but there would certainly be some next time. Just the usual tab today, though. As he wrote out the cheque he kept an ear cocked to the basement stairs, where he could hear Alice cleaning up. Cleaning up his mess, she’d said. She never seemed angry about it, though. She just wanted to make sure that he understood that she was doing it for him, and he didn’t mind that. It was how she proved that she loved him. He liked to have that proof; it made him feel safe.
Alice did lots of things to prove that she loved him, Eddie knew, and he was grateful for all of them. She looked out for him. After the fire in Peaslake she’d helped him cope with the business end of things–wills, trusts, financial documents–and although his father had opposed his association with her, his death in the fire had cleared the way for their marriage. And for this house. Between the insurance money and his inheritance, Eddie had received enough money to allow their purchase of the home in Maida Vale. He had loved Peaslake and still missed it. He missed keeping animals, especially the chickens, but Alice assured him that by budgeting carefully and by taking in lodgers to help with expenses, one day they’d be able to afford a real farm, and then Eddie could keep lots of animals besides just chickens. Meanwhile, he saw to their tenants, doing his part to make sure that one day he and Alice would have enough money to purchase the farm.
Footsteps on the basement stairs jolted him back to the present. The basement door opened and Alice appeared. She went to the sink and washed her hands. “Almost done with those, luv?” she asked.
“Almost,” he said.
“Well, don’t dawdle over it. You’ve got your work in the basement, too, you know.”
“I know.”
“I’ll have supper on in just a tick,” she said. “If you hurry about getting that in the post you’ll have time for the basement before the food’s done.”
“I’ll hurry,” Eddie promised, and he did. He reached for the next bill. He wished he’d done the bills in the sitting room. He couldn’t very well delay while Alice was here in the kitchen with him, watching as she saw to supper, but he didn’t relish his work in the basement, either. Still. There was the farm to think about. Without his work tending to their lodgers, they would never get back to Peaslake and Eddie would never get his farm.
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