"What do you think you're doing?"
"Burning, Watson." Still in his pajamas, Sherlock sat at the dining room table, holding a lighted match to a letter, a mutilated envelope at his feet. The paper was beginning to smoke. "I have found this flimsy bit of compressed tree extremely conducive to that effect."
"You're going to set off a smoke alarm!" Joan rushed into the kitchen
"Well, since we're expecting it," Sherlock addressed his match, "it won't be very alarming, now will it?"
"You're unbelievable!"
"What, I'm simply-" Steam curled up from his hands as water dripped down the end of his nose. Joan had doused him with a pitcher of water. He frowned. "That was extreme."
"Considering you set letters that make you angry on fire, I don't think you get to make that kind of call." Sherlock cocked his head.
"You may have a point."
She sat down at the table. "Want to tell me who it was from?"
"Considering you are no longer a sober companion, but a detective, I think you should tell me. And it didn't just make me angry. It was infuriating." Water still trickling down his face Sherlock dropped the soggy letter and headed for the kitchen to get a bowl of cereal, tossing the match off into the corner. Watson sighed and turned to face him.
"Your father."
"Excellent deduction. Now tell me what he wants." Sherlock stuffed a spoonful of raisin bran into his mouth, wiping the water from his face with a kitchen towel. Joan grimaced.
"How could I know that?"
"Sometimes being a detective," Sherlock gesticulated with his spoon, "requires guesswork." Watson folded her hands.
"Okay, he wants you to meet with someone." Prompted by the bouncing of his spoon, Joan continued. "Someone inconvenient that you'd rather not meet. Who is also very boring."
"Spot on, Watson!" Sherlock dunked his spoon back into the cereal. "My father would like me to meet an old friend of his who is in town. He wants me to show him the city and grant him residence in my chambers, as I understand it. Probably a lie. The old man is likely a spy, sent by my father to uncover my dark secrets." Rolling her eyes as the brooding look that possessed Sherlock's features, Joan asked.
"Well, when does he arrive?"
"Within the hour." Sherlock picked up the box of cereal and, with a very insincere and somewhat menacing smile, left the room. Joan called after him.
"Aren't you going to clean up your letter?" Silence. She stared at the mess on the floor and shook her head.
Half an hour later, the doorbell to the brownstone rang. Joan was reading a book upstairs as Sherlock constructed a mansion of cards below, in the living room. The bell rang again. It rang a third time before Joan realized that Sherlock did not intend to let the visitor inside.
"Coming!" She hurried down the stairs, muttering curses at Sherlock under her breath. Upon opening the door, she met with a tall old man in a very expensive suit. Peering out from under a massive forehead were two sharp little eyes that managed to twinkle without emitting the slightest bit of warmth. The man also had a massive grey mustache that Joan, for some inexplicable reason, suspected was fake.
"Sorry to keep you waiting."
"Not a problem. Ms. Watson I presume?" The man smiled. The twinkle warmed for a moment. Joan nodded, also smiling, and stepped to the side.
"Please come in Mr., er?"
"Oh? You weren't told my name?" The man paused, surprised, the arch of his eyebrow and upturn of his mouth exuding waves of disbelief.
"Sherlock's been busy…and he, er, lost the letter." Joan smiled.
"Of course…" The newcomer said, glancing around the corner at the monstrosity in the living room that completely concealed its creator, a crease between his eyebrows forming. Recovering composure, he said, "I am Lord Elmore, an old friend of young 's father." He smiled again. Impressed, though not sure what level of respect "lords" were used to, Watson said,
"It's an honor-"
"Not an honor!" A voice came out from behind the wall of red and blue, with such force, the entire fortress crumbled. "Damn."
"Excuse me?" Lord Elmore stared at the disheveled figure of Sherlock. He still had not changed out of his pajamas, in fact, he looked worse than when had woken up.
"Not you, the, uh, cards. Captain Gregson has called me, Watson!" He showed her a text on his phone. "I must be off! You can take care of the old boy, eh!"
"Is he always so...distracted?" Joan and Lord Elmore were sitting at the same table where Sherlock set fire to his father's letter earlier that morning. Thankful she had cleaned up the evidence, Joan struggled to remain engaged in the conversation. Her face hurt from all smiling she'd endured over the last two hours.
"Sherlock's very absent-minded."
"I understand he is a prized consultant with the New York Police Department. I didn't know police departments had consulting detectives. Is it an American thing?"
"Uh, no, it's a Sherlock thing. Or, rather a Sherlock and me thing. Well-it wasn't a me thing until quite recently." Her usual composure had long since disintegrated. Lord Elmore nodded back with the eloquence of the English.
"I see. It must be very interesting."
"Oh it is, definitely."
"And exciting." Lord Elmore took a sip from the coffee Watson had given him.
"Certainly."
"I've had my share of excitement you know." Lord Elmore sat back and crossed his arms.
"Oh?" Look interested, Joan, she told herself. She had already heard about his racetrack several times.
"Yes, though of a different kind. I own a racetrack you see. Mr. Holmes—er, Sherlock's father—comes down quite a bit. All sorts of scandals and fights in racing, which, though they may be looked down upon, really add an extra layer of color to life, don't you think?"
"Well, yes, I've never really thought of it." Joan remembered what Sherlock had said about the man being a spy. Was this a test? "You see, I've never really been to horse races."
"Shame. The best part of a horse race is the unpredictability, don't you think? No matter who the favorite is, someone else might slip in at the last moment." Lord Elmore chuckled.
"That's very true." Joan felt obligated to chuckle back.
"Do you know when, er, Sherlock will be back? I hope you don't mind me addressing him so familiarly, you see, it's the way his father always does. I've heard so much about him that I feel as if I know him already." Rather than setting Joan at ease, Lord Elmore's comment left Joan with visions of an infuriated father raging over two million dollars and a heroine addiction.
"No, I don't know. He's not replying to my texts. He must be busy." For a moment, there was silence. Then Lord Elmore leaned over, his elbows on his knees and hands clasped before his face.
"Say, do you think-if it's not too much to ask that is, do you think that I could drop by and see what he does? If it's not okay, feel free to say so. It's just that I've never had an opportunity to investigate American police work before."
"Umm, you know what?" Joan checked her phone. Irritated with Sherlock for abandoning her, and curious about what was keeping him so long, she nodded. "It should be just fine. They can always turn us away at the door."
"Thank you very much Ms. Watson. The coffee was excellent too." He smiled with a strange little bow.
As soon as Joan opened the door and Lord Elmore stood upon the threshold, two shots fired. Joan yanked the Englishman back inside and slammed the door.
"What the devil was that?" No bullet had hit Lord Elmore, but the imprint of shock was clear on his face. Joan shook her head.
"I don't know. It sounded like a gunshot."
"A gunshot! Who would want to shoot us?" Joan was surprised by the fact that he assumed she had no enemies. For a moment, she was insulted—weren't detectives supposed to make enemies? Then she realized, Sherlock's father had probably already expounded the situation in full detail.
"Don't know. Maybe they thought you were Sherlock."
"Do people want to shoot him?" Maybe Lord Elmore was just stupid.
"Sometimes." She took out her phone.
"What are you doing?"
"Calling the police…" Joan frowned at him. He shook himself with a laugh.
"Of course, sorry, I'm…not quite, well, go ahead." He leaned up against the wall. Joan pressed the phone against her ear.
"Hi, Captain Gregson? Someone's just tried to shoot us over at the brownstone." Within minutes a police car appeared, containing Detective Bell. The shooter had disappeared. Joan and Lord Elmore rode with the detective back to headquarters.
"Now, Lord Elmore, please tell me, why are you really here?" Sherlock stuck his hands in his pocket and bobbed his head out over his over-buttoned flannel. Apparently, he had a change of clothes stored somewhere in police headquarters. They were sitting in Captain Gregson's office. Watson had discovered that it was not a case, but pitcher of orange juice and a plate of cookies that had kept Sherlock busy for the last couple of hours. Joan and Lord Elmore sat, staring at the plate, which had, according to Captain Gregson and Detective Bell, been emptied and refilled several times by their favorite detective. In the room, standing, were the captain and Sherlock. Detective Bell was out, looking for the bullets that had assailed the lord and Watson.
"What are you talking about?"
"Why are you present in this country?" Lord Elmore stared.
"I don't understand why this is relevant. Besides, I already told you, I wanted to see America."
"Already heard that lie, come up with a better one." Lord Elmore frowned.
"You have a lot of nerve, sir. I was shot at upon exiting your apartment."
"Got yourself shot at in my house with my partner. You sir, are the one with nerve!" Sherlock continued bobbing like a boxer. Lord Elmore looked up at Joan, who glared at Sherlock.
"Sherlock, you're being ridiculous."
"Am I?" He raised his eyebrows.
"This is insulting, and I will report your behavior to your father."
"Being scolded via e-mail and telephone isn't all that traumatizing I assure you. I have experienced it many times, you may be certain." Sherlock bobbed his head again.
"If you continue to insult me sir-"
"I don't know what the game is yet. But I will unravel it. Report anything you like to my father. In the meantime, don't eat all the cookies." Sherlock took a cookie, and strode out of the room, three sets of perplexed eyes fixed on his back.