After listening to an audio book of Doyle's A Case of Identity, and listening to the woman give a recount of her story to Holmes for him to work through, this idea hit me: What if, instead of going to 221b Baker Street to have a dangerous mystery solved, someone was trying to solve the mystery of 221b Baker Street…or more specifically, its "dangerous" occupants? This was what became of my speculations…and I had so much fun writing it, it's teetering on a double one-shot or even a series.
Oh, and just to let it be known, my keyboard is sick so if any letters/punctuations are missing, that's why.
The Peculiar House Across the Street
Mr. Edward McGinnis noted one bright April morning that his newlywed wife, who stood by the clean window of their little kitchen, seemed rather distracted by something out in the semi-busy lane of their new abode.
"Are you quite well, dear?" he called to her, peering over his newspaper.
"Ed," she replied with her own question, setting aside her small watering can, "have you spoken to our neighbours, those that live just across the street?"
He considered her inquiry for a moment, then responded, "Do you mean the peculiar one who has that bothersome fancy for the violin?"
She nodded.
"No, I don't believe I have spoken to them yet. Have you, love?"
"Yes. I went there just yesterday to return a telegram that had accidentally been delivered to our address."
Mc. McGinnis laid aside his paper and looked anxiously at her. "Why are you upset, darling? Did they say something offensive to you?"
"Oh, no, not at all." She turned to face him, a look of thoughtful bewilderment on her lovely face. "The landlady was quite pleasant. We sat and had a little chat for an hour or so over tea." She ended on a note suggesting there was more left unsaid.
"What happened, Bertha?" he pressed gently.
"Well, just as we were sitting there in her quaint kitchen, having a nice talk, the door suddenly burst open, and a hunched, ratty old man, smelling strongly of dead fish and alcohol, came charging in unannounced and took the stairs three at a time, disappearing into a door on the second floor. Just when I was wondering to myself how a cripple could move so quickly, Mrs. Hudson — that's the landlady's name — called up to him in a irritable voice, 'Please inform those Irregulars of yours that the next time they ravage my kitchen for a crumpet I'll not let them inside for a month, and you will be forced to hunt for men with diamond teeth on your own!"
Mr. McGinnis leaned forward, captivated by her tale in spite of himself.
"Diamond teeth?" he sniggered. "Whatever could that mean, I wonder?"
"I was going to ask Mrs. Hudson the very same question, when suddenly the door flew open again and a second man ran inside, albeit slightly more contained, and much better-dressed, with dark blonde hair and a mustache.
'Has he come back?' he demanded breathlessly.
'Not a moment ago,' was Mrs. Hudson's reply, and before another word could be spoken, he too had dashed up the stairs into the same room."
Mr. McGinnis wrinkled his nose. "It is as if some strange business is unfolding in that house, Bertha."
"You've not heard nearly all of it, Ed," she warned him. "I turned to Mrs. Hudson to question her on the matter, but she was quite preoccupied with hastily organizing her luncheon on a silver tray. Just when I opened my mouth, there was a rumbling like thunder from above our heads, and I rushed out into the hall to see a greenish smoke billowing from under the door where the two men had gone. There was a funny scent, sweet and bitter at once, that accompanied the smoke, and I began to worry for my health at being exposed to it, so I made my excuses and turned to go.
"I had not touched the knob before the door exploded open again and a third man brushed by me, nearly knocking me into the hat stand. Apparently he was after one or both of the other men, because when he saw the smoke he let out a fierce howl and stampeded up the staircase. By now, Mrs. Hudson had come out to make sure I was unharmed by his shove, and I was assuring her I was fine when muffled pops like gunfire echoed from the room, followed by an incomprehensible shouting."
"Good lord!" interrupted her husband with an alarmed gasp. "Did no one call the authorities?"
"There was no need," she told him, "for in an instant, the man who had come last was pounding down the stairs again, in a near-panicked state, and the second gentleman — the mustached fellow — was chasing him. He was the faster of them, and so they did not reach the front porch before the escaping man was dragged back up the stairs by the blonde gentleman, who pushed him, kicking and struggling, into that same room and slammed the door behind them.
"I stood awestruck for the longest time, unable to speak, then the door opened and a tall figure calmly stepped out onto the landing at the steps. I thought it to be the same man who had arrived first, but then realized it couldn't be, for while he had the same dirty jacket, his hair was much darker and his face shaven and much sharper.
'Ah,' he said with a voice like the gust of a winter wind, 'there you are, Mrs. Hudson. Will you kindly send a wire to Lestrade and inform him that the doctor and I have apprehended the South American crocodile bandit?"
'Only if you'll accept the meal I've made for the two of you,' replied the landlady resolutely. 'Neither you nor the doctor have eaten enough in the past week to feed a kitten.'
'Very well,' said he, but he appeared rather flustered at her demands."
"A crocodile bandit?" repeated Mr. McGinnis, visibly taken aback. "What happened then, I dare to ask?"
"I don't know," she admitted, flushing pink. "I was so unnerved by what I'd seen, I left the house as quickly as I could, with hardly a word to the poor landlady."
Mr. McGinnis leaned back against his chair, his handsome face troubled. "I would advise that you not return to that house, Bertha. It sounds as if the occupants are not quite in their right minds."
Mrs. McGinnis made a small sound of agreement and returned to watering her little plant. Out of concern for her husband's nerves, she did not mention the fact that just at that moment a broad-shouldered man with dark blonde hair was bent out of the second-story window across the street, hands clasped around the wrists of a raven-haired man who climbed after him with skillful ease to the sill. Neither moved, for obvious fear that the frightfully large, unhappy-looking men just under his dangling shoes would spot them.
What a peculiar house.
~Fin
I do have an idea for a follow-up fic, depending on the feedback I get. So leave a review?