The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes | Relaxing Sleep Story for Grown Ups

Relaxation and adventures for grown ups: spend a rainy day in the English countryside solving a peaceful mystery with Sherlock Holmes. This  bedtime story will lull you gently into sleep. 

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Transcript

Hello and welcome to Soothing Pod’s Sleep Stories. 
My name is Chris and tonight I will be your guide as we journey to the past and explore a mystery on a foggy moor with none other than Sherlock Holmes himself. We’ll traipse through flower-filled meadows, meander through candlelit taverns, and even explore the rocky coast of England on a rainy afternoon. 

Before we begin, however, let us take a moment to relax and find comfort in the space we are in here and now. 

Allow yourself to find a comfortable position in your bed. With your eyes closed, take just a few seconds to pay attention to the way your body feels. 

Imagine a glowing ball of soothing green light above you.  It pulses and glows, illuminating your room in an utterly calming shade of green – a shade that reminds you of the first day of summer as a child. A shade that reminds you of the leaves of a maple tree swaying in a vibrant meadow. 

As you breathe in, feel that glowing green light journey, down, down, down to you. As that air fills your lungs, feel the light press against your skin – a warm, soothing touch that releases any tension you are carrying. 

Breathe in… and feel as that light touches the top of your head.  Exhale, noticing that the light has unwound any messy or heavy thoughts you have been carrying with you, releasing the tension around your eyes and in your jaw. 

Breathe in… and feel as that light touches your chest.  It takes the weight off of your chest. The weight of other’s expectations, the pressure you put on yourself. When you breathe now, you can really, truly breathe. 

Breathe in… and feel as that light brushes against your arms and your legs. Your fists unclench and your legs and arms simply melt into the mattress, ready to get the rest and relaxation that they deserve – that you deserve. 

Know that you can return to this light at any time. The tension within your body isn’t necessary, and it can easily be addressed by closing your eyes and giving yourself a few moments to simply breathe. 

Now that we have taken some time to unwind and find comfort in the space we are in, let us begin. 

It was a rainy day in London. At 221B Baker Street, things began as they normally did. Sherlock Holmes awoke to the sound of the city echoing just beyond his window. He’d first notice the weather, well before anyone else was awake. 

On most summer days, he would hear the tip tap, tip tap, tip tap, tip tap, of the old oak tree outside his window brushing against the grass. Then, he would hear the birds starting to stir. 

There was a cardinals’ nest almost pressed up against the glass, nestled against the stone bricks of his home for shelter. He would hear the scarlet cardinal’s call echo through the streets as it beckoned to its mate in the early morning hours. Some days, it was just then that Sherlock Holmes would open his eyes. 

The first thing he would see would be that cardinal curled up in its nest, silhouetted by the vibrant green leaves, and beyond that – a bright blue sky, peppered with the occasional stark white cloud. It was a wonderful welcome sight, first thing in the morning. Perhaps Holmes liked it so much because it contrasted what the rest of his day was going to look like. There was no mystery in the cardinal. No ulterior motives. No secrets or lies or conclusions to come to. The cardinal wanted to simply be. Holmes often wondered to himself what that felt like. 

But today, there was no cardinal outside his window. And today, there was no sunny sky – but there were plenty of clouds. It was a particularly rainy summer, one that would certainly go down in history. And, oddly, Holmes adored it. There was something about solving a mystery in the haze of a rainy day that made it feel both more poetic and more essential. 

Holmes crawled out of his bed. He journeyed down, down, down, down the stairs, to find Watson already awake, paging through a novel he had already undoubtedly read dozens of times. 

The two sat at the kitchen table in silence for quite some time, enjoying the other sounds of morning; horses moving in the streets outside, children laughing and skipping along; the sound of merchants dragging their wares to their stores. 

And, today, they had the sound of the fire to keep them company. They read and sipped their tea peacefully, preparing themselves mentally for the journey that was ahead of them, the mystery they were sure to solve. 

It was then that they heard a knock on the door. A solid knock that stirred Watson from his chair without much hesitation. Holmes rose and crossed to the study, ready to see what the day had to offer him. 

The man who walked into their house, dripping wet, holding a worn umbrella, looked particularly distant. When he sat down, he sighed as though the world was sighing with him. 

“What brings you here today?” Holmes asked, sitting down in a chair next to the crackling fire. 

The man introduced himself as Edgar Leighton. And after the mere mention of his name, he didn’t have to explain much more about himself. Edgar Leighton was a man of immense wealth. A man who owned dozens of businesses peppered all across London and the countryside. A man who lived in a particularly stunning mansion on the other side of town — a mansion that was surrounded by apple trees and ponds and lush gardens that were cared for by grounds people, not Mr. Leighton himself.

Mr. Leighton explained that his precious 18-year-old daughter, Beatrice, had gone missing. It had been a mere 12 hours, and Mr. Leighton knew that something was wrong. 

“Are you sure she isn’t gallivanting around, Mr. Leighton? After all, she is an adult now, is she not?” Watson asked. Mr. Leighton explained that Beatrice was a girl on a tight schedule. She never strayed from her schedule. When Watson asked if she could have potentially run away, Mr. Leighton scoffed. He explained that Beatrice was not the kind of girl to run away. She was obedient, caring, and kind. She had very few friends she could run away with - they were all aristocrats, and he had already checked with them and their families to ensure Beatrice wasn’t with them. 

He revealed that Beatrice was last seen going to bed the previous night. When the maid came into the room the following morning, she was already gone. 

“I suspect one of the grounds people has taken her,” Mr. Leighton said. Holmes silently nodded, carefully listening to Mr. Leighton’s words and reading his body language with intention. He could tell Mr. Leighton was a man that thought highly of himself and did so shamelessly. And Holmes suspected that he wasn’t a man who was particularly close to his daughter. 

Holmes promised Mr. Leighton that he would get to the bottom of this mystery and find Mr. Leighton’s daughter. First, he would have to see the room that she disappeared from. 

The ride to the mansion was a long one. As it came into view, Holmes was careful not to let his shock show. He had seen plenty of luxurious, decadent homes in his day… but none that rivaled the Leighton estate. 

They journeyed up, up, up, up the winding driveway that was lined with ancient poplar and oak trees. The elaborate craftsmanship of the mansion truly came into view then. 

The windows and columns were carved with stunning depictions of nature. There were trees and wildlife and birds peppered all over the marble and stone, crafting a totally unique artistic display. 

And the inside of the house was even more lavish. They entered through a grand foyer, with mahogany and marble staircases that wrapped around the room underneath carefully crafted stained-glass windows. Overhead, a chandelier sparkled – a chandelier that was undoubtedly worth more than most people could dream of making in a year. 

Holmes and Watson were led upstairs by a maid and Mr. Leighton himself, who showed them Beatrice’s room. 

It was a room just as extraordinary as the rest of the house, but there was something different about it. As Holmes and Watson began to look around the room, they discovered oddities in every corner. 

There were birds’ nests and dried flowers and mushrooms. They learned from the maid that these were all things the young woman had collected on her sunset walks that she would take every day. Mr. Leighton scrunched his nose at the mention of her walks. He didn’t find her rummaging through the woods particularly ladylike for a woman of her stature. 

Watson looked for the usual – diary entries, letters from lovers, written statements. But there was nothing, which was even more odd. 

Even more peculiar, the balcony door was ajar. Mr. Leighton insisted that this must be where the person who kidnapped his daughter got into the room. It was only on the second story, and someone could have easily climbed up onto the balcony. 

Holmes got to work dusting the door for prints, though he already had a hunch about what he would find. Unsurprisingly, he found fingerprints on the inside of the door… but not on the outside. It seemed that no one had come in at all – Beatrice had gone out. 

Next, Holmes decided it was time to journey down the same sunset path that Beatrice took every day. He urged Mr. Leighton to stay behind, insisting that accompanying them wasn’t necessary, though the maid could be of use. 

The maid led Holmes and Watson out of the lavish house and onto the equally lavish grounds. The walk was mostly silent – though Holmes noticed the maid was wringing her hands and tucking her hair behind her ear, struggling to stay still even as they walked. Holmes suspected that Beatrice was much more like the maid than she was like her father. 

As soon as they entered the shelter of lofty cedar forest on the backside of the house, Holmes stopped walking. 

“Is there something you’d like to share with us, Miss? I can assure you, what you choose to disclose will remain between us,” Holmes promised. The maid sighed, rocking back and forth on her heels as she deliberated. 

“Beatrice does not get along with her father, you see. He’s not a kind man,” the maid murmured, so quietly that the birds chirping overhead could overshadow her. “Beatrice loves being outside. She loves reading in peace and quiet. She would often come out here and read just to be away from her family, but sometimes…” 

The maid’s voice trailed off. Holmes sat down on the ground, encouraging her to do the same. He leaned against the auburn bark of one of the trees and breathed in deeply, savoring the woody aroma of the forest around him. 

“Sometimes she would go elsewhere?” Watson suggested. The maid nodded before pointing to a meadow in the distance. 

“She would go there on sunny days. I’m not sure where she would go after that, but she would disappear for hours at a time.” she said, her voice shaking in the slightest. “And on rainy days like today, what would she do?” Watson asked. The maid smiled a bit wistfully as she replied, “She would come out and sit under the trees here and read. She loved rainy days. She wasn’t afraid of a little water.” 

Holmes smiled at the maid and put a kind hand on top of hers. He thanked her for the information and urged her to head back to the house. “You can tell Mr. Leighton that we will be continuing our investigation and will return when we have information.” 

The maid thanked Holmes and Watson and scurried off, back to her duties. 

Watson and Holmes began their journey toward the meadow in the distance. As they walked, Holmes paid careful attention to the sounds around him. 

He listened to the rain pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter against the needles and leaves overhead on their journey to the ground below. He relished in the sound of the birds singing to one another. In his mind, they were telling stories to one another. Perhaps they were talking about the young woman that would come through here, collecting bird nests that they abandoned long ago. 

As they emerged into the meadow, Holmes closed his eyes for a moment, embracing the feeling of the soft rain on his skin. When he opened his eyes, he was greeted by a rather breathtaking sight. 

The meadow before him was flourishing with flowers. Flowers of all kinds, of all shapes, of all colors, of all stages of bloom. There were lupines with raindrops clinging to their purple buds; daisies that collected bowls of water in the arch of their leaves; roses whose beauty seemed to be magnified by every raindrop that clung to their red petals. It was as though he and Watson had stepped into a painting, and judging by the expression on Watson’s face, he felt the same. 

They continued meandering through this meadow, careful not to crush any of the beautiful flowers. 

“What exactly are we looking for here?” Watson asked, gazing around the meadow, perplexed. Holmes scanned the horizon, his expression brightening as his eyes landed on something in the distance. 

“I believe we are looking for that stream,” Holmes replied calmly. Indeed, at the far edge of the meadow, there was a small stream lacing the countryside. It was partially hidden by thick trees and their vibrant leaves, but Holmes could make out the raindrops leaving ringlets on the surface of the slow-moving stream. 

He and Watson began their journey over to the stream, breathing in the smell of the wildflowers as they meandered across the remainder of the meadow. 

Holmes normally only took the time to breathe in nature and the beauty of the environment in the mornings, when he awakened to the sound of that cardinal. But today… today felt different. Holmes felt at peace in the world around him in a way that he hadn’t felt for quite some time. He wondered if he could always feel this way. If he could escape the busyness of his everyday life by meandering through a meadow, or watching birds flit across the sky, or sitting in the shelter of a tall cedar tree.  

As they approached the stream, Holmes felt himself slowly coming back to reality, the haze of his daydream and curiosity melting away, at least for now. 

The stream was a bit larger than he had anticipated, though it was rather shallow. Even in the dim light of this rainy day, the bottom of the riverbed reflected shades of amber and blue and gray and green – mainly from the rocks coating the bottom of the water. 

Holmes looked around the stream. He knew that this was where Beatrice must have disappeared to… but how did she really escape? 

Only then did he spot some orange wood underneath a large tree along the water’s edge. As he stepped closer, it was exactly what he expected it to be. 

It was a boat, a tiny, simple rowboat, just big enough for two people; though Holmes suspected that that was all Beatrice would need. 

Watson helped him haul the boat out of the foliage and flip it over. The boat had seen a fair amount of use. It was coated in scrapes and scratches, all of which — Holmes was certain — had a story to tell. 

But inside the boat is where they found the best piece of evidence they had uncovered yet. There was a simple tin box.

Holmes ran his fingers over the green tin, his heart thrumming with ideas of what could possibly be inside. It opened with a long, somber creak. 

Inside was a fair amount of money, but that wasn’t what interested Holmes the most. What interested him the most was the napkin that had long ago been tucked into the bottom of the tin. A napkin with an emblem on it… the emblem of a spotted owl. 

Holmes closed the tin with a smile and urged Watson to get the boat into the water. Watson was perplexed by this. He stood in the rain and looked at Holmes in bewilderment, the rain dripping down over his cap. 

And yet, Watson did as Holmes had suggested. He dragged the old wooden boat into the slow moving water in the stream. Then, Holmes and Watson both climbed inside. 

Watson rowed down the stream, gently and carefully. The thick, beautiful trees overhead sheltered them from most of the rain. The sound of the oars rising and falling, rising and falling, rising and falling, rising and falling, nearly put Holmes to sleep. He found himself daydreaming of his warm bed, of listening to the cardinal call outside his window. 

The two rowed for quite some time, gazing at the river around them in quiet contemplation. Soon, however, they found themselves drifting away from the countryside, and slowly journeying into a small, cozy village. 

The stream expanded to a river. Yet, today, with the rain falling all around them, they were the only people floating downstream. 

Holmes gazed at the buildings around them. The village was rather darling – with old brick bridges and flower boxes on windows of nearly every establishment.

But what piqued Holmes’ interest the most was the tiny riverside building made of stone and brick at the very end of the village. Willow trees flocked it on each side – their long tendrils dipping into the stream. There was a wooden dock that seemed to have been forgotten long ago. And, the most important of all – there was a spotted owl on the sign that hung over the water. 

Holmes and Watson tied the tiny boat to the dock and stepped on it. It creaked, creaked, creaked, creaked with every gentle footstep they took. 

They entered the building and were unsurprised to discover it was a tavern. It was a true down-home tavern. Candles flickered on each and every table. Wooden booths were nestled in every corner, and few patrons were scattered around, most of them silently reading or lost in their thoughts. 

It smelled of freshly baked bread more than it smelled of alcohol. This seemed to be a tavern that older people visited; a tavern that wasn’t for people who were looking to get rowdy or drink their life savings away. 

Overhead, the rain plinked, plinked, plinked, plinked against the tin roof, creating a melody that was utterly soothing. It was hypnotic, almost, like a siren song urging Holmes to sit down, order some chowder and freshly baked bread, and lose the sense of time passing while breathing in the rain-filled air. 

They wandered up to the bartender, who greeted them with a subdued smile. Watson asked her about the girl who visited the establishment by boat every afternoon. The bartender smiled brightly, asking if they were talking about Rose. 

Holmes had a feeling that they were talking about Rose. It seemed a pseudonym that would be fitting for a girl like Beatrice… and when he described her appearance to the bartender, he realized he was entirely right. Beatrice had chosen to explore this side of her life with a new identity. 

Holmes asked if she often visited with people at the tavern. The bartender told him with a smile that Rose was always here visiting one man in particular. A man named Oliver – a man her age that wasn’t from this village, either. Oliver would come in on his own boat. It was a boat that was even more worn than Rose’s. It was covered in buoys and lanterns.

They would sit in the tavern for hours, laughing and joking and whispering to one another. Every night, the bartender would watch as the lights on their boats parted, heading in different directions as they returned home. They met almost every day, except when it was rainy or stormy, though the bartender suspected it was because Rose wouldn’t want to drench her clothing. 

Without asking another question, Holmes thanked the bartender for her time. He and Watson wandered back out onto the dock in the rain. “You didn’t have more questions you wanted to ask?” Watson inquired. Holmes shook his head, telling Watson that he has a rather good idea of where they could find Beatrice. They just had to keep going. 

They climbed back in the boat and began the rest of their journey down the river. What was once a stream was growing more and more by the mile. Though the river was still slow moving, it was wider, peppered with more rocks and much larger banks. 

Holmes glanced down to see fish floating by, their figures distorted by the rings that raindrops left on the surface of the water in their wake. The longer they rowed, the more puzzled Watson seemed to grow. 

“Do you have any idea what we’re looking for?” Watson asked. Holmes smiled and took a single drag from his pipe as the rain fell around him in a steady drizzle. “We’re looking for the ocean, dear Watson,” he replied. 

“We know that Beatrice had no problem being in the rain. She loved reading outside under the trees on rainy days,” Holmes explained, “So, it was not her that had a problem with rainy days or storms, it was Oliver. And what kind of profession would warrant such a strange schedule?” 

Watson got his answer as the river wound around a corner, bending to the place where it met the sea. His eyes widened with delight as he caught sight of it. 

A lighthouse, and in it, he had a sneaking suspicion they would find a lighthouse keeper named Oliver. 

Watson and Holmes docked the boat and walked up along the rocky beach. The rain was starting to fall a little heavier now, in thick, cold droplets that plopped against the ground with a hollow sound.

As they approached the cozy lighthouse, they were overcome with the most delightful smell. They could smell freshly baked bread – and the rich, comforting aroma of a lobster bisque being stirred. The lupines and lilacs around them seemed even more fragrant in the rain, as well. 

Holmes knocked on the door. When it creaked open, he found Beatrice smiling at him, dusting flour off on her apron. She didn’t have the appearance of a wealthy woman. She wore simple clothes. Her hair was tied back in a bun for work. There was a gentle, welcoming manner about her that Holmes had never experienced before. 

Holmes introduced himself and Watson, without mentioning that they were detectives. Beatrice invited them in and quickly offered them her fresh rosemary bread, along with a bowl of chowder.

As they ate and had idle conversation, Holmes got a feel for who this woman was. She spoke of her garden, of her husband’s hard work, of how she was going to go pick up sheep and chickens to raise in a few days’ time. She was a woman who appreciated serenity, and it seemed she could get it here. 

Holmes knew he had to tell her what had truly brought them here. He disclosed it gently, telling Beatrice that he only wanted to hear the truth. 

Tears rimmed Beatrice’s eyes. She cleared her throat, calmly explaining, “I wanted a simple life. A life free of obligations, free of expectations. I wanted to be a free woman with time to enjoy nature away from prying eyes. A free woman who can simply be without wanting for more… and I have that here with Oliver. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” 

Holmes reached kindly across the table. He squeezed the young woman’s hand, whispering to her, “Then that is what you shall have.” 

He rose from the table, complimenting her cooking and thanking her for her hospitality. He assured her that her father would be told she had gone away, moved to another country to find her freedom. 

Without so much as waiting for a thank you or staying to answer questions, Holmes walked out the door. 

The journey back to 221B Baker Street was a long and quiet one. Watson knew that tomorrow, they would have to speak to Mr. Leighton and tell him that his daughter was gone. They would never disclose that she was a lighthouse keeper’s wife now. They would never disclose how unhappy she was with her life in the mansion… though, they suspected Mr. Leighton knew that much. 

For tonight, they had time to unwind from the day’s journey. Holmes sat down in his office. He closed his eyes for a moment and listened to the crackle, crackle, crackle of the fire. He embraced the pitter patter of the rain overhead. When he sipped his tea, it was just a little bit sweeter than usual. 

He spent the afternoon reading by the fire, though his mind was hardly on the novel in his hands. His mind was back in the lighthouse, watching Beatrice glow in the light of her brand new life. His mind was back in the lighthouse, savoring the flavor of the rosemary bread and fresh lobster bisque. His mind was back in the lighthouse, listening to Beatrice’s words. 

He gazed out the window. The cardinal was staring back at him. Raindrops rolled off the bird’s scarlet wings, making them appear even brighter. The bird turned his own gaze up to the sky, as if he was embracing the feeling of the raindrops against his feathers. 

Holmes found himself smiling as he watched the cardinal. “Watson,” he called out, “I think perhaps we should take tomorrow off.” 

I hope you have enjoyed this sleep story and it brought you a night of peaceful, restful sleep. Please, join us again tomorrow for another sleep story. Until then, sweet dreams!