Sherlock and Molly were moving quickly; Molly struggled to keep up with the barber's long stride. He carried his razor case, she carried a shopping basket.

"He's here every Thursday?" Sherlock asked.

"Like clockwork. Eye-talian. All the rage he is," Molly informed.

"Not for long," Sherlock stated gravely.

They rounded a corner and moved into the bustling marketplace. Sherlock and Molly made their way toward a hand-drawn caravan dominating one corner of the marketplace.

It was painted like a Sicilian donkey cart and on its side a sign declaims: "Signor Philippe Anderson — Haircutter to His Royal Majesty the King of Naples."

"Oh Sherlock, do you really think you can do it?" Molly fretted.

"By tomorrow they'll all be flocking to me like sheep to be shorn," He began to boast, but stopped abruptly when he saw Moran casually strolling through the crowd. Sherlock was transfixed, his ancient enemy so close.

Molly saw Moran and pulled Sherlock away by his arm. "Come along now, dear, he might recognize you…"

A boy, hardly 13-year-old – a bit small for his age, malnourished and consumptively pale — emerged from Anderson's caravan. He banged on a tin drum, drawing customers.

A crowd begins to gather at the caravan as he sang the bally.

Ladies and gentlemen!

May I have your attention, p-lease?

Do you wake every morning in shame and despair

To discover your pillow is covered with hair

Wot ought not to be there?

Well, ladies and gentlemen,

From now on you can waken at ease.

You need never again have a worry or care,

I will show you a miracle marvelous rare,

Gentlemen, you are about to see something wot rose from the dead!

On the top of my head.

He dramatically doffed his cap, revealing mountains of flaxen blond hair which cascaded to his shoulder.

'Twas Anderson's

Miracle Elixir,

That's wot did the trick, sir,

True, sir, true.

Was it quick, sir?

Did it in a tick, sir?

Just like an elixir

Ought to do!

The boy turned to a bald man in the crowd.

How about a bottle, mister?

Only costs a penny, guaranteed.

The boy pours a drop on the bald man's head.

Does Anderson's

Stimulate the growth, sir?

You can have my oath, sir,

'Tis unique.

Archie applied the bald man's hand to the wet spot.

Rub a minute,

Stimulatin', i'n it?

Soon you'll have to thin it

Once a week!

More customers were stepping up and buying bottles.

Sherlock opened a bottle of the Elixir, taking a whiff. Disgusting.

He smiles to Mrs. Lovett, his plan falling into place.

Sherlock turned to Molly, loudly asking, Pardon me, ma'am, what's that awful stench?

Are we standing near an open trench?

Sherlock turned to a woman in the crowd. Must be standing near an open trench!

The crowd responded to Sherlock and Molly, sniffing at the bottles. Archie nervously tried to distract them. Buy Anderson's Miracle Elixir:

Anything wot's slick, sir,

Soon sprouts curls.

Try Anderson's!

When they see how thick, sir,

You can have your pick, sir,

Of the girls!

Want to buy a bottle, missus?

Sherlock sniffed a bottle of Elixir. What is this?

Molly sniffed another customer's bottle. What is this?

Smells like piss

"Smells like — phew!" Molly turned away in disgust.

This is piss. Piss with ink.

Archie was getting desperate. Let Anderon's

Activate your roots, sir–

Keep it off your boots, sir–

Eats right through.

Yes, get Anderson's!

Use a bottle of it!

Ladies seem to love it–

Molly smiled smugly, Flies do too!

Suddenly, the curtains on the caravan are dramatically flung wide to reveal Anderson – a flamboyant Italian with a velvet suit, thick hair and a dazzling smile. Anderson poses splendidly for a moment.

I am Philippe Anderson,

Da king of da barbers, da barber of kings,

E buon giorno, good day,

I blow you a kiss!

His lips smacked as he did so.

And I, da so-famous Anderson,

I wish-a to know-a

Who has-a da nerve-a to say

My elixir is piss!

Who says this?!

"I do." Sherlock moved forward boldly. "I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street. I have opened a bottle of Pirelli's elixir, and I say to you that it is nothing but an errant fraud, concocted from piss and ink." The crowd gasped. Anderson is about to respond, outraged, but Sherlock interrupted. "And furthermore — "signor" — I have serviced no kings, yet I wager I can shave a cheek with ten times more dexterity that any street mountebank." He snapped open his razor case and held it up for the crowd to see, turning to display his razors, "You see these razors?"

"The finest in England," Molly announced to the crowd.

Sherlock glared at Anderson, "I lay them against five pounds you are no match for me. You hear me, sir? Either accept my challenge or reveal yourself as a sham."

"Bravo, bravo," Molly cheered.

The crowd was enjoying that, whispering eagerly about the bold challenge.

Anderson studies the razors for a moment and then turns to the crowd with a confident smile. "You hear zis foolish man? Watch and see how he will regret his folly!" Anderson laughed.

Sherlock moved into action, preparing the challenge. "Who's for a free shave?" Two men step forward. A plain wooden chair is brought for Sherlock as he moves into the boldest part of this plan. He carefully turned to Moran. "Will Beadle Bamford be the judge?" Sherlock practically announced. Molly's eyes shot to him, alarmed.

Moran moved toward Sherlock, who smiled amiably, but quivered internally at being so dreadfully close to his prey.

Molly watched, concerned. Would Moran recognize the features of Benjamin Barker?

Apparently not.

Moran stopped right before Sherlock. "Glad, as always, to oblige my friends and neighbours," He smiled a fake smile at Sherlock before he turned to the crowd, "Let the challenge commence!"

One man sat in Sherlock's plain chair as the other moved to an elaborate chair on Anderson's caravan. Anderson shook out a bib, coloured like the Italian flag, with a flourish and covered his man. Archie prepared Anderson's ornate shaving supplies as Todd takes a plain towel and tucks it around his man's neck.

"Ready?" Moran inquired.

"Ready!" Anderson called.

"Ready," Sherlock's deep baritone rumbled.

"The fastest, smoothest shave is the winner," Moran announced before he blew his shrill whistle.

Anderson stropped his razor quickly, Sherlock in a leisurely manner.

The street barber kept glancing at Sherlock in various paranoid ways throughout; frightened of Sherlock's progress. He starts whipping up lather rapidly:

Now, signorini, signori,

We mix-a da lather

But first-a you gather

Around, signorini, signori,

You looking a man

Who have had-a da glory

To shave-a da Pope.

Mr. Sweeney-so-smart –

Anderson splattered the customer with shaving cream.

Oh, I beg-a you pardon — he'll

Call me a lie, was-a only a cardinal –

Nope!

It was-a da Pope!

Unexpectedly, Sherlock still showed no signs of starting to shave his man. He merely watched Anderson's performance. Molly looked at him nervously, wishing he would start soon.

Anderson, now feeling he could take his time, sings lyrically as he lathered and shaved with rhythmic scrapes and elaborate gestures of wiping the razor.

To shave-a da face,

To cut-a da hair,

Require da grace

Require da flair,

For if-a you slip,

You nick da skin,

You clip-a da chin,

You rip-a da lip a bit

Beyond-a repair!

Sherlock stropped his razor slowly and deliberately – disconcerting Anderson and drawing the crowd's attention.

To shave-a da face

Or even a part

Without it-a smart

Require da heart.

Not just-a da flash,

It take-a panache,

It take-a da passion

For da art.

Sherlock was unconcerned; he just continued to slowly strop his razor – which flustered Anderson.

To shave-a da face,

To trim-a da beard,

To make-a da bristle

Clean like a whistle,

Dis is from early infancy

Da talent give to me

By God!

The razor cut the air as Anderson drew it across himself triumphantly.

It take-a da skill,

It take-a da brains,

It take-a da will

To take-a da pains,

It take-a da pace,

It take-a da grace…

While Anderson played to the crowd, Sherlock, with a few deft strokes, quickly lathered his man's face, shaved him and signalled Moran to examine him.

Moran blew his whistle. "The winner is Todd."

Magnussen immediately deflated.

Molly felt the customer's cheek, "Smooth as a baby's arse!" She turned to Sherlock, "Well done, dear!"

The crowd laughed and applauded Sherlock as Anderson stalked over to him and bowed, "Sir, I bow to a skill far defter than my own."

Sherlock held out his hand impatiently, ignoring the underlining bitterness to the words, "The five pounds."

Anderson produced a distinctive chatelaine purse and removed a five pound note, giving it to Sherlock. "Here, sir. And may the good Lord smile on you until we meet again." He bowed his head quickly and moved away, beckoning to Archie, "Come, boy."

"We're pulling out, sir?" Archie asked innocently.

Without warning, Anderson slapped Archie viciously across the face and the boy almost fell from the force. "We're pulling out, yes. Quickly," he snarled.

Molly observed all of this as she moved away with Sherlock, who was making his way inexorably toward Moran. But before he can, some eager customers surrounded Sherlock – making him feel claustrophobic. "Mr. Holmes, sir, do you have an establishment of your own?" One interrogated.

Molly was on him like a hawk. "He certainly does. Sherlock Holmes' Tonsorial Parlour — above my meat pie emporium in Baker Street."

Sherlock slipped past the crowd, striding toward Moran, "I thank you for your honest adjudication, sir. You are a paragon of integrity."

"Well, I try to do my best for my friends and neighbours…" he smiled falsely, "Your establishment is in Baker Street, you say?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then, Mr. Holmes, you will surely see me there before the week is out."

"You will be welcome; Beadle Moran," Sherlock smiled faux-pleasantly, "And I guarantee to give you, without a penny's charge, the closest shave you will ever know."