The cacophonous clap of thunder that followed the brilliant flash of lightning shook the entire building as hard rain pelted the windows. Mother Nature's fury was sweeping through London in the form of the worst storm the metropolis had seen in ages. And citizens were pathetically trapped indoors in fear of her wrath. Including Sherlock Holmes, who, by sheer accident, found himself stuck inside a modest old-world bookshop and sitting bored amongst the dusty, ancient volumes.
He was stalking a notorious jewel thief throughout the city when the first signs of the storm appeared. Cursing his luck and disguised as a penniless, old beggar man, Holmes made a futile attempt to keep his tail on the criminal, but as the sky opened up and started to let loose blinding sheets of cold rain, he knew all was lost. The detective was forced to duck into the nearest shop to take cover from the violent weather. A plainly dressed, reticent young woman stared apprehensively from behind the store's counter as he entered, dripping water on the threadbare carpet.
"My apologies madam," he began, but stopped mid-sentence when the expression on her delicate face twisted into shock and slight revulsion. Realizing that his state of dress and costume didn't match the gentlemanly way he spoke and mentally berating himself for dropping character, Holmes decided that it would be best to keep his mouth shut so as not to confuse the simple woman.
He could feel her eyes on him as he slunk, cat-like behind a shelf and sought out something to occupy his profound mind while the storm raged. Settling on what turned out to be a battered, old tome of Mirandola's Oration on the Dignity of Man in Italian, Holmes found a moth-eaten armchair and sat down to peruse his selection.
After almost one half-hour was spent in this vain, Holmes' ears pricked at the approach of tentative feet. He turned his head right as the young woman running the shop gently cleared her throat. "You- you know Italian?" She inquired, bordering on incredulity with an undertone of admiration. Her voice had a small tremor to it and Holmes noted a trace of Irish in the accent. The calculating part of his personality wondered just how far he could take this woman as a fool.
"Un pochino," Holmes replied, smirking to himself at the woman's unabashed surprise.
Slowly, the surprise faded from her face and was replaced with amusement and suspicion. "Molto bene," came her tongue-in-cheek reply.
Holmes couldn't help but laugh. Closing the book in his lap, he got to his feet to properly address the young lady. He took her small hand, which she reluctantly gave, and bowed his head towards her. "Sherlock Holmes at your service, madam."
The young woman's smoky, grey eyes widened in bewilderment. Holmes noticed the almost comical way she tilted her auburn head to the side as she tried to assuage her confusion. "Forgive me, but that is not possible," came her delayed response.
"Oh," Holmes began, and started to circle the woman like a lion toying with an innocent gazelle. A devilish smirk crept upon his features. "What makes you say that, I wonder."
"Because, sir, I've met Sherlock Holmes and he certainly looked nothing like yourself," her voice came out breathy and fearful; her body tensed instinctually with apprehension at his close proximity and the vulnerableness of her situation, yet she remained defiant and unwavering in her gaze.
Automatically, Holmes racked his considerable memory for a trace of this young bookworm, but seemed to draw a complete blank, quite a rare moment for the world renowned consulting detective. He was never one to forget a face, especially one that claims to be an acquaintance. This unusual consternation stopped the man in his tracks. In his haste for explanation, he seized the young lady's shoulders and glared into her face. "You've met me? When? How?"
She laughed even though Holmes could tell he was frightening her. "That is none of your business," she croaked out in an attempt to sound brave and hold her ground.
Growling in frustration, Holmes ripped off his shabby hat, ratty wig, and bulbous prosthetic nose to prove his identity. "Clearly, you can see I am Holmes now, madam. And being Holmes, that would make your knowing me my business. So, if you'd please explain how we are acquainted, I would be most obliged," He ordered, forcing himself to remain calm. This woman was playing oddly in his mind and he did not like it at all.
"I must ask you to unhand me and leave my shop at once, sir." Came her quiet, calculated response. Holmes released her like he had been burned and mentally cursed himself for acting too emotionally.
"My sincerest apologies Miss-"
"Gallagher," the young woman supplied, eyeing Holmes like he was something unpleasant on the bottom of her shoe.
A small noise of triumph erupted from Holmes' mouth. After a jovial laugh, he explained his epiphany. "Gallagher, of course! No doubt you are the daughter of Thomas Gallagher. My preoccupation with my current case must have distracted me from recognizing his book shop. What an embarrassing blunder!" Wrapped up in his revelation, the detective failed to notice the scowl that marred the woman's face.
"What a luxury it must be to be able to forget my father. But now you must see why I insist you leave immediately, Mr. Holmes." She planted her feet firmly and attempted to be as intimidating as possible. Holmes was briefly reminded of Gladstone in his puppy hood trying to guard a bone.
"Madame, I am-" He began, flummoxed, only to be cut off.
"You're the detective that sent my father to the rope and you have the audacity to seek shelter here!" Miss Gallagher's shrill shout echoed in Holmes' head, digging up a long buried memory of a small, frightened, young girl standing in the shadow of the book shop's stairs as the police hauled off a man in shackles. It was one of his first cases as a police consultant and his younger, excited mind paid no second thought to the child at the time, but now the memory horrified him.
It was before Watson; before the hundreds of other cases that each left their shadow upon him. He was young and had not yet developed what his dear friend Watson once called his "human conscience". Back then Holmes' ambition and all-consuming need to solve the puzzle made him blind to any sort of consequence. And now, years later, to be face to face with those consequences made him uneasy.
"Oh," was all the gifted man could utter. Holmes had no idea what to say to the woman or how to alleviate the immense feeling of guilt that had settled deep in his guts. Deciding that leaving without making the situation worse would be the best thing to do, the detective gave the woman a last, solemn bow and ducked back out into the storm. Better the tempest outside than the potential one brewing inside.