Sherlock was alone. He sat in the barber chair, smoking a pipe. He was holding an old picture frame; creased, stained and bleached-out.
The photograph showed John smiling and holding an arm around Mycroft's shoulders. Mycroft's features were almost completely obscured by a stain on the picture.
He looked at it deeply.
Church bells ring as Greg searched through the streets for Mycroft. He started his search in a luxurious area of wealth.
I feel you, Mycroft,
I feel you.
Do they think that walls can hide you?
Even now I'm at your window.
I am in the dark beside you,
Buried sweetly in your ginger hair,
Mycroft…
He continued walking; thinking how soft Mycroft's hair may be, what it might smell like.
Sherlock gazed quietly at the photograph.
Mycroft…
And are you beautiful and pale,
With ginger hair, like her?
I'd want you beautiful and pale,
The way I've dreamed you were…
Mycroft…
Greg moped along the docks.
Mycroft…
Sherlock shaved a customer. The picture frame rested on the counter. He remains wistful, detached, dream-like.
And if you're beautiful, what then,
With ginger hair, so neat?
I think we shall not meet again–
He quietly slit the customer's throat.
My little dove, my sweet
Mycroft…
Greg ambled past the hanging carcasses of the busy meat market.
I'll steal you,
Mycroft…
A dead customer was slumped in the chair.
Goodbye, Mycroft,
You're gone, and yet you're mine.
I'm fine, Mycroft,
I'm fine!
He pulled a lever on the newly adjusted chair, which becomes a slide, and the customer disappears through a trapdoor in the floor, down a chute. Sherlock pulled the lever again and the chair returned to its normal position.
Greg slumped past a crowded tenement, redolent of cholera.
Mycroft…
Molly descended the long and very claustrophobic series of steps down to the bake-house. She unbolted and pulled aside a heavy iron door and entered.
A fiery red glow spilled out — the roar of the oven within was thundering.
The Beggar stood on Baker Street. The hellish metropolis glowed, the smoke from a thousand chimneys created a great pall over the city.
He was in an almost demented rage.
Smoke! Smoke!
Sign of the devil! Sign of the devil!
City on fire!
He turned to disgusted passers-by.
Witch! Witch!
Smell it, sir! An evil smell!
Every night at the vespers bell–
Smoke that comes from the mouth of hell–
City on fire!
City on fire…
He began to scuttle off.
Mischief! Mischief! Mischief…
The red glow of sunset filled the shop as Sherlock ushered in another customer and prepared to shave him.
And if I never hear your voice,
My turtledove, my dear,
I still have reason to rejoice:
The way ahead is clear…
Mycroft…
Greg walked down a dark alley, dragging his feet. Shadowy figures seemed to lurk along the alley walls.
I feel you…
Mycroft…
Sherlock continued to prepare to shave the customer.
And in that darkness when I'm blind
With what I can't forget–
It's always morning in my mind,
My little lamb, my pet…
Mycroft…
Greg moved past a lonely graveyard.
Johanna…
Sherlock walked behind the customer.
You stay, Johanna…
He quietly cut the customer's throat.
The way I've dreamed you are.
Sherlock noticed dusk outside the window.
Oh look, Johanna,
He pulls the lever and the customer disappeared to the floor below.
A star!
Sherlock tossing the customer's hat down the chute.
A shooting star!
Greg continued to move past the graveyard.
Buried sweetly in your ginger hair…
Molly emerged from the bake-house with a rack of hot pies. She walked up the steps; the fiery roar of the oven within is overpowering.
The beggar was scuttling madly along Baker Street. He pointed to the smoke over rooftops.
There! There!
Somebody, somebody look up there!
The passers-by continued to ignore him.
Didn't I tell you? Smell that air?
City on fire!
He approached the pie shop, her frenzy increasing. He grabbed a stunned Archie — who was carrying some packages toward the pie shop.
Quick, sir! Run and tell!
Warn 'em all of the witch's spell!
There it is, there it is, the unholy smell!
Tell it to the Beadle and the police as well!
Tell 'em! Tell 'em!
He spotted Molly emerging from the pie shop and exploded in desperation, pointing madly.
Help! Fiend!
City on fire!
Archie pulled away from him, as he began to scuttle off.
City on fire…
Mischief … Mischief … Mischief… Fiend…
He appealed to other pedestrians as he went.
Alms…! Alms…!
Archie turned to consider the horrible black smoke belching from the chimney of the pie shop. Something about the foul, ebony smoke troubled him.
Sherlock was standing alone, contemplative, slowly and methodically stropping his razor.
And though I'll think of you, I guess,
Until the day I die,
I think I miss you less and less
As every day goes by…
Mycroft…
Greg trudged past the sinister opium dens and depraved taverns of the East End.
Mycroft…
Sherlock completed shaving a customer; the customer's wife and daughter were waiting.
And you'd be beautiful and pale,
And look too much like her.
If only angels could prevail,
We'd be the way we were.
Mycroft…
The customer pays and, with a pleasant smile, Sherlock ushered them out.
Greg wandered past the high and impenetrable walls of a madhouse; the demented souls within could be seen moving about in silhouette behind barred windows.
I feel you…
Johanna…
Something he couldn't describe made him stop. He turned to consider the asylum.
Sherlock shaves another customer; he glances quickly at the beautiful morning outside the window.
Wake up, Johanna!
Another bright red day!
He slits the customer's throat.
We learn, Johanna,
To say…
Goodbye…
He pulled the lever and the customer disappeared down the chute.
Greg stared up at the asylum.
I'll steal you…
Sherlock picked up the faded photograph and, again, sat in his barber chair. He gazes at it, lost in reverie.