Sherlock and the Little People
By Doctor Napalm
Chapter 9
Holmes and Watson exited their cab in front of 221b Baker Street. The crime scene had revealed no new clues despite Sherlock's minute examination of every nook and cranny. Recent weather conditions, rain and some high winds, had effectively scoured the scene of any pertinent evidence. The only conclusion the detective had come to was that Patrick Kavanagh had been murdered elsewhere and the body had been dumped at the scene.
John took out his wallet to pay the cabbie while Sherlock waited impatiently. "I suppose I will have to rely on Anderson's pitiful photographs of the scene," he announced rather disparagingly.
"He does his best," John said in Anderson's defense.
"A three year old with a crayon could do better," the detective replied, and turned on his heel towards the door of the boarding house.
As if on cue, the door at 221b swung open revealing their landlady, Mrs. Hudson. "Welcome home, boys," she said in her ever-cheerful voice, "can you hold that taxi, John? I have some shopping to do."
John turned back to the cabbie, handed him the fare, and asked him to wait for a moment.
Mrs. Hudson stepped down onto the pavement and paused for a moment. "Oh, Sherlock, dear," she said, "some packages came for you this afternoon. I had the delivery boys put them in your kitchen."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, I've been expecting them with great anticipation."
"They aren't for another of your dreadful experiments, are they?"
"No, not dreadful at all."
"I certainly hope not!" she said and shook her head. "It took me over a week to rid the house of that awful smell the last time."
"Nothing smelly this time," the detective assured her. "Might I borrow your ladder this evening?" he asked.
She hesitated a moment and gave him a suspicious look. "Help yourself, dear," she said and opened the taxi door, "it's in the storage room downstairs. Be sure to put it back when you're finished."
As they entered the door to the boarding house, Sherlock looked at John, "Would you mind fetching the ladder for me, John?"
John rolled his eyes upward and, in his best Mrs. Hudson imitation, said "I'm your flatmate dear, not your custodian!" and with that started climbing the stairs two at a time.
Several minutes later Sherlock struggled through the door of the flat dragging a large wooden ladder behind him and immediately took it into his bedroom.
Returning to the kitchen, he examined the boxes that had been delivered and then, one by one, took them into his bedroom as well.
"I will be busy the rest of the evening, John," he said, "I do not wish to be disturbed," and closed the bedroom door.
John raised his eyebrows and gave a slightly quizzical look. It wasn't the first time his flatmate had been secretive about his activities. He was sure he would find out what was going on eventually.
ɸ
The next morning John arose early and went to the kitchen to make some toast. The ladder was leaned against the wall outside Sherlock's bedroom door. Sherlock had banged and clattered and thumped for several hours the evening before and then everything had gone uncommonly quiet. There was still no evidence of what he had been doing.
Brewing a cup of tea and spreading some jam on his toast, John stared at Sherlock's door and wondered what his occasionally eccentric flatmate was up to. Most of the boxes had been very non-descript with no labels that revealed what might have been in them, although several were long, narrow, and marked "fragile/glass."
Taking bite of toast, he chewed it slowly and continued to stare at the bedroom door. "Hmmm," he murmured thoughtfully, and washed down the bite of toast with a sip of tea.
Walking to the window overlooking Baker Street, he pulled back the curtain and looked out. A light drizzling rain dotted the window panes with beads of water while the street below had developed a glistening oily sheen. John sighed as he considered the dismal weather.
Turning back into the room he looked again at Sherlock's bedroom door. What in the hell was he up to in there? "Damn it!" he said, and brushed the lingering crumbs of toast from his fingers against his trousers.
Purposefully striding to the bedroom door, John reached out and grasped the knob. He hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath and jerked the door open.
John's mouth dropped open and he blinked his eyes in disbelief. Sherlock Holmes lay spread-eagle on his bed wearing nothing but a pair of dark welder's goggles. The windows were covered with dark paper. Suspended from the ceiling on long chains, several long tubular light fixtures hovering mere inches above the detective's naked body giving off a darkish purple glow. Several items around the small room shone with an eerie whitish-purple gleam including Sherlock himself.
"What in the…" John began.
Sherlock turned his head and pulled the goggles up on his forehead. "Oh, it's you."
"What's all this?" John asked, waving his hand at the lights.
"Light therapy," Sherlock explained. "I noticed a few days ago that the exposed parts of my body were beginning to fade back to their normal color while the portions covered by clothing remained as dark as ever. It occurred to me that my skin color might be affected by exposure to light, particularly ultra-violet light. A bit like getting a suntan."
"So all of this is sort of a homebrewed tanning bed," John said.
"Exactly! Turn on the room lights," Sherlock asked as he reached to unplug the ultra-violet lamps.
John flipped the switch on the wall, and the room returned to its normal ambiance.
"What do you think?" Sherlock said as he stood up and turned around, waving his arms.
"First, I think you need to put some clothes on," John said in a slightly embarrassed tone of voice.
Sherlock paused and then looked down. "Oh, yes, of course. Modesty tends to not be of first importance to me at times." He picked up a towel and held it in front of himself. "Am I less green?"
John looked at his partner, trying to keep from smiling. "Keep it clinical," he thought to himself, all the while trying to push out of his head the image of Sherlock sprawled on the bed wearing nothing but the silly goggles.
"Well, you're still pretty green in most places, but I believe it has faded somewhat. You may have hit upon the solution," he said at last.
"I think a few more overnight sessions should do it," Sherlock remarked. "Ultra-violet light has some very interesting properties, not the least being its effect on exposed skin. And yet it's invisible to the…"
Sherlock paused. "That's it!" he exclaimed.
"That's what?" asked John.
"That's how it was done! That's how Kavanagh's body disappeared!"
"What? How?"
"UV lights! They used the UV lighting in the morgue!"
"There's no UV lighting in the morgue…"
"Oh, yes there is!" Sherlock crowed, dropping the towel. "Where's my phone?"
ɸ
Greg Lestrade glanced at the caller ID on his phone. "Sherlock Holmes," it announced. He frowned and picked up the receiver.
"Yes?" he answered. "Mmm, yes, I believe we do…no, that would be Anderson's department…no, Anderson…yes, that's right…he's got it…I don't care, you'll have to deal with him…nope, not my job…well, call me again if he won't…yes…okay, I'll let him know you're coming and ask him to cooperate…I'm sure he will…well, that's between you and him…."
ɸ
"Why should I help you?" asked Anderson.
Sherlock Holmes frowned. "Inspector Lestrade said you would cooperate. He is your boss, isn't he?"
"Well, actually…" Anderson hesitated for a moment. "Yes, I suppose he is. But I don't see why you need one. The forensics department isn't a lending library. You can't just come in and borrow our equipment on the spur of the moment. How do I know I'll get it back?"
"You have my word. You'll get it back."
"Your word?" Anderson looked at Sherlock with a hurt expression. "You gave me your word that you wouldn't tell Sally about my…uh…you know…the problem I asked you about."
"That's different. Anyway, technically I didn't tell Sally. I told John. John told Dimmock, and…well, word kind of got back to Sally through the grapevine."
"I was the laughing stock of the entire department for over a month," Anderson snorted. "I don't see any reason why I should cooperate with you."
"Did my advice fix your problem?" asked Sherlock.
Anderson stuck out his lower lip and pouted a bit. "Yeah, but it hurt like hell."
"So? Can I borrow one?"
"It's not that easy. You've got to do something for me first."
"I could always go down to the Force Firearms Unit and borrow one," said Sherlock.
"Nope. CO19 guards their equipment like it's made of solid gold. Even if they let you borrow one, you'd have to submit a requisition and send it through channels. You might get it sometime next year if you're lucky."
"I could buy one at just about any sports store in the city."
"A cheap one runs at least a hundred pounds and for what you're wanting to try you'll probably need one that's a lot more expensive than that. Quite a layout for a one-shot deal that you're not even sure will work."
"Mycroft…"
"He'd have to track one down, make some calls. He might get it for you next week. I have one right here in my storeroom."
Sherlock sighed. "What do you want me to do?"
Anderson looked carefully at Sherlock, smiled and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Hmmm, let me think for a minute…"
ɸ
"Did you get it?" asked John.
Sherlock held up a small leather bag. "At great personal sacrifice, yes."
"What did you have to do?"
"Don't ask, John. Don't ask."
