A/N: This story had been edited for mistakes x
John Watson hurriedly closed the door of 221B Baker Street behind him before the blizzard outside could follow him in. He greeted Mrs Hudson warmly and gladly took the tray of hot soup from her. He noticed there was only one bowl and was about to inquire about his flatmate's meal until he found he was talking to an empty space. Shrugging, he took the tray with him before ascending the stairs to his rooms.
Halfway up and he could already hear the sound of his friend furiously playing his Stradivarius. Watson sighed and pushed open the door with his back and placed the tray on the coffee table. As he put it down, he noticed the table was covered with tiny black grains which turned the whole surface of the table a shade darker. He decided against asking about it; he knew he'd regret it. He also saw tiny shards of glass on the table too. He decided against asking about that as well.
He glanced up to see the back of Sherlock Holmes facing the window whilst playing. Watson took his bowl of soup and sat back in his armchair comforted by the warm glaze the fire produced. Still, there was a slight chill in the air and Watson looked for the source. He found it when he realised Holmes had both windows fully open, allowing little flakes of snow into their flat. As if his body was making a point of this, Watson sneezed.
Holmes stopped playing and turned at the sound, and, as if he had only just noticed Watson (which the doctor wouldn't have been surprised if he had), hastily closed both windows. He came back and sat adjacent to Watson in his favourite armchair.
"Caught cold, Watson?" he asked nonchalantly.
"No, it's just this place needs a spring clean, is all." Holmes rolled his eyes, amused at the thought of the doctor not acknowledging his own symptoms. "That must be it." he said to himself.
"Why did you have the windows open anyway, Holmes?"
"Well, it's an amusing story, and you'll laugh at this, I promise."
"Enlighten me." Watson said dryly.
"I was simply doing an experiment to measure the effects of flour with bicarbonate of soda, butter and eggs, and I–"
"You baked a cake?" Watson asked incredulously.
"I wouldn't call it baking," Watson smiled to himself as he took his first sip of soup. "As I was saying, I seemed to have poured too much flour into the mixture, and was endeavouring to find a solution about a way to remove some. I sought out my pipe and struck a match to light it when – I haven't finished yet Watson. Why are you groaning?" he said when Watson interrupted him.
"Because I know the ending." Watson had realised what had happened when he remembered Mrs Hudson giving him the cold shoulder once he'd noticed the one bowl of soup, the burnt grains atop the table and the opened windows. "Why on earth did you light your pipe over the bowl?"
Holmes avoided the question. "We might make a detective of you yet, Watson. Where did you get that soup?" he asked innocently.
"Mrs Hudson gave it to me."
"Oh."
"Maybe if you apologised to her, she'll give you some too." Watson prompted.
Holmes snorted. "If she hadn't of waltzed in here I wouldn't have dropped the match."
"If you hadn't of lit the match above your little experiment you wouldn't have blown it up."
"No, but I would have been putting out the carpet instead!"
"Better than an explosion!"
"No, it's not!"
"Yes, it is!"
"No, it's not!"
"Yes it–" Watson was interrupted by the brief shrill of the doorbell downstairs. Holmes looked smugly at him as he waited for the footsteps to reach their door. A sharp knock told them their visitor had arrived. Watson put the now empty bowl of soup down and opened the door to reveal a flustered young woman standing on the landing. She was of average height, and her brunette hair hung in curls around her shoulders. She was wearing a thin, black and navy striped gown; her short gloves and hat were also navy, and her hat had a long black feather protruding from it.
Watson helped her out of her long shawl and guided her to his seat. Holmes took no notice as she became subject to one of his piercing gazes.
He was interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots which she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were odd ones; the one having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the other a plain one. One was fastened only in the two lower buttons out of five, and the other at the first, third, and fifth. When he saw that a young lady, otherwise neatly dressed, has come away from home with odd boots, half-buttoned, it was no great deduction to say that she came away in a hurry. He noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving home but after being fully dressed, because he observed that her right glove was torn at the forefinger, and that both glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She had written in a hurry and dipped her pen too deep. It must have been this morning, or the mark would not remain clear upon the finger. Holmes decided against announcing this to the woman, as she already looked flustered and worn, and he knew Watson would disapprove.
"May I inquire as to your name, my dear?" he asked instead.
The woman looked at him with wide eyes. "My name," she began. "Is Beatrice Reynolds, and I think my husband is a murderer."
Watson raised his eyebrows. Holmes yawned. Both waited for her to continue.
"My husband – William – works at the docks every day. He has done it for the past two years, and we have lived together happily. We have never had to worry about money, for my profit as a governess pays a suitable wage. Every weekend, we'd stroll in the park and at Christmas we'd visit the family–"
"Mrs Reynolds, will you please just tell my why you suspect your husband? I don't need your life story." Holmes interrupted. Watson kicked him.
"I – yes, sorry," Mrs Reynolds said. "For the past few weeks, William has changed. His whole demeanour has become darker, and often he avoids me. Whenever I ask a question of him, he'll answer in monosyllables. He no longer walks with pride, but rather... with an air of guilt, or regret. I endeavoured to ask him what was troubling him, but he would just shrug me off.
"One night, he came home, carrying a pocketwatch. I knew it wasn't his, and when I asked him who it belonged to, he looked at me with such sad eyes.
'It was someone's who worked at a bakery,' he said to me. 'He died three hours ago. This was given to me by his friend.' William then handed the pocketwatch to me. I was about to ask him why the poor man's wife didn't have it, but William had sauntered up to our bedroom. I decided not to press the matter, and left him to his own doings.
"However, over the week he'd come home every other night with another possession, claiming that another and another friend had suddenly died, that they had all been subjected to an illness. I began to grow suspicious, and last night I finally confronted him. I accused him of harming those people and that he was a cold-blooded murderer. All the time I was shouting at him, he'd stare at me morosely, as if I wasn't even there. When I eventually finished he said, 'Well, I can see I'm not welcome here,' and... then he left." Mrs Reynolds had tears glistening in her eyes, and she hastily wiped them away before they escape. Holmes rolled his eyes.
"Mrs Reynolds, what you've told me doesn't prove your husband is a murderer." Holmes said.
"No, no, you're wrong Mr. Holmes. You see, I know he committed those murders. And even if he didn't, why didn't he object when I confronted him?" Mrs Reynolds was bordering on hysterical, and Watson quickly poured her a glass of water, before glaring at Holmes.
"Would we be able to see the possessions your husband collected?" Watson asked gently.
"Oh, of course. Do – Do you want to come to my home now?" she asked.
"Well, it would most helpful." Holmes muttered. Watson shot him another look.
The three of them gathered their coats and Watson hailed a cab. Throughout the journey, they sat in silence; Mrs Reynolds twiddling with her gloves, Watson absentmindedly patting his pocket which contained his old service revolver (just in case), and Holmes gazing out of the window, contemplating what a waste of time this was, though having nothing better to do.
Finally they arrived at their destination. The house was of average size, looking identical to the ones joined on either side of it along the street.
Mrs. Reynolds was about to open the door with her key when she froze. Holmes noticed and stepped forward, inspecting the door. It had been forced; the keyhole was no longer there, instead there was a gaping hole. Slowly, Holmes pushed open the door and peered inside the hallway. He turned to Watson and was about to advise him to get his revolver, when he found that the doctor was stood beside him, gun already in his hand.
Together, they entered the house. Holmes motioned for Mrs Reynolds to stay by the front door, and signalled to Watson to search the ground floor whilst he went upstairs. Silently, both men entered the maze.
Watson looked behind him as he walked down the hallway to see Mrs Reynolds anxiously fidgeting near the front door. The poor woman had been through a lot of shocks these past few days, and, if her suspicions were correct, she would shortly be alone without a husband.
He stopped outside a door to the right of him, and slowly opened it. Peering inside, he noticed that it was the living room. The couch was in the middle of the room, and the south wall was lined with bookshelves, all of them stocked with books old and new. The coffee table sported a chess board, and the pieces were frozen mid-game. The scene would have looked quite homely if the books were not strewn across the room, and the chess pieces lying scattered across the floor. The back of the couch sported a large tear, as if someone had run it through with a blade. Watson checked and double checked the room before confirming there was no-one in there, before backing out and closing the door shut. He glanced at Mrs Reynolds and shook his head at her inquiring look. Next he moved towards the kitchen, which was at the end of the hallway.
There was a large table in the centre of the room, which was covered with cooking utensils and recipe books. Watson stalked around the table, looking for any hiding places someone might use. He spied a pantry door on the left wall, and walked towards it. He pressed his ear to listen for any motions. There were none. Still, it never hurt to look. He placed his hand on the door knob, and wrenched it open.
For a moment, nothing happened. But Watson couldn't help but let out a cry when something heavy fell against him.
Holmes was half-way through searching the master bedroom when he heard Watson shout. He was flying down the stairs in an instant, rushing past a frozen Mrs Reynolds, and running into the kitchen.
Watson was splayed on the floor at the back of the room, with the body of William Reynolds pressed against him. Holmes let out a breath he didn't realise he was holding as he walked over to help the doctor push Reynolds off of him. The pair rolled him over, and Watson bent to examine him, though the cause of death was pretty obvious. Mr. Reynolds had a bullet lodged somewhere in his head.
"Watson," said Holmes. "This case just got interesting."