The Game's On: Sherlock and John are OUT on an adventure

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First Part:

Twenty minutes later a taxi discharged John and Sherlock in the chilled twilight air across the street from the Willy R. Dodd Salvage Warehouse in the High Street Harlesden. Where they stood at the kerb waiting for a break in the traffic, dusk gave them the advantage of seeing through the broad storefront windows into the brightly lit interior.

Assorted prism chandeliers hung from the ceiling, tall wooden columns normally seen on porticoes framed the large window on the inside. Although the view was partially blocked by bulky geometric shapes from salvaged architectural remnants, the human activity that took place within was eye-catching, like watching a film on an elaborate set with the sound turned off.

"Hurry, John!" Sherlock beckoned with a wide sweep of his arm once traffic allowed them to cross.

As they approached the corner building, John saw a towering figure in the center of the showroom.

"Yup. That's Dodd," Sherlock nodded in response to John's furrowed brow.

John eyed Dodd with apprehension. Willy Dodd held his great arms akimbo, listening with a stern look on his rugged face—a face weathered by years in the construction trade. Atop his massive head was a shock of dark grey, wiry hair. As he folded his thick arms across his barrel chest, he moved slowly, ploddingly like an elephant, and seemed as formidable. His attention was thoroughly absorbed by the two shorter men standing before him. They were gesturing with their hands, apparently offering explanations, whilst two more men and three women stood nearby. All eyes were riveted on the speakers.

Given Dodd's powerful bulk, if this man had taken a swing at Sherlock in the flat, a black eye would have been the least of the detective's worries. John cleared his throat, trying to remove the concern from his voice, "—Dodd called in all his employees for this special meeting?"

"Yes. At least all who matter," Sherlock nodded as they both reached the pavement in front of the warehouse where he lightly touched John's shoulder as a signal to wait. "During our consult earlier today, Dodd had provided me with their names and details of their job descriptions in case we wished to question them. Did background checks whilst you were at the surgery, but your fresh perspective and impressions would be helpful. My text this evening let him know we would come by and hold our own inquiries." Sherlock paused and tilted his head as if listening. "Sure, John, he's fierce looking, but actually he's a gentle giant and too sluggish to have done me or my eye any damage."

"Right!" Always unnerved when it appeared that Sherlock had read his mind, John swiftly recovered his composure and motioned with his head toward the warehouse. "This isn't Cluedo, remember."

"No, it's not. More like Inspector Hercule Poirot in my thinking." With a devilish grin on his face, Sherlock studied the illuminated scene through the storefront glass. "Should be fun."

"Tread carefully, please. Broken reputations and people's lives are hard to restore." Although he spoke softly, John's warning was clear.

"I will do my best, John," Sherlock replied in his usual dry tone.

The bright interior lit Sherlock's face with a mellow glow, but John sensed Sherlock was feeling anything but mellow. "Somehow, that's not reassuring," the doctor challenged.

Turning on his heel to face his partner, Sherlock threw John an injured look that John did not believe for one moment was sincere. Rather, the doctor countered his friend's feigned indignation with a lifted brow and waited for Sherlock to acknowledge the truth.

Gradually, an amused smile—of concession—spread across the detective's face. He chuckled softly as he slowly backed toward the main entrance. Seconds before his back collided with the double doors, Sherlock spun around, flung out his arms to pull them wide, and strode through with John at his heels. All eyes turned toward them, and all discussion died instantly. John suspected it may have had more to do with the dramatic-looking black eyepatches both he and Sherlock were wearing rather than with their dramatic entrance.

Quickly John surveyed the warehouse showroom. It was crammed from end-to-end and floor-to-ceiling with eclectic pieces salvaged from Tudor to Edwardian-era buildings, doubtless slated for demolition. A selection of old doors from homes, churches and commercial properties were leaning against one wall; colorful stained-glass windows were stacked on racks, several claw-foot tubs were arranged like a small fleet with barely enough room between to allow for a normal human to squeeze past. Ornate cast-iron radiators in all shapes and sizes were herded like sheep in another section, and strapped bundles of aged-wood flooring were propped upright against the far wall. Only the center, where the workers stood with their boss, had enough open space for them to group.

Sherlock had already joined them as John approached.

"Ah, Mr. Dodd." Sweeping his powerful one-eyed laser stare over the assembled personnel, Sherlock acknowledged the dominant person in the room with a nod and then gestured toward his right. "This is my esteemed partner, Dr. John Watson. As instructed, you have called in your staff. Good. Also, I see the one is still missing."

"Wha'! Is this a joke, Holmes?" Despite his heavy voice, Dodd's stern look lost some of its edge as amusement played over his features. Several of his employees suppressed snorts and giggles.

Watching their reactions, John realized the eyepatches were distracting, diluting the mood with levity rather than the gravity required to ensure the investigation's success. It might be harder for Sherlock to command an authoritative presence costumed with the signature piece of a pirate.

"We are quite serious, I assure you," Sherlock wielded his imperious tone like a sword cutting through a thicket. The chortles immediately stopped.

"Fine!" Dodd was the only one who seemed incapable of entirely losing his crooked smile. "Rang Tom up a few times. Can't be reached."

"I'm not surprise," Sherlock grunted as he surveyed the individuals briefly before directing the employees to regroup. "Office staff manager Judi Magnum—fourteen years with Dodd Salvage, assistants Clara Allens—eleven years, Tess Yorkton—four years, stand over here." He waved to his left.

The three women looked over at Dodd, who nodded that they should comply with Sherlock's directions.

"Warehouse managers Sam Giles—fifteen years at another Dodd Warehouse site in Cardiff, transferred two weeks ago to this location, and Gerry Smithers —seven years here, worked literally from the bottom up, basement duties to main floor." Sherlock flicked his index finger, indicating where he wanted them to queue up next to the women. "Over here. Next, salvage sorters Jack Bainbridge—seven months, and Nathan Hollis—two years, stand alongside," Sherlock paused before bowing his head with exaggerated politeness, "and Joh—Dr. Watson, please, you will step over here and aid me by holding the place for the missing stock boy, Tom—six months."

Demonstrating his detailed knowledge of their roles in the warehouse effectively subdued the last vestiges of the frivolous mood introduced by the eyepatches and gave Sherlock the authority and control he sought. The tension in the room was now palpable.

After he had rearranged the Dodd personnel, Sherlock walked up and down the row, his hands clasped behind his back, like a military officer inspecting his troops. Only John knew that Sherlock was far more capable at deducing details with one eye than any eagle-eyed commander the former army captain might have known. Leaning in to look closely at their hands or sniffing the air around them—except for John—Sherlock finished his inspection without uttering a word. The detective closed his eye and stood still. Although John had recognized Sherlock was filing information in his Mind Palace, the employees began to fidget nervously.

"NOW!" Sherlock shouted and clapped his hands abruptly startling everyone, including John. "I must inspect the basement, but first, the diary, schedules, and postings for the past three months. Where are they?"

Dodd lifted a bushy brow—an encouraging gesture of "go on"—toward his clerical staff and Judi was first to respond. "Over here, Mr. Holmes," she said and guided the detective to the desks and file cabinets where her coworkers and she kept the business flowing. John noted with a tight grin that the other employees held their ranks—Sherlock had not dismissed them—and waited at attention until the detective had finished examining the paperwork.

Returning to the ranks, Sherlock pointed at Gerry, Jack, and Nathan in quick succession. "You, you, and you! Come! Monsieur Dodd and Mlle Clara. Mon ami, Dr. Watson, s'il vous plait, allons-y. Les autre, allez-y! Attendez ici jusqu'à ce que je revienne" Whether his verbal commands challenged their listening comprehension, Sherlock's hand gestures clearly indicated who should remain in the showroom.

"So you want us to wait here, until you get back?" Judi translated for Sammy and Tara who seemed confused.

"Précisément," Sherlock nodded distractedly, noting in his Mind Palace which employees understood French should it have bearing in this investigation. Pretending to be Poirot had some unexpected advantages. He decided he would reuse this ploy in future cases when warranted. "This should not take long," he quipped and with a dramatic flair existed the showroom toward the back hallway.

John suppressed outward expressions of amusement spurred by both Sherlock's French and "impersonation" of Inspector Poirot. Quietly, he followed the select group through the main floor toward a wide back corridor. The area was sizeable and as they passed two enormous storage rooms filled with stacks of corbels, brackets, furnishings, polished mahogany pieces of built-in cabinetry, mantelpieces in marble and wood, John marveled at the collections. It also prompted him to wonder why Sherlock had selected these four employees. Studying them, John decided to practice his own observational skills.

Clara Allens, early thirties, was the quietest of the group. Whilst there was no ring on her finger, John knew in today's world it did not necessarily indicate she was not in a relationship. Thin framed, tall, and slightly slouched as if unhappy with her height, she did little to style her hair or enhance her attractive features with cosmetics, unlike the other women in the office whom John had noticed tended to be more fashionable. Familiar enough with feminism to know this should not be criteria for judgment, John was also a physician trained to read body language; he easily saw Clara had low self-esteem as evidenced by her lackluster demeanor. From two metres away, she reeked of a cheaper brand of fragrance, likely bought in a Boots Pharmacy, as if this was the only attention she lavished upon herself. The scent was not completely unpleasant, but to John's ordinary nose it was excessively sweet.

Gerry Smithers, a burly man with receding hairline and thinning on the crown—classic male-pattern baldness—was in his mid-forties. Someone who had spent much of his working life on his feet, he now favored his knees. John strongly suspected he had arthritis. The slight bags under his eyes were signs of inflammation related to consuming salty foods, not getting enough sleep, and possible allergies. Would Smithers take kindly to John suggesting a visit to a GP for consultation or would the man snap, "Piss off!" How many times had John accused Sherlock of being a show off? Yet, John realized how hard it was to resist offering unsolicited advice, especially when others were oblivious to the obvious.

John shifted his attention to the talkative Jack Bainbridge. A spindly youth with unkempt straw-colored hair, Jack had not yet grown into his frame. There was at least a ten-year gap between the boy and the others, and he was trying too hard to connect with his coworkers. From the snippets of conversation John overheard, he wasn't succeeding. After a few failed attempts, Jack began rhythmically bobbing his head whilst reciting phrases in imitation of his favorite rap artists, but to no avail. Clara and Nathan ignored him.

Nathan Hollis was a thirtyish man, rough around the edges and fidgety. He did not wear a wedding band, but the pale, indented skin on his left ring finger indicated he had worn one until recently. The close-cropped brown hair, heavy eyebrows, and chin stubble on a round face made him appear perpetually sullen. More telling was the impatience that glinted in his dark brown eyes, as if he wanted more out of life than being a salvage sorter and sometime lorry driver. John understood the man's sentiment all too well and reflected how his own life had changed for the better. After a year of chasing Sherlock Holmes on assorted cases, the work and this glorious feeling of vitality were far from getting old.

Even now, watching the detective perform yet another variation of this process on the current case, John's curiosity was still piqued.

What had Sherlock deduced about Dodd's four warehouse workers that distinguished them from the others? Enough it seems to have them return to the scene of the crime. No doubt, it was bloody amazing, John thought, that Sherlock accomplished it all with an eyepatch over one eye!

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To be continued...

Special thanks to my patient Betas who watch over me.