"Where there is no imagination there is no horror."
"The lowest and vilest alleys of London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside."
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Prologue:
Bright lights above my head and I must squeeze shut gritty, sore eyes. Tiny tears have formed on my lashes and upon opening, I see dazzling, shimmering rainbows refracting through tiny, trembling droplets.
So beautiful.
Behind my closed lids, dark is peaceful. Good. Silent.
Then the clattering starts inside my head. Like the chattering of Mycroft`s old Remington Streamliner when he types his dissertation. Always the diligent student -
Like tiny hammers in my ears…hammers of the gods…who was that? Odin? Nordic blacksmith hammering…typing with Mycroft.
For God`s sake!
Open my eyes and neon floods my sight…my face. Hazy corollas dazzling – I can feel my pupils shrink to pinpricks.
Thor! Hammering with Mjollnir…No! Damn it, you have the brain of a philosopher…a scientist…a genius?
Hephaestus…Blacksmith to the gods. Shoulda known that…no shit, Sherlock.
Hammering.
Can no-one hear it? Clattering; scattering; dropping a thousand marbles on a cobbled street. Molly, in shiny heels, high and golden.
God.
I will burn the HEART…out…of … her…
Shaking, now. Coldness creeps into my inside from the out.
Why does anyone do anything? Because I'm bored. We were meant for each other, Sherlock.
Icy, cold water. Soaking into me from my feet. Osmosis …soaking up…ankles. Litmus paper? Goose pimples … hairs standing straight up.
Every fairy tale needs a good old fashioned villain.
Calves. Knees. Thighs…crystallising me…turning me to ice… The boy with the ice in his heart – Hans? From The Snow Queen.
Hammering – clattering – chattering…
Groaning – who can that be? The villain? With the ice in his heart?
Moriarty.
But not – NO! It won`t be; because I KNOW something about trees. About families…
Big client list. Rogue governments. Intelligence communities. Terror cells. They all want me. Suddenly, I'm Mr Sex.
"Put something between his teeth – they`re chattering so hard, he could bite his tongue…"
Burning hot hands touching my frozen skin … frozen to my chest…something in my mouth. The hammering stops. My tortured eyes squint tight against the light. Darkness is blocking it out. A shadow. A face.
"Sherlock – it`s ok. You have a raging fever…hang on, it`s going to be ok – take her out Mrs Hudson – look at me…"
You're not ordinary. No. You're me. You're me.
Is that John? John H Watson. "One fixed point in a changing world…"
"What? Don`t try and speak – `specially if you`re getting soppy – you know how I feel about tha-"
And there was nothing more.
Twelve hours previously…
"The case was clear cut from the moment she bent down to pick up the pen."
Sherlock Holmes reaches across for the Persian slipper, remembers, then reaches in the drawer for a nicotine patch instead. To his credit, nary a sigh even passes his lips. Smoking is clearly, very ancient history.
John Watson, typing his account of the latest endeavours of the world`s only consulting detective, stops mid word. Head tilt.
"I am recalling some VERY low cut jeans, Sherlock."
"As am I."
Eyebrow raise. "Really?"
"Really. As Ms Anderton bent forward, her less than encompassing choice of clothing allowed me a detailed examination of her…tattoo. I believe the common parlance is `tramp stamp`."
"You never cease to amaze me…"
"As you know, John, I have made a careful study of tattoos and their design. I believe I could identify any tattoo artist within a fifty mile radius of this great city. The artwork; choices of inks; little flourishes that distinguish one tattooist from another…you may wish to read my blog on the subject."
"Any day soon."
Micro-smile.
"I could recognise the mixture of magenta and crimson – a very particular and specific blend – used by Corbin Carfax at his studio, `The Ink Factory`. The cuboid design and gradations were a deciding factor. Her claim to have never met Carfax was immediately bogus. Her alibi ruined. Case closed."
John Watson resumes typing; smiling to himself as he does. Sherlock sits up, immediately alerted.
"You are doing it, aren't you?" Accusatory, almost.
"Doing what? I am merely adding to the … the canon of your work."
Standing now, Sherlock pushes his dark curls away and leans over his blogger`s shoulder.
"I KNEW it! `The Case of the Red Square"! Sensationalism…"
"…brings in the clients…as you know."
"I don`t know, I…" Sherlock Holmes is cut off by a sudden bout of dry, hacking coughing. "I…" More coughing. Eyes, red-rimmed and watering.
John, his blogger and doctor, shoots him a look - of concern. "You`re doing a lot of coughing recently, for a man who no longer smokes. Are you ok, Sherlock?"
Sherlock Holmes , intolerant of any weakness of body or mind, particularly in himself; waves away concern and wanders down the small flight of stairs towards Skylab, coughing intermittently.
John thinks he can hear him mutter the words "Red Square" several times en route, and resumes typing, with a small smile.
6 hours earlier…
John Watson feels he needs to rub his eyes as he enters his own bedroom. Things are not as they were when he left this morning.
It was like an explosion in a princess factory.
Shiny ruffles and iridescent waterfalls of discarded silks lie spread across almost every surface of the room he shares with the lovely Mary. Sequins glimmer in the half light of the lamp; lacy flounces and velvet ribbon in every colour from a – box of skittles - violet; claret; peridot green; midnight blue with a grosgrain hint of pewter… was that an actual FEATHER?
"I know, I KNOW…it is utterly ridiculous." Mary Watson has somehow emerged from this rainbow ocean and appears on the verge of actual hand-wringing.
"I used to be able to pack in thirty seconds flat…all the essentials…"
"a Sig 232, Beretta 84 or 85, CZ83…pair of socks…"
Sighing: "We agreed…"
John shakes his head, rueful.
"Sometimes it slips out. I did warn you…but can I say, Cinders, at this rate, you are never going to go to the ball. We have less than an hour and your Fairy Godmother has just called and cancelled. You have to choose a bloody FROCK!"
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade is, this very night, being honoured for his part in securing (amongst others) the Brick Dust Killer and his vicious entourage. Parts of East London breathe a lot easier in their beds since Sherlock had helped Greg find their lynch-pin. The judge had locked him up and thrown the key so far away, not even a deep space probe on a fifty year mission would have found it.
The Connaught Hotel`s sumptuous ballroom is the venue for tonight`s `Met. Ball`; where Scotland Yard honours the best and bravest of their officers. Molly Hooper likes to call the awards ceremony, "The Officers", but only to herself, and to Benedict, who is not yet any judge of her bad jokes. Designed by Guy Oliver, the look of the sumptuous space is pure 1930`s Art Deco glamour but rich with contemporary twists. It is the perfect space for gala dinners, screenings and catwalk shows. Hence, Mary`s dress crisis.
Time was ticking.
Meanwhile, in a flat across town…
Feet running up and downstairs; drawers being wrenched open and slammed.
"Mrs HUDSON! Where have you hidden my…?" only interrupted by a paroxysm of coughing. "…cuff… (cough)… links?"
More slamming of drawers.
"Sherlock, please! You will make yourself ill – and wake that baby! How he sleeps in this – MADHOUSE – I will never –"
"Mrs Hudson, I swear, I will hide your scratch cards…"
Martha Hudson, used to the various vexations inflicted upon her by her unique lodger is about to retort up the stairs at his rudeness when she mercifully hears –
"Hello there – are these what you are looking for, Mr Holmes?"
The soft, gentle soothing tones of Molly Hooper, pouring the oil over the waters that are troubled. And the landlady (not housekeeper) breathes a little sigh of relief, hearing the low rumble of his calmed voice and the light, dancing laughter of hers. "Well, thank goodness for that." She whispers, descending the stairs.
"…oh, and one more golden rule: it is always unwise to say that winning an award makes you feel "humble". Awards are expressly designed to do the opposite, and they infallibly do. When you say you are "humbled", what you are trying to do is reconnect with your audience by insisting that this does not lift you above them. That is natural: we instinctively know we appear less attractive when we affect superiority. But nobody is fooled. Better just to say you are `honoured`."
"Er…thanks?" Greg Lestrade is usually a man `humbled` by the superior and superbly disciplined mind of his – friend – Sherlock Holmes, but he is feeling nervous enough already, without last minute advice about speech making. Also – he looks carefully at Sherlock, cufflinks, black tie and all – and feels concern.
"You don`t look so good, Sherlock…are you coming down with something?"
John Watson looks from the neighbouring table, across at his friend. Sherlock Holmes always boasts of an "iron constitution" and has no time for illness or weakness of any kind. He is the most perfect reasoning machine the world has known, but tonight, he is no machine.
"Red rimmed eyes…you feel hot, Sherlock…" As he touches his friend`s brow, the Icelandic green-grey eyes focus directly and they look – pretty annoyed.
"Please, John, you sound like my mother – or Mycroft. I have told Molly, Mrs Hudson, Mary and now, Gary - "
"Greg."
" – that I am fine!" Sherlock`s forehead glistens with tiny beads of sweat in the coolish, early spring-like evening, but no-one wants to argue.
"So fine, in fact…" looking, almost slyly at the Detective Inspector… "that I can see you have taken up internet dating, Lestrade…"
"HOW do you…?"
"You recently cut your hair. Normally, a man of habit, you cut your hair every six weeks, without fail. Recently, it had been only a four week period since your last haircut. Clearly, your on-line pictures were to be taken. On your desk last week, I noticed no less than five tourist restaurant guides and "What`s On" brochures. Certain pages had corners bent back. You were narrowing down selected venues to take out whichever lucky lady was successful. You have been moaning to John, myself and anyone else who will listen, about the "anti-social" hours of your shift patterns – never a problem when you were married, but now perhaps problematical with a new partner to impress. Plus, missing wedding ring – given up on the ex returning. Plus, new condoms in your wallet, just in case."
Smug smile. Arms folded. Sitting back.
Greg Lestrade, stands up awkwardly, the scraping chair filling the awkward silence.
"Ah…best go and…er…find my table. Not long till kick off…" And the award winner shuffles off, looking much more humble than he has ever deserved to look.
Mary pats Molly`s shoulder and turns, coldly to Sherlock.
"You may be as healthy as can be, Sherlock Holmes, but you can still sicken me, a little bit sometimes."
And the lights go down.
By the time the petit fours are being passed around, Prosecco bottles have been up-ended in their ice buckets and hand-stinging applause has died down. A hush descends in preparation for the evening`s finale – the Guest Speaker – Mr. Solar Pietersson.
"Ooh…" whispered Mary, school-girlish grin – "The Fjiord Detective! Love him!"
"She really does," confides John Watson, glancing at Molly. "Never misses a single episode."
Sherlock, who has been sucking a menthol-lyptus and rolling bread pellets, groans impolitely and rolls his red-rimmed eyes heavenwards.
John: "Ok, Nosferatu, no-one asked you. He manages to solve the puzzle and catch the murderer in under fifty minutes every week. Those Scandinavians are nothing if not efficient."
"A collection of Nordic fairy tales," dismisses Sherlock, with a cough. "He exhibits no logic at all – just throws himself around, having snowball fights with trolls and reindeers. Crime is commonplace, but true logic is rare. Same three tiered plot every week."
"EVERY week? Done some serious research, then?"
"Hush!" Molly. "He`s starting."
Solar Pietersson. Blond Nordic ruggedness parried so photogenically with topaz-blue eyes and enchanting dimples. And there was the jumper – always the patterned jumper, worn every week, almost like a uniform. Solar is tall, masculine and a Scandinavian maverick – each week, clashing with the Chief Inspector, going off-piste (sometimes, literally) and usually finishing the episode by punching a criminal mastermind and snogging the face off an Abba-esque blonde.
Fictional characters aside, Lars Lamstraud, the thirty year old actor who plays him, has a huge following on both sides of the Atlantic and is a virtual GOD on Tumblr; Twitter and chat shows. Even Detective Donovan sits up straight and shakes out her curls as he takes to the mic.
And even Sherlock Holmes, weary as he is, sits up straight in the next moment, when Lars steadies himself at the rostrum, takes a deep breath and smiles at his crowd. Strangely nervous, the actor`s hands are shaking. He looks down, then up again, almost a-tremble.
And drops down - dead - to the floor.
Pandemonium.
That, reflects John Watson, in the days to come, was what you got when you chucked a suddenly dead celebrity into a glittering room full of half-cut police officers.
Chairs, savagely scraping back. Glasses, smashing to the marble-tiled floor. Shrieks and shouts mingling with stampeding feet and jostling bodies.
Chaos.
But in the midst of chaos, there is clarity, as Sherlock Holmes, leaps fluidly from his supine position and avoids the sprawling, confused throng by mounting the table, and jumping across the huge, golden ballroom from table to table, until he reaches the body of Lars Lamstraud.
He is almost the first to do so. Lestrade, recently medalled, is nearer and has drunk less than most of his colleagues. He kneels alongside Sherlock Holmes as the latter examines the twitching body.
Within a nanosecond, Dr. John Watson crashes down next to the body, vainly looking for signs of life and clearing airways.
"No pulse. Pupils dilated"
Oblivious to any clamoring around him, Sherlock is utterly focused. Uncharacteristic beads of sweat run down across his cheekbones and his hair seems flattened, soaked, against his head.
John is into his third round of chest compressions. "No heartbeat."
"Cocaine. Recently inhaled." Sherlock, wipes hair out of his eyes with the back of his gloved hand and points to a tiny, tell-tale residue around the nostrils of Lars Lamstraud. Pulling a tiny envelope from his breast pocket, Sherlock takes a tiny amount. Lestrade has absolutely no intention of stopping him. He can hear sirens and knows paramedics, however erroneous, are close at hand.
John is gasping with the effort of bringing a dead man back to life.
"Come ONNN…"
"OD?" Lestrade helps Sherlock check pockets and notices slight frothing in the corners of the actor`s mouth.
"Impossible to say, so soon. We can`t speculate before we have enough information… Wrong… to do so…what is this?"
Sherlock pulls a small fold of paper from the dead man`s jacket pocket. It contains at least half a gram of white powder.
"From the size of the fold, he doesn't appear to have taken much of this – peculiar ... particular… batch." He reaches in further and retrieves a valet parking ticket and a small card. Then, suddenly, he and the Detective Inspector are pushed away by the medics who kneel besides John, vainly, checking for signs of life.
Mary and Molly have reached the scene.
"Jesus – " Mary is visibly shocked. "What the hell just happened? Is he…?"
Sherlock Holmes looks at her, squinting against brightness. Mary and her voice seem such a long, long way away – like she is speaking from the bottom of a tunnel … a well?
Off you pop. I told you how this ends. Go on…
A small hand grasps his arm. Molly.
His arm feels so heavy. His whole body. So, so heavy.
Leaden.
Her face looks into his face. Sweet Molly, she looks so strange. So worried. Always worried.
What do you need?
You.
Off you pop.
And John and Greg Lestrade only just manage to catch Sherlock in time, as his knees buckle beneath him.