BANG! Gunshots rang out into the open. I rolled my eyes tiredly. 'He's at it, again,' I thought to myself. I wearily rose from my comfortable arm chair and ambled to the darkness of his room. Cracking open the door, I spoke in an exhausted hiss. "Sherlock, couldn't you just go to sleep, already?" The infamous Sherlock Holmes huffed and threw the gun down. "Sleep? What for, my dear John? It's morning." I sighed, very much unamused. "3:00am, Sherlock. You must find a new case. I can hardly take this any longer." Walking past the lump on the ground I could only assume was the worlds only Consulting Detective, I picked up the paper and parted the dusty curtains. Holmes cried out as the light hit him strait in his pale, cat-like face. My sleep desiring eyes sagged as I scanned over the paper. I felt Holmes come behind me; he read over my shoulder groggily, taking advantage of his superior height. "You smell ghastly," I mumbled as I analyzed the page. Suddenly, my drooping eyes stopped over a promising sentence. "Sherlock, I believe I might've found something," I stated, much more awake now. A grunt was my only answer, so I went on. "It says here that there have been several disappearances, all men. It seems they all went out at some point in the week and never returned." I gazed at him, and knew instantly what he'd say next. "John," he stood and dusted himself off. "The game is on!"
"John, hand me the list of names," Sherlock stated more than asked, holding out his hand. Without a second thought, I handed him the paper. His watchful, clever blue eyes scanned it carefully. He was clearly in his "Mind Palace". "A-ha! We'll begin at Wallace Adkins' house to see if we can find anything. Come along, John!" He walked quickly and with meaning, his long legs carrying him elegantly and quickly. I ambled along behind him, grabbing my coat hurriedly. As we strolled along to the first victims home, I noticed a young woman with bright red curls hanging out of a grey newsboy cap inconspicuously watching us. "Sherlock-" "Yes, John, I am, indeed, aware of the young woman eying us from across the street," Sherlock answered, not bothering to turn and look at me. "Why do you suppose she's watching us?" I inquired thoughtfully. Sherlock took a brief moment to consider this before responding. "I'll tell you when we get back to Baker Street."
"Where precisely did he go?" I asked the sobbing wife of the late Wallace Adkins. "He said he was going out. That's all. H-he never told me where!" she cried. Sherlock perked up, much like a dog who'd just caught a scent. He turned to the distraught widow and simply, and with no shame, nor hesitation, asked, "Where is the nearest Brothel?" The woman rose immediately, shock and horrified by his words. "P-please excuse my partner. He has simply no idea how to communicate with people-" "Madame, I assure you, I wish to know for business purposes only," Sherlock stated, cutting me off. "D-down the street and to the left... Holland's Leaguer..." the woman muttered with hesitancy. Sherlock rushed out the door with me in tow, leaving the startled woman alone and confused.
"Here we are!" Sherlock stated as we screeched to a halt in front of the Brothel. Without a second thought, he pulled me in forcefully and nearly threw me at a table facing the stage. The place was filled with dim, red lighting and smelled much too strongly of perfume for my liking. There was a small staircase leading up to separate rooms for privacy, a bar with a burly man behind it, cleaning out a glass, many tables with small red candles that reeked of cinnamon, a long platform connected to the stage that goes into the audience, (which we were seated directly next to), and a few muscular men near the walls, there for the protection of the ladies. "3rd row seats! Exceptional view, don't you think, John?" I didn't have time to answer when the lights went out completely and a man appeared on the stage. "Ladies and Gentleman, The Holland's Leaguer is proud to present our lovely ladies for your entertainment." Music blared from the speakers in each top corner of the stage as the red curtain parted. Several women clad in scandalous attire ( . ?v=1301058755000) flounced onto the stage; one stood out the most from all the blondes and brunettes. Red ringlet curls bounded every-which-way as she gracefully twirled across the wooden surface. I glanced over at Sherlock briefly to see his eyes glued to the red head. "The girl from before?" I asked, just to be sure. He simply nodded, watching closely as she spun, leapt, and glided across the stage, nearing us with each move. Her long legs moved in an elaborate dance, criss-crossing and kicking with grace unknown to me until now. Sherlock appeared hypnotized, as, I'm quite sure, did I. I watched as she came closer; her eyes locked on my face, then slowly traveled to Sherlock's. For a fraction of a second, I could detect surprise, panic, and fear in her large, heavy lidded green eyes. But it vanished as rapidly as it had come.
The song ended and the women that were on stage came into the crowd and offered their services for the night to any man interested. All, except for the red head. She had disappeared completely. "Sherlock? Should we look for her? The red head, I mean..." I stuttered. "Hello." I jumped nearly out of my skin when a thin finger tapped my shoulder and a soft voice whispered in my ear. I turned around quickly to meet a pair of large blue eyes staring back at mine. "M-may I help you, miss?" I inquired of the petite harlot. She looked intensely uncomfortable. 'She doesn't belong here,' I thought. "Well, no... But maybe I can help you?" she said suggestively, no longer seeming out of place. I must say, even though I should've expected as much in a brothel, I was quite surprised. "Um..." "Actually, I could use your help," Sherlock interjected; I nearly fell out of my seat. Her eyes fell upon Sherlock's pale countenance and she smiled. "Upstairs?" "No. Not that kind of help," he said quickly before she got any closer. "What's her name, that red haired woman." The girl pouted slightly, making her look like an angsty 13 year old. "Before I give away that information, maybe you should tell me your name." Sherlock huffed exasperatedly. "Holmes. Sherlock Holmes." Her eyes lite up and she laughed loudly. "Her name is Roslyn. She's probably changing in the back. Wednesdays are her off days. I'm Jenine, by the way. Jenine Wood." "Well, Jenine, would you kindly escort us backstage?" I looked at Sherlock again, trying to imagine what he was thinking. She smiled and giggled. "Well, since my official title happens to be 'escort', I believe I might just be able to do that." She smiled once more before walking backstage, gesturing for us to follow.