The Day of the Detective
A voice, strong and clear over the bustling London streets. An echo, so faint that it's barely even audible over the overwhelming noise. A knock, a resounding crack that startled nearby pigeons. Their wings, like a plume of smoke, scatter up and throughout the air, some still lingering on posts and pieces of sidewalk. The visitor, clad in a pinstriped suit and sneakers, raised his fist and knocked a second time. He sighed, a bit of frost escaped his lips and froze in the bitter, autumn air. He grimaced at the thought of the animosity between himself and the man he was about to meet with. It had been years since they last saw each other, but he knew with a heavy heart that the man had not absolved him. He was jerked out of his thoughts by a dull clicking sound coming from the flat in front of him.
The door, standing tall a few inches above his head, swung open weakly revealing a frail older woman with streaks of gray threatening to overtake her messy brown hair. Her blouse and skirt were covered by a frilly white apron with white powder coating her apron and around the edges of her dark skirt. He glanced about a bit frantically and opened his mouth, about to say something but she abruptly cut him off. "Are you here to see Sherlock, dear?" He nodded and in the same moment blurted out, "Yes," he paused a moment, "but is that other bloke here, too? His companion?" She chuckled to herself, "You mean John? Never leaves his side for a minute, that one. Come inside and have a nice cup of tea."
Reluctantly, he followed her into the once welcoming flat. She closed the door with a loud thud as the heavy frame hit the rim. He turned on his heel and glanced around the room, taking in the details of the small space surrounding him. The room was composed of a small assortment of other flats provided by the same landlady, and a tiny kitchen and larger flat for the owner of the building, presumably the one who greeted him. Is her name Ms. Hudson? He couldn't quite remember, it had been too long. Before him was a wooden staircase, a small plaque was integrated into the wall and a broad expanse of pale wallpaper stretched up the side of the stairwell. The floor boards creaked under his weight where he stood at the bottom and peered into the kitchen. The woman was brewing tea and busying herself placing biscuits on a small white platter with little pink roses adorning the edges. He heard from the flat above him a deafening blast, as if a grenade had exploded in the sitting room. The shock of it knocked the man off balance, just enough to fall into one of chairs that she had set out for him to sit in. She glanced questioningly up at the ceiling and muttered under her breath rather angrily. She set the biscuits down on the tabletop and sat in the chair opposite him, "So what do you do dear?" She questioned with a layer of suspicion. " I'm a doctor." He replied, rather amused.
He was never a too altruistic man himself, Sherlock Holmes admitted to himself as he sat in the ruins that were left of his kitchen, but he was at that moment slightly concerned for John's health. He reached out and grabbed at a piece of countertop that was still firmly attached, and heaved himself off the ground. He stood for a moment and brushed the soot and the remains of his failed experiment off his newly tailored suit. He breathed deeply and coughed, the air was tainted with traces of smoke and debris. He sidestepped most of the rubble and surveyed the room, looking for any sign of movement or trace that John was here and alive.
He spotted movement from under a slab of countertop, and watched as the countertop slid off to the side and John crawled out from underneath it. His jumper was covered in powder and his face was twisted into a frown. "Sherlock? What the heck was that?!" "Just an experiment." He replied coolly, "An experiment that almost bloody killed us!" John replied rather angrily, "I had to test the stability of our flat so that I could make modifications to my future experiments, should they result like this." He gestured to the kitchen and John sighed, his face in his hands.
John opened his mouth to speak, but Ms. Hudson had opened the door to give them their afternoon tea. "There's a visitor downstairs and..." She paused, her mouth open and her face a mask of horror, "Sherlock! What have you done?! This is going on your rent!" She stopped to take a breath, "And here's your bloody tea!" She slammed the platter down and stomped down the stairs, the door shutting hard. "I think that went better than expected." Sherlock noted, John sighed and sunk into his chair.
Ms. Hudson had only been gone a minute, but the Doctor had started to worry that something might've happened. Loud shouts echoed down the stairs and the heavy slam of a door shook the walls. Judging by the way things had escalated, he wasn't sure if he should go up and withstand the lingering tension. He turned his head up just in time to see a furious Ms. Hudson coming down the stairs. He quickly stood and thanked her for the tea and biscuits and made his way quietly up the steps. He heard soft talking and gently pushed open the door. The abrupt silence immediately told him that they knew of his presence. He popped through the doorway and Sherlock and John had already sat in their chairs and had turned towards him. "Why are you here?" Sherlock had fixed his ice cold stare upon him and spoke with a tone of cool indifference, "Is it because you lost one of your companions to a parallel world? Or perhaps it's because of your nasty habit of leaving people behind?" The Doctor had a slight inclination to apologize for his past mistakes, but his pride barricaded him from such actions.
"The truth is, I need your help." He shifted his gaze between the floor and Sherlock, but he ended up staring curiously at John. John cleared his throat, "What do you need us for?" "Actually, I just need," The Doctor started, but a glare from Sherlock caused him to change his mind, "...both of you. Yes. The thing is, the Raxacoricofallapatorians have been set loose on Earth again and I need you to help me track them down before they sabotage humanity just to spite me. Again." "How do we know you aren't just exploiting us for your own personal gain?" John asked suspiciously, "You don't," he replied softly, almost remorsefully. "Why should we help you?" Sherlock replied, his tone bitter. "It would be like old times, we could go traveling together and-" "No." "But-" "No." "It would be dangerous?" Sherlock and John shared a look and were whispering to each other, debating on whether to take him up on his offer. Sherlock was shaking head furiously and John was struggling to counter his claims.
All the while, the Doctor was watching this conflict unfold almost amused. Sherlock stood up rigidly and looked him in the eye, "We'll do it on the condition that all previous arrangements cease and that from this point forward I owe you no favors." He eyes bore a certain resentment that made the Doctor shiver. "Agreed." He stuck out his hand and John reached across and shook it. By this point, he knew that Sherlock was in no mood for any form of amiable behavior from him and didn't even bother offering his hand.
They shifted towards the door and Sherlock became slightly deterrent when it came to the certain zeal in which the Doctor carried himself from that point on. The Doctor, jumping about like an excitable puppy, was sliding down the rails and walking hurriedly towards the TARDIS. Sherlock was following closely behind; it was just John that was struggling to keep up. By the time John had caught up, he was breathing hard and could only form short, succinct sentences. They had all gathered around the blue police box in the street and one by one they each disappeared inside.