Mr O'Friar, the missing stationmaster, lived on the fifth floor of a block of flats over Chalk Farm – a decrepit tower with a view of snaking train tracks and a rusted fire escape creeping up one side. The man lived alone. No friends, no family, no romantic interests, just his good self and a few single celled organisms he liked to grow in agar jelly. The bacteria cluttered his various work tops and book shelves in their petri dish prisons, and under the lamplight many seemed to pulsate with a primordial glow. I could barely keep my eyes off the crazy things. I was crouched on a rickety fire escape outside the stationmaster's parlour window, with my forehead pressed against the glass and my breath frothing in the frigid air. I could imagine that I looked pretty strange – kneeling outside an old man's home and staring silently in on his private life like some sort of perverted ghost, but Holmes had instructed me to stay put and keep an eye on things. He had then padded down the length of the fire escape with his footsteps quick and quiet, and disappeared up the stairs, leaving me alone in the dark. I didn't mind. I knew that my job was intrinsic to the success of our task – there was no way Mr O'Friar could escape with me watching his movements like a hawk. And with me guarding all exits and controlling the situation, Holmes was free to pop in and make the arrest. I shifted my position slightly, trying to ignore the cold that was soaking into my bones. It occurred to me that Holmes was in no way qualified to make an arrest. He was a consulting detective, one who worked closely with the police but who was not actually affiliated with them. In the eyes of the law, this arrest would most likely be seen as a kidnapping. I smiled grimly at that, but didn't allow myself to worry too much about it. Holmes could be an intimidating man when he wanted to be, and I had no doubt that he could talk his way out of any situation. And he had contacts in high places, including in the heart of Scotland Yard.
A strange sound made my muscles tense and my ears swivel. It was a creak, like floorboards shifting or stairs sighing. A creak like that could only mean one thing: Mr O'Friar was awake. I listened intently, breath faltering as I waited for another noise. My eyes flickered, panning the kitchen in front of me for signs of movement. Nothing. The place was dead. It had been for the past hour and a half I had been sat here, keeping an eye on the most boring parlour in England. Slowly, carefully, I relaxed. My vigil was long and lonely, and in the absence of my pipe and a flask of hot soup, I was getting paranoid. My heart rate settled back into a gentle rhythm and I rested my forehead against the window pane, gazing dreamily at the London skyline reflected in the glass. If it wasn't so damned cold I could very easily nod off. CREAK. I sat up with a start. That noise again! It cracked the silence like a gunshot. Where did it come from? I looked around, but couldn't see anything amiss – creak. I stood up. I couldn't help it. The sound made me feel helpless, vulnerable and ridiculous all at the same time. It gave me the distinctive, sinking feeling that I had turned from the predator into the prey. I did a smooth 360 but that just made me feel like an idiot. There was nobody here. I was alone on a balcony, twitching at tiny sounds. These creaks meant nothing. It was probably just a pigeon foraging in the gutter. I spun this theory in my mind, forcing myself to accept it. It was just a pigeon. I sat back down. In my heart I knew it wasn't true, but I pushed down the icy fingers of dread and focused on controlling my breathing. Creak. I jumped at the sound but didn't turn around. I was going to ignore it. Creak! I ground my teeth. Ignore. Creak. Creak. Creak. It was incessant! Like a baby squealing in the background. Creak. Creak. CREAK! I stared at the window, jaw set. I was ignoring here.
"Hey! You!" I nearly jumped out of my skin. Arms flailing, I leapt to my feet and whirled, trying to find the owner of the voice. Nobody. I was still alone on an empty balcony. Only now I knew I was being watched, hunted, tracked. How had this happened? I was meant to be keeping an eye on Mr O'Friar. Not the other way around. If it even was Mr O'Friar. I swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.
"Hello?" I called. "Mr O'Friar? Is that you?" Nothing but silence in reply. Perhaps the person had gone away – and good riddance too. I strode around the balcony, searching. "Who are you?" I asked the darkness.
"Your mum." The voice came quick and loud. I spun in its direction, eyes sparking.
"Funny." I growled. "Very funny."
"That's what your mum said."
"Holmes? Is that you?" I yelled, ignoring the disembodied sniggering. Holmes was a master of disguises; he could sound like anyone he wanted. He was probably messing with me. I pushed down the creeping fingers of doubt, ignoring the facts that crude, lewd humour was not Holmes' style and that he wouldn't do this to me.
"Sherlock Holmes is dead." The voice whispered into the night. Low and menacing. I froze.
"You're lying."
"I killed him."
"No." I snarled. "No. You're lying." I took steadying breaths, refusing to let this guy needle me. The whole situation was absurd. I was Doctor John Watson of 221B Baker Street and I was NOT going to be intimidated by some nutcase hiding in the dark. Once I had calmed down, I addressed the shadows again.
"Who are you?"
The voice gave a wheezy chuckle. "The Count of Monte Cristo."
I sighed. I was dealing with a lunatic.
"I'm going to ask you one more time." I said voice dangerously quiet. At least, I hoped it was dangerously quiet. To the invisible villain, it probably just sounded quiet. "Who are you? Really?" There was a moment of silence, a series of creaks, and then the voice returned, stronger than ever.
"Alright. I'll tell you." The stranger sounded subdued. "I'm the Queen of England." I rolled my eyes in frustration. This coming from a predominantly male voice. I opened my mouth to say something that was both scathing and patriotic, something along the lines of, "How dare you impersonate her Majesty!" or "Stop being such an idiot, you… idiot!" but then decided better of it. I wouldn't sink to his level. So instead of snapping something that would no doubt sound great in my head but not so great in reality, I turned on my heel and started to stalk down the fire escape. I made it about 2 steps before the stranger popped up in front of me.
"Good evening, sir."
"Whoa!" I shouted, stumbling backwards. The tall greasy man had appeared from nowhere and I did not like the way he was looking at me. He was also so close I could smell his garlic breath and his dandruff infected hair was, quite frankly, nauseating. I took an instinctive step away from his leering expression, wondering if I should barge past him and leg it down the fire escape. This was definitely the man who had been insulting me from the shadows for the past five minutes, the man whose creaking footsteps had filled me with dread. He looked like a nutter. He smelt like a nutter. He – that was when I noticed the thin scar tracing down the man's skull, shaped like Mount Everest turned on its side. Holmes had told me about that scar. It belonged to one man and one man only: Mr O'Friar. I tried to swallow my anger. The slimy loon who had been stalking me, pressing at my vulnerable points, trying to get under my skin, was none other than Mr O'Friar, the man I had been told to watch. The man we were going to arrest.