A/N: I don't really describe the characters of my own creation, you may notice. Firstly because this is supposed to be a short story, or micro story (if that exists), format. As it turns out, if you get the vibe, the name (Chandler or other) and the hair colour, height, weight, they all hardly matter.
Usually, you could replace the new characters with blue reptilian aliens and it would still work. (Go ahead, do that, sometimes I do it too, when I'm bored. I'll start you off. John makes the visiting potential client a cuppa while the alien tells his story to the detective. Now John is not an idiot, so he is most impressed that the blue skin paint is not smearing onto the porcelain teacup from the blue lips and fingertips. He does not ask why a blue reptilian alien, he gets it is a disguise as soon as the client admits he's a simple bank clerk most days. Sherlock is less impressed; it's obvious the second set of nostrils is the fake one because it makes no evolutionary sense. Is he bothered with the quirky self expression of a bank clerk? Not in the least, we all play a part in society, it's just another front, like a woman's heavy set of eyelashes or a man's silk tie. In fact, the case has nothing to do with the client's appearance, it's a bank robbery that Sherlock and John avoid in the nick of time.)
I hope my stories to be read in the spirit of true acceptance. Even if, personally, I'm a plain Jane. It's all fine. -csf
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The hour is late, and the fluorescent light tube above the kitchen table is buzzing in the quiet hours of London, as Sherlock and I have only just returned from a case. Yes, we have resumed our active investigations, following all possible and wise precautions in this coming-out-of-lockdown life.
Sherlock is still dressed in drag – there is no limit he'll impose on himself for a case – and he actually looks quite good. I was the backup (and didn't get a makeover) as I was rushed to the scene straight out of a hospital shift, and I wouldn't have had the time to create a look. Sherlock's voluminous wavy black wig and daunting high brows, heavy eye lashes and glittering purple eyeshadow really play off his high cheekbones and green eyes. And the drop dead gorgeous dress has to be as uncomfortable as the massive heels, but he carries them off with absolute elegance and confidence, born out of respect, even as we have returned to Baker Street. Holding up a bejewelled curved pipe – what a strange prop, a nod to a vintage detective archetype perhaps – he leans back on the hard chair at the kitchen table and tiredly eyes the ceiling.
'You better not have real tobacco in there', I state calmly. It's not even lit. 'You gave up smoking, you don't need that now.'
He smiles goofily to the ceiling.
'Not tonight. We found our killer. That will do for me tonight, John. I have no need for chemical stimulants as I'm naturally feeling great already.'
'You're feeling great', I repeat, suspicious. That never lasts with Sherlock. He'll be pestering me for a case soon.
The detective bachelorette finally looks back at me. 'I will feel better once you help me out of this corset, John. I don't think I can make it out on my own.'
I chuckle. 'How did you get yourself in it in the first place, that's real mystery.'
'Oh, I've got my methods', he'll reveal nothing.
I'm about to say something when the doorbell rings. Client. Sherlock and I look at one another.
'I can tell them to come back at a decent hour', I volunteer.
'No, my dear John, our work never stops. Have them come up. I'm certainly not attempting to go down the stairs in these heels again. I shall require more practice, before I break a hip. Mrs Hudson helped me earlier.'
'I don't know', I retort, getting up, 'you did quite well as far as I could see.'
'It's all down to practice', he replies, in a fake modesty that really does not suit him. 'I'm also a fast learner.'
The doorbell rings again. Continuously. Impatient, this client.
I glance at Sherlock, he looks a bit paler now. I think. Hard to tell, under so much foundation.
Descending the steps two at a time, I reach the front door. I hope Mrs Hudson won't wake up on account of our comings and goings. I would hate her feeling unsafe over our late night visitors.
I open the front door as the doorbell starts ringing again; to a tall, bespoke dressed man in a three piece tailored suit and an elitist attitude etched on the expensive fabric itself. As soon as he ponders me, he dismisses me:
'I came to see Mr Sherlock Holmes.'
'It's a bit of a late hour for that.'
'My driver saw the lights were on. By the way', he hands me a thick grain calling card bearing the Holmes family crest (what is represented in the crest I'm not at liberty to discuss), 'Mycroft sent me.'
I tilt my head to the side. 'I wonder why he didn't come with you.'
I might just call him to double check at this late hour. It might wake up Mycroft, but you can never be too careful these days, can you? Pocketing the calling card, I asked politely: 'Come on up!'
The 17 steps don't phase the guest, but he does glance at me midway as if surprised I'm preparing to eavesdrop on his private consultation. Tough luck, mate, I live here.
I lead this snob to the kitchen, where Sherlock is boiling the kettle. The man stands by the door, ostentatiously looks around for Sherlock Holmes in the kitchen and living room and finally stands baffled looking at a detective in disguise.
'Sherl... Mycroft sent him', I warn.
Green eyes narrow under a dam of glitter.
The client takes a respectful bow and claims: 'I was hoping to see Mr Sherlock Holmes, is he in?'
Sherlock and I glance at each other. Surely the man can't be this daft. Is he putting us on or refusing to acknowledge Sherlock at his current look? My friend won't have that. He will champion anyone's right to self expression (sometimes calling them morons, but never refusing to acknowledge them, there's a difference).
'I'm... Sherl-ey', he says, with a shy smile and a flirtatious twinkle of eyelashes. I stifle a groan.
'Are you Mr Holmes's secretary?'
Sherlock squints, eyeing the man as if he could be legally blind.
I don't think he is, but good call.
'I suppose you can say you'll have to go through me to get to Sherlock Holmes', he says at last.
Shirley. All night we searched for a stage name. This will do, for now at least.
'I must leave something in his possession that no one ever might get their hands on. Is it safe?'
'If it's a smoking gun, that's really John's department', Sherlock says drily. 'Why else would Mycroft send you here?'
The man removes something small from his vest pocket.
'It's a signet ring.'
Sherlock snatches it and studies it for a couple of seconds. He looks... interested.
'It's most important', the posh man says. 'I can only return in the morning, I'll tell my story to Mr Sherlock Holmes then.'
I cross my arms in front of me.
The detective waves the client off. 'John, escort him downstairs. Mr Sherlock Holmes will hear the case tomorrow at 11:30. He'll have a lie in first.'
Resuming all his dignity, the man bows and leaves, with me following closely.
What an odd business, this. The whole thing's a parody, surely. But Sherlock seemed to take it seriously enough, once he studied the signet ring. What could it possibly mean?
As the front door opens for the client to leave, a new visitor arrives; Mycroft Holmes himself. The two men shake hands but remain suspiciously silent.
I guess I'm the doorman tonight.
'Come on up, Mycroft. Your friend left us something.'
'As he should', the older Holmes brother comments enigmatically. I bang the front door shut on the client getting inside his chauffeured car.
Microsoft effortlessly mounts those 17 steps in wide strides, making it upstairs as if he was in a race to win. I arrive not three seconds later.
We find Sherlock pouring the tea. And I mean Sherlock. Looking like Sherlock. No wig, no makeup, long dressing gown and pyjama bottoms, bare feet on the linoleum floor.
How did he have the time?
'Mycroft', the detective drawls if bored.
'Sherlock', the brother mirrors the tone of voice.
'Is no one saying my name?' I break the ice, reaching for one of the tea mugs. Both brothers stare at me.
Mycroft returns to his business attitude first.
'Sherlock... and John... that man you just saw, you must forget his face, his measurements, his accent, his mannerisms, all about him. He must never be identifiable.'
'Oh, really, why?' Sherlock drawls.
'To save a life.'
The two brothers' shared gaze is penetrative and strong, intelligent in a fluid language of their own. All I know is Sherlock surprises me by obeying a directive of his brother for once.
'What man?' he pretends.
I stare at Mycroft.
'What about the ring? Is that non-existent too?'
'Not at all, John. That signet ring is a free conduit, a pass to travel across London's finest and prevent a war in a foreign country.'
Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'How charmingly Victorian!' he mocks, but clasps the ring in a closed fist. He's taking the case.
'Yes...' Mycroft comments, disdainfully. 'You'll get more details tomorrow, Sherlock. I hope you are not too busy as a showgirl if you get more details, say, at noon?'
Sherlock keeps a stony composure. Mycroft leans closer to tell him: 'There's glitter on your hair, brother mine, and you've got blisters on your feet from wearing tight high heel shoes. Together they are quite revealing, don't you think?'
Sherlock smirks. I interrupt: 'Alright, everyone, get going. It's late, I need to sleep. Mycroft, stop dropping mystery clients at our doorstep in the middle of the night', I add as the older Holmes leaves and I close the flat door behind him. 'Sherlock, why are you looking so smug?'
'Oh nothing, it's something between me and my brother, you wouldn't understand.'
No matter how much I press Sherlock, he makes no further disclosure after that. Instead he presses on: 'John, the corset? I really can't breathe any longer with this torturous contraption.'
'Oh, right!' I hurry, as he pushes back the dressing gown.
'It's a good thing you tackled the murderer yourself, John', he comments, half-strangled.
Poor Sherlock, he'll always go the extra mile for his love of exceeding perfection.
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I'm getting my stuff ready for the next work shift by the time Sherlock's late night client returns at 11:30 sharp the next day. Sherlock Holmes himself assumes the etiquette of a dandified host ushering our client to my vacant armchair, then sitting opposite him. I'm watching them vaguely from the kitchen, as I sort my things out.
'It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Sherlock Holmes', the man states as if he had never laid eyes on the detective before in his life. Could be a simple act, rather than a deceived mind, but somehow it feels more constrictive than that. It feels like he is leading Sherlock to act and to be as he expects of the great detective. A figurehead to his own fame. A sonant name from a great family in a polished suit; anything else is to be averted, concealed, belittled as an anomaly, a freak.
This guy needs to learn how to live beyond his stuffy traditional views of the world.
'Won't doctor Watson join us?' he asks, looking round – for me, or for a cup of tea, who knows. Anyway, he seems to know my name now. Thanks, Mycroft, you really shouldn't have!
In all seriousness, Sherlock answers: 'John is much too busy saving the entire world one patient at a time.'
The client tentatively tries to smile. It comes out flat.
'I have come here, Mr Holmes, to convey the importance of the signet ring, that mustn't find its way to a foolish young person', he says, shifting to try to find a comfortable seat in my chair; good luck with that, too many broken springs until you learn how to navigate them.
Sherlock huffs tiredly. 'Yes, I've heard all that before. You are not the first to come in with such story. However, I've seen the signet ring. I can deduce by the size and surface residue who it belongs to, well placed in a secondary line of royal heritage. The reason for that person to part with the ring? A signature, as personal and trustworthy as could be, to legitimise the message it accompanied, and the messenger.' Sherlock glances my way, seeing me completely taken in by the fast deductions – and getting late for work. 'There is a theme here. A love letter. A desperate last reconnection act between two young individuals whose affections are societally reproached.' Sherlock leans back on the worn leather and crosses his legs. 'I'm not a man to read gossip magazines or follow the drivel in fan base pages, John will do that for me. But a simple research led me to the lover's identity.'
The posh man almost jumps off his chair. 'But, no, we must contain this at all costs! Please, the fewer people in the know the better. I've destroyed the message. I had to.'
'Surely your son's love is not all that disgraceful in today's modern world.'
The man pales and quietness at once. Finally he man sits quietly, broodingly. 'You have not been deceived, Mr Holmes, so I may as well confirm. Yes, the unfortunate boy is my son.'
'And you are trying to protect your reputation at the cost of your son's happiness.'
'The boy's a fool, he believes he's in love! He will be in love with someone else in no time, Mr Holmes. Someone I choose.'
'Surely it has occurred to your son that he can cut ties with you, thus minimizing the public's appetite for scandal?'
'Nonsense, my son is following in my footsteps, I've worked too hard to allow any other way.'
'Love or status, can this become any more stereotypical?' Sherlock decries, looking at me pitifully. 'Romeo and Juliet, all over again.' I smirk at that.
'I can pay you handsomely, Mr Holmes', the client finishes, getting up. He further looks at me, but adds no promises of remuneration, or expresses any words of interest, for that matter. I bet he really wanted a cup of tea from the hired help, too bad he won't get one.
Sherlock gets up and places the rug. 'I'm much less of the mercenary John's stories may have implied. Don't get paid for my work.'
I interrupt at that: 'Yes, you do, Sherlock! I take care of your accounting and pay our bills. Gee, do you really not notice?'
He looks a bit put off. 'How about all the cases we take pro bono?'
'We wouldn't refuse a client on the basis of their financial situation, Sherlock. I thought you agreed.'
'I care so little, I don't pay attention which are which', he agrees.
'Mr Holmes!' The gentleman in the rundown armchair shouts imperiously, as a man used to being obeyed, feared, and getting away with a level of abuse.
Sherlock calmly walks up to the skull on the mantel, lifts the cranium from the mandible and fishes out the signet ring.
'What do you intend me to do with it, Mr Holmes?'
'Take it back, won't you. Doctor Watson may believe I'm a stranger to the mechanism of love, but I'm no fool to its effects. It can make one a better person, and the world is in need of better people.'
'I came to ask you to hide that ring where my son's lover can never find it.'
'I'm not taking that case', Sherlock derides.
The rejected client cannot take any more. He storms out of 221B just as Mycroft is making his way up the steps. I vaguely wonder if the two of them coordinated appearances as they swapped old-fashioned calling cards.
I hoist my work backpack on my good shoulder.
'Don't go just yet, doctor Watson', Mycroft requests.
He really got the hang of using my name now, hasn't he? Turns out all I had to do was ask.
'I can provide you with a lift to work, so you won't be late, John.'
I hesitate. 'I'm working at Bart's this week.'
'I know', he says, with a creepy stalker's smile.
'Of course you do.'
The older Holmes is unflappable as usual. Even if his friend just stormed out of Baker Street. I thought he wanted Sherlock to take this case? Or did he want Sherlock to work on the case with him?
Mycroft lifts his pet umbrella to study the tip. 'Sherlock, have you done your part?'
The younger brother exudes a confident smirk. 'Of course, brother mine. The young lover was easily located, and received the message to meet tonight through my network. All has been arranged so the two can start a new life elsewhere, together. Pray, do tell me, how does a young couple's happiness-ever-after is in the national interest?'
'Of Sherlock, you know I cannot disclose classified information...'
I come on closer to ask without raising my voice: 'And that idiot's son just disappears?'
'Permanent identity swap, doctor Watson. I would say your little night time adventure has influenced me in solving this puzzle.'
Sherlock winks, turning away. 'I love it when completely independent cases link together.'
I interrupt: 'No, wait. Mycroft, do you mean an impersonator is taking the son's place?'
Mycroft looks loftily around in our living room. 'It wouldn't be the first time someone get swapped in the royal family, John.'
'What?' I hiss.
Sherlock shrugs. 'Ask Mycroft to tell you all about it someday over a Christmas dinner', he advises me. 'I'm much to busy in advance of any query.'
'You just said that to annoy me, Sherlock.'
'Probably.'
'For sure.'
'It worked then?'
'Not as much as you would like.' I squint.
Mycroft demands, almost losing his temper: 'Please stop bickering!'
Aww, good to know we still have the knack to drive the older Holmes nuts. Still, I'm not finished.
'You got together two young souls in love because you are a softie, Sherlock. It's official, you know.'
'Just drop it, John!' he glares at me.
Confirmation, as far as I'm concerned. I gloat and bask in my success.
I'm chuckling as I pick up my backpack again. I need to get to work, Mycroft promised me a lift. Feels like the MI6 is driving me to work today.
I'm starting to get a weird reputation among the gossipers. I wouldn't have it any other way.
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