Monday, November 3rd, 2014

After the meeting in which Sherlock Holmes agreed to take my case, I walked out into the crisp London air. It was colder than I was used to for this time of year, but that was to be expected: I had been living in Florida for the past five years. It was so good to be home. I hailed a taxi and gave the address of the hotel that I was staying at - not too far from here, but I'd rather get there quickly. It was freezing standing out on the streets. When I got to my hotel room, I opened the top drawer of my bedside table and pulled out the Folder marked: 'Private Property of Clara Lane' I opened it and began to flick through, adding to notes here and there. Sherlock would probably kill me if he found out what was in here. Returning the folder to its original place, I put the file I'd brought to his house this afternoon on top of it and closed the drawer.

I decided to ring my parents because they didn't know I was here and it would be plain rude not to tell them their only child had returned to England for the fist time since graduating College.

"Hi, mum. It's me." My mother gasped on the other end if the line.

"Penny! How good it is to hear your voice!"

"Mum!" I complained. "You know I hate it when you call me that."

"But it's funny, Pen!" I heard my dad call in the background.

"Dad, please! You gave me a stupid name. Thank God s

Gran stepped in and insisted I have a middle name so I could chose what I am called. Please, just call me Clara? Just for the duration of this phone call?"

"Of course, dear. I'm sorry," my mum giggled. "This must be important. Those overseas rates are dear."

"Actually, mum, I'm in London."

"But that's wonderful! We should come down and see you! How long are you here for?"

"I don't know. It's for a case, I could be here for a few days or weeks. It depends on how long it takes to get what I need."

"So you're going to be busy, then?" My mum asked, sounding slightly crestfallen.

"Oh no. Not all the time," I reassured her quickly. "Maybe, you know, when I know what's going to happen, we could get together."

"Oh, that would be wonderful!" My mum exclaimed. I smiled. My mobile phone vibrated in my pocket. I had a text message.

I checked it and said to my mother, "yeah, it would. Listen mum, I've got to go. I'll ring you later, okay?"

"Okay, love. I love you!"

"Love you too," I replied before hanging up and glancing down at the message again.

Baker Street now. Bring all documents you have on case.

SH

"Do you treat everyone like that or am I special?" I asked as I walked into the flat for the second time that day.

"Like what?" John asked. I showed him the text message and he nodded. "Yep. He does. You get used to it after a while." I gave a derisive laugh.

"And you put up with him. You deserve a medal."

"He's got one," Sherlock told me.

"Oh, that's right! You were a soldier weren't you?" I asked John. He shifted awkwardly but didn't have time to say anything because Sherlock was talking again, reading from a laptop on the table in the living room.

"It says here they did do a ballistics report," he was saying. "It confirmed that the ballistics match that of the gun in the hand of the man who committed suicide."

"Where did you get that information?" I asked, heading in his direction to look over his shoulder. He was reading from the police's secure files. "I knew you were good. I couldn't get in there, my computer hacking skills aren't up to par." Sherlock ignored me.

"This says that the bullet must have been fired from the gun in the dead man's hand and that there were only his fingerprints on the handgun."

"But the bullets wouldn't fit!" I protested.

"Well obviously, they did, because they were fired from that gun," John pointed out.

"Not necessarily," I argued. "How do you fake a ballistics report?" I didn't get an answer. Sherlock suddenly leapt up and bounced into the kitchen, muttering something about silver.

"John! I've got it! I need you to go shopping."

"Now?" John asked, frustrated.

"Yes! I can't start without a few things!"

"Oh, all right!" John grumbled. "What do you want me to get?"

"Just head to the supermarket," Sherlock instructed. "I'll text you the list."

"Do you want me to help?" I asked John but Sherlock interjected before he could speak.

"No, he's fine. I need an assistant." I shrugged and leant against the wall of their kitchen. John left before either of us had noticed.

"So why do you need me?" I asked after a while. Sherlock was busy rummaging through the kitchen looking for cutlery, apparently, because there was a pile of forks, knives and spoons gathering beside his microscope.

"We're going to do an experiment!" He announced.

"Um... Okay... Why do we need so much cutlery?"

"We don't," he said, not even glancing at me. I opened my mouth to ask but he cut across me. "Look at the report," he told me, sounding exasperated at the fact I hadn't caught up to where he was yet.

"What am I looking for?" I asked over my shoulder as I headed to his computer and woke it up. He didn't answer. I read the report through, focussing on the information concerning the bullets that were found embedded in the skulls of the victims. Finally I found what I was looking for.

"That's weird. Silver? Silver bullets? Do they even exist?"

"Evidently," was Sherlock's reply. He was now setting up a Bunsen burner in the middle of the kitchen table.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" I asked, knowing that my question would be futile. As expected, he ignored me. "What are you doing?" Sherlock was now putting a teaspoon into a beaker that was being held over the white-hot Bunsen flame.

"Separating the sterling silver into it's component metals," Sherlock replied as if it was that most obvious thing in the world. "What was the exact diameter of the bullets found in the victims?" I checked the report.

"Uh... 35.3 mm," I read aloud. Sherlock nodded and went back to focussing on melting the spoon.

"Aren't you going to need to make a mould?" I asked, finally figuring out what he was doing.

"No, you are," he replied.

"And how, exactly, do I go about doing that?"

Ten minutes later, I was walking up to the address Sherlock had given me. It was a pawn shop in a shady part of London. Sherlock had assured me that he would help us. He had written down the specifications of what he wanted on a piece of paper and given it to me.

A bell tinkled as I opened the door and walked inside. Behind the cluttered counter sat a portly old man with long grey hair and a bald patch in the middle of his crown the size of a large saucer.

"How may I help you, miss?" He asked. His voice croaked like a chronic smoker and his yellowed teeth confirmed my suspicions.

"I come on behalf of a..." I searched for the right word, finally settling on, "friend." The man chortled.

"They all do, miss. What's your trouble?"

"He asked me to show you this," I handed the piece of paper to the man across the counter and he looked it over.

"Your 'friend' have a name?" He asked, suddenly business like.

"Sherlock Holmes." The proprietor burst into laughter.

"Well, I never," he giggled. "A friend, is he?" He asked, looking me over in a fatherly way.

"Not really, technically, I'm a client."

"Well, ain't that interesting..." The man mused. "He has clients helping with cases now?"

"We have an arrangement," I told him. "Can I get the stuff he wants now? Only, we're a little busy."

"Right ho, miss. Apologies. I'll get them right away." He disappeared into the back room of the shop and reappeared a few minutes later. "I think you'll find that's everything," he told me, handing me a brown paper bag.

"Thank you."

"Give my best to Sherlock. Tell him to let me know how it goes," the man called after me as I edited the store. I got a taxi back to Baker Street and entered the flat without knocking. Sherlock now had a bubbling liquid in the bottom of his beaker that I assumed was the teaspoon he'd been melting when I left.

"I got the stuff you wanted," I told him as I walked into the kitchen.

"On the table," he instructed.

"What ARE you doing?" Came a voice from the kitchen doorway.

"Ah, John!" Sherlock greeted with a smile.

"He's melting teaspoons," I informed the good doctor.

"What?!" John yelled. "We need those, Sherlock!"

"Did you get the things I wanted?" Was Sherlock's reply.

"Wha- yes," said John.

"Good. You know basic chemistry, don't you, John?"

"Wha- of course, Sherlock. I'm a bloody doctor."

"Good. Then using those test tubes, make a pH scale."

Utterly bewildered, and only suspecting he knew what Sherlock was on about, John set about doing as he was told. Sherlock was now sifting something out of the bubbling liquid in the beaker, leaving just the brilliant white silver behind. "Now set the bag on the table, Clara, and take everything out." I did as I was told, removing a small cardboard box of normal bullets, a bag of plaster, a very small glass funnel and a plastic box marked, 'Gunpowder'. "Make up the plaster. The ratio is equal parts plaster and water," Sherlock ordered.

"Why don't you do it?" I asked grumpily.

"Can't you see I'm busy?" He asked, flattening his hands in the kitchen table-come-science-lab. I rolled my eyes and headed for the sink. John helpfully handed me a large glass bowl to mix the plaster in.

After about ten minutes, the liquid silver in Sherlock's beaker two-thirds full, the plaster moulded and John's pH concoctions finished, we all gathered around the table.

"John," said Sherlock. "Would you mind pouring the silver into the mould?"

"Why can't you do it?" John asked, suddenly suspicious.

"You're a doctor. You have steady hands," Sherlock answered genuinely, looking up at his flat mate from his sitting position. John didn't buy it. Before Sherlock could react, John had pulled up his sleeves.

"I... Forgot to take them off," said Sherlock. John sighed. Three large nicotine patches covered his left forearm.

"Right," I said skeptically. John looked like he was about to shout something. "John? How about we do the task at hand, then you can yell at him later." John nodded and did as instructed. There were fourteen moulds and as each one was filled, they were turned on their open, flat ends and put into the fridge. There was nothing left to do until they had set, apparently, so the three if us just sat around the flat, waiting. John cleaned up some of the mess and I would have helped him but with nothing to do, Sherlock decided that he wanted to figure me out.

"So, what's your real name, Clara?" He asked.

"What?" John and I asked at once.

"Your phone," Sherlock explained. "It's labelled P. C. Lane. What does it stand for?"

"Does it really matter?" I asked. The two Baker Street boys just looked at me. I groaned. "Penelope Clara Lane. And there you have it," I told them over John's fits if hastily stifled giggles. "How did you know I didn't have a relative who's initials are P. C. Who gave it to me?" I asked him coldly.

"That phone has only ever had one owner. It was most certainly a gift, I'd say your salary doesn't allow for those sort of indulgences, judging from your choice of clothes when you met us this afternoon. The jeans had seen better days but were still tidy and the blouse was second hand so the phone doesn't fit the description unless someone gave it to you. As for your initials, it wasn't that hard to figure out that Clara was your middle name, it's more common that you think," he smirked.

After another fifteen minutes, Sherlock had John remove the bullet casings from the fridge. They were perfect, it seemed, the moulds had made sure they were the right shape and size and the way they had been set meant they were still hollow. The three of us filled the casings with gunpowder and before long, they were ready.

"So..." I said. "Now we just need to find a gun they fit and shoot them at something?"

"Well, obviously," was Sherlock's reply.

"So where do we go for that?"

We ended up at a firing range just outside Central London. Sherlock just walked up to the proprietor and had a quick conversation and we were let in.

"The man who owns this place owes me a favour," Sherlock explained as we walked in. It didn't take long for him to find the type of firearm he was looking for. It looked like a sniper rifle. John looked surprised.

"Why are you using that, Sherlock?" He asked.

"It fits," was all Sherlock said, loading the gun and firing without warning. Ears ringing, I scowled at the taller man.

"A little warning wouldn't go a miss next time, Holmes," I told him. He shrugged and loaded again. Ready for it this time, John and I managed to block our ears before he fired again. When all the fourteen rounds had been fired, we climbed over the railing that was supposed to keep people out and Sherlock took a knife out of his pocket and dug our bullets out of the wall. He sniffed disdainfully at them. "Thought so," he muttered.

On the police report I had seen photos of the bullets taken from the victims. They had been crumpled, but not as bad as the one now in Sherlock's hand.

"Back to the drawing board then?" I asked cheerfully.

When we arrived back at Baker Street it was dark and I was starving so I took my leave and headed back to my hotel room.

Logging on to her computer, Clara opened her browser and began to look for the closest library. Once she had found it, she wrote the address on her forearm so it would be covered by her sleeve and decided to call it a night. This case was certainly proving interesting.