Disclaimer: I do not own anything but the plot.
A young man ran into the room, panting, with wide eyes and a flushed face.
"Are you—the consulting detective—Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" he huffed, wild green eyes darting through the sitting room, finally settling on the most authoritative figure.
"Yes." Holmes answered calmly as if this sort of thing happened on a regular basis (knowing him, it probably did). "Please, sit down. You look exhausted." In a rare fit of tact, L offered his seat to the man, who quickly collapsed into it without a word. Unperturbed, L leaned against the wall and watched the entire company with interested eyes.
The man had an open, honest face, now pinched with stress and worry. Of average height and skinny build, he didn't make for a particularly imposing figure. However, he conveyed a sense of undeniable energy and determination.
The man held up shaky hand. "Please—give me a moment—I seem to be—rather short of breath."
"Certainly. Take as long as you need to," Holmes answered, eyes eager with anticipation at the possibility of a new case. His eyes lit upon L, then darkened. He paused, "I'm terribly sorry, but could you wait outside the door? Client confidentiality, you know."
L nodded. "I understand." He quietly slipped out the room and crouched near the staircase railing, making himself comfortable. Holmes believed in client confidentiality, but L never trusted in such things. One could never know who may be listening just outside the sitting room, after all.
There were a couple of minutes of silence, as the man recovered his breath.
"I'm sorry for my…rather unorthodox entrance," he apologized. "I came here in rather a hurry."
"Understandable. How do you like your home in London so far, by the way? I hope it has been enjoyable." Holmes' voice.
"London is very fine. Especially…" the man trailed off. "How on earth?" he exclaimed, amazed.
"No Londoner who enjoys walks outside would get lost on the way from his store and Baker Street."
The man perked up. "So you know who I am?" he asked.
"No," Holmes admitted. "I know only that you are an assistant tailor from 'Stratting's clothing store', that you enjoy long walks, and that you've only recently arrived to London."
"How in the world would you know all that?"
"Firstly, your clothing is very neat and well-made, although it is evident you are not a particularly wealthy person. On both your sleeves, there is a worn section that suggests work at a table or desk for long periods of time, yet you do not have the ink stains of a writer or typewriter. You do have, though, specks of fabric dye on the front of your shirt; a most peculiar bright yellow that I believe is only found in one store in London. Thus, you are a tailor, but still an assistant, for a garment maker with more experience would never allow dye to stain his clothing.
"Also, your shoes are worn but well-kept—demonstrating not poverty but frequent use.
"Lastly, I have made it my little hobby to know the colour and consistency of the soil in each section in London. You would be surprised at the quantity and variety of the types. So it is no difficult matter to judge the route you've taken by the layering of mud on your boots—the sheer variety on your shoes suggest a number of wrong turns, especially since I know that the fastest route from Stratting's is comprised of no more than two streets."
L suppressed a gleeful smile. So the Holmes in this world was as arrogant and boastful as he had imagined—that was interesting to know.
The man, though probably took this compliment-fishing for supernatural ability. L could imagine the man's awestruck face.
"Explanations side," Holmes continued, "I assume you've come with a problem you would like me to answer?"
"Yes!" the man exclaimed.
"Then tell me everything, and make sure you don't leave the slightest detail out."
Eagerly (and a little nervously, L thought) the man introduced himself as Daniel Robbins, assistant tailor to Mr. Henry Wellington, his employer.
"I only just moved to London as you guessed, from a small city far north of here called Whitchurch. Knowing that I have had some economic hardship, and recognizing my talent with textiles and such, my uncle offered me a job at his friend's store. The friend, of course, was Mr. Wellington, who has kindly allowed my wife Jane and I to stay in one of the rooms above the shop. There, we have lived quite happily for the past two months. We try to be amiable, and we have no enemies that I know of.
"But, oh! Our happiness is not to be!" Robbins groaned.
Holmes murmured something indistinct and probably meant to be comforting. L shifted positions, having absolutely no patience with such things.
With another heavy groan, Robbins continued. "Last Thursday, my wife fell ill. Stricken with fever and symptoms of a most hateful malady, she has been steadily growing worse—I fear for her life!"
"Excuse me for saying, but wouldn't the Doctor here be far more useful then? I'm afraid I am quite useless in such a situation." L could hear the frown in his voice.
"Ah, but if this were an ordinary illness, I would not hesitate to ask the knowledge and experience of Dr. Watson. But it is not! This was done by a purposeful hand—I am sure of it!"
"How so?"
"Poison," Robbins declared. "That day, Jane drank a glass of water and I remember there being traces of a white powder at the bottom of the cup."
"Who was in the rooms at that time?"
He thought for a moment. "Apart from Jane and I, there was Mr. Wellington and his maid. But anybody could have snuck in and poisoned it."
"Do you still have the glass?" Holmes asked.
"No. I believe Jane had washed it."
Holmes made a sharp sound of disappointment. "Do you or your wife have any enemies, or reasons people may want to harm you?"
"No!" Robbins exclaimed immediately, then hesitated.
"Yes?"
"Well…Jane has a relative who is a rather wealthy man. He is not the most generous of people, though, and is a strong believer of making one's own fortune. Still, he is quite fond of her—who wouldn't, though?—has been deathly sick for some time."
"And Jane is expected to inherit a sizable portion of the wealth?"
"Yes. But if—heaven forbid!—something were to happen to her, all of it would pass onto the next in line."
There was a long pause. "One last thing," Holmes said finally. "What is the name of this relative of hers?"
"Robert Kalingt, I believe. Will you take the case?"
"Yes," Holmes replied. "I will like to help you and your wife as well as I can."
Watson finally spoke up. "Would you like me to check over her?"
"No, no. I would not dare to impose on you like that."
"It's no trouble at all! And if your wife is really so ill..."
"No. I already have an excellent doctor taking care of her. Thank you for your offer." A slight pause, and L assumed Robbins had turned to Holmes. "You have my deepest gratitude. I feel much relieved now that you are on the case. But I am sorry, as I need to be getting back to care for Jane. I don't like the idea of her sitting in her room all alone and in pain, with only the maid and the doctor for company."
"Of course. You will be the first to know if anything comes up."
"Thank you again." There was a period of silence, probably hand-shaking or bowing or saluting or whatever Londoners did in this day and age, and the door flew open and Robbins strode out, giving a curt nod as he went past.
"I hope she's okay…" he murmured to himself.
Watching the man disappear down the stairs, L contemplated what he would do next. Of course, he could probably stay at Baker Street for a little while longer, but he doubted he would be met with the same eagerness - however dubious - as before.
L poked his head into the sitting room where Holmes and Watson seemed to be sunk in deep thought. "I'll leave now," he said bluntly, making up his mind. "I have no reason to impose upon your hospitality anymore."
Watson shook himself out of his stupor. "You won't stay longer?"
"No. I must be going. Goodbye." L was about to withdraw, then paused. "Holmes?"
"Yes?" Holmes blinked.
"I wouldn't focus on Kalingt and his will so much if I were you." Then L slipped out.
Holmes cocked his head thoughtfully as the raven-haired young man disappeared, before moving to peer out of the window. Evening had given way to night, and soft golden light from the streetlights shimmered off puddles on the ground so that it seemed as if the streets were paved with gold.
"So, what do you think?" Watson asked, having shifted to stand next to the detective.
"He's a most curious person. I can't make heads or tails of him," Holmes replied absently. He watched as L dodged two cabs and an overweight official before glancing around and shuffling down the street.
"I meant the case."
"Oh, sorry. The case is not particularly unique, but it does present some points of interest. And what consulting detective would I be if I didn't even try to put the poor husband's mind to rest?" Holmes reached out and touched the glass of the window. Watson waited from him to continue, but Holmes said nothing more.
Not disappointed in the least by the reticence, Watson returned to his armchair to give his friend time and space to think.
He almost missed the detective's quiet murmur. "I'd wager this won't be the last we'll see of him." Watson knew better than to think he was talking about Robbins.
I apologize for the suddeness of the events, both in this chapter and the next. But there will be a reason for everything - really!