Chapter Four: The Five Visitors
Then the riddle was gone, replaced by a chaotic kaleidoscope of reds and yellows, as the entire rug caught fire. Above them, the smoke alarm began to screech.
'Help me Sherlock!' Watson screamed - he was attempting to stamp out the flames in his flimsy bedroom slippers.
'The answer to the riddle is darkness - the opposite of the medium of delivery! Oh this is good.' Holmes stood, statue-like, in the glow of the dancing flames. Lost in his own world, he seemed oblivious to the rapidly spreading blaze and billowing smoke.
Above the bleating of the alarm, a pounding knock could be heard.
'Boys? Is everything alright in there? You haven't been smoking again Sherlock, have you?' Mrs Hudson's worried voice was almost drowned out by the cries of 'ooh' and 'ouch' issuing from Watson, as he struggled to roll up the sheepskin without scorching his fingers. Wispy strands of glowing wool floated in the darkness.
'Help me, you -' a stream of accusations left the doctor's mouth, joining the din of the fire alarm.
Blinking once, Holmes turned on his heel - and promptly left the room. Striding out of the flat, he pushed passed a concerned Mrs Hudson on the doorstep. 'Sherlock?' the landlady asked Holmes' disappearing back. With an anxious frown, she entered the apartment through the open door.
The tirade from the put-upon doctor that followed Sherlock's exit was difficult to hear above the beeping alarm. If you had been standing very close to Watson, you might have made out the words: 'Sherlock', 'can't take' and 'anymore'.
After what felt like an eternity (and was, in fact, a little over a minute) John finished rolling the smouldering rug into a tight cylinder. He then stomped on it, several times, for good measure.
During this time, Mrs Hudson had unsuccessfully been trying to attract John's attention from the living room doorway. As Watson gave the rug a final stomp, his landlady mouthed something inaudible, and walked towards the kitchen.
Presumably she was thanking him for bravely putting out the fire, John thought. She was probably making him a cup of tea right now.
Breathing a sigh of relief, and wiping sweat from his face with one sooty hand, the doctor collapsed onto the sofa. The adrenaline rush from the blaze was beginning to subside. Closing his eyes wearily, Watson leaned back into the cushions and took his own pulse. Predictably enough, it was still racing. The alarm continued to sound above him.
'Just … one … peaceful … day.' Watson murmured to himself, his body spasming with a coughing fit from the lingering smoke. Flopping back down on the sofa, the doctor attempted to gather the energy to open the windows. Before he could muster the motivation to lift his eyelids up, the front door of the flat burst open.
Sherlock had returned: breathing heavily, bedraggled and wet from the freezing sleet outside, and brandishing a large, red, fire extinguisher.
On his heels was an angry looking man in a smart suit: '...breaking and entering! The police have been called,' the suited man's bleating, nasal whine added to the cacopony. In the distance, the rising sound of sirens could be heard.
Then Mrs Hudson returned from the kitchen, screaming something unintelligible. Instead of a cup of tea, she was carrying the washing-up basin; it sloshed soapy water onto the carpet.
Watson stood to address his housemate: 'I put it out Sherlock. No thanks to you- ' with some confusion (and wrinkling of his sweaty, soot-smudged brow) the doctor took in the presence of the unnamed man.
Without stopping to reply, Holmes pulled Watson up from the sofa with his left hand, and pulled the pin from the top of the fire extinguisher with his right.
Behind John's head, shimmering flames were rising from a smouldering stack of newspaper; a strand of burning wool had landed in the fat pile - kindling them like tinder.
'- behind you, John!' Mrs Hudson finished shouting, getting ready to throw the contents of the washing-up basin.
Sherlock aimed the hose of the extinguisher, and a blanket of foam covered the fire - causing it to splutter and die.
Where seconds ago bright flames had burned, sodden, blackened pieces of newspaper now floated in a spreading puddle of foam.
In the doorway, the suited man had stopped his diatribe. 'You know, you could just have asked if you wanted the fire extinguisher,' he said, somewhat apologetically. Slicking back his floppy hair, he gave the detective a reproachful look. 'You didn't have to barge in like that.'
Coughing into the hanky she kept up her sleeve, Mrs Hudson placed the washing-up basin onto the carpet beside the sofa.
Above them, the alarm stopped in mid-beep.
This meant that Watson, Holmes and their landlady (and the suited man with floppy hair) could now hear heavy bootsteps on the stairs outside.
From the other side of the window came a loud THWACK, as a ladder from a fire engine hit the side of the building. Even through the thick curtains, flashing blue lights were visible.
'It's alright love, Sherlock's put it out,' Mrs Hudson informed a burly fireman, who had just rushed through the open door to their apartment. 'Ever so sorry for making you come out in this weather,' the landlady added kindly.
'Fire's out. You gentlemen can leave.' said Holmes, his gaze flicking towards the newcomer for the merest fraction of a second.
An embarrassed Watson winced slightly, but the large fireman seemed indifferent to the detective's customary rudeness. 'You need to evacuate the building,' he said gruffly, eying the charred roll of rug, and the soggy mess on John's desk. 'All of you,' he added, fixing Sherlock with an authoritative glare.
Holmes returned the fireman's stare, and opened his mouth to issue a scathing reply - but was promptly interrupted by a familiar voice.
'Police! Here for Mr Holmes,' a gruff baritone drifted up the stairs, through the open door of 221B Baker Street. Below them, there seemed to be a disagreement: apparently, the fire brigade were reluctant to allow anyone to enter - even London Metropolitan's finest.
'I'm expecting a guest. You can see yourself out.' the detective dismissively informed the beefy fireman.
Still in his striped bathrobe (now decorated with a fetching pattern of burn-marks), John wracked his brains for something - anything - he could say to improve the situation.
'Everyone out,' repeated the fireman over his shoulder, as he steered Mrs Hudson through the living room door by her thin shoulders.
From the hallway, a nasal whine could be heard once more: 'I just want to make sure I'm compensated for the fire extinguisher - they're not cheap, you know!'
Below the flat, raised voices quarrelled on the stairs. The police seemed to be winning: their speech was growing louder as they moved closer to the apartment.
'Police!' Detective Inspector Lestrade strode through the open door, brandishing his identification card before him. At his side, looking as if she'd just been sucking on a lemon, was Sergeant Sally Donovan.
'I'm sorry sir, ma'am - we're evacuating this building,' the fireman informed the new arrivals.
Behind them, the floppy-haired man (whose name was Henry) interrupted: 'Gosh, that was quick. I only rang a few minutes ago,' he told Lestrade. 'As I said on the phone, all he took was the fire extinguisher - but it was a nasty shock, and gave quite the wrong impression to our clients -'
Ignoring Henry (who was a partner in the self-proclaimed 'Luxury' Estate Agents next door) Detective Inspector Lestrade focused his attention on Holmes. 'There's been a … theft.' he said simply, his even tone betraying no hint of emotion.
'Yes, he just barged into my office, and -' Henry began pompously. Sergeant Donovan spoke into the suited man's ear, causing him to trail off, mid-sentence.
'Continue,' Sherlock addressed Lestrade as if the two of them were alone.
'Not here,' the grey-haired Detective Inspector quickly took in the mayhem around them, 'you need to see it for yourself.'
Without another word, Holmes followed Lestrade out of the flat.
There was a moment of silence as the pair departed. Then a babble of voices erupted.
Watson sank wearily down into the sofa, which was soggy with foam from the fire extinguisher. A glance at the clock told him he was late for his supper date.
The doctor's freshly washed hair was now coated with flakes of charred newspaper, and he'd lost one of his slippers putting out the flaming rug.
Outside, the sleet had turned into a heavy rain, which drummed against the windows mercilessly.
With a sigh, Watson stood up - and, with a squelching sound, promptly stepped into the full washing-up basin with his one remaining slipper.
John closed his eyes in exhaustion. 'Just. One. Peaceful. Day.' he groaned to himself.
Was that too much to ask for?