The quiz that was set for me last night went really well, all of the questions he asked I got right.
It's aproaching seven o'clock and dad and I are stuck in traffic from Scotland Yard, where we've had to hand in our statement of Jack Downings murder to his wife, PC Jane Downing, who was also head of the case. I hop out of the taxi, just as Dr Watson limps down the street, clearly looking for 221B. He knocks on the door as dad steps out.
"Hello," dad calls happily to Watson as he steps out and hands the cabbie some money. "Thank you," dad says to the cabbie as Watson turns around, and dad and I walk over over to the door.
"Ah, Mr. Holmes."
"Sherlock, please," he insistes, wringing the doctors hand.
"And Sophia, isn't it?" I nod polietly and shrug.
"Or Sophie, I don't mind." John nods and looks around.
"Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive."
"Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out." I smile, remembering the old man. I can now place where I remember Mrs Hudson from. He was an abusive husband.
"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?" Dad smiles at John, who's, at the moment, looking fairly impressed.
"Oh no. I ensured it." He looks slightly taken aback as the door is opened by Mrs Hudson herself, who opens her arms for both of us.
"Sherlock, Sophia, hello." We walk into her arms and embrace her briefly once more before dad steps back to present John to her.
"Mrs Hudson, Doctor John Watson."
"Hello,"
"How y'do?" Mrs Hudson gestures us in, smiling happily. She thinks Dr Watson is dads partner, going by the way she's treating him.
"Come in."
"Thank you."
"Shall we?" Dad asks, as John doesn't move forward.
"Yeah," Mrs Hudson mutters as she holds the door open for us and we go in. Dad pushes past us and lopes upstairs, then pauses as he waits for us to catch up. Dr Watson is hobbling up the stairs in front of me, and there isn't enough room to push up on through. As he finally reaches the landing, dad swings the living room door open dramatically and walks in, Dr Watson and I following behind. All of our stuff still lays scattered around in boxes.
"Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed," Dr Watson says, looking impressed.
"Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely," dad looks happily around the flat, "So I went straight ahead and moved in."
"Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out ..." They say, simultaniously. That's not awkward at all ... "Oh." He pauses, clearly embarrased as it sinks in what dad was saying. To be honest, most of this stuff is rubbish. "So this is all ..."
"Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit," dad says, as he walks across the room, and half-heartedly throws some of my school folders back into my box whilst I attempt to tidy up by piling up a stack of books. The Holmes family isn't known for it's tidiness. John looks around and seems to notice skull on the mantel piece and he lifts up his walking stick to point at it.
"That's a skull," John points out.
"Friend of mine. When I say 'friend' ..." His only friend, or at least, the closest he has to one. Mrs Hudson finally makes an entrance, and I watch as she picks up th cup and saucer that dad was drinking from yesterday. Scanning for a book in one of the boxes, I sit down to read, taking off my greatcoat and scarf and throwing it into the kitchen. I might pick it up later.
"What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms." I roll my eyes at her ignorance. How awkward.
"Of course we'll be needing two." Dr Watson says, looking confused.
"Oh, don't worry; there's all sorts round here. Mrs Turner next door's got married ones," she says, sounding confident. As if dad would get involved in such trivial matters such as love. Not now, anyway. Dr Watson looks to dad for him confirm they aren't involved in that sort of business, but he seems oblivious. Mrs Hudson walks across the room and into the kitchen, then turns back to frown at me and dad.
"Oh, Sherlock, Sophia. The mess you've made." I bite my lip and raise my eyebrows as she picks up my coat and scarf and hangs it up, then she starts tidying up our science equipment. Dr Watson walks over to the armchair closest to the kitchen and sits down opposite the chair dad favours. I look over my book to scan John over, to see if I can dig up more facts about him. Lives alone - obvious - trumatic past - obvious - and unwealty. Again, obvious. Why else would he be looking for a flatshare? He looks up to dad who is still tidying up.
"I looked you up on the internet last night," John says, out of the blue. Dad turns around, my head snaps up.
"Anything interesting?"
"Found your website, The Science of Deduction." I chuckle, whilst dad smiles proudly.
"What did you think?" John sends him a disbelieving look, and dad looks comically hurt. It's our website, to be fair, but I don't update it half as much as dad does.
"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb," Doctor Watson remembers, and I laugh again. It's quite a simple deduction, and the airline pilot is primary knowlege.
"Yes; and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."
"How?" Watson questions, but dad smiles and turns away as Mrs Hudson comes back through from the kitchen, holding a newspaper that she found on the table.
"What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same," she seems to be a little behind on our cases, although our involvment in this one has been kept quiet. Dad walks over to the window, and looks out as I hear a car rumble to a stop outside. Four, but this one's different.
"Four," dad states looking down. The blue lights reflect across the room, indicating that Lestrade has decided to contact us at last. He wouldn't have come to us unless it was different, unusual. "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time," dad voices my thoughts, and I stand up, placing my book on the table.
"A fourth?" Mrs Hudson gasps, confused. Dad turns to face Lestrade who he watches trot up the stairs.
"Where?" dad asks, without hesitation. Lestrade looks to me before answering.
"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens," I let off a small gasp - that was where I was found after I ran away. Dad ignores this.
"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."
"You know how they never leave notes?"
"Yeah."
"This one did. Will you come?"
"Who's on forensics?"
"It's Anderson," Lestrade answers, already knowing dads reaction. That idiot is so dumb, it's unbelievable.
"Anderson won't work with me."
"Well, he won't be your assistant," Lestrade answers, as if that makes it okay.
"I need an assistant." dad mutters.
"What about Sophie?" Lestrade asks, gesturing towards me. I make sure I look keen, but I know I'll come either way.
"No, she'll come as well, but I need someone with medical experience."
"Will you come?"
"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind," you have to love dads avoidment of police cars.
"Thank you," Lestrade says sincerly, before looking around at Doctor Watson and Mrs Hudson for a second and hurries off down the stairs again. More clues! A note! It's christmas! Dad and I wait until Lestrade has closed the front door before we let out our excitment. Dad leaps into the air and clenches his fists before twirling around. Sometimes, he can really be a big kid. I let my excitment out by running over to Mrs Hudson and Doctor Watson and hugging them tightly. Yes, I'm weird. No, I don't care.
"Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" I grab my coat and scarf off of the hook in the kitchen, whilst dad picks up his and starts to put it on as he follows me into the kitchen.
"Mrs Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food."
"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper." Mrs Hudson sighs, as dad and I still scurry around. Dad picks up his crime scene pass, and I tap my pocket to make sure I have mine. I might need to pickpocket Donovon again sometime. "Something cold will do," dad continues, ignoring Mrs Hudsons protests, "John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!"
"Bye!" I scream, before leaving afrer him. I reach the front door before it clicks. "Sherlock, John Watson is a doctor," his eyes widen, and he sprints back upstairs. I follow him and I get to the top of the stairs in time to see dad stand in the doorframe to the living room.
"You're a doctor. In fact you're an Army doctor," dad says. John gulps, his left hand trembling slightly.
"Yes," he confirms, standing back up and turning towards dad as he enters the room again.
"Any good?"
"Very good," Doctor Watson mutters again.
"Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths."
"Mmm, yes."
"Bit of trouble too, I bet." Doctor Watson nods.
"Of course, yes," he says quietly, almost whispering. "Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."
"Wanna see some more?"
"Oh God, yes," he says, feverently. I step back around and lead the boys down the stairs.
"Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out," Doctor Watson shouts as he comes down the stairs behind dad. Mrs Hudson stands at the bottom of the stairs, looking dissapointed.
"Both of you?" I stop by the door, but dad spins around on his heel and walks back towards her.
"Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" He takes her by the shoulders and kisses her on the cheek.
"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent," she smiles as he turns around for the door.
"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!" Dad pushes past me and hails an approaching cab. "Taxi!" The taxi pulls up in front of us and I slip into the middle of Doctor Watson and my dad. Going on past experience, I know that the journey will take around three quarters of an hour, depending on London traffic. I pull out my phone, a samsung galaxy ace if you were curious, and start tapping away. I like to write short stories when I'm going on a long journey. Dad copys me, pulling out his own phone. I can see him type up the conclusion to the green ladder. I might add a comment on it later, if I get bored. We do this for about half an hour, every once in a while I can see out of the corner of my eye Doctor Watson stealing nervous glances at me and dad. At last, dad gets the point, and lowers his phone.
"Okay, you've got questions."
"Yeah, where are we going?"
"Crime scene. Next?"
"Who are you? What do you do?" Don't get him started on this.
"What do you think?"
"I'd say private detective ..." Doctor Watson says slowly.
"But?"
"... but the police don't go to private detectives."
"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job. Sophia is training up to be the second."
"What does that mean?"
"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."
"The police don't consult amateurs." I choke on my laugh, and dad sends him a hurt look. Here he goes, he's going to prove his point if it kills him.
"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' You looked surprised."
"Yes, how did you know?"
"I didn't know, I saw," I roll my eyes, but stop tapping on my phone. Time to check my deductions. "Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart's, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq." All right so far.
"You said I had a therapist."
"You've got a psychosomatic limp – of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother."
"Hmm?" I look at him, confused. What brother?
"Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare – you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then." Dad holds his hand out expectantly for the phone, and John gives it to him. It's not my fault I couldn't deduce the phone part, I didn't see it.
"Scratches. Not one, many over time," he says, pointing to the screen. "It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."
"The engraving." Dad flips the phone over to show me the words on the back.
'Harry Watson
From Clara
xxx'
A gift from a family member. A female, going by the fingerprints on the screen underneath the protection. I can't be sure, though, going on the name of their partner.
"Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget," dad thinks Harry's a boy, but I still can't be sure. I need a microscope. "Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking."
"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" Doctor Watson asks slowly looking confused and a little upset. Dad smiles, naturally. I can see where he's coming from.
"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them," he hands the phone back and I see the said scuff marks by the connection.
"There you go, you see – you were right."
"I was right?" Says John, skeptically."Right about what?"
"The police don't consult amateurs." This is the part that will make or break their relationship.
"That ... was amazing." I look around at the doctor, so suprised. That isn't what people usually say when dad talks about their life story. Dad seems so suprised that he doesn't answer for around four seconds. He looks puzzled, as if John is having him on.
"Do you think so?"
"Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary."
"That's not what people normally say."
"What do people normally say?"
"'Piss off'!" Dad smiles at John for a second before he turns towards the window, smiling madly. I poke dad in the ribs and he looks back around at me, looking confused.
"What?" He mouths.
"You've got to stop doing that. It makes you seem creepy."
"It doesn't matter, I need an audience for my genius. I'm a show off - that's what we do!" The cab draws up at the end of the road which the crime scene is. As I step out behind dad, the memories come back to me. If I remember correctly, there is an old abandoned house a short walk down this road; around about where that police tape is...
"Did I get anything wrong?" Dad asks Doctor Watson as he gets out.
"Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker." Dad smiles to himself, obviously impressed.
"Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything."
"And Harry's short for Harriet." Dad and I stop in our tracks. A smile creeps onto my face - I got something right which dad didn't!
"Harry's your sister." Doctor Watson continues walking.
"Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?"
"Sister!" Dad says furiously, through gritted teeth, whilst I start walking foward again, catching up with John within seconds.
"No, seriously, what am I doing here?"
"He wants you to check something out." I mutter to him, as we approach the tape. Dad is only just beginning to walk again.
"There's always something."
"Hello, freaks," Donovan greets us. Ever the friendly.
"We're here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade," says dad as he catches up.
"Why?"
"We were invited."
"Why?" She repeats, purposley getting on dads nerves.
"I think he wants me to take a look," dad retorts, sarcastically.
"Well, you know what I think, don't you?" Dad lifts the tape for me to swing under, then follows me through.
"Always, Sally," he breathes in through his nose, and I copy. She's wearing a different deodrant then usual - it's a man one. I've smelt this before. "I even know you didn't make it home last night."
"I don't ... " I smirk happily at her loss of words, so she looks over to Doctor Watson. "Er, who's this?"
"Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson," he turns to John, "Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend," dad says, his voice sprinkled with sarcasim.
"A colleague?" Donovan asks skeptically, "How do you get a colleague?!" She turns to Doctor Watson. "What, did he follow you home?"
"Would it be better if I just waited and ..." Dad gives him a look an lifts the tape.
"No." As Watson ducks under the tape, Donovan lifts her radio to her mouth.
"The Freaks are here. Bringing them in." She leads us over to the house which is surrounded by officers. It is the one I was found in after mother died. Dad was so upset when I left.
I decide to distract myself and bury my feelings once more, as I'm in a case and I can't let them get to me. Knowing this, I look around the area around the front of the house and the road as we approach it. As we reach the pavement, Anderson makes his appearance, dressed in one of those awful coveralls. I breath in through my nose like dad did with Donovan, and I can smell the same scent on him.
"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again." He looks at us with distaste and relectance.
"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" Dad, sensing my findings, breaths in the deodrant for himself.
"Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?"
"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that."
"Your deodorant told me that."
"My deodorant?"
"It's for men," dad says sarcastically.
"Well, of course it's for men! I'm wearing it!" Anderson retorts. How ignorant of him.
"So's Sergeant Donovan." Anderson looks shocked, and turns to Dononvan. Dad sniffs again.
"Ooh, and I think it just vaporised. May I go in?" Anderson turns back to us and points at us, fury etched upon his face. How cute.
"Now look: whatever you're trying to imply ..."
"I'm not implying anything," he says as we walk past Donovan, heading for the door, "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over." He turns back and scans Donovan over, so I do the same. "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." Both of them stare at him in horror, earning them a smug smile as we turn back around to enter the house.