8. Women
Dr. Watson walked slowly down Oxford Street, thoughtfully biting his lower lip as he contemplated the method to be used in his next attempt to frighten Sherlock Holmes.
The detective had finally seemed to realise that this bet was not going to be as easily won as he had anticipated upon accepting it; in consequence of the last two (rather effective) tricks, he had taken to very carefully watching for Watson's next move, locking his door and carefully deducing where the Doctor had been upon his returns to the house in Baker Street.
This living in constant keyed-up tension had in turn made Holmes rather irritable, and Watson was beginning to wonder if the drama was worth the price. Still, a bet was a bet and could not be backed out of. Now, to put into play the third phobia his friend possessed.
The Doctor smirked, anticipating his friend's reaction to this next prank. Mycroft's list was rather odd, but certainly amusing, and as long as the tricks did not become harmful to the detective they could remain highly entertaining. He smiled when a familiar lad skipped up to him out of an alley, grinning like a smug cat who has discovered a broken milk bottle.
"Everything in order, Alfie?"
"Yup, Doctor. Everythin's ready an' waitin' for yew. Blimey, is Mr. 'Olmes gonna flip 'is wig when 'e sees this one!"
"He is in, then?" the Doctor asked, glancing at his pocket-watch.
"Sure is, Doctor. Oi gotta be gettin' 'long now, but don' forget ta tell me what 'appens!" the lad shouted, running off down the pavement after a wealthy-looking man whose wallet was extending a bit too enticingly from his pocket.
The Doctor made a point to look the other way and then continued on down the street, turning onto Baker Street and then the alley nearest the house, where the participants in this third attempt to win the bet were awaiting him.
Before entering the alley, Watson glanced up at the windows of 221B. He could see no sign of Holmes, but that meant nothing for the man was always on the alert in his absences now. No doubt he was hiding in the sitting room with a stiff drink and a revolver after the last prank yesterday, driving himself insane with wondering when the third blow would fall.
The Doctor grinned to himself and turned into the alley, where he was met by over a dozen eager young women ranging from barely seventeen to a few years older than himself. All of them he had met through the rather silly female fan mail of the Strand magazine, and all of them were more than eager to meet Mr. Sherlock Holmes in any circumstances and under any conditions.
And when the Doctor told them all that Mr. Holmes would be more than happy to take one of them to dinner every night for the next two weeks, and that it was up to each lady to convince Mr. Holmes which of those days she would like (by any and all means possible), the ecstatic shrieks from the group of women were so loud Watson winced, afraid that the detective would overhear…how could he not?
Watson grinned at the excited group of infatuated women and then headed for the door of 221B. In case Holmes was watching, he had left instructions for them to wait one minute before following, to give him time to draw Holmes's attention away from any outside windows.
The Doctor mounted the seventeen steps after leaving the front door ajar, and knocked on the locked sitting room door.
"Who is it?"
Watson nearly laughed at Holmes's high-pitched, wary tone. "For heaven's sake, Holmes! Unlock the door!" he called in amusement, at the same time motioning for the line of women to tiptoe up the stairs behind him.
"Someone is here to see you, my dear fellow!" he called again through the door when Holmes muttered something unintelligible. "We met in the hall downstairs and I brought them up with me. Now open the door, old man!"
The Doctor heard a short oath and the clattering of a poker being dropped back into place by the fire. With a grin, Watson nodded to the excited group of young women and then stepped back to watch the pyrotechnics.
The lock snapped back and the sitting room door opened with a creaking of hinges, to reveal the detective in his grey dressing-gown and minus his collar (which only served to further excite his uninvited guests).
"Where have you been, Watson, I – augh!"
Holmes's last scream and yelping for help was completely inaudible over the clamour that erupted in the hall as the detective was fairly shoved back into the room by a wall of shrieking Strand devotees, all eager to lay eyes (and hands, too) on the cowering detective.
"Watson!" Holmes howled as the women scattered round the room, some of them looking at his pictures, a few twanging his violin strings, one of them going through his file cabinet, and the majority of them patting his arm and cooing over him, saying Sidney Paget never did him justice in those illustrations, he had so much more hair and was so much taller in real life, etc., etc.
"WATSON!" the detective bellowed desperately in the voice that would make anyone but his only friend shrink in their shoes.
Watson was unable to hear, for he was in the hall laughing nearly hysterically at the chaos that had exploded in the calm bachelours' domain. Holmes fought off the affections of a rather young woman with a head of fiery red hair and tried to retreat into his bedroom, only to find two of the girls in there squealing over the portraits of famous criminals that adorned the walls.
The poor detective dodged a blonde who wanted his autograph on her copy of the Strand and slammed the door on the group of gaggling females, turning a furious eye on his sniggering companion, who had been calmly leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette and watching the entire fiasco.
Watson stopped laughing for just a moment, wiping his eyes, and glanced at the irate detective.
"Well, I said someone was here to see you," Watson said, his hazel eyes alight with pure mischief.
Holmes glared at his friend menacingly.
"You've got powder on your sleeve," the Doctor pointed out helpfully.
Holmes blushed to the roots of his hair and frantically rubbed at the substance before turning a venomous glower back to his still-chortling biographer.
"You're going to have to do better than that, Watson," he said with a wicked gleam.
"Oh, I will, Holmes," his friend returned calmly, but equally wickedly, "I certainly will."
