'Another Holmes for the Fall?
In a press conference held by Scotland Yard yesterday, it was confirmed that the legendary Sherlock Holmes is alive. Holmes, who was believed to have committed suicide last year, is reportedly alive and well, and currently residing in an unknown location overseas.
Perhaps an even more astonishing revelation is the identity of Scotland Yard's star witness. The mysterious woman is confirmed to be Charlene Holmes, the long-lost twin sister of Sherlock.
She amazed reporters yesterday with her astounding observations and deductions, proving beyond a doubt that her brother is alive and well. Turn to page 4 for the full story.'
John laid the newspaper on the pub table and grinned at Charlene. "You're a hero."
She smiled thinly. "Hardly. I made some deductions and got in the newspaper. Nothing to be particularly excited about."
"Charlene, you're on the front page."
"Well, I can't deny that."
"There's still one thing I don't understand, though," he said. "What about that file that was deleted? Timoxy-whatsit?"
"Timoxylene barbebutenol. Yes, that was a particularly clever trick of his," she smiled. "That was a red herring. Molly deleted the file because her boss told her to. The hospital stopped using the drug years ago."
John blinked. "That makes sense, actually."
"I'm glad you think so."
At that moment Greg came into the bar. He glanced around and headed straight for their table. "How's the hero?"
She sighed. "I'm really not a hero."
"You really know how to accept a compliment, don't you?" John said dryly.
Charlene twisted her fingers together. She looked uncomfortable. "You don't know me. You know who I am, but not who I was."
John frowned, mystified. "What do you mean?"
She sighed. "I'm not proud of this, but I probably should tell you. I haven't told you everything about me. When I lived in New York, I wasn't always…so respectable. In fact, after my parents died, I fell into a bad way. I got depressed, and involved with drugs. Cocaine, mostly, but sometimes others." She took a deep breath, avoiding looking at John's face. "I just wanted to forget, really. And it worked, for a while.
"I lost my job, and was living on the streets. I had to get money, of course, so I stole it. I got good at pickpocketing, but soon it wasn't enough. The price of…of narcotics kept rising, or maybe my supplier kept ripping me off. I'm not sure. Anyway, I had to turn to more drastic measures to keep fuelling my addiction." Charlene paused and looked up at John and Greg to gauge their reaction. Greg seemed mildly interested. John was stony-faced.
She took a breath and went on. "Like I said, I'm not proud. I would mug people in alleyways using a gun I inherited from my father. Then one day, when I was high, I decided to move onto something a little…bigger. So I put on a balaclava, walked into a bank and staged a robbery." John gasped at this revelation. Charlene looked up guiltily. "Unfortunately I didn't think of everything. There was a queue for the tills, so naturally I waited in line. It was how I was brought up. Plenty of time for staff to press the silent alarm and for the police to arrive. I was arrested on the spot and charged with attempted robbery. Two years in prison.
"When I got out, I resolved to get my act together, and get clean. My friend Kirsty helped a lot. She helped get me back on my feet, and found me a job in her brother's IT company. He didn't want to hire a druggie, but she persuaded him, and eventually I got clean and started paying her back.
"But for a long time, almost two years, I was a worthless criminal junkie. Not a hero. The people you think are heroes, they're not. They always have a hidden story, something you don't know. Something that makes them not a hero. Don't make people into heroes. Especially not me." She finished her speech looking down at her lap, unable to meet the eyes of the two men in front of her.
There was a pause that seemed to last for eternity. Finally John said quietly, "Why didn't you say any of this before?"
"I didn't want you to think any less of me for who I used to be."
John and Greg shared a look. Charlene stood up abruptly. "Look, I'll go now. Give you some time to think about it, okay?" She straightened her coat and swept out. The pub door let in a gust of wind and rain, before Charlene slammed it behind her.
John finished his drink, bid Greg goodbye, and left the bar. He walked for a while in the swirling wind and rain, not going anywhere in particular. Then a shop caught his eye, and he went in, his mind made up.
o0o0o
Charlene was lying on the sofa when John returned home. She looked up as he came in the door, then went back to staring moodily up at the wall. "Hello."
"I need to talk to you," he said.
Charlene swung her legs around and sat up. "I can be packed and out of the flat by nightfall, if you want." She still didn't look him in the eyes.
"No. No, please don't."
Charlene finally looked up at John. He had his mouth open, about to say something, but seemed to think better of it. "Just…just stay. For now, at least. Please," he said, and turned abruptly, heading upstairs.
Charlene turned her head from the empty doorway, to look instead at the skull resting on the fireplace.
o0o0o
John's 'for now' turned into days, which turned into weeks, which turned into nearly a month. All this time, John seemed to be avoiding Charlene when he could, finding excuses to go out or disappearing into his room for hours at a stretch. She gave up trying to engage him in conversation, and instead busied herself with puzzles.
One day, John came home to find Charlene playing the violin. It was an upbeat song that he didn't recognise. It shouldn't have worked on the violin, yet somehow it did.
He stepped into the living room. "Been composing?" he inquired, not quite looking her in the eye.
Charlene stopped playing. "No, this isn't mine," she said. "It's by a singer called Adele."
"Oh. What's it called?"
"'Cold Shoulder'," she said, resting the violin on her shoulder again and continuing where she left off.
He looked at her sharply, then left the room.
This happened twice more on different occasions, once with 'Talk to Me' by Joe Seneca, and once with 'Close to You' by the Carpenters. Then John came home to hear Charlene playing a slow, mournful tune. He stopped in the doorway, suddenly angry.
"What's this one called?" he said sarcastically. "'Talk to me already, John Watson'?"
She stopped and turned around to face him innocently. "Not at all," she said. "This one is mine. I call it 'John'. It's about sadness and loss, but hope within the misery."
He stopped awkwardly. "Oh." A moment passed, then he turned and went out without another word.
o0o0o
One day, Greg knocked on the front door of 221B, looking harried and apologetic. "Charlene," he said in a rush, "I really need help on a case. Do you think you could do it?"
She blinked. "You're asking me to be Sherlock?"
"If you like. But a nice Sherlock."
"So, basically me," she joked.
"Exactly. Can you do it?"
Charlene considered for a moment, then nodded. "Let me get my coat."
She pulled on her coat and got into the waiting police car. John watched from his bedroom window as Greg closed her door behind her, then hurried around to the driver's door and drove off.
o0o0o
When they arrived at the crime scene, Charlene got out of the car and turned her coat collar up against the light rain. She followed Greg inside a small, picturesque bungalow which was swarming with detectives and forensics experts. They all pretended not to notice her, but turned to look at her after she had passed them.
Inside, Greg took Charlene into a small kitchen. There was a woman lying on the floor, face up, her arm bent at an unnatural angle that made Charlene wince internally.
"There are no injuries visible, save for a sprained arm. No sign of asphyxiation, no sign of any cause of death at all. We can't find any sign of a struggle, all the doors and windows were locked. There's no chance she fell off anything, not in that position," Greg said to Charlene. Then he raised his voice and said, "All right, everybody out please. Charlene's here."
The room cleared within seconds. The officers all gave Charlene looks of admiration as they passed her, to which she gave an uneasy smile.
When the room was empty but for Greg and Charlene, he turned to her. "Do you want me to stay, or go?" he asked gently.
"Could you go please? I think I'll need silence to concentrate." She was getting flustered, and tried to calm herself down by regulating her breathing.
"Okay." He gave her a reassuring smile. "Just anything you can come up with is fine. Will ten minutes be enough?"
Charlene nodded, and then he was gone, and she was alone.
She took a moment to compose herself, then kneeled down beside the body. It was her first time since coming back to Britain that she had seen a dead person (not that she was complaining).
There was nothing on the body that seemed out of the ordinary that she could see. The woman wore a red checked dress, with a red apron over top. On her feet was a pair of red slippers with white socks. There was a white powder on the apron, which she quickly diagnosed as flour.
Charlene stood up and looked around, but could see nothing to aid her, no clues. Judging by the ornaments and furnishings, the woman was a widow with no children and very few friends. OCD, judging from the immaculate and ordered nature of everything in the room, including the woman herself.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Charlene whirled around. "Surely it hasn't been ten-" she started to say, before she stopped.
Standing in the open doorway was none other than John Watson.