Author's Note: Hello everyone, sorry I have been not very active the past couple of months, everything seems to have just gone wrong lately. Anyway, you don't want to hear about that... This is my new fanfiction based on S. Moffat and M. Gatiss's amazing tv series Sherlock. Of course, I do not own the characters or anything like that. I am just, like so many others, obsessed with the show (and Benedict Cumberbatch in all his beautifulness). This will be a running series for me, a bit like my Doctor Who episodes, although maybe not as many.
I am a big fan of the origional stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, so if you have read those stories yourself, expect to see a few references to them. Well, there will probably be a fair few of those... It is also my plan to stick as closely as possible to the show, ie. the structure, the character relationships, and the storylines themselves. I like what has been going on, so I am not going to change one bit of it. My episodes I have made up myself, just sometimes I may be inspired by the real stories in the books.
Now, this episode is the first in about six I think, I have only currently written two full episodes and I have just started on this one, which is set a few weeks after A Scandal in Belgravia. I think that was all I needed to say...
Oh well, enjoy and please tell me what you think!
I walked up the stairs of my shared Baker Street flat, carrying several bags of grocery shopping, and into the kitchen, going through the doorway in the hall.
"Don't worry, I can manage," I said to myself as I dumped all the bags on the floor beside the small kitchen table. I had planned to place them on the table itself, but it was covered in my flatmate's science equipment. I looked around the kitchen in despair, quickly discovering that the kitchen table was not the only thing covered in science equipment, it was the whole kitchen. Hating to think of what state the inside of the fridge would be like; I shook my head and walked out into the sitting room.
"You know Sherlock, you could always clean up after your -" I stopped short as my eyes fell on the world's only Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes. "What on earth are you doing?"
He was lying upside-down on the three-seater sofa, his bare feet resting on the wall underneath the yellow smiley-face that he had spray-painted there after the "Blind Banker" affair, with a thick chemistry textbook in his hands in front of his face.
"Reading," Sherlock answered me slowly.
"And is there any particular reason why you are upside down?" I asked with a confused frown.
"I thought it might make it more interesting." He answered seriously.
"Right," I said slowly, still frowning. "Did it?"
"No," he sighed before throwing the heavy, thick textbook off at an odd angle halfway across the room melodramatically then gazing up to me. "I'm bored."
"I would never have guessed, Sherlock." I said sarcastically.
He repositioned himself so that he was sitting on the sofa like a normal, civilised human being and he gazed at me silently for a few moments.
"What?" I asked, automatically suspicious of him.
"You were chatting up that sales assistant at Tesco's again, weren't you?" he said, rolling his eyes.
"What – no – Sherlock," I complained and I saw him smile smugly as I walked back into the kitchen to put the groceries away in a huff. So I may have talked to the woman who served me, but that didn't mean that I had been chatting her up. Sure she was a tall, fit blonde, who could actually string a few decent words together, but that was beside the point; I had not been flirting.
"You always flirt with people whom you barely know John." Sherlock called to me and I could hear the amusement in his deep voice.
"I do not," I said angrily, throwing a packet of fresh pasta into the nearest cupboard rather forcefully. "And anyway, if I did happen to flirt with complete strangers, it's only because they haven't met you yet, so my chances haven't been completely ruined!"
I paused, thinking over what I had just said and I groaned. "My God, what has my life come to?" I muttered horrified.
"Don't be so dramatic," Sherlock said dully. "All women seem to do is cause trouble."
"You can't judge an entire sex on Irene Adler, Sherlock." I told him, wondering if bringing up the woman was such a good idea as I walked back out into the sitting room.
"I'm not," Sherlock said. "Look at that doctor lady you dated, what was her name…"
"Sarah," I answered, wondering where this was going. "What about her?"
"We had to rescue her –"
"No Sherlock," I said sternly, "You sent us to that travelling circus on a bloody date and got the two of us dragged into it. If that Shan woman didn't think I was you, none of that would have happened!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes again and opened his mouth to say something else, but the doorbell rang, distracting him from our conversation.
"MRS HUDSON!" he yelled loud enough that I thought half the street would have heard him.
"I am not your housekeeper, Sherlock Holmes," called Mrs Hudson from the hallway downstairs before we both heard the front door open, Sherlock grinning.
"Who would have thought that a few weeks ago you threw a man out of a window for her?" I said, shaking my head disbelievingly.
"That's different," he admitted indifferently.
"Of course it is," I sighed as I sunk into my warm chair beside the fire.
Moments later, we heard footsteps on the stairs before there came a quiet knock at the doorway. I looked around to find a young woman, perhaps in her late twenties with brown eyes and short brown hair, looking particularly dishevelled.
"Sorry for the intrusion, but you Mr Holmes," the woman said hurriedly with a fair bit of colour on her pale face, glancing to Sherlock. "You have been recommended to me by a – ah, friend – who reads Dr. Watson's blog. I hope this isn't a bad time?"
"Not at all, come in." said Sherlock with a small eager smile as he watched our new guest with interest. He stood and indicated for her to sit down on the sofa. "You seem to have been through a lot in the past few days, what is it that has brought you to us?"
I shot Sherlock a quick frown, wondering how he was managing act so civil.
"Oh, but don't be dull," he added, taking his seat beside mine and I gave a slight nod. That's more like it, I thought. "And get to the point, quite quickly."
I shook my head, wondering how we had managed to get any cases at all when this was how he treated out potential clients. "Don't feel as though you need to rush, Miss –"
"Imogen Flynn," she told me, relaxing a bit as she gazed to me. "Sorry, I should've introduced myself sooner… my head is all over the place at the moment, I'd probably lose it if it wasn't attached."
She gave a nervous laugh and I smiled slightly.
"Obviously, seeing as your jumper is on inside out and you've only got one sock on." Sherlock said to her as she looked down to examine herself.
"Sherlock," I reprimanded, but he, like always, needed to show off.
"That in itself indicates that you live alone with no one to tell you that it wasn't right and your sock indicates that you were in a hurry to get here and you are not up to date with your washing." Sherlock continued and I covered my eyes with my hand. "I can also tell that you arrived here by cab, not by the tube because if you had of travelled by the underground you would have been told by one of the numerous people you were jammed up against about the state of your jumper." He finished smugly and the woman just stared at him.
"That – uh – pretty much sums up my life at the moment, yeah." She said eventually, her eyes suddenly glassy. "I wonder Mr Holmes, if you have heard of the attack that occurred a few streets away?"
"The one on the elderly man?" I asked, frowning as I tried to remember it.
"Yes, the man's son-in-law was arrested." Sherlock said promptly, staring at the woman closely.
"The victim of the attack was my father, Mr Holmes," Imogen said, her hands beginning to shake slightly. "The main reason why I am so rushed is because I am spending so much time at the hospital with my dying father and when I'm not there with him I am over at Scotland Yard's holding cells visiting my innocent fiancé."
"Innocent?" repeated Sherlock with a small disbelieving smile on his lips. "He can't be that innocent if he has been arrested by the police."
"The only reason he was arrested was on the bases that he was seen arguing with my father earlier that afternoon," Imogen said hotly, glaring at Sherlock, "and that has only held up this long because my father's landlady gave an eye witness account."
"There has to be something more substantial than that," I pointed out calmly. "Scotland Yard don't just arrest and hold people just on something like that."
"Then what are they holding him for?" she asked me, her thin eyebrows raised. "They haven't shown him any evidence that links him to my father's rooms; they just keep harping on about the apparent argument."
I looked to Sherlock, whose eyes had narrowed.
"What is it that you want of us then?" he asked quietly, and I could tell that he already knew.
"I would like you to help my fiancé," she said, equally as quiet as Sherlock had spoken. "I know he hasn't done this, he could never hurt anyone, let alone my father who he has known for nearly fifteen years."
"If what you say is true and your fiancé did not attack your father, then he has absolutely nothing to worry about." Sherlock said sounding slightly bored again now. "This case will never reach the courts with such an apparent lack of evidence."
"Yes, but when my fiancé is finally released, what happens then?" Imogen asked Sherlock with wide, uncertain eyes. "What if they get some other poor bloke who didn't do it, or worse, if they don't catch anyone at all? The detectives at Scotland Yard haven't exactly filled me with much confidence."
"They never do," Sherlock said with a familiar glint in his eyes now and I knew that with her last sentence, Imogen had managed to convince Sherlock to take her case. "Tell me all the details, no matter how trivial you might think them to be."
"You'll take the case?" she asked giving Sherlock a warm, relieved smile.
Sherlock gave a curt nod before leaning back in his chair and I took out my small notebook and pen from my jacket pocket.
"Do you carry that everywhere?" Sherlock asked me quietly and I looked to him.
"Yeah," I answered quietly. "I never know when I might need it when I am around you."
"How tedious." He said.
"Yeah, well, not everyone has a super-human mind palace like you, do they?" I added, earning a small crooked smile from him.
"Please go on, Miss Flynn." Sherlock said, closing his eyes and resting his hand on the chair. "But please leave out any form of speculation."
Imogen nodded and took a deep breath. "Four days ago, my father, Caleb Flynn was attacked in his home in Chagford Street – number 39, right down the end. He was stabbed – I'm not sure how many times, but it was enough to leave him in a critical condition in the London Hospital. Whoever did it left him to die in his very own sitting room."
"You found him?" Sherlock asked with his eyes still closed.
"He had managed to dial my number on his mobile phone, and when he didn't answer me I rushed right around, had an argument with the landlady before finally reaching him in the sitting room unconscious and half his blood all over the apartment."
"Why did you argue with the landlady?" Sherlock asked sharply.
"She wouldn't let me in the front door, but then that isn't unusual." Imogen told him somewhat dismissively. "She is an older lady, not all there upstairs if you know what I mean, but she's harmless enough, just very old fashioned and didn't like anyone coming to visit around Five-thirty because that was normally when she ate her dinner."
"But she wasn't eating dinner that night?" Sherlock assumed.
"No, that might have been why she was in such a foul mood. Anyway, I walked up the stairs and let myself into dad's apartment and called 999. Next thing I know, Declan, my fiancé, calls me just as we arrive at emergency telling me that he'd been arrested for attacking dad."
"Did he tell you that he was going to see your father that afternoon?" I asked slowly, still managing to write as much detail as I could down in my notebook.
"Declan was going to drop in on dad to help him fix a leaky shower fixture in his bathroom before he went to work." Imogen answered before adding in afterthought, "He works in night shift as a nurse at London hospital in emergency."
"Note that down, John." Sherlock said quietly to me and I nodded, having already noted that fact down. "And they have both always gotten along?"
Imogen nodded. "Always; Declan being from Ireland doesn't get to spend much time with his own father, so he spent a lot of time with mine. They are like best friends; Declan couldn't have done something like this."
"What time did he arrive at your father's?" I pondered.
"He left our house in Paddington at about three-thirty that afternoon to catch the underground, so he should have been at Dad's here around four. He called me at twenty to five to say he was on his way to work."
"He could have doubled back –"
"That's what the police seem to think, Dr. Watson." Imogen said hotly to me.
"In your mind, there is no possible motive for your future husband to try and kill your father?" Sherlock asked his eyes wide open again and now staring at our guest quite intently. "There were no money issues, no scandals that your father might have been concealing from you that your fiancé may have discovered during his visit?"
Imogen shook her head adamantly.
"He led a quiet, retired life Mr Holmes," she said. "Declan and I were all he had left."
"His life insurance payout wouldn't have benefited you and Declan, or anyone else? Did he have enemies that you knew of?" Sherlock pressed.
"No one has enemies except for you, Sherlock." I muttered darkly to myself, and earned a glare from him.
"His life insurance only covers the expenses that his death would cause, and he certainly had no enemies."
"What about his landlady?"
"They got along fine as far as I'm aware." She told him and he fell into a thoughtful silence.
"Well, I think that is all I need from you for now," Sherlock said eventually and Imogen and I stood up, thinking that Sherlock's consultation had just come to an end. "Oh, and who was the friend who recommended me?" he asked with a mischievous glint in his eye.
"Uh, it was Stanley Hopkins." She said awkwardly and I gave a start.
"As in Detective Inspector Stanley Hopkins of Scotland Yard?" I asked her.
"The one and only," Sherlock said happily, bounding up out of his chair to shake Imogen Flynn by the hand. "Thank you for bringing a case like this to my attention, and I shall be very surprised if I don't have some good news for you by this very evening, goodbye."
Without giving the poor woman a chance to say anything at all, Sherlock had pushed her out into the hallway and closed the door in her startled face.
"Sherlock," I complained as Sherlock began pacing around the room, rubbing his hands together with a massive grin on his gleeful face. Obviously he felt that this case had more potential than I had realised yet. "What are you so happy about?"
"Hopkins', John!" he cried with pleasure and I frowned in confusion. "Hopkins is out of his league as per usual and has enlisted my help."
"Oi, he looks up to you, don't ruin it." I reprimanded him again. "He always takes in every word you say and applies it on each of his cases –"
"He'll go far, I am sure." Sherlock said seriously as he walked into the kitchen, then into his bedroom. He emerged five minutes later, fully dressed (including his blue scarf) looking excited.
"Where are we headed first then?" I asked curiously, still feeling a bit lost about the whole situation.
"We need to visit the fiancé and get our facts established about the victim's wounds, which in itself is essential to prove or incriminate him." Sherlock told me as we walked down the stairs together. "I would have preferred to visit the scene of crime first, but there is something funny about the landlady – something that doesn't sit right."
"You hardly know anything about her," I gaped as we walked out onto Baker Street and I closed the door behind me.
"Mmm, and I already suspect her. Doesn't that say something of her character, John?" Sherlock asked me seriously before he hailed a cab and I had to admit that Sherlock Holmes was very rarely wrong.