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This story begins in the third week of a cold November. A thick fog had covered all of London. From Monday to Thursday, we couldn’t even see the houses across the street from our flat on Baker Street.

On Monday, Holmes spent the whole day organizing his papers. On Tuesday and Wednesday, he focused on his new hobby – studying music from the Middle Ages. But by Thursday, he was very bored.

We had just finished breakfast and looked sadly out of the window. The heavy fog was still outside. It moved slowly and left wet, dirty drops on the glass.

I sat by the fire to read the newspaper, but Holmes didn’t want to join me.

He hated doing nothing. He walked up and down the room, biting his nails and tapping the furniture.

“Is there anything interesting in the newspaper, Watson?” he asked.

“There’s some news about a possible war and maybe a new government,” I replied. But I knew he was really asking if there were any exciting crimes.

He made a sound of disappointment and kept pacing.

“London’s criminals are so boring,” Holmes said in an unhappy voice. “Look out the window, Watson. You can only see a person for a moment before they disappear into the fog again. A thief or a killer could walk around the city today like a tiger in the jungle – silent and unseen.”

“There have been some small robberies,” I said, still reading the paper.

Holmes laughed a little.

“London is lucky that I’m not a criminal,” he said.

“Yes, very lucky,” I agreed.

“Just think – if I were a murderer. I wonder how long I would last if I had to catch myself. Holmes the criminal versus Holmes the detective... Hmm… Oh! Finally, something to end our boredom!”

It was Mrs Hudson, our landlady, bringing a telegram. Holmes opened it quickly and started laughing.

“Well, well! What next?” he said. “My brother Mycroft is coming over.”

“Why is that surprising?” I asked.

“Why? Mycroft is like a tram, Watson,” Holmes said. “He always follows the same routine and never changes. He’s only been here once before. So what could have made him come today?”

I had met Holmes’s brother once. He was seven years older than Sherlock and very different from him.

“Doesn’t the telegram say why he’s coming?” I asked.

Holmes gave me the telegram. It said:

“Must see you about Cadogan West. Coming at once. — Mycroft.”

I looked up. “Cadogan West... I’ve heard that name before.”

“Well, it must be something very serious,” Holmes said. “For Mycroft to change his routine like this! It’s like seeing a dog walking on its back legs. Very unusual.”

“Did you ever tell me what Mycroft does for work?” I asked.

“You said he has a small job in the government,” I added.

Holmes laughed.

“Well, yes. That’s almost true. He does work for the British government. But actually, you could say he is the British government.”

“My dear Holmes!” I said in surprise.

“I thought that would shock you,” Holmes smiled. “His job sounds simple, but the country depends on him.”

“What is this mysterious job?” I asked. I put down my newspaper and leaned forward, curious.

“Well,” Holmes said, “it’s quite special. Mycroft has an amazing memory. His brain is a bit like mine. His job is to know everything about the government. Every decision made by any government department is reported to him. If a minister needs to know how one decision affects another, Mycroft can tell him. He’s helped with many big government decisions.”

“He only thinks about his work. But today, he is coming here in person! What could it mean? Who is Cadogan West, and what connection does he have with Mycroft?”

I didn’t say anything at first. I couldn’t remember where I had heard the name. Then suddenly, I remembered.

“I know!” I shouted and began searching through a pile of newspapers. “Yes, yes—here it is! Cadogan West was the young man found dead on the Underground on Tuesday morning.”

Holmes sat up straight and leaned forward, now very interested.

“This must be serious, Watson. Very serious, if it has made Mycroft change his usual habits.”

“Well, at first, the newspapers said the young man just fell from a train and died,” I said. “But now there has been an official investigation, and many new details have been discovered. I’d say it has become a very strange case.”

Holmes sat back in his armchair. “All right, Watson. Tell me the facts.”

I folded the newspaper and placed it on the table.

“The man’s name was Arthur Cadogan West,” I said. “He was twenty-seven years old. He worked as a clerk at Woolwich Arsenal.”

“He worked for the government!” Holmes said quickly. “That connects him to my brother!”

“Cadogan West left work suddenly on Monday evening. The last person to see him was his fiancée, Miss Violet Westbury. He left her standing in the fog at around 7:30 p.m. She didn’t know why. No one heard anything about him again until his body was found. A railway worker named Mason discovered it, just outside Aldgate Station on the Underground.”

“When was that?” Holmes asked.

“At six o’clock on Tuesday morning. The body was lying beside the tracks, on the left-hand side. It was near the station, right where the train comes out of a tunnel. He had a serious head injury, likely from falling from the train. The body could not have come from the street above. There is always a ticket inspector at the station entrance, so the killer would have been seen.”

Holmes looked impressed. “Very good, Watson! So it’s clear the man either fell or was pushed from the train. Go on.”

“Well, he was definitely travelling late at night,” I continued. “But no one knows where he got on the train.”

“His ticket would tell us that,” Holmes said.

“There was no ticket found on him,” I replied.

“No ticket! That’s strange, Watson. He couldn’t have gotten onto the train without one. So either it was taken from him, or he dropped it. Still, it’s a mystery. Was he robbed?”

“No. Here’s a list of what was found on him.” I picked up the paper and pointed to the list.

“He had two pounds and fifteen shillings in his wallet, a cheque book from a Woolwich bank, two theatre tickets for Monday night, and a small packet of important work papers.”

Holmes looked pleased.

“There it is, Watson! Government work – Woolwich Arsenal – important documents – and my brother Mycroft. It’s all connected. Don’t you agree?”

“Well, I—” I began, unsure.

“Ah! Here comes Mycroft himself,” Holmes interrupted.

Just then, Mycroft Holmes entered the room. He was a large man, with a strong face and sharp grey eyes. Behind him was our old friend, Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard. He was the opposite of Mycroft—thin and serious.

Their serious expressions showed that this case was very important. Lestrade shook our hands silently, and Mycroft sat down heavily in an armchair.

“This is a very annoying problem, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “I hate breaking my routine, but I had no choice. I’ve never seen the Prime Minister so worried. The Admiralty is in chaos, like a beehive that has been shaken! Have you read the reports?”

“We just finished,” said Holmes. “What were the important documents?”

“Luckily, the newspapers don’t know the truth,” Mycroft replied, shaking his head. “The documents were top secret. They were plans for the Bruce-Partington submarine.”

He looked at us. “Surely you’ve heard of it?”

“Only the name,” Holmes said.

“It’s one of the government’s biggest secrets. The Bruce-Partington submarine is a powerful weapon. The plans are very detailed, with over thirty parts. They were locked in a safe, in a secure office at Woolwich Arsenal. The room had strong doors and windows, impossible to break into.

“The plans were never supposed to leave the office. And yet, here they are—found in the pocket of a dead junior clerk, in the middle of London.”

“But did you get the papers back?”

“No, Sherlock, no!” said Mycroft. “That’s the problem. We didn’t get all the papers back. Ten were taken from Woolwich, but only seven were found in Cadogan West’s pocket. The three most important ones are missing! You must stop everything else you’re doing, Sherlock. Forget your small police mysteries.”

I saw Sherlock give Lestrade a sad look.

“Why don’t you solve it yourself, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked.

“I could, Sherlock. But I need someone to find the small details. If you bring me the facts, I can sit in my chair, put the puzzle together, and give you the answer. But I don’t like running around, asking questions, and crawling on the floor with a magnifying glass. That’s your job. You’re the right man for this case. And maybe you’ll even see your name on the honours list.”

Holmes smiled and shook his head.

“I don’t do it for rewards,” he said. “I enjoy solving interesting cases. And this one sounds interesting. I’m happy to take a look. Please tell me more.”

“I’ve written the important facts on this paper,” said Mycroft. “It also has some addresses that might help. The main person responsible for the papers is Sir James Walter. He’s a good man who has worked for the government for many years. Only two people had keys to the safe where the papers were kept.”

“Who had the other key?” Holmes asked.

“The senior clerk, Mr. Sidney Johnson. He’s about forty years old, married, and has five children. He says he was at home all Monday evening. His wife agrees. He says the key has always stayed on his watch chain.”

Holmes thought for a moment. “Tell us about Cadogan West,” he said.

“He worked for the government for ten years and did his job well. His job involved using the Bruce-Partington plans every day. No one else touched them.”

“Well, it seems clear who took them, then,” Holmes said. “It was Cadogan West. The papers were found on his body. Isn’t that proof?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, but why did he take them?”

“Were they worth a lot of money?” Holmes asked.

“Yes,” said Mycroft. “He could have sold them for thousands of pounds.”

“Then maybe Cadogan West took the papers to sell them. He might have made a copy of the key…”

“He needed copies of several keys,” Mycroft added. “He had to unlock the building door, the office door, and the safe.”

“So, he made copies of all those keys. He took the papers to London to sell them. He planned to put them back later before anyone noticed. But while he was on his way home, someone killed him.”

“That’s possible,” said Mycroft. “But something doesn’t fit. If he was going to meet a foreign spy, why did he buy two theatre tickets and walk halfway there with his fiancée? Then he suddenly left her. That doesn’t make sense.”

“He was pretending,” said Lestrade, who had been listening quietly.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “That would be a strange trick. That’s the first problem. The second problem: what happened to the other three papers? And where is the money the spy would have paid him? We should have found a large amount of money on him.”

“It’s simple,” said Lestrade. “Cadogan West took the papers to sell them. He met the spy, but they couldn’t agree on a price. West left, but the spy followed him. On the train, the spy killed him, took the best papers, and left the rest. Then he threw the body off the train. That explains everything, doesn’t it?”

“But why didn’t he have a train ticket?” asked Holmes.

“The spy probably took it, so we couldn’t find out where they met,” Lestrade said.

“Very clever, Lestrade,” Holmes said. “But if that’s true, the case is over. The traitor is dead, and the secret plans have already been taken out of the country. What’s left for us to do?”

“To act, Sherlock – to act!” cried Mycroft, standing up. “I don’t agree with that theory. Use your brain! Visit the crime scene! Talk to the people involved! Don’t leave any detail unchecked! This might be the most important case of your life. You can truly help your country!”

“Well, well,” said Holmes, shrugging. “Let’s go, Watson. Lestrade, will you come with us? We’ll visit Aldgate Station, where the body was found. Goodbye, Mycroft. I’ll send you a report tonight.”

One hour later, Holmes, Lestrade, and I were standing on the Underground train tracks, just before Aldgate Station.

A kind, red-faced railway worker was helping us.

“This is where the young man’s body was found,” the railway worker said, pointing to a place next to the tracks. “It could only have fallen from a train. A train passed just before midnight on Monday.”

“Did anyone check the train carriages for signs of a fight?” Holmes asked.

“Yes. There was no sign of a fight. Also, no train ticket was found.”

“Were any of the doors left open?”

“No,” said the railway worker. “What’s wrong with Mr Holmes?”

Holmes was standing still, staring at the railway tracks.

“The points,” he said quietly. “The points.”