From Wordwielder: Holmes' favourite song to play on the violin
Yeah, not real sure how I got from that prompt to this monster, but I enjoyed writing this one. Hope it's just as fun to read :)
"Mr. Holmes!"
Mrs. Hudson's growl shattered the silence. Something clattered to the floor, then footsteps darted toward the stairs. Another pair of feet followed to make me look over the banister.
"I told you to stay out of my kitchen!"
Holmes rounded the corner at top speed. The escaping smirk carried a fair amount of fear, too, and another moment revealed why. Only a glance at me prevented Mrs. Hudson from following him up the stairs, spatula in hand.
"Mr. Holmes! Get down here and clean up this mess!"
He nearly dove into his bedroom instead, slamming the door behind him. A single creak announced he had opened the window, then silence permeated the flat. I could no longer resist a question.
"What did he do?"
"Used the kitchen for an experiment," she nearly growled. A decision joined the clear irritation in her gaze, but her tone remained more than frustrated. "He left via the drainpipe, didn't he?"
"Sounded like it." Five steps took me to Holmes' door, where a knuckle tapped wood. "Holmes? You do realize that you would be better off facing her now, right?"
He would have been better off not using the kitchen for an experiment, but I did not hear the rejoinder I would have expected. When another knock still received only silence, I cracked the door. Clear prints on the rug traveled straight from the door to the unlocked window, and Mrs. Hudson's irritation had changed to pure mischief when I returned to the landing.
"He's gone," I confirmed. "Do you need help cleaning?"
"No. Is your other offer still valid?"
My…offer? I did not answer for a moment. When had I offered anything?
Another conversation came to mind, one that had taken place shortly after Holmes had locked me in my bedroom last month, and I grinned. Yes, that offer was still valid. Moreover, Holmes' bored comments last week would add another layer to such a plan. A moment retrieved my cane, then I joined her downstairs to set up the details.
Holmes might learn something from this, but even if he did not, Mrs. Hudson and I would both enjoy ourselves.
He changed streets as Big Ben finally tolled in the distance. He could probably go home now. Mrs. Hudson's anger would have cooled, and three hours meant Watson had thought of far too many ways to rib Holmes for getting himself chased upstairs yet again. He should have paid better attention to the time.
Not that he regretted borrowing the kitchen. The experiment—when finished—would have both solved his case and provided a small treat for both Mrs. Hudson and Watson, but Mrs. Hudson had returned from an afternoon with her sister to find Holmes in the final—and messiest—stage of an hour-long process. While he normally would have pretended either disinterest or apologetic withdrawal, her immediate anger had made him cut his losses and run. She did not usually reach straight for the spatula.
That probably tied to his and Watson's recent prank war, though. More than one of Holmes' pranks had caught Mrs. Hudson in addition to—or instead of—Watson, and even he could see that their landlady had tired of the "childish tricks" long ago. He should probably find a way to ease some of that frustration.
But how? A pouch of tobacco, a book, or even a few of their favorite songs frequently dissipated Watson's anger when Holmes took something too far, but Mrs. Hudson did not need anything. He certainly could not give her kitchen or sewing supplies as an apology. Those would go to replacing what he had borrowed. What about cleaning supplies?
That did not qualify as a gift, according to Watson. He had said gifts only included things she would use but might not buy for herself.
But he did not know her as he knew Watson, did not know her smaller habits in her own rooms. Watson could always use another novel, writing supplies, or a bag of sweets from that shop on the Strand—provided Holmes could get them to the flat without emptying the bag. The candy Holmes could demolish in an afternoon would last Watson over a week, but he never saw Mrs. Hudson with anything like that. She cooked what she wanted and hid it from Holmes.
Would she appreciate another puzzle book?
Perhaps, but she had just started a new one. Better to save that for when the gift would be immediately useful. What else could he give her?
Long minutes thought of nothing. He would have to ask Watson. His friend had always—
Wandering thoughts abruptly halted as he rounded the alley's final corner. He froze mid step, then urgency sprinted the last hundred yards. Mrs. Hudson never left the back door standing open.
Nor would she leave her kitchen in such disarray. Rapid movements had strewn pots, pans, and the remains of Holmes' experiment around the room. A light dusting of flour covered every flat surface, and everything from the cupboards now littered the counters. One chair barricaded the door to the hall, but the other three stacked into an unusual tower in the middle of the floor. The dread weighing down Holmes' chest only increased on sight of a scrap of paper fastened to the topmost chair leg. He should have stayed, should have faced Mrs. Hudson's irritation rather than leaving for three hours.
Worse than someone breaking in, the note could only be a ransom. A shaking hand carefully pried the sheet free.
"I suggest you clean quickly—"
Every ounce of fear drained in a dizzying rush. Watson's handwriting filled the page, large and unhurried in a manner that promised nothing but strategic mischief. They had not been attacked. Mrs. Hudson had finally made good on Watson's offer.
Another glance noted the disaster of a room. Made extremely good on Watson's offer. If they hid somewhere in the city…
"I suggest you clean quickly," the note read, Watson's smirk bleeding through the words. "We move locations every half hour, and your trail starts somewhere in this room."
Then the mess could only begin his search. A shot of amusement noted that his trail could start just outside the door, but Mrs. Hudson would have planned this more than Watson, which meant any deductions he might otherwise base on knowledge of his friend quickly voided themselves. Mrs. Hudson would not go to the same places or lay the same clues, and she had other ways of hiding her—their—trail that Watson would never be able to use alone. If he wanted to find them before supper—the most likely forfeit time—he would have to follow the clues they had set.
Which meant cleaning a mess far worse than the one he had left. He sighed and pocketed the note. Where should he start?
The counters, he decided. A few minutes shoved everything in the closest cupboards—with the labels facing the wrong direction, simply to be a nuisance—and he cleared the two worktables even faster. His own supplies had been scattered around the room apparently at random. Chemistry equipment found a corner to go upstairs later, and the kitchen and food items he put back where he had found them. The chairs returned to their places—right side up and unstacked—to let him retrieve the spices stacked beneath. Those lined yesterday's shelf before a moment retrieved the broom from its corner. Only once he had swept the entire room did he find the small piece of paper tucked into a baseboard.
"Experimental research."
Relief bloomed at the simple beginning. They had gone to the lending library first—or the university library, but Mrs. Hudson's hand in this made the public library far more likely. Sweeping the pile out the door both negated the dustpan and avoided Mrs. Hudson chiding him for neglecting to finish, and a firm tug nearly slammed the door on his way out. Did they have any reason to choose a library other than the closest one?
Unlikely. He bypassed a cab to push through the crowd on his way to the next alley. The winding path eventually dumped him on another major thoroughfare, where he dodged the press for less than a block before reaching a small neighborhood lending library. A hunch took him directly to the cookbook section. Had Mrs. Hudson chosen the hiding place, or had Watson?
Mrs. Hudson, as well as the next location. One book remained slightly further into the shelf than the rest.
"Tools of the Trade: A Guide to the Kitchen's Many Implements"
Tools. The clues involved cooking but revolved around the experiment that had started this. Provided that trend continued, the true hint rested not in kitchen implements but in chemistry equipment. Another moment noted two other possibilities before he tucked the book back in its place and hurried out the door. Less than ten minutes reached his favorite chemistry supply shop.
"Evening, Mr. Holmes. What can I do for you?" The clerk set a dingy beaker aside, cleaning cloth fluttering to the counter at a potential customer. His faint smile made Holmes skip the pleasantries.
"Where did they go next?"
"Who might we be talking about?" the man answered slyly. "I get many customers in a day, as you know."
Holmes barely resisted scowling a reply. Mr. Patel knew his business and truly cared about his shop, but he had a pawky streak worse than Watson's at times. He obviously knew just what had started this game, but Holmes wanted to finish the hunt, not banter with a shop clerk.
"Did Watson or Mrs. Hudson leave their message with you, or must I search your shop as I did the kitchen?"
Searching Mr. Patel's shop would not leave this place as tidy as Holmes had left the kitchen—as the shopkeeper well knew—but he merely threw back his head in a hearty laugh.
"They left it with me," he confirmed. "The doctor said you needed to 'check your math,' and Mrs. Hudson reminded you to 'look sharp, not close.'"
Sharp not close. A slow nod served as thanks as Holmes wandered out the door. Checking his math most likely referred to numbers or balancing equations, but how did 'sharp not close' narrow the list down?
An image came to mind of a recently opened shop on the other side of Regent's. Passing on their way back from a client's home, Watson had suggested they stop briefly to get an idea of what the store carried, but a moment had turned into nearly three hours at the wide array of merchandise lining the many shelves. "Sharp's Books and Antiques" fit the clue better than any other shop he remembered offhand. They had probably gone there.
Though he would lose time trying to find them in the displays. The cab dropped him outside a large building, and the almost new sign rattled with the force of the closing door. He paused in the entry. Where would they have gone?
"Check your math," Mr. Patel had said. Did this place have a mathematics section?
No. They did have a reference section, however. Scanning the rug found several familiar prints, but with neighboring aisles showing no sign of either Watson or Mrs. Hudson, he browsed the books themselves until a slip of paper caught his eye. "Mathematics and Its Uses in Chemistry" prompted huffed amusement as one hand plucked the familiar scrap from between the pages.
"Where can you always conduct experiments?"
At home, he retorted silently. Mrs. Hudson would not agree with that answer, however, and as her loopy handwriting filled the scrap, the waiting cab lurched toward the university lab.
Only to find the windows dark and the door locked. They had probably intended to "borrow" a station for a while, but a note on the wall sent him three buildings over, where the lab supervisor filled out paperwork in his office. The man barely glanced up at Holmes' knock.
"You Mr. Holmes?"
"I am," he confirmed, stopping just inside the door. "Do you have a message for me?"
"Here." The pen returned to its holder to let him retrieve a folded journal sheet. "I suppose it means more to you than it does to me?"
Obviously, but Holmes made no reply, full attention on Watson's scrawled words. The handwriting had changed since the flat. What would make Watson's handwriting change in that manner?
Several reasons, none of them good. He firmly focused on the words rather than the letters that formed them.
"Don't forget to clean up."
Only to find yet another factor supporting his deductions. The other clues had zigzagged across the city, but the closest answer to this hint lay in the same building. He barely answered the man's question before hurrying down the hall. Freshly wet footprints tracked from a puddle of water to promise him not far behind, and Mrs. Hudson's order to "Share the results"—left attached to the janitor's door—sent him one building south and down to the basement, where the university kitchen occupied the east half of the floor. Two familiar figures turned the hallway's far corner, one limping heavily.
"Watson!"
Painted brick easily echoed the call to their hearing, but they continued out of sight. Holmes skipped the kitchen door to hurry after them.
"Mrs. Hudson!"
No answer, and the hall's end found only another empty corridor. He frowned but backtracked. Better to follow the trail they had left than fall behind again because he chose the wrong door.
He would find them soon enough.
"Do you think he saw us?"
"Un—likely." A painful stumble broke the word in half. I paused to steady myself against the wall. "He will have to go back through the main entrance."
Frowned concern competed with the amusement of the last several hours, but she did not comment on the grunted discomfort. Nearly a minute's slow walk let me sink into the hard chair I had claimed for the last half hour, and footsteps sounded as she claimed a nearby stool.
"Doctor! Mrs. Hudson!" Jacob froze one step into the supply room, the towel over his shoulder announcing him on his way to the shelf behind me. "Did I mark the time wrong? I thought you had just left for the bookshop."
"Holmes spotted us outside," I told him with a grin. "So we ducked through a back door. He will reach the entrance any second."
"Ah." Clear mischief lit the former Irregular's face, and he tossed the towel to a nearby rack. "He gets to come through me, then. This'll be fun."
I could not restrain a laugh as he disappeared back toward the main cooking area, but Holmes' voice sounded at the doors a moment later. Unintelligible words evidently met the formidable head cook, then Jacob's voice joined the commotion.
"Come now, Mr. Holmes. The doctor I could see, but Mrs. Hudson? Why would they come to my kitchen when Mrs. Hudson has her own?"
"Because…"
The words trailed away, lost in the rest of the kitchen's bustle.
"You're gonna have to speak up, Mr. Holmes. I don't think the entire kitchen caught that."
I did not need to look to know Holmes scowled. Just because he had enjoyed the hunt—he never truly disliked these city-wide games of hide and seek, no matter their cause—did not mean he wanted to drag out the game any longer than necessary. A delay caused by a mischievous Irregular was still a delay, and one that could lose him the round. Less than thirty minutes remained before suppertime.
"You know where they are, do you not? They would have given you the next clue."
"Now why would they do that?" He probably leaned against a counter, making no effort to hide his wide smirk and having far too much fun with this. "I usually work in the back, not the front. Hey, did anyone here talk to a man and a woman about leaving a clue for Mr. Holmes?"
Silence answered him, of course. I had asked specifically for Jacob when we arrived. We had not spoken with anyone else.
"Are you sure they came through here, Mr. Holmes? Doctors don't usually leave a trail of flour like consulting detectives do."
"Completely." He ignored the ribbing, though Jacob's chuckle suggested a deepened glower. "And you are letting them get further away. What clue did they leave?"
"'Enter by the front or enter by the back,'" Jacob promptly recited, "'in experimental kitchens, disasters get you smacked.'"
Evident pleasure laced the rhyme he had apparently invented on the spot, but Holmes needed only a moment before he growled a reply.
"What did they truly leave?"
"A rhyme," Jacob answered honestly, still obviously grinning. "Solve the clue to find them, Mr. Holmes. I'm not risking Mrs. Hudson's irritation by giving you a hint."
I glanced up in time to see Mrs. Hudson stifle a laugh. The rest of the kitchen quieted marginally as everyone enjoyed the confrontation, and my pleasure only grew with every second Holmes thought.
"Which office opens to the back hallway?"
"One of them," Jacob returned. "Which one do you want to check?"
Another moment apparently pictured the building's layout. "The last one on the left, but they did not stay there. Watson would have chosen a corner out of anyone's way. Are you going to let me through?"
"Fine." Jacob's boot nudged a piece of metal on the floor. "Best hurry. They told me they were leaving fifteen minutes ago."
The deliberate redirection made Holmes hesitate, but I carefully gained my feet as familiar footsteps approached our door. My friend stopped in the entrance a moment later, still scowling at Jacob's mischief.
"Took you long enough," I said before he could comment on my posture. "The next location was a bookstore with no final clue."
And we had intended to separate. I did not say as much, however. Holmes had commented many times on the difficulty of finding me in a bookstore, and a low harrumph said he had followed the logic. The grumbled acknowledgement failed to hide a frown more at me than at our fun.
"What did you do?"
"Helped Mrs. Hudson lead you on a themed game of hide and seek." I waved a farewell at Jacob before we left through the back door. "Did you learn anything?"
"Plenty." His tone conveyed the less than grudging apology he would not voice, though most of his focus remained on me. "Are you going to tell me what happened between Mr. Patel's shop and the antique store?"
No. Bruises did not count as injuries, and the knowledge might distract him from Mrs. Hudson's reason for doing this.
"Mrs. Hudson modified a clue to better make her point, though I've heard a spatula does almost as well."
Her laugh rang above Holmes' irritated grumble, but his reply sparked a bickering argument that almost distracted him from my limp.
And proved he had grasped what Mrs. Hudson intended to convey. I simply ignored his many questioning glances. He would figure it out soon enough.
Like when the morning paper announced his case solved during a chance encounter with a runaway cab.
And so ends this year's writing challenge. Thank you to everyone who reviewed, and especially to Hades Lord of the Dead for hosting this!
Don't forget to drop your thoughts below. I will resume my normal posting schedule on Jan 17 (or maybe a little earlier, if RL cooperates). Happy New Year, everyone! :D