The Red-Headed League

Chapter One

221B Baker Street.

It's been above a month since they'd moved back in to the only place really imaginable as home but still, when John returns to that door ladened with shopping that morning there's a tightness in his chest that only grows as he slips his key into the lock.

Sherlock Holmes may find it easy to come back from the dead but John Watson is struggling with the resurrection of their former life. Most things are just as they always have been between the two of them but John can't quite shake off the bitterness of mourning. He wakes each morning expecting to be alone and each time he walks up the steps to his flat, he anticipates finding it deafeningly silent.

"Ah, there you are, John," Sherlock says, pouncing upon the doctor at the top of the stairs and grabbing the shopping bags from his hands, dumping them on the kitchen table. "Excellent timing. We have a most diverting guest. This is Mr James Wilson and he has just begun to regale us with an exquisite tale, truly. Here, sit down." He pats the sofa. "Take notes."

Mr Wilson, a middle aged man with violently red hair, is sitting looking questioning up at them from the armchair. "Who is this?"

"Oh, don't worry, John's a doctor. He likes to take notes. It makes him feel important."

"I don't need a doctor."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock pulls a worryingly sympathetic smile, designed no doubt to unnerve their guest. Then he laughs. "Well, he's my partner and helper. He loves bizarre problems as much as I do. We enjoy sharing things."

"I see," Mr Wilson says, with a small smile.

"Not partner – We don't share everything," John quickly attempts to explain, but immediately gives up. He sits on the sofa. What is the point?

John looks the man up and down and attempts to make some small deductions of his own. There is not much to see, however. He is a tall, fit looking man in his late forties, wearing casual trousers, shirt and jumper, made distinguished only by the abundant tassels of flame red hair that curl around his eyes and ears.

"Go on then," Sherlock says, looking at his friend with a smirk on his face.

"What?" John counters.

"You're trying to do it."

"Do what?"

"Infer some facts by his appearance. I can see you're trying."

"No, I'm not." And he adds to the man, "Sorry."

Mr Wilson shrugs, evidently not sure what they're talking about.

"Well, it's pointless anyway. Beyond the obvious, that he at some time was in manual labour, that he quit smoking roughly three years ago, that he has been to China, and that he has recently been typing more than usual, there isn't much to be deduced." Sherlock flicks a small smile to John as his customer exclaims loudly at the accurate portrayal.

"How on earth did you know I was a carpenter?"

"Carpenter, yes, of course. That was immediately obvious. A visit to China was also apparent from the small tattoo of a fish on your wrist. It is a typically Chinese design using traditional colorants. 'But I could have got that anywhere!' Yes, but twinned with the fact you wear a Chinese coin on his wallet chain this becomes a small leap. The stage of your nicotine withdrawal symptoms was more of an estimation based on extensive research and experiments in the field."

"But -"

"The carpenter fact? Obtained from muscles in your right hand and arm, which are clearly more developed and those marks on your hands were not gained by working at a desk. Which I suppose has been your recent occupation by the way you have been clenching your hands and the swelling of your knuckles. Undoubtedly you are experiencing mild pain in your joints, typical of one with a recent onset of RSI developed from sustained typing."

"Oh," Mr Wilson says, after a short, presumably stunned, pause. Then a smile lights his ruddy face. "Well, when you put it like that, it's all pretty obvious, isn't it? And for a moment, I thought you were doing something extraordinarily clever."

A frown darkens Sherlock's features and John knows he dislikes the implication that he was not being extraordinarily clever.

"Perhaps you shouldn't explain," John enjoys saying. "Your reputation will be in tatters."

Sherlock pouts. "Thank you for your observation, John. Omne ignotum pro magnifico."

"What?"

"Oh, look it up. Perhaps," he turns his attention to Mr Wilson, "you could start the story from the beginning? John isn't sufficiently quick on the uptake to dive in from your current position and I may be able to glean some finer details in your second retelling."

"Fine, well, I suppose you better have a look at this." Mr Wilson produces from his wallet some folded pieces of paper, handing them across to John. Sherlock slumps down into his chair with contained excitement on his face, steepling his fingers in front of his face.

John unfolds them to find a print out of an online advert.

'The Red-Headed League' reads the title in a swirling script and beneath it, 'Got red hair? Earn £1,000 a week for minimal work! Click for more details.'

John could not contain a snort of disbelief.

"Yes?" Sherlock questions.

"Well!" John laughs. "It's clearly a con!"

Mr Wilson bristles. "Obviously that's what I initially thought but -"

"Just ignore him, James," Sherlock suggests. "He's slow on the uptake. Read the other page."

John flicks to the other sheet of paper which shows a page from the Red-Headed League's website. It read:

Vacancy

7 Pope's Court, Fleet Street, London

£52,000 pro rata

This post is for 16 hours per week.

Required for The League Offices, 7 Pope's Court, Fleet Street, London. Your role would be to undertake minimal tasks for the League and does not necessitate practical knowledge in the area. Requirements are that applicants are of sound body and mind and above the age of twenty-one.

Apply in person on Monday 29th April, at eleven o'clock, to Duncan Ross.

"So you applied for this post," John says, handing the pages back to Mr Wilson, "and somehow got cheated out of some money?"

"No, John, listen, would you? I said this was an interesting case. What would be interesting about that?"

"Well, clearly there's something going on here."

"Yes," Mr Wilson says, "but I was persuaded that I might as well go for it. I mean, what's there to lose?"

"Who exactly did the persuading," asks Sherlock, "your wife?"

"No, I'm gay."

The look Mr Wilson gives Sherlock as he says this makes John's jaw tighten slightly but if Sherlock registers it also, he doesn't react to it. He waves his hand in the air. "Boyfriend, then, partner?"

"Vince Spaulding, not my partner. He works in my shop. I own a pawnbroker down in Barbican. He's the one who showed me the advert he'd found and explained about the League. He did some background research into it. Turns out there's this American millionaire, I forget his name now, who died and left his money to set up the League. Basically, he was red-haired and sympathetic to those in the same condition. He wanted them to get some easy money for little work."

"How convenient for you," John couldn't help suggesting.

"Well, I thought millions of people would be applying but Vince said they don't let people in whose hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but real bright, blazing, fiery red. So I thought, well, I stand as good a chance as any, don't I?"

The detective and the doctor nod their agreement and then share a secret smile at the ludicrousness of it.

"I went down to the building on that Monday and, well, you've never seen anything like it. I'm telling you, there were redheads as far as the eye could see. They were queuing all down Fleet Street. Vince came with me though and we pushed our way through to the office."

"They gave you the job, then?" John predicts, dryly.

"Yes," Mr Wilson confirms. "They were delighted just by the colour of my hair. They did some tests to check it was my true colour and not dyed or anything. They said some people have fooled them before."

"Who was there, in the room with you?" Sherlock demands.

"Urm, well, me and Vincent of course, and Mr Duncan Ross."

"Only the three of you?"

"Yes."

"And what exactly did this Mr Ross ask you?"

"Well, he asked if I was married or in a relationship or anything, which I replied no to. He was upset by this and said that the spread of redheads was part of the aim of the society. I felt I had to disclose the likelihood that I'd never have children."

"How did he react to that?" asks Sherlock.

"He took it well. He said he'd make an exception."

"Because of you hair?"

"What?"

"Because of the colour of your hair?"

"Yes."

Again, John can't help a smirk escaping his lips.

"It's not funny!" Mr Wilson growls.

Sherlock sucks air through his teeth and responds, "Unfortunately, Mr Wilson, it is somewhat." They laugh for a moment then Sherlock pulls himself together. "Alright, alright. So what exactly did this job involve?"

"Well, this is the strange thing about it. All I had to do is turn up 10 until 2 and we just sat there and typed up the Encyclopaedia Britannica."

Sherlock snorts. "An obsolete publication."

"You said 'we'," John highlights. "Were there others?"

"Yes, there were a couple of people who started a few weeks before me. They were both as bemused about the job as I was. The only point that Mr Wilson made especially clear was that if we ever left our post between the appointed work hours, we would automatically forfeit the post, no matter what the reason. He never checked in on us though."

"And you did get paid the promised sum for this work?" Sherlock questions.

"Yes, £1000 exactly cash each week left on the Friday afternoon."

"Cash?"

"Yes, fifty pound notes."

"Right, for typing up an Encyclopaedia?" John says, incredulously. "And nothing about this situation seemed sketchy to you?"

Mr Wilson gives John a piercing look. "I am not a rich man, Doctor. I hope you can understand that this wasn't an opportunity I was going to forfeit."

"So what about your pawnbroker?" asks Sherlock. "Did you close between 10 and 2?"

"No, Vince looked after the place for me. It's pretty dead during the day anyway. The evenings when we make our most business, especially before payday."

"No one else works with you then? No one else would be in the shop at that time?"

"No. Vincent only started with me a month or so ago, but he's fantastic. Lots of experience. He's looked at loads of old stuff in the basement for me. He's great at pricing things up."

"And so he looked after the shop well?"

"No complaints on that score. As I say, we don't get much business in the middle of the day anyway."

"So what happened then?"

"What?"

"What happened?" Sherlock sighs. "This happy state of affairs must have come to some shattering conclusion or you would not be here. How have you been wronged?"

"I've only been wronged out of an income of £1000 a week. I turned up yesterday and there was no one there. No computers or anything. The office was locked. I asked at the desk and the girl said someone had left this note." He hands a piece of paper to Sherlock, who laughs and passes it to John.

THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE IS DISSOLVED.

29th May, 2012

A chuckle escapes John's lips and they both share a laugh at their disgruntled guests expense.

Finally John asks, "Didn't their website say something about it?"

"The website's gone! All trace of them has disappeared. I mean, it seems like I've been conned, except, obviously I'm four grand up and they got nothing except a digital copy of 'Aachen Formation' to 'AI Virus'."

"What of the other people you worked with? Have you contacted them?"

"Well, Bill was just as bemused as I was and Pippa had quit anyway, the day before."

"Pippa?"

"Pippa Henderson. She owned a shop in the city, near St Paul's. She was ill and went home on Thursday. That means she quit, because -"

"Leaving was against the rules." Sherlock is grinning as if this is the most delectable problem that he's tasted in a while.

Mr Wilson "What? You've got an idea?"

"Absolutely not. Completely in the dark. Two days though. Give me two days, Mr Wilson and I guarantee we will have these scoundrels charged."

"But they've not really committed a crime, have they?"

"That, my friend, is where you're wrong," Sherlock declares triumphantly.

"What do you mean?"

"That's all for now, thank you, Mr Wilson," Sherlock says, jumping to his feet. "Please leave any contact details you have for Bill, Pippa Henderson, Duncan Ross or Vincent Spaulding with John. We'll be in touch in a few days."

"Vince? What does he have to do with it?"

But Sherlock has walked over to the window and is obviously not going to respond to anyone for a while. Mr Wilson looks to John, but he just shrugs and does what Sherlock suggested.

After showing their guest out, John assumes Sherlock won't be talking for a while. Often, he will sit with a problem for half a day without speaking or touching anything but his violin or nicotine patches. In fact, when John re-enters the flat, Sherlock regards his friend with a warm smile. "What do you think?" he asks.

"Yes," John says, sitting on the sofa, "it's a good one, isn't it?"

"I've heard nothing like it."

"Really?"

"Well," Sherlock flicks a hand in the air, "obviously there are several cases through the ages that resemble this in certain aspects, but it is singularly odd."

"You trust him, then? Mr Wilson?" John attempts to keep dislike from his voice. "You don't think he could be making some of this up."

"Yes, I don't see why I shouldn't trust he's telling the truth. Though it's clear why you don't."

John isn't stupid. He's dated his aversion to the man back from the moment he realised Mr Wilson fancies Sherlock. Is this what Sherlock is implying? "What's that supposed to mean?" he demands.

Sherlock shrugs as if he doesn't even need to respond, as if stating it is like informing him the sky is blue or that the pope is Catholic or that the bear shits in the woods. He says it anyway. "You're homophobic."

"What, Sherlock? My sister is gay."

Sherlock raises his eyebrows and smiles as if to say this doesn't prove anything.

"Why would you think that?"

"I don't think, I observe."

John rolls his eyes and sighs, getting to his feet. "Yet more proof that Sherlock Holmes can be wrong." He walks into the kitchen to unpack the shopping.

"I'm never wrong."

"Yes, you are."

"Why didn't you kiss me, then?"

John's blood froze.

The truly annoying thing is the way he says it. It's only to prove his point. They had managed not to talk about that incident at all and it's been a month, but if it would win an argument, Sherlock will happily drag it up.

John wheels around with anger on his face. "What?"

Sherlock just smiles, thinking, clearly, that he has won. "You are homophobic."

Mrs Hudson chooses this moment to bustle into the flat. "Yoo-hoo!" she chirrups. "Was that another client of yours? I hope it was something exciting for you, Sherlock."

"Oh yes," Sherlock smiles, widely, leaning back on his chair. "No violence evident thus far, but something to keep me occupied for a day or two."

"That's lovely to hear. How about a cup of tea? That will help you think."

"That's ridiculous, Mrs Hudson."

"Of course it's not, dear. Should I put the kettle on for you, John? John, are you alright?"

John shakes himself and turns away from Sherlock towards the shopping bags. The frozen goods have begun to make a puddle on the table. "Yes, coffee, please. Make it strong."

"No!" Sherlock declares. "No time for that. Get your coat, John."

"Where are we going?" John asks, picking his coat from the back of a chair.

"Weren't you listening? A shop near St Paul's."

"The woman who quit the League, Pippa Henderson? You think she's got something to do with this?"

"Something?" Sherlock grins at his friend then leads the way down the stairs. "Everything."

Henderson's convenience store is on one of those small inroads in the vicinity of St. Pauls Cathedral; an ignorable shop amongst grand buildings, with a few boxes of not so fresh looking fruit outside the front. As they push the door open a bell rings from somewhere within.

For a moment, Sherlock browses the shelves and stamps randomly on the floor with the heel of his shoe.

"Should we ask about her, then?" John asks, indicating to a man stacking shelves near the till.

Sherlock gives the man, wearing a short green apron and grubby shoes, a penetrating stare then shrugs. "He's told us all he can."

"What? Seriously? He hasn't even…" But John sighs without continuing and folds his arms.

Sherlock looks closely at his friend's body posture and makes a quick deduction. "That upset you, didn't it?"

"No, it frustrated me."

"Why?"

"Why? It's like I'm in a foreign country and you're explaining the joys of highland dancing in Chinese. I have no idea what's going on, Sherlock."

"Fine."

"Fine, what?"

"Fine, we can do it your way. We'll ask about Pippa Henderson." And when John doesn't respond, Sherlock flicks his hands. "Go on then. Find out what happened to her on Thursday."

Not really wanting to play along with Sherlock's game, John steps forwards all the same and introduces himself to the shop assistant. "We're here to speak to Pippa Henderson."

"Pippa?" the man responds. "I'm afraid that's impossible."

"Why's that?"

"She's dead," he states simply. "Did you not see it in the Standard? It was the other day. Hang on, you're not from the papers, are you?"

"Dead?" John repeats, blankly.

"Why didn't you contact us?" Sherlock demands, immediately having let himself into Lestrade's office.

The detective inspector has his feet on the desk and looks startled by the appearance of the duo. "What? Why? What's happened?"

"Suspicious death in a corner shop, Golidman Street. Why wasn't I informed?"

"Miss Henderson?" Lestrade is bemused. "Am I supposed to call you in whenever I receive a new case?"

"The interesting ones, yes."

"An everyday robbery turned bad. Didn't think it would be your cup of tea."

"What's going on?" asks the least welcome member of the police department, poking his head around the door.

"As usual, you are barking up completely the wrong tree," Sherlock continues, ignoring Anderson's presence entirely. "Pippa Henderson was murdered and it's plain to see why, if not yet clear what for."

"Right," Lestrade sighs, "and for those not so blessed with omnipotence as Sherlock Holmes, would you care to explain what you're talking about?"

Sherlock hastily summarises Mr Wilson's story of the Red-Headed League and declares that the cause of Miss Henderson's death is apparent.

"Red-Headed League?" Lestrade snorts. "That's crazy."

"Yes," Anderson agrees, "sounds like something only a, what was it, 'high functioning sociopath' would concoct."

Sherlock rounds on the forensic scientist, his eyes narrowed and voice dripping with sarcasm. "You're right, it was John and I, we set up the League, but unfortunately, Anderson, and I appreciate that this may have escaped your sharp eye, my hair is black, not red, and John's is grey, so -"

"Hang on – what?" John interrupts. "My hair is not grey."

Sherlock sighs. "Semantics, John. Obviously your hair is not literally 'the colour grey'. The light leaving your hair could be said to be grey in colour, as perceived by our eyes and recognised by our brain."

"No, it couldn't because my hair is brown."

"Oh, please…"

"Light brown. Mousey."

"Mousey? It's grey, John. Grey."

"Alright, ladies, calm down," Lestrade suggests.

But Sherlock flicks his eyes back upon the detective, instead. "That, D.I. Lestrade, is a sexist comment in the workplace, for which you could be reprimanded."

John nods. "He does have a point."

"Yes," Lestrade sighs, "but could we just focus on the case in hand? There were witnesses, Sherlock. A gang of kids did it."

"Witnesses, yes, well done. People are always a fantastically reliable source."

"Well, you're going to have to find some shred of evidence, Sherlock," Lestrade says, obviously trying to be patient, "then maybe a suspect and motive?"

"I'll give you the killer now. That man, working in her shop."

"What? Why?"

"Oh, come on! Didn't you see the state of his shoes? The knees of his trousers? The way he spoke of his employers death? For someone, it was very important that Miss Henderson wasn't in her shop between 10 and 2. Something was happening, something that Miss Henderson interrupted when she arrived unexpectedly on Thursday."

John can feel the look of disdain coming from Anderson's direction and he can't really stand it. "Sherlock, maybe we should -"

"Shut up, John."

John shuts up.

"Do you enjoy being with me?" Sherlock asks, when they're alone in the back of a taxi. John hasn't spoken in the last fifteen minutes.

"Do I…"

"Enjoy being with me. It's a closed question. 'Yes' or 'no' will suffice."

John shakes his head in puzzlement rather than response. Sherlock is watching him far too closely. "You think I'm a masochist?"

"I understand, through observation and having been informed, a lot, that I am not an easy person to spend time with. It is 'hard' even."

John smirks. "Sherlock, are you feeling emotional?"

The detective shoots him a glance as if to say 'do you know me at all?' "It's my usual quest, John. I want to understand."

"Well," John clears his throat, "yes, it can be hard. But hard isn't the opposite of enjoyable. Spider Solitaire is hard. Mrs Hudson's rock cakes are hard. Solving a murder case is hard."

"Not this one."

"It doesn't really matter, does it, that you're hard to be with. Most great pleasures are hard."

There's a pause and then Sherlock catches the doctor's eye and they both smirk.

"Dirty," John comments. And they leave that conversation for the time being. "Do you think you could explain to me about Pippa Henderson?"

"I assume you understand that the Red-Headed League was a rouse to ensure that those particular three people were in that building for those hours of the day."

"Yes, well, it does seem quite an expensive way of doing that though."

"Exactly, so either the person behind this has copious money to spare or they planned on recouping it somehow."

"What could they have possibly got from Pippa Henderson's shop though? Some baked beans and mars bars wouldn't be worth the effort."

"No, nor anything from the pawnbroker, I would assume. At any extent, nothing has been noticed as missing from either. Also, the League operated over a period of months. This must be some ploy that has taken some time."

"Where are we going now then? The pawnbroker?"

"No, that side of things is clear. The last piece of the puzzle for me is Bill Smith. He didn't own a shop, did he? He was retired. What, then, was the League keeping him away from?"

A slender, olive skinned woman wearing a tight-fitting red dress answers Bill Smith's front door.

"Hello," John begins, slightly intimidated. "We'd like to speak to Bill."

"I'm afraid he's out," she responds with a heavy accent and without a smile.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" Sherlock requests.

"Penelope. I am Bill's wife."

Sherlock chortles. "Well, that solves that little mystery."

It takes a moment for John to understand what his friend is implying, then he can't help but be affronted. "Really? A grand a week?"

"Well," Sherlock says with a shrugs, "People have paid more."

The woman in front of them folds her arms. "Excuse me?"

"Nothing, don't you worry. Actually, just let your husband know from us that we hope his marriage has taken a turn for the better since yesterday."

Her shock and displeasure is immediate and evident. "Who are you?"

"Never mind, never mind. Charming to meet you, Mrs Smith!" And the two of them make a hasty retreat.

Back at Baker Street, Mrs Hudson makes them that cup of tea.

"And I bought this Battenberg, John. Do you fancy a slice? It was on special offer."

"Thank you. No, the end piece please."

"Sherlock?" she asks before John has time to warn her not to bother. "Battenberg, dear?" When there's no response she potters closer and peers over his shoulder at the computer screen. "What's that then? Maps? Are you off sightseeing?"

Sherlock slowly closes his eyes in exasperation. "John, pass me your phone."

John throws it across the room to Sherlock's outstretched hand.

He pockets it and picks up his laptop. "I'll be in my room. And I will invest in a 'do not disturb' sign, if I have to." He closes the door behind him loudly.

"I don't know how you put up with that man." Mrs Hudson comments.