A/N: Thought I'd give these guys a locked room mystery. -csf
First/Four.
I close the front door in a mindless, mechanized gesture born out of habit. For years I've been calling Baker Street my home, and in a fleeting moment, half felt and half summoned by habit, it's as if I couldn't think of anywhere else I have felt this way about before. Home? It's but a front door and a wallpapered corridor, and it's got so many layers of old wallpaper on top of each other that they serve a purpose as thermal insulation for posterity. If Mrs Hudson would ever take them down, strip the walls bare, paint them some modern grey or whatnot, I'd bet she'd find a couple of extra inches on each side. But it wouldn't feel like Baker Street anymore.
The sandwiched wallpaper layers also serve loyally as sound insulators, I add a mental note as the first metal teapot comes rolling down the narrow stairs, clinking and clanking. It rolls to a stop by my feet.
I hesitate to pick it up. You never know what just offense it caused the detective.
He never really mastered the art of tea making. His tea invariably tastes... burnt. How do you burn scorched tea leaves will forever remain a mystery to me.
A second teapot makes a jolly descent on those wooden steps, hasting to join the first. This one finishes the assault course nearly unrecognizable, with a deep dent on the side and a wonky handle.
I hear the third one's release before I even see it, rolling down the steps towards the landing, like a deflated firecracker. That one halts its lacklustre descent right at the landing.
'Sherlock!' I call out, just in case. 'Is it safe?'
From 221B I get the assured retort: 'Of course, would I ever put you in danger?'
'Just every day, thank you very much!' I retort, sarcastic.
'You're welcome!' he replies honestly. We both know I'm attracted to danger and the unpredictable.
I shake my head and climb over the first teapot.
'Do bring them up, John, will you?' the lazy detective adds like an afterthought.
It's therefore with my arms full of banged up teapots that I finally enter 221B.
'Oh.'
I nearly drop the load.
'What is this? Teapot invasion? Are you planning on surrendering soon?'
Sherlock smirks knowingly.
Every surface in 221B seems to have been graced with the addition of a shiny metal teapot. They come in all shapes and sizes, mostly antiques, polished clean and bright, reflecting the warm lamp lights.
'What is this? Aladdin's cave, were he British?' I ask, trying hard to find where to put down the damaged teapots I'm carrying still.
'Trying to prove to Lestrade that the Tea Rooms Murderer couldn't have possibly hit the victim on the head with a teapot. Something far more sinister was planned and executed.'
'How will you prove that by throwing teapots from a flight of stairs?'
'Easy. By a detailed study of the dents, John', he retorts, tense. Then stops, and with a mischievous smirk he adds: 'Am I being insensitive towards you, given your love of tea?'
I shrug. 'Nah, I just need a kettle and a mug, mate.' And, triggered by the conversation, I decide to go to the kitchen to make us a nice cuppa. No frilly, shiny teapots and dainty, fine bone China teacups needed.
'John!' Sherlock follows me, wild and intense as he can be in the pursuit of his beloved work.
'Yes?'
'It's not working!'
I turn around in time to see the detective running fingers through his hair, looking frazzled. I take pity on him.
'A nice hot cup of tea is what you need, Sherlock.'
His face opens in shock, his eyes are deep green as he opens them wide. 'That's it! John, you are incredible!' Not content with giving me a rare (if unwarranted) compliment, he grabs me into a brief tight hug, then releases me with the same maniac energy. 'The metal surface of the teapot was still warm from the tea inside! The temperature caused the metallic alloy to be more malleable, of course! John, I need to repeat my experiments with warm teapots! John, I need more teapots! John, I need you to make tea in each teapot!'
'But— that would take me all night!'
'No one is better at making tea than you, it's got to be you, John! Catching a murderer depends on your tea making skills, John! Go on, get a move on. It's going to take all night, you said!' he ushers me on, with that maniacal gleam of foretold victory I love seeing in his eyes. That always makes it really hard for me to say No to Sherlock.
Anyway, where is he getting all these teapots from?
.
'Locard's principle of exchange, John. When a killer uses a teapot to bash someone's head, traces of the metal alloy should be found in the victim's scalp. That's the one odd thing that was wrong from the start.'
I take the manila file the detective is handing me. He is still a bit jittery, refusing to sit on his chair (overtaken by teapots anyway), preferring to pace the room agitatedly. I have long taken a seat on my armchair, by the crepitating logs in the mantel.
'There was a dented teapot in the room', I gather.
'Covered in blood and brain matter splatters.'
'It must have made contact with the victim, then. It's odd not to find traces of the metal, sure, but—'
'Electroplated Nickel-Silver, John, be precise.'
'You think the killer used something else, maybe a window sill or a table corner, and wiped the surface clean. Then used the teapot to make it look like the murder weapon.'
'The dented teapot, John. Hence my little experiments.'
I shrug. 'What difference does it make, how the teapot got dented or if it was the actual murder weapon? Lestrade just wants you to find the killer.'
Sherlock's curls bounce as he shakes his head, passionately. 'It doesn't fit, John! I will not abide reality not fitting!'
'Alright, alright, calm down. Have you checked the whole room for any hard surface that may have been used to bash the teapot against?'
'Of course, John, I found nothing. Yet Newton's third law specifically stares that for every action, there's is an equal opposite reaction. Something should have shown marks of the teapot assault. There was nothing there according to the police and the first reports of the initial attending officers!'
'First reports?' Honest, I have no idea what I'm implying, but Sherlock often needs little in the way of nudging as he gets going.
'Have I not mentioned?' he seems genuinely surprised. 'It's a locked room murder, John. Why do you think I care? No one came in or went out of that room all night. And yet, we've got a crime weapon missing and a murderer that, by all accounts, can walk through walls!'
I blink. 'Secret passages, maybe? We'll have to go there some time, and investigate carefully.'
Sherlock's sudden smile sends alarm bells down my spine.
'I'm glad you agree. We leave within the hour. I've made you an overnight bag, John, no need to worry.'
'Wait, no, wait, where?'
'To some fancy tea rooms, frequented mostly by tourists and local old families with something to prove about class distinction, John. Does it matter where? Surely it's the room itself that matters, John!'
'No, wait. Something's not right. How did someone get locked inside a tea room? Those places are usually packed with waiters and clients!'
'Not, apparently, when they are the local food critic, who wished to be left undisturbed as she sampled her order of tea and crumpets. The manager had so little short notice of the critic's arrival as they were closing down and a toddler to pick up from nursery, that she allowed the guest to sample the produce at her own speed and time, locking up the room behind her, as the owner who would take over after the manager was on route to the tea rooms. The owner should have been there in five minutes, and she would have been, if a tree hadn't collapsed lengthwise at the very end of the local bridge. The owner was almost struck in a freaky accident. Luckily the tree caused only damage to the car, including the motor. At this point, remembering she had someone of importance reviewing her crumpets at the tea room, the owner desperately trying finding someone to go release the critic from the locked building, and indeed locked room. All whilst fighting the torrential rain to glare miserably at her wrecked car. At some point she tells us she got a call from the food critic who, magnanimously told her not to hurry, in view of the tragic circumstances of the wrecked car and blocked bridge. The caller said she was safe, and warm, and that it had been her faulty, being pushy to get served as the establishment closed, so she was prepared to wait till morning if need be. The owner was not happy with the idea that the critic would have a sleep in her fine leather sofas, but figured a grateful guest would make a nice review, and soaked to the bone whilst waiting for road assistance rescue, she agreed it was for the best.'
'How could a murderer know in advance of the falling tree and the late night arrival of the food critic? There's a lot of coincidences there, Sherlock.'
'Coincidences are the universe's hiccups; no one really expects them, and when they start you just want them over with.'
I shake my head, but I know it's merely a perfunctory gesture, I've already accepted the investigation invite.
'All of this whilst the victim was having tea and crumpets?
'Presumably, yes. Maybe some other delicatessen as well.'
'You're just making me hungry now.'
.
'You know this place', Sherlock deduces easily, from watching me disembark on the train platform. Just that, one glance at his friend and assistant, and he guesses correctly.
I nod, sharply, squaring my shoulders.
'I moved about, with Harry and the family. The Watsons had a little house up here once. Don't think it will still be up, unlike the old train station. Too much changes, Sherlock, once you leave a place where you lived a while.'
My friend's expression darkens slightly. 'Yes. Things change, things you didn't think could ever change.'
I glance at him. Is he talking about his Absence from Baker Street? Did he really think I'd be there, waiting, upon his return, holding a cup of tea and a biscuit?
Or a crumpet.
Waiting for what? For him to cheat death?
I sigh and look up and down the platform.
'Thought someone was supposed to meet us here.'
'I will deliver my protests to Lestrade for such sloppy welcome. Meanwhile, my dear John, perhaps you could be our local guide on these streets?'
Trust Sherlock to use the situation to investigate my growing up.
'We can just get a cab instead', I insist, setting out without waiting on his retort.
.
TBC
