Sherlock Holmes and the Lonely Masquerade
Chapter 1: The Missing Professor
There was nothing particularly interesting about 221B when it was only occupied by its tenants. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson weren't precisely ordinary, but not particularly interesting either. At least not by themselves. Now and again, the landlady, Mrs. Hudson, would make an appearance, although most of the time Sherlock and John hadn't noticed until they saw the plate of biscuits she'd left. This morning was no exception.
Between jobs, Dr. Watson had taken to occupying the couch nearest the wall outlet so he could charge his laptop while he watched YouTube videos or checked in on the news. It was also a good vantage point for the telly, and he was often found doing both at once. That is to say, he was often not doing much of anything.
Sherlock always seemed to be doing anything, but most of it meant very little to anybody else. He would watch one substance dissolve into another and then nod, as if he'd confirmed some private theory, and then repeat the exercise and shake his head, discouraged. He would leave various body parts in the fridge or on the counter to check the rates of various functions of decay, only to forget about them too long and have to start over. John once found boiled fingers in the tea kettle and an arm in the dishwasher, but it was certainly better than finding a head in the fridge.
In short, Sherlock and John were entirely focused on their own preoccupations, and hardly noticed a world passing around them. Sherlock, in particular, found its passing to be too dreadfully slow to take note of, and preferred to distract himself until the next case. John preferred to take advantage of the breaks, although he rarely felt they were long enough, and often that they were much too short. His anxiety over each new case that offered itself to the duo was almost as great as his eagerness, and the conflicting emotions were exhausting for the discharged army veteran.
It was during this very state of things that Professor E. R. Martin knocked gently on the men's door and introduced himself as such. Sherlock, aware of such things as a baggage tag reading "Steven Malone," and an ill-fitting laboratory coat apparently belonging to the school at Bart's Hospital, was immediately interested. Whatever else was true of the man's case, he himself was playing a role in it, and Sherlock would be damned before he'd let the first interesting opportunity in weeks to pass him by.
"I graduated from Bart's," John announced, apparently not realizing that his slovenly appearance and obvious unemployment failed to support his boast. "Worked there for a spat but preferred been at The Wellington most recently."
Professor Martin nodded, half a smile planted on his face. "Ah, very well, Doctor. I suppose we wouldn't have met. I've been away for quite a while."
"Which is what brings you here," Sherlock commented, saving John the embarrassment of whatever new thought had prompted him to open his mouth again. "You've only just returned, in fact, and have no intention of staying long. On the run perhaps?"
The man gaped, his mustache fumbling about as his mouth opened and closed indignantly. "How could you-? You couldn't possibly-!"
"I'm certain that he could, Professor," John interrupted, glancing from the client to Sherlock and back. "It's really much easier if you tell us everything. Less…obnoxious…too."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and scoffed quietly. "Bored," he muttered.
The Professor watched the exchange without speaking, although the part of his neck that was visible beneath his mottled grey beard turned a shocking purple and his face became uncomfortably tense. With a sigh and angry tug, he pulled each sleeve of his jacket down more comfortably and unbuttoned the front of his suit.
"So you've agreed to let us help, then! Splendid. So you've been in hiding but something happened last week to make you go back out on the run. You've been out of the country recently on a plane but travelled back to England last night. So, Professor Martin, tell us what happened last night."
It was John's turn to roll his eyes as he began writing, taking note of the most important things Sherlock had mentioned and awaiting the man's reply. Unfortunately, he was still gaping, and his face had turned increasingly red. His eyes were bulging and small veins in his neck stood out as he stared at Sherlock, spluttering angrily.
Impatient, John looked up, only to see the man tumble from his chair and onto the floor. He spluttered once more, bellowed a smothered cough, and was still. John leapt from his own chair and knelt beside the man, pulling one arm above his head to allow him to vomit safely should the need arise. Small foaming bubbles dripped from the man's lips and his eyes were lifeless. John hoisted him to his feet and did his best to provide the Heimlich, a difficult maneuver on an unconscious man, especially one whose height far exceeded his own.
"Sherlock!" John bellowed, grunting as he worked to save the man's life. The detective's response was merely to shake his head sadly and look away, at which point John reluctantly returned the man to the floor. "He choked," he said, staring at the man's face for a moment before shutting his eyelids. "He choked and I'm a doctor and I didn't save him."
"Nonsense, John. Look closer," Sherlock replied, standing slowly and stepping across the room to the hallway. "The Professor has been dead for a rather long time and this man has been poisoned." Ignoring John's confused expression, Sherlock shouted for Mrs. Hudson to call the police and returned to the corpse who had been a client.
Standing over the man's body, he moved quickly, memorizing the scene. He bent down and retrieved the man's necklace—a shard of colored glass on a leather cord—and returned to his seat, pocketing the item as he went.
"Your opinion, John?" Sherlock asked as Mrs. Hudson barreled into the room.
Her hair flat and her dress limp, Mrs. Hudson seemed more frazzled than usual, and gasped loudly when she saw the man on the floor.
"You've got another one killed in my flat?" she shouted, covering her mouth with her hands.
"And you've had another late night with your latest tosser," Sherlock responded, pulling out his phone and navigating quickly through some webpage or another. "I wouldn't hold out your hopes," he added, "the man's clearly keeping you a secret and doesn't care too much for what you have to say about it."
"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson stomped once and glared at the detective. "I'll have you know," she spat, as angry as she could ever be with either of these two men, "that he had a doctor's appointment this morning and we woke up late! That's all."
"Nope," Sherlock replied, popping the 'p' loudly. "Keep going John." The doctor returned his eyes to the body and began checking for mark anywhere. "No, but he was late for work."
"So he's a doctor, then?" Mrs. Hudson asked, struggling to keep a smile off her face.
"No, he's a...businessman. You might check your stores of Vicodin when you get back to your flat, although I suspect he'll get more from the patients he meets today. Has a whole supply of things and he has to get it from somewhere."
Mrs. Hudson scowled and planted her hands on her hips. More determined now, John kept his gaze firmly downward and mumbled something about "no signs of bruising" under his breath.
"Now how could you possibly know all that from seeing how I've slept?"
"Did you ever call the police?"
"Sherlock!"
"Alright," he growled, reaching into the opposite pocket from where he'd put the necklace. "Because he offered me a pretty penny." Clutched between his thin fingers was a handwritten note, offering me 55 pounds for a gram of 'H'. Mrs. Hudson gasped again, turning and running down the stairs with loud sobs and angry shouts.
John sighed gently, not looking up. "That was rude, Sherlock," he said quietly as the sound of heavy footfalls sounded downstairs. "I hope you didn't take him up on it, though, that's a terrible price." A small smile crept across the doctor's mouth as Sherlock laughed and stood again to greet the officers.
"Sherlock Holmes," a familiar voice boomed, friendlier than it should have been considering there was a dead body on the floor.
"Greg," John nodded, standing, too.
"Lestrade," Sherlock added, greeting the Detective Inspector as he entered the room from the hallway, "we're going to need Molly Hooper."