Dad bursts through the door first and stops just inside the room. I follow in behind him, looking indignantly down at my ruined blouse as dad slams the bloody harpoon on the floor. John looks around, his eyes widening as he takes in our appearances. Dad is pretty much covered from head to foot in the blood, staining his shirt and trousers and covering his face. I have a small spattering on my shirt, but I think my face is clean.
"Well, that was tedious," dad says, breathing heavily.
"You went on the Tube like that?!" John questions in disbelief and I roll my eyes as I lift my chifon blouse over my head and toss it onto the sofa. Mrs Hudson can wash it later.
"None of the cabs would take us," I say in irritation before heading into the bedroom to get changed.
When I come back out, dad is pacing in the living room having cleaned himself up and changing into a spare set of clothes in the other room. John sits in his seat, flicking through a newspaper.
"Nothing?" I ask, sitting down in dad's seat.
"Military coup in Uganda," John suggests.
"Hmm." I shake my head in disagreement. John continues flicking through when he comes across something which makes him chuckle. "What?"
"Another photo of you with the, er ..." he points to a photograph of us wearing the hats and dad makes a disgusted sound so John moves onto another newspaper. "Oh, um, Cabinet reshuffle."
"Nothing of importance?" dad asks, furiously, slamming the end of the harpoon on the ground and roars in rage. He's been a bit restless recently. John persuaded him to go cold turkey on the cigarettes and he isn't taking it well. "Oh, God!" he moans and looks intensely round at John. "John, I need some.Getme some."
"No," he replies calmly.
"Get me some."
"No," John says more firmly and points at him. "Cold turkey, we agreed, no matter what." Irritated, dad leans the harpoon against the dining table. I consider moving it out of harms way but realise that by doing so I will put myself in harms way so just leave it. "Anyway, you've paid everyone off, remember?" John reminds him. "No-one within a two mile radius'll sell you any."
"Stupid idea," dad declares. "Whose idea was that?" I snort.
"Yours?" Dad ignores me and looks towards the door.
"Mrs Hudson!" he shouts and begins hurling paperwork off the table, desperately searching for the packs we hid.
"Look, Sherlock," John tries, "you're doing really well. Don't give up now."
"Tell me where they are," he says frantically, still pulling papers off. "Please. Tell me." John remains silent so dad straightens up and puts on his most appealing puppy-dog eyes. "Please."
"Can't help, sorry."
"I'll let you know next week's lottery numbers," he tries.
"He's not going to fall for that one again!" I laugh and John chuckles.
"Oh, it was worth a try," dad says, exasperated. He looks round the room and hurls himself onto the floor in front if the fireplace in inspiration. He digs out his Venisian slipper from beneath a pile of papers as Mrs Hudson enters.
"Ooh-ooh!" she announces.
"My secret supply," he says, still rummaging around by the fire. "What have you done with my secret supply?"
"Eh?" she replies in confusion.
"Cigarettes!" dad exclaims. "What have you done with them? Where are they?"
"You know you never let me touch your things!" Mrs Hudson looks around at the mess and tuts. "Ooh, chance would be a fine thing." Dad stands up and faces her.
"I thought you weren'tmy housekeeper."
"I'm not," she confirms and dad makes a frustrated sound, walks over to the harpoon and picks it up again. John mimes the suggestion that she makes dad some tea and she looks round at him. "How about a nice cuppa," she suggests, "and perhaps you could put away your harpoon."
"I need somethingstrongerthan tea," he argues. "Seven percentstronger." He turns on Mrs Hudson and aims the harpoon at her. She flinches. "You've been to see Mr Chatterjee again." I roll my eyes and lean back in my seat.
"Pardon?" She asks in indignation. Dad points to her dress with the tip of the harpoon.
"Sandwich shop. That's a new dress, but there's flour on the sleeve. You wouldn't dress like that for baking."
"Sherlock ..." John warns, but dad continues.
"Thumbnail." He raises the harpoon to point at her nail. "Tiny traces of foil. Been at the scratch cards again. We all know wherethatleads, don't we?" He sniffs deeply and lowers the harpoon. "Mmm," dad says. "'Kasbah Nights.' Pretty racy for first thing on a Monday morning, wouldn't you agree? I've written a little blog on the identification of perfumes. It's on the website – you should look it up."
"Please," Mrs Hudson says, exasperated.
"I wouldn't pin your hopes on that cruise with Mr Chatterjee. He's got a wife in Doncasterthat nobody knows about."
"Sherlock!" John tries again, angrily.
"Well, nobody except me."
"And me," I announce, standing up and moving round to comfort her. "But I don't go around upsetting our landlady with it."
"I don't know what you're talking about, I really don't," she cries, storming out the flat and slamming the living room door as she goes. Dad leaps over the back of his chair from behind it and perches on it, wrapping his arms around his knees like a petulant child. John slams his newspaper down.
"What the bloody hell was all that about?"
"You don't understand," dad replies, rocking backward and forwards.
"Go after her and apologise," John orders, sternly. Dad stares at him.
"Apologise?" he repeats.
"Mmm-hmm."
"Oh, John," dad sighs. "I envy you so much."John hesitates and looks momentarily up at me, considering whether he should rise to the bait.
"You envy me?"
"Your mind," dad explains, "it's so placid, straightforward, barely used. Mine's like an engine, racing out of control; a rocket tearing itself to pieces trapped on the launch pad." He raises his voice."I need a case!"
"You've just solved one!" John cries, equally as loud. "By harpooning a dead pig, apparently!" Dad makes an exasperated noise and jumps up, repositioning himself into a sitting position.
"That was this morning!" He starts drumming his fingers on the arms if the chair and stomps his feet on the floor. "When's the next one?"
"Nothing on the website?" I question and dad gets up and collects the laptop from the table and hands it to me before stomping over to the window and narrating the message.
"'Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes. I can't find Bluebell anywhere. Please please please can you help?'"
"Yes, I can read thank you," I say, skipping through it myself.
"Bluebell?" John questions.
"A rabbit, John!" Dad answers in irritation.
"Oh."
"Ah, but there's more!" dad continues, sarcastically. "Before Bluebell disappeared, it turned luminous, 'like a fairy' according to little Kirsty; then the next morning, Bluebell was gone! Hutch still locked, no sign of a forced entry ..." He stops and his eyes narrow, his expression becoming more intense. "Ah! What am I saying?" he questions, perking up. "This is brilliant! Phone Lestrade. Tell him there's an escaped rabbit."
"Are you serious?" I ask, eyebrows raised as I close the laptop down and carry it back over to the table.
"It's this, or Cluedo."
"Ah, no!" John says quickly. "We areneverplaying that again!"
"Why not?"
"Because it's not actually possible for the victim to have done it, Sherlock, that's why."
"Well, it was the only possible solution," dad protests.
"It's not in the rules."
"Then the rules are wrong!" he replies, furiously. As he finishes, the doorbell rings. John thoughtfully holds up a finger as dad looks towards the sound.
"Single ring," John says.
"Maximum pressure just under the half second," dad continues.
We look at each other before saying simultaneously, "Client."