Hallo all! Welcome to the second instalment of The Game's the Same! Thank you to my 2 lovely reviewers, S Y N T H E T I Cperfection and Ilovetonystarkandwolverine! Your kind words warm my heart! So to you and all my other readers (if you exist!), I hope you enjoy!
Esme
The carriage stopped outside 221 Baker Street and Dr. Jonathon Watson started up the steps for what felt like the millionth time. When he had moved out to his new offices in Cavendish Place and gotten married, he never expected to be darkening the door quite as much. But as Mary, his loving wife had pointed out to him; Sherlock Holmes wasn't just his friend but a part of him. And solving the crimes of the great metropolis, that had become as natural to him as coffee in the morning.
Of course there was nothing natural or normal about his daily visits to Sherlock Holmes. One of the most interesting moments of the day was seeing what lay behind the front door of 221B Baker Street. Some of the most unique sights had met him behind that door.
But today, everything seemed relatively quiet. Dr. Watson picked up the paper and headed up the staircase, meeting Mrs. Hudson half way.
"Oh Doctor! Good morning." Mrs. Hudson smiled, and John couldn't help but notice her smile was rather weary. He felt a pang of guilt. Ever since he had moved out Mrs. Hudson had had the sole responsibility of controlling Sherlock, which John knew from experience was sometimes like trying to reign in a hyperactive child on a sugar high.
"Good morning Mrs. Hudson" Dr. Watson said gently. The poor woman looked as though one harsh noise might make her snap. "How goes it?" He tilted his gaze upward.
'Oh I never got a moments sleep last night. Between the gun blasts and the violin." She sighed.
"He's still trying to create a contraption to muffle a gunshot?"
"Yes and still failing. Not the slightest difference in pitch I assure you." She smiled rather grimly. "Doctor, do you think you could speak to him?"
"I'll give it my best, I promise you." He assured her. With another fatigued smile Mrs. Hudson departed down the stairs.
A strange smell, unidentifiable, hit Dr. Watson as soon as he opened the door to Sherlock's quarters. The stench was the only sigh of life coming from the room. All the curtains were drawn, covering the room in an eerie, unnatural darkness. The furniture threw out twisted shadows into the open doorway, and the ticking pendulum of the clock on the mantle was the only sign of life in the room at all.
Dr. Watson stepped inside, closing the door gently and looking for some sigh of Holmes. Everyday when he came over to visit his friend, there was always a moment of apprehension, as he tried to prepare himself to find Sherlock dead; overdosed on the rug in front of the fireplace.
"Holmes?" he called out cautiously, "Holmes?"
Suddenly there was a loud clatter and a crash from the other side of the room, causing John to jump a foot in the air. Fed up with trying to construe a situation in total darkness, Watson strode over to the window, flinging open the curtain. Shafts of piercing bright light entered the room, resulting in another loud crash from the other end of the room, followed by an agonised moan. A sound that was unmistakably the hung over wailings of Sherlock Holmes.
"Well it's good to see that you're alive." Watson said dryly.
Slowly Holmes rose to his feet. He was completely dishevelled, dressed in a pair of black trousers, and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up and stained with various chemicals at the cuffs. His hair looked as though it had been through a hurricane, a weeks worth of black whiskers crusted his face, and his eyes were red rimmed and puffy from a lack of sleep and an abundance of alcohol.
"I was merely…catching up on some sleep." He said, trying his best to look composed.
"Sleep?" Dr. Watson said, picking up a bottle of empty brandy, "I think we should call it passing out."
"I needed it. I've begun one of my most marvellous experiments!" He turned back to his workbench, pushing papers and books to the floor, revealing a beaker of green liquid on the workbench. "I ask you Watson, what is one of the greatest problems facing people this summer?"
"Playing Nanny to an alcohol soaked 39 year old?"
"Close Mother Hen but no. Mosquitos."
Watson gaped at him for a moment. "Mosquitos?"
"Yes!" Holmes said. He looked a little unbalanced. And as Watson looked at him, he saw that he had somehow managed to singe his eyebrows, solving the mystery of the rooms strange smell.
"With summer just around the corner, thousands of London's elite will be flocking to the beaches of Brighton and Calais for their holiday. And once there they will be plagued with mosquitos. But by then, this mosquito repellent" he held up the beaker, "Will keep these pests at bay!"
Dr. Watson just stared at him. For a moment the ticking of the clock was deafening.
"Holmes," he said eventually, "When one of the greatest minds of the 19th century spends his days trying to create a mosquito…repeller-"
"Repellent." Holes corrected waspishly
'Repellent." He amended, "It can only mean one thing: you are in dire need of a case!"
Holmes put down the beaker and sunk into an armchair. He seemed suddenly deflated. "There is absolutely no case of intellectual interest to me out there at all. I have pored over all the letters Mrs. Holmes has brought me," he gestured vaguely to the pile of letters on the mantle, "But there is nothing in there at all.'"
Watson sighed. "Well then, maybe I'll just have to settle for seeing you go outside."
"I am not leaving these rooms until I have a valid reason."
Suddenly there was a great pounding of footsteps on the staircase, and Mrs. Hudson flung the door open, looking quite startled.
'Doctor! Mr. Holmes! Please come quick! There's a young woman lying unconscious on the doorstep!"
"Well," Watson said after a moment of stunned silence, "Ask and thou shall receive."
"What an unusual creature." Watson mused. They had collected the woman and her luggage off the doorstep and carried her up to the doctor's old offices, laying her out on the old table. "Where do you suppose she came from?"
Holmes circled her for a moment, eyeing every inch of her carefully, his finger to his chin in meditative silence. Suddenly he picked up her hand, and inspected her palm.
"Look at this." He gestured Watson forward. Watson looked down at the palm of her hand, where a callous or two were.
"Calluses? A workingwoman? Perhaps a laundress?"
'Perhaps, but look at her nails." Holmes held up her hand to Watson, who saw her nails were long and immaculate. "And," he sniffed her hand "Almond oil"
"What kind of laundress has such long, clean nails and can afford almond oil hand cream?"
"And how many of them carry a gun?" Holmes reached out and removed her gun from its holster. "A rather odd gun," he mused, turning it in his hand.
"A rather odd assortment all together." Watson said. Reaching down, he grabbed hold of a small bottle attached to her belt. He held it up to his ear and shook it: it seemed to be filled with liquid. He held it up at eye level, inspecting it carefully and, quite unintentionally, gave the top of the bottle a little squeeze. Quite suddenly, a jet of liquid shot out and hit him straight in the eyes.
Holmes jumped a foot in the air as Watson fell to the floor, screaming in agony. He writhed on the floor, wailing and convulsing, clutching at his eyes.
While Holmes watched on helplessly, the screaming had aroused the sleeping woman. With a well-practised speed, she swiftly kicked Holmes in the stomach, grabbing the gun from him as he crumpled to thew floor. Jumping up from the table, she clutched the gun in both hands, pointing the barrel directly at the 2 men on the floor.
"So," she asked in a strange accent, "Which one's Beavis and which one's Butthead?"
And that's Chapter 2! I know the whole mosquito thing is a little silly, but I figured cabin fever would have that effect on him! And I know absolutely nothing about guns, but I'm sure they've changed since the 1890's! So review away my dears and look out for chapter 3 in the next couple of days!
Esme.
