Molly quickly moved down the steps outside the barber shop to greet Anderson and the boy as they were about to ascend.
"Signora, is Mr. Todd at home?" Anderson asked.
"Plying his trade upstairs, don't you know…?" Molly shrugged as she stood on the staircase, blocking their way, and smiled at Toby, "Would you look at it, now! Don't look like it's had a kind word since half past never!"
"Ma'am…?" The child inquired.
"You wouldn't mind if I gave him a nice juicy meat pie, would you?" She asked Anderson
"Yes, yes, whatever you like," He waved off impatiently.
Anderson climbed the stairs, as she took the boy by the hand and led him toward the pie shop door. "Come with me now. Your teeth is strong, I hope?" Molly smiled as they went into the pie shop.
Sherlock was standing, arms folded. Waiting. Anderson casually walked into the room. "Mr. Holmes," He greeted.
"Signor Anderson."
"Call me Phillip," Anderson said in his natural English accent, "Phillip Anderson's the name when it's not professional… I'd like me five quid back, if you don't mind."
"Why?"
"Because you entered into our little wager on false pretences, my friend… And, so you might remember to be more forthright in the future, you'll be handing over half your profits to me, share and share alike…" Sherlock shook his head, amused, and began to turn away when Anderson continued, "Mr. Benedict Baker."
Sherlock froze.
Molly handed the boy one of her grisly pies, which he devours eagerly. "That's my boy, tuck in," she encouraged, but her attention was almost entirely on the roof above. The muffled voices. The sound of shoes walking. Her eyes keep darting up as she chatters distractedly with the boy. "Like to see a man with a healthy appetite. Reminds me of my dear Albert, like to gorge himself to bloatation, he did. He didn't have your nice full head though –"
"To tell the truth —" He began, pulling off the wig which covered his own short-cropped hair, "It gets awful hot."
Anderson was expansively strolling around the shop, taking it all in, savouring every second. "Yes, this will do very nicely… You don't remember me. Well, why should you? I was just a kid you hired for a couple of weeks — sweeping up hair and the like…" He picked up one of Sherlock's razors, "But I remember these. And how could I ever forget you, Benedict Baker? I would sit right there and watch you, and dream of the day I could be a proper barber, myself… You might say you were an inspiration to me."
Sherlock glared at him. "You really are an idiot – you barely changed your name."
Anderson ignored him. "So, do we have a deal, or should I run down the street for my pal Beadle Moran? What do you say to that now," Anderson slipped back into a mocking, Italian accent, "Mr. Sherlock H–?"
Without a word of warning, like lightning, Sherlock was on him; he leaped across the shop and brutally grabbed Anderson by the neck — violently strangling him; but Anderson was surprisingly strong and put up a desperate struggle. They thumped awkwardly around the shop.
Molly heard the muffled sounds of the struggle above. She nervously began to shift and clang some things around as she cleaned the counter, trying to cover the sound, "My, my, my; always work to be done. Spic-and-span, that's my motto. Cleanliness is next to whatever-it-is. So, ah, how did you end up with that dreadful Eye-talian?"
He was still eating happily, answering with a mouthful of masticated food, "Got me from the workhouse, he did. Been there since I was born. Got no mum, got nobody. A wasted soul, that's what I am –" a sudden, urgent look took his expression and changed his tone, "Oh God! He's got an appointment with his tailor!" He bolted up, clearly terrified of Anderson. "If he's late, he'll blame me!"
Molly went to stop him leaving, "Wait–!" But he was gone.
Sherlock was standing calmly when the boy burst in. "Signor, you got an appointment –" He stopped when he realized Anderson was nowhere to be seen.
"Signor Anderson has been called away," Sherlock stated, "You better run after him."
"Oh no, sir. I better wait for him here or it'll be a lashing. He's a great one for the lashings," the boy insisted.
He moved past Sherlock to the large chest and sat. Sherlock tried not to stare at the fingers of one of Anderson's hands protruding from the chest, dangling limply. The boy didn't notice it.
"So, Mrs. Hooper gave you a pie, did she?" Sherlock inquired.
"She's a real lady. Model of all true, kind virtue," the boy beamed. Then Anderson's hand twitched.
The boy still didn't notice. Sherlock does, though. "That she is… that she is. But if I know a growing boy, there's still room for some more pie, eh?"
"I'd say, sir —" He patted his stomach, "An aching void."
Anderson's hand began to twitch more desperately, perilously close to where the boy's hand rested. "Then why don't you run downstairs and wait for your master there? There'll be another pie in it for you, I'm sure…"
Anderson's hand was twitching closer to the boy's.
"No, I should stay here," He dismissed.
Sherlock had a sudden inspiration. "I know — why don't you tell Mrs. Hooper I said to give you a nice big tot of gin?"
The boy leaped up. "Gin, sir?! Thanking you kindly, sir! You're kind, indeed!" He raced out happily and clattered down the stairs.
Sherlock went to the trunk, leaned down to open it, when he rises he spots his largest razor on the counter. The point of no return.
Sherlock strode to the razor and he snapped it open with a sharp, quick flick of his wrist.
He moved to the chest and, with great ferocity he hauls Anderson up. Anderson's eyes snap open. And Sherlock slashes his throat.