Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson and all associated characters belong to the late, great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his estate, various studios and other companies. This pastiche is completely non-profit, and only for enjoyment and entertainment.

Warnings: Adult Themes, Light Bad Language

Authors Notes: Lots to chew on here! I couldn't find a convenient place to break this one up, so it's fairly long chapter. I did have great fun imagining Holmes rooms though!

Please read & review.

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Chapter Nine: Our Advertisement Brings a Visitor

...

One look at 14 Montague Street and you could instantly see Holmes motivation for leaving as quickly as possible. It was a huge, turn of the century rotting wood boarding house, so clearly derelict that it was hard to imagine anyone walking through it without fear of their life. The landlady, a nearly visible cloud of alcoholic indulgence hovering around her and leaving trails of ghostly gin wherever she went, grunted Watson upstairs; the mere twelve feet she walked putting a vivid red varnish on her cheeks and unpleasant sweat glistening on her face. On the way, Watson discreetly knocked unheeded empty chemical cans and other abandoned garbage from the path with his borrowed cane. The unloved and unclean odours and general despondent air of the dank hallways lined with doors was like a lead weight on the soul, even though some effort had been made to varnish the floors and walls to an almost overwhelming slickness. Watson could smell the wood treatments in the air, thick and cloying. It seemed an odd thing to do if the garbage wasn't also picked up as well.

Watson politely waited until the grunting and weaving landlady cursed her way back to her lair below, and then knocked on the door to Holmes' room and waited. And waited.

And waited. Finally he gave up and gently turned the knob, which shrieked in protest. The door opened in a shower of rotting splinters and pivoted loose onto one hinge; it's brother dropped to the floor. Wrestling with the suddenly all askew door, a horrified Watson manoeuvred inside and braced the door back on it's jams. By some miracle it held.

Shocked and embarrassed, Watson turned to survey the rooms of the great Sherlock Holmes.

It was everything and nothing he expected. The one room was only very small, about twice the size of Watson's own storage locker, but it contained far more than a room so small should probably hold. A chaotic mismatch of chemical supplies and equipment marched across the floor and on every available service, waging a war of space against a paper mill of books, newspapers, journals and other such paraphernalia, most of the pages dripping with bookmarks or graffitied with savage pen and pencil marks of all descriptions. Books were open to all pages, some actually ripped out, others doubling as flat surfaces for beakers, test tubes, stirrers, retorts, droppers. Not one but two microscopes wobbled precariously atop mountains of paper and miscellanea, and there were big bulky machines which Watson was pretty sure was an actual gas chromatographer and mass spectrometer, a tangled nest of cables leading from them and weighing down a particularly battered looking old laptop jammed almost carelessly between a bulky tool roll containing what looked like burglary tools of all descriptions and pile of graphic crime scene photos.

The chaos extended to nearly the furthest reaches of the low roofed walls – whatever vertical space wasn't taken up with newspaper articles, technical diagrams and more chemistry equipment hammered into hooks was taken up with pipes, bats, truncheons, knives of all calibres, some of which bristled out of the umbrella stand like a bamboo forest and a blackboard almost white with chalk dusk was propped across the one window, blocking any incoming light and giving the one bare light bulb, probably last changed when Edison was still alive, exclusive illumination rights.

Aside from the stand and the blackboard, there was a bookshelf that did not contain a single book; just row after row of chemical components in all manner of jar and carton and a few rickety card tables holding the same. There was also a couch; although this was not immediately apparent. It was half buried under papers, books, clothes and equipment to the point where it was just a shapeless mound of chaos, at the top of which a lonely violin jutted up like a flag. That was it for the furniture – there simply wasn't room for anything else.

It was astonishingly chaotic. But as Watson carefully navigated his way across the floor – what could even be seen of it – he began to see there was a sort of method in this madness. Every scrawled notation on the walls, like 'ROBBERY IN MAYFAIR PARK, THIEVES NOT FOUND' had a list of jagged observations next to it – group of three, more wealthy than victims, young, note the imitation jewellery in the safe left along with a list of reference notes – SEE notes on the Highgate Affair, get records f/ Collins, Lemac, Rushish – now 20. Profile noted Bedley's 'Study on Psychological Aspects of Affluent Sub-groups', Chap 3, pg 59, Wang Xie 'Young Emperors' Chap 14 pg 123. There was a sketch of the crime scene – not true to life but so clear and raw in it's stark, minimalist lines that it was still like being there.

Writings, violence, death and deviance surrounded Watson. It was, he ruefully acknowledged, a very Holmesian environment, right down to the missing conventional staples of most places of sleep – like a bed or a chair, or anything of that kind.

Watson was concerned that this ripple of orderly disaster was typical of Holmes' living spaces, although the rigidly orderly lined and labelled chemical shelves gave a glimmer of hope that the man knew what neatness was for. He was just considering whether he could risk moving anything to clear a space to sit in without bringing everything in the room crashing down from whatever precarious balance held it, the door swung in and half off it's hinges again, though Holmes just calmly shoved it back into place with the ease of long practice.

"Watson, there you are," was his opening statement as he tossed an impressive armful of flattened cardboard boxes carelessly across the mess of one corner and shedding his outer coat in one brisk move. "Of course you have heard from our future landlady, which no doubt rather made up for a bad day in which you missed breakfast and had to confer with the dazzlingly dull intellects that are Gregson and Lestrade. They're a pair of debutantes and jealous as professional beauties when in each other's company. As long as they're not getting in the way of my investigations, they're quite a show to watch when trying to put knives into one another."

Watson's mouth was open. "How did you...you know what? Never mind," he sighed. "I'm sure it's all perfectly clear."

"Oh yes," Holmes grinned. "From the crumb stains on your cuff to the leaky ink mark on your hands – Lestrade is an absolute miser with his stationary costs – your whereabouts have not been hard to deduce."

"Holmes, I need to talk to you about..."

"Baker Street," Holmes cheerfully hopped around Watson and proceeded to dump everything off the camouflaged couch with utter indifference to it's fate. Watson managed to catch the much maligned violin as it sailed past. "Ah yes, I was looking for that. This new woman is going to be an absolute tyrant, Watson; the kind of disapproving disciplinarian who causes mortal men to flee in terror from her glare of disdain. She will be some improvement over my current one," to this Holmes shot a disgruntled glare at the rickety door. "But so would a half trained monkey holding a door key."

"Holmes..." Watson tried to cut into the man's cutting observations.

"Do you know I've spent most of the last day fielding calls from every single one of my two dozen something references? She called every single one including one currently stationed in research in the Antarctic? They were most amused at my circumstances and wasted no time in telling all sorts of lurid falsehoods about my habits," Holmes glared at nothing. "That's gratitude for you. Ah, well, our gambit has still paid off and I treasure the thought of bidding adieu to this monument to squalor, preferably before the esteemed Mrs Dudley gets impatient and burns me to a cinder, as is her plan." Holmes gestured for Watson to sit, and then spun around to start digging through another random shrine of mess.

Watson was momentarily thrown off track by 'burnt to a cinder' and he replied without thinking. "Mrs Hudson called all of yours? She only called one of mine."

Holmes froze and slowly pivoted around. "Only one?"

Watson desperately suppressed a smile at the look of solid injured injustice flooding across the other man's face. "Yes, that's right."

A variety of expressions worked their way across Holmes face, finally settling on a sour flavoured look of uncaring disdain. "Well obviously she blindly trusts someone who looks respectable and polite rather than bothering to look deeper, as is the curse of her gender and age. So many older women get taken in by the upright and clean cut facade it's almost amusing," he glanced at Watson from the corner of her eye. "Only one, you say?"

Watson swallowed the laughter bubbling up his throat. "Only one. Stamford," he confirmed, watching Holmes ire increase.

"Stamford?" Holmes spat. "He's the one who told that woman about me studying poisonous compounds, the idiot. I had to give a ten minute explanation and practically had to sell my soul to guarantee I wasn't going to slip anything into the water supply," Holmes arms waved exasperatedly. "She is lucky you really are a dully respectable as you seem if she's willing to trust the word of Stamford. I have serious doubts about her mental capacity."

"Oh come on Holmes," Watson protested. "You can't blame her. Not after you went on about clients coming into your rooms needing things that require chemical equipment. Whatever you meant, it sure sounded like drug lab to me! I certainly wouldn't let you have rooms after that."

Holmes dismissed this with one vigorous wave. "It's perfectly obvious that I am more than smart enough not to do something so asinine in my own home! Good grief, that kind of conventional thinking is a dearth of any true intelligence."

Watson took a seat on what was a particularly lumpy couch. "There's a reason why conventional thinking is convention Holmes – it happens a lot," he retorted drily.

Holmes irritably dug a kettle out of the chaos. "That just makes it all the more stupid. Tea?" at a nod he turned back to the instrument, muttering under his breath. "Only one. I'll wager she even thinks all priests are automatically trustworthy."

Watson sighed. "Holmes, I didn't come here to talk to you about this," he redirected firmly. "I got called into the Inspectors today to have explained to me about the dismissible offence of taking evidence from a crime scene with regards to a ring I know absolutely bugger all about. Seeing as I nearly lost my job over an ad I never placed in the paper," he tossed the circled newspaper page to the eccentric man, who caught it and promptly tossed it aside while he turned to the kettle as it boiled. "Would you mind explaining what the hell this is all about?"

Holmes turned from where he'd had his back to Watson and was frowning down at, Watson blinked, Watson's own phone as he scrolled through the messages. Watson's hand flew to his pocket.

"I picked it on the way to the kettle," Holmes explained absentmindedly without even looking up. Forget scepticism, Watson thought in disbelief and annoyance. He does pluck thoughts out of people's heads. The man really is a psychic.

Holmes poured the kettle – which was for some unfathomable reason filled with tea not water – and brought a beaker filled with it over to Watson without ever tearing his eyes off the tiny screen. "Let's see if our suspect is tempted enough..."

Watson took the beaker by the rim with one hand and reached up to grasp the stolen phone in the other, covering the screen. Holmes looked up irritably.

"Holmes," Watson spoke warningly. "Explanations."

Holmes huffed while bringing his own beaker down to the couch impatiently, before starting an irritated and rapid fire retort. "We know the killer bought the ring, because he came back for it. I doubt very much whether he knows for sure where he dropped it after the murder. The ad in the paper along with this," he waggled the phone. "Will draw him out, as long as he can believe that he dropped it on the street and not in the room. Bait on our hook to draw our catch. Happy?"

"Despite what you think of my deductive skills, I did manage to figure that out on my own, Holmes," Watson replied dryly. "What I meant was, why did you drag my name into this? Because let me tell you, having to explain myself to two ranking superiors who are under the pump and not inclined towards mercy right now was not on my list of fun activities for the day, and neither was almost getting sacked. So please..." Watson rotated a hand.

"Well I couldn't very well use my name," Holmes replied haughtily. "My name is becoming known and the killer might recognise it, which would annul the point of the whole thing. But if he believes an innocent third party picked it up, he might be tempted out of the woodwork. Even if he's savvy enough to look up your record, all he will see is a relative newcomer to the force with little to no actual connection to any arresting officer. Hence, the ring was found by you." Holmes continued to scroll through the names they had received. "Hopefully, between this false fishing expedition and the guests who I can hear coming up the hall, we will have our murderer in custody by the week's end."

There was a brief knock, more for customs sake than for functions. Watson turned.

The door rattled open, this time admitting a small pack of boys and young teenagers. They were in the middle of some sort of heated debate about some football match and didn't pause as they ranged about the room with careless familiarity.

They were a ragged bunch – their clothes looked well worn and more than second hand, their shoes were tatty and falling to bits. Personal hygiene seemed to be an optional extra in their lives, but that could be true of many, many boys. Watson was hit by a group stare of various levels of cynicism and animal wariness. They reminded him of the kids he'd seen in Afghanistan – weary veterans of a mean world.

"Wotcher, guv," greeted one lad, more or less the oldest, with dirty blonde hair and the lanky look of someone heading into the wonderful world of growth spurts. His comment was addressed to Holmes, who still hadn't glanced up from the phone. Around them the debate raged on as they kicked a battered ball about the room, rattling and bouncing it off various piles while draping themselves anywhere there was space. "Who's yer mate?"

"John Watson," Watson held out a hand for the boy to shake, holding the boy's gaze. He'd learned to handle kids like this in the war; if you treated them as shorter adults rather than children, you'd get along fine.

The boy nodded in acknowledgement. "Wiggins," he jabbed one dirty thumb at his chest. "An' this here's me platoon; Alfie, Big Dave, Dowser, Liddle, Small Dave and Red. We're 'ere to earn some dosh from the loony," he smirked at Holmes, still engrossed in the phone.

"Good luck with that. I don't think he's taken his medication today," Watson deadpanned, to much general amusement. He calmly turned to intercept a small hand that had been heading toward his gun holster, gripping it firmly but not harshly. "You do not touch that. Ever."

He was subjected to a long stare which dissolved into a saucy grin. "Wotever you say, guv," the small boy agreed.

Having negotiated the initial stage of this difficult political first contact situation, the boys all relaxed and continued their chatter, having got the measure of the stranger in their midst. Not a patronizing toff, not a predator and not a threat, they acknowledged, but to be respected.

"Yer a disgrace to honest thieves everywhere, Small Dave," Wiggin rolled his eyes, to which Small Dave have a sarcastic salute.
"Like you can talk Mister let's steal earrings fer my bird," one of the others grumbled good naturedly.

"Hey Liddle, you once stole the principal's car," another jeered.

"Borrowed, I borrowed the bloody thing. It don't count as stealin' if yer return it."

"In pieces?"

The arguments degenerated into a slanging match, punctuated by the ball being kicked from debater to debater like the literary conch shell.

Holmes had so far totally ignored them in what seemed to be a standard accepted procedure by the boys, came out of his study. "Troops, 'tention!"

The banter was silenced with a quick wave from Wiggins and the boys turned a surprisingly attentive focus on Holmes.

"Alright my Irregulars," Holmes shot them a commanding glare. "Standard weekly rate for some information gathering is what I need."

"Can we negotiate for a cost o' living increase, guv?" One boy sallied irreverently.

"Only if you can prove to me your cost of living has improved since a month ago," came the amused response. "You're still living with your grandmother, I see. And she still wears that hideous yellow lipstick too."

The other boots all laughed and jeered while the unfortunate rubbed his face sheepishly. "Now that just ain't fair, guv."

Holmes grinned. "Such is life. I'm looking for a taxi which dropped a fare at Lauriston Gardens after midnight two days ago. An independent company, not one of the larger ones. You know who and what to ask by now, I should hope."

Holmes neatly flicked the rolling ball with one turned ankle into Wiggin's possession. "You'll get paid three days from now, not before. Understood?"

A chorus of groans and accusations of unfairness rang out, but the boys all allowed themselves to be chivvied out by Wiggins good naturedly enough. Wiggin's shot Holms a jaunty salute as he disappeared through the askew door.

Watson stared at Holmes as he sipped warily from his beaker as the man refocused on the stolen phone.

"You disapprove, no doubt," Holmes stated, not taking his eyes off the screen.

Watson grunted. "Let's just say I have some reservations about sending children out to hunt for a known killer."

Holmes looked up from the phone, looking deeply and almost pityingly amused. "Watson, those 'children' live on the streets or in families that are falling apart, or in the deepest, darkest and most depraved aspects of this wonderful city. They are often the breadwinners of the family, and the kind of places that hire from that age bracket are not what you'd call respectable, at least not with a straight face. They walk among predators that would make a man eating tiger look like a domestic kitten by comparison; especially as malice is a uniquely human quality. Sometimes they even live with them, under the same roof. For these young people rubbing shoulders with killers is business as usual; or would you prefer I sent out agents who have no idea what a killer's eyes look like, who aren't prepared to face them and have no capacity for survival?" Holmes snorted derisively. "For a war veteran you are surprisingly naive."

Watson grimaced. The worst thing was it was all true. "Isn't this something that the police should and are trained to do? Isn't that what we pay taxes for?"

Holmes waved the phone at Watson, exasperated. "People don't talk to the police! The mere sight of a copper is enough to seal any person's lips shut, even if they have nothing relevant to say. Every person has guilty secrets; mundane, stupid and tedious ones almost all of the time, but they have them. They hold a superstitious fear that the plebeian intellects of Scotland Yard have some sort of magical means to see these idiotic secrets and say nothing, hoping it will help to hide them. Dim-wittedness stacked upon dim-wittedness. But the Irregulars work at the feet and in the shadows of adults, invisible and underestimated. They see all, and hear all, and they know others like them. It's a chain of intelligence running through the foundations of the city that no one even realizes is there. If there is a fact to be known about any event in this city, any trace of a criminal to be found they will find it – much faster and more accurately than the police ever will."

"Maybe," Watson conceded. "But look at the body the man left behind. Look at how vicious and merciless his crime was. This murderer is...extremely dangerous. Something inside his mind has justified him inflicting that on another human being, and that is unfathomable to me. I'd hate to think what would happen if he starts justifying it on everyone he meets or knows."

Holmes looked up from his analysis. "This case seems to have disturbed you. It certainly has made a deep impression in your mind."

"I can't honestly say why," Watson replied frankly. "I've seen bodies of all descriptions Holmes; bullets, mines, nerve gas, car bombs, knives, virulent contagions, – things uglier than even you can imagine. I've seen people, comrades, literally hacked to pieces in front of me but I have never lost my nerve. But that body..." Watson shook his head.

"That was a war," Holmes pointed out after a long silence. "But this is a murder in what is most likely a 'safe' place, at least that's what it is inside your head. And there is a mystery within it which stimulates the imagination. And with no imagination, there is no horror. But courage, my good fellow, there is a sure fire cure for this unease. We can find this man, and once we do he will never kill again. That I will guarantee. There's the scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every inch of it."

Holmes refocused on the phone in his hand. "Ah, this could be our man."

Watson leaned over to take a look and saw a brief, to the point message. 'My granddaughter's ring was lost two days ago. May I come and see it? Please respond.'

"Seems no different than the others, Holmes," Watson commented as he read.

Holmes snorted. "Spare me your ignorant opinions; you have clearly never studied psycholinguistics. You see how proper punctuation and grammar were used? Clearly the work of an older individual, one who was taught English before the generation of chat speak. It's also short and to the point with no explanations and descriptions, and no name. Women would normally leave a name and they'd normally feel compelled to explain themselves. Studies done on suicide notes written by women certainly bear out this tendency. You notice how the writer distanced themselves from the loss, by putting it at one remove from themselves? They're trying to control an emotional response. Oh yes, this was more than likely written by a man; borne out by the fact that there is no photo – any message with photos we could safely dismiss as I doubt this outdoorsman has much use for photo albums, or saving a gallery on their phone. To that kind of decisive and physical personality a phone would be a tool for communication and that's all."

"I'll take your word for it," Watson held up his hand to stem the flow of information, interesting though it was.

"You always struck me as an intelligent man," Holmes nodded pompously, to which Watson snickered. "Now we have him on the hook, we should bring him to us forthwith. We will reply to this plea, you will meet with our suspect, and we will see what more is to be learnt."

"Me?" Watson echoed. "What am I supposed to say to them? Shouldn't Lestrade or Gregson be there?"

Holmes grimaced. "I have no desire to invite their unamusing bumbling into the case at this early stage. Besides, there is always a possibility that this message was written by a grandfather for his granddaughter in which case the profile will be thrown off track."

Watson grinned. "So you don't want to call them because you might look like a fool if you're wrong?"

"Psycholinguistics is more accurate with longer writing samples than two sentences," Holmes sniffed, insulted. "Even I cannot claim omniscience, though I am far closer than most. I am at least ninety percent certain this will be our man, but we will need to be absolutely sure. It might be worthwhile to just let him have the ring, and then follow him when he leaves. It will certainly reveal more about the motives for this crime."

"Fair enough," Watson shrugged. "But this visitor will be coming to collect a ring which I do not, in fact, have. Won't he be suspicious?"

Holmes sprang up off the couch, abandoning both phone and tea beaker while we rummaged through some piles. "That will not present a problem. Ah, here we are." Holmes held out a circlet of gold excavated from the papers to Watson. "This should suffice as a replacement. It took me three pawn shops to find a comparable one."

Watson took the gold wedding ring and looked it over, while Holmes repossessed the phone and began punching out a message in reply. "It's still early. With any luck we can have a satisfactory result by tonight."

"Tonight?" Watson asked, startled. "You're going to have him come now?"

"Within the hour, if all goes to plan," Holmes confirmed, sending the message.

"He's coming here?" Watson looked around the blast radius of a room.

"Don't be ridiculous," Holmes retorted scornfully. "If he's cautious, he'll check who lives here first. No, I have a much better meeting place in mind." He punched buttons on Watson's phone, and connected a call. "Mrs Hudson? It's Sherlock Holmes. Could Watson and I come over and sign the leasing contract tonight, and maybe survey the rooms? We will be moving in on Saturday morning."

Watson spluttered. "Baker Street? We're going to invite a suspected murderer to Baker Street?"

...

"I can't believe I agreed to this," Watson muttered darkly as he strode up the stairs. The lease had been signed and rent agreements hashed out, Mrs Hudson going away still suspicious but satisfied. After a solid hour of legal terminology, all Watson wanted to do was grab some food and relax.

"Always remember you did agree," Holmes replied, tranquil and unconcerned. "Our quarry should be here soon. I'd hoped to have more time to get the scope of the rooms," he shot a glare down the stairs at Mrs Hudson's domain. "But that woman insisted on hammering in every single eviction-able offence."

"I wonder why?" Watson retorted artlessly, as they let themselves into their new flat.

Watson had to admit, he felt a thrill of pleasure and satisfaction looking over his new rooms. It would be nice to have somewhere to call home again.

Holmes seemed to echo this feeling, albeit in a very Holmes-like way. "I take full possession of the workbench."

"The writing desk is mine," Watson riposted.

"Hmmm," Holmes wandered over to one window, and peered out onto Baker Street. "You'd better head down to the door, Doctor. If I'm not very much mistaken, our visitor is coming down the street. Best if we divert any worries by our new landlady."

Watson sighed, and turned to go.

"Watson," Holmes called from the window. "Talk to the enquirer normally, and don't glare at them like they're a wanted terrorist. We must see what they know."

Watson waved him off irritably and trod down the stairs, quietly. He opened the door and blinked, surprised, at the figure coming down the walkway. Instead of the man of violence he was expecting, there was a small, wizened old woman, wrapped in a floral dress and shawl. She clutched a bag protectively to her side and walked slowly and carefully in deference to her decalcified bones.

"Does Doctor Watson live here?" she asked in a low and querulous tone of voice.

"I am Doctor Watson, ma'am," Watson replied politely. "Have you come regarding the ring?"

"Oh yes, sir," the woman replied. She dug the paper out of her voluminous bag. "Your advertisement bought me here." She held it up like a shield.

"Please come in," Watson hastily opened the door for her and assisted her up the stairs. Once safely ensconced in the flat, the old woman blinked her blearily eyes and seated herself stiffly on one chair, nervous and timid. Sherlock Holmes was nowhere to be seen, though when Watson looked out of the corner of his eye, he could see the lanky silhouette lurking in the alcove.

"'Twas a gold ring, sir, dropped around Brixton Road on her way to the main street," the woman spoke tentatively. "It would belong to my girl, Sally. She's only just recently married a strappin' young sailor who works as a steward on one o' them big cruiser boats. He's a good sort, leastways when he's not on land. Oh 'e's right enowt when on his ships, but once 'is feet hit dirt, well, every drink in a glass bottle comes to 'is hand. Lordy knows what 'e'd do if 'e founded out Sally 'ad lost her ring, him being a short tempered kind 'o man the best o' times."

Watson held up the replacement ring. "Is this her ring?"

"Oh yes! Lord be thanked, Sally will be a glad girl tonight. That is 'er ring, sir, right enowt."

"And your name and address would be?"

"My name is Sawyer; I live as 13 Duncan Street in Houndsditch."

Watson saw Holmes make a slight twitch, indicating he was unhappy with the answer. "Brixton Road isn't between Houndsditch and any main street." Watson hazarded tentatively.

The woman's red rimmed eyes looked up keenly. "You asked fer my address, sir. My Sally lives is 13 Mayfield Place, in Peckham."

"I see," Watson nodded.

"My granddaughter's name is Dennis – Tom Dennis is 'er husbands name. A smart clean lad; they speaks so highly o' him on the cruise ships, unless o' course 'e's on shore and he's got a bottle in 'is hand..."

Holmes waved a dismissive, shadowy hand at the corner of Watson's sight.

"Here's your ring, Mrs Sawyer," Watson cut in smoothly, holding the ring out. "It clearly belongs to your granddaughter. I'm glad to see it returned to it's rightful owner."

The old woman rose with expressions of gratitude falling from her wizened mouth, and she slowly shuffled out, still thanking Watson and wishing him blessings.

Holmes reappeared as soon as the door had closed and the steps creaked under the crone's small feet. "She must be an accomplice," he spoke hurriedly, digging in his pockets. "Go back to Montague Street and wait for me; I will see if she can lead me to him."

With that he was out the door and down the stairs. Watson peered through the window, and saw the old woman hobbling down Baker Street, Holmes dogging her from a small way back.

Watson let himself out of the flat and locked the door behind him with his new key, resigning himself to yet again be trapped in Holmes' company for an evening.

...

Watson tried his best to relax on Holmes's not particularly comfortable couch, and flicked his way through Holmes' impressively eclectic collection of books. He'd settled on an original French copy of La Vie de Boheme but without much focus.

It was nearly midnight when the dilapidated doorway opened once again, admitting a dishevelled Holmes. Watson could tell instantly that his journey had not been a successful one. Amusement and chagrin waged war in his expression, and he dropped into the seat next to Watson with a frustrated scrub of his dark hair.

"I am never going to have Scotland Yard know about this," he declared ruefully. "I will completely lose any credibility as an investigator, and will be summarily cast into the purgatory of bumbling half-wit adulterer chasers. They will never let me live it down."

Watson raised an eyebrow. "That bad, eh?"

"Oh, even worse than that!" Holmes cried theatrically. "The one silver lining is that I can afford to laugh about it, because I will have the prize in the end."

"So," Watson prompted impatiently. "What happened?"

"I don't mind telling a story against my interest," Holmes chuckled, lighting a cigarette. "I followed the old woman down Baker Street, where she limped and hobbled and showed all signs of being footsore. Hence, she hailed a taxi. I took a gamble getting close enough to hear the address, but I needn't have bothered. She yelled out '13 Duncan Street, Houndsditch' loud enough for an entire street to hear," Holmes snorted self deprecatingly, smoke blowing from his nose. "That, I think now, should have been my first indicator something was wrong. But like some credulous idiot I began to get a notion that this was looking genuine. There was not time to crawl into the taxi boot – a trick all low-income investigators should know – so I hailed another taxi and paid extra to get me to Houndsditch first; and was able to keep the other taxi in sight for most of the way."

"And when you got there?" Watson asked, hanging on every word.

"I saunter up Duncan Street casually as the old hag's taxi pulls up to Number 13. The driver gets out, opens the door..." Holmes took a drag.

"And?" Watson prodded impatiently, fascinated.

"And nothing. The blasted old crone was gone," Holmes blew a vexed white puff into the air. "Vanished like smoke." He shot a look to Watson's amazed huff of breath. "The driver was quite as shocked as you, my good fellow, and I suspect it will quite some time before he's paid his fare. We enquired at the house and found it belonged to a paper mill manager named Keswick, with no knowledge of anyone named Sawyer and Dennis." Holmes gave a bark of laughter, mostly at himself.

Watson shook his head in disbelief. "That's quite a feat for an old woman."

"Old woman, ha!" Holmes scoffed. "That was no old woman, Watson. That was a young man; as bold as brass and an incomparable actor besides. He knew he was being followed, and was savvy enough to give me the slip."

"The murderer?" Watson's eyebrows rose.

Holmes gave a disgruntled grimace. "No. Not tall enough, even stooped. But it does prove one thing; this killer is not without friends who are willing to help him."

"Two murderers?" Watson theorised

Holmes shook his head. "There was one man in that condemned room, of that I am sure. The scene indicates the murder was individual and personal; one man planned it, one man executed it. This accomplice was probably helping him after the fact."

"I understand about chasing the accomplice, but that couldn't have taken this long," Watson pointed out. "Where have you been for the rest of the time?"

"I was following up on my enquiries in other areas," Holmes explained. "The Yarders have their American contacts, and I have mine. The plot has thickened, for I have had a response to some of my requests. The whole thing is becoming clear to me. I am just now getting a confirmed name for our suspect."

Watson blinked. "What? You mean you already know who committed the crime?"

"It's becoming clearer every passing moment. I certainly have some confirmations of the motive, which has given me a solid working theory."

"Which is?"

Holmes frowned across the room. "I need to get new strings for my violin," he got up and started rummaging around in the mess.

"Holmes," Watson protested in exasperation. Holmes just hummed a classical tune, cheerfully ignoring the Doctor's press for more information. Watson was tempted to push but he knew the contrary and infuriatingly smug man would not reveal anything else. He enjoyed being a mystery as much as he enjoyed solving them and this was a maddeningly interesting affair; no doubt he would play it out for as much entertainment as it was worth.

Watson dug a takeaway menu from his pocket. "Do you want to split an order of pot stickers?"

Holmes looked up. "Usually I deny myself any stimulation or sustenance, to invigorate my faculties to their greatest heights during a case; but tonight, admittedly, I feel like lemon chicken." He sat back down, his violin in hand. "Besides, our opponent is a clever and able man. There is nothing more invigorating than a truly challenging opponent. Get some spring rolls as well."

...

End Chapter Nine