by Steve Emecz
John had blonde straight hair and a round face. At the age of 10 he already had frown lines on his forehead. He wore a knitted jumper which was a gift from his mother. His mother had made him wear it today so he could make a good first impression to the class. He had only grumbled in reply and didn’t argue. He had jeans on and some old brogues he had inherited from some distant relation. John actually felt like a child compared to the other boy. The boy’s gaze flickered over to him, dark grey eyes analysed him then flicked back to the window.
John stepped around the table and sat down, chucking the back pack on the floor. He sunk down in his chair relieved to finally be off his feet. He wondered who the strange boy was sitting next to him. He seemed closed-off and unwelcoming. John coughed to get his attention. This rewarded him with a glare then nothing, once again.
At the front of the class Mrs Hudson began to talk about material properties. John didn’t listen he was too busy wondering who this person was next to him.
“Staring at me won’t solve any of your questions. That is unless you have my observation skills which I don’t think you do. The names Holmes, Sherlock Holmes,” the boy said finally turning to look at him. John stared quite gobsmacked. He offered his hand out of politeness. Sherlock just looked at it, and kept his arms folded across his chest.
“John-” he began.
“John Watson. You recently moved here because your father had been offered a better job at the local hospital. Your mother stays at home and it seems she spends a lot of spare time knitting. Your jumper is one of her experiments, I can see. Not the best she can do I’m sure,” Sherlock said in a jumble of words. He spoke fast and serious, leaving John confused for a moment. John stared his mouth hanging open in shock.
“How…how did you know that?” he choked.
“Observation and deduction,” he said as a matter of fact. “Don’t worry you’re all too stupid to understand, let alone learn the art. Watson please shut your mouth; I can already see that you have two fillings, one white and one grey. You ate too many sweets last year, that’s obviously why your face is fat. You’ll lose that weight in a few years. Oh and your leg, you hobbled in here like a lost soul. You never put weight fully on your left leg. I presume you recently twisted it while jumping from a tree. A grade II twisted ankle, the doctor told you. I bet you have a bruised ankle as well. Your horrible brown brogues must have been donated to you, why would anyone buy something so hideous?” Sherlock paused. He offered an awkward smile despite all the criticism he had just given John.
“Umm, yes that’s pretty much correct,” John said, frowning down at the table. Sherlock made him uncomfortable.
“Sherlock, I presume you have something to say to the class?” Mrs Hudson’s voice cut through the air.
“Ah, I don’t wish to show off, Mrs Hudson,” he said her name with distaste.
“I don’t think that’s possible Mr Holmes, give it a try by all means,” she said with a false smile.
“Well then. Let’s begin,” Sherlock said both of his hands together now like he was praying. The whole class had turned around to glare at him. John felt even more uncomfortable. He had begun to sweat in his woollen jumper.
“You’ve been teaching the class that metals are strong, hard and shiny and good conductors. Which is incredibly boring, the dumbest elephant could tell you that,” he said with a curl of the lip. His grey eyes were wide flicking back and forth, like he was viewing a map. “I can tell you that metals are malleable because they consist of many layers of atoms that can slide over each other when the material is bent or shaped. Metals also form giant structures where the electrons in the outer shells are free to move about. The free electrons and Metal ions can be forced together in a metallic bond. Is that enough Mrs Hudson or shall I continue?” Sherlock said looking away from the class with a smirk on his face.
John didn’t have a clue what Sherlock had just said, his brain didn’t understand words like malleable; he was only 10 after all. Looking at the rest of the class, John saw the shock on all the other children faces. Mrs Hudson stood at the front of the class, her hands on her hips. Her face was as red as a tomato, sweat dripped from her brow.
“Mr Holmes, maybe we can continue this discussion outside of the class room,” she said through gritted teeth.
Sherlock stood, his lanky form towering over the class. He picked up a pencil from the next desk and stood waiting. The class watched in silence. Sherlock laughed and kept walking. After a few steps he threw the pencil. It missed Mrs Hudson’s head by an inch. It was a perfect miss. Sherlock left the room, his laughter trailing behind him.
Voices rang out as the gossip began to spread. No one approached John instead he looked at the empty door. This other boy was incredible, no one could be that clever but he was. He was only 10 years old but he was extraordinary. John couldn’t even begin to understand what had just happened.
Mrs Hudson was shouting outside the class room. She came back shaking and sweating. Sherlock didn’t return. “Now class please can you all go and play for a few moments while I sort out some kind of punishment for Mr Holmes,” she said only just containing her anger.
The class escaped her fury. The door slammed behind them. John hobbled down the mobile’s steps and walked over to the playground. Again he was alone. He spotted a bench nearby on the field. It was empty while all the other children ran around playing tag. He walked over to it and eased himself down. He stretched his legs out in front of him. He ignored the pain in his ankle. It hurt but it wouldn’t get better if he didn’t exercise it.
He watched the other children run around and play. He thought the game was silly. You didn’t gain anything from running around. John wasn’t the healthiest person in the world, so he didn’t see the point in being able to run around for hours. He would never need to run from anyone. Especially if he ended up being a doctor like he dreamed. He didn’t need to run around a hospital at top speed.
“Silly isn’t it?” a serious voice said from behind him. John turned and saw Sherlock standing there. He was now wearing a dark coat which looked too short on his lanky body. Sherlock came and sat down, crossing his legs and arms. John nodded. “People are too stupid for their own good, honestly this game isn’t even fun,” Sherlock said eyes flicking over people on the field.
“If it isn’t fun what is?” John asked, finding courage in his voice. After all he was rather curious.
“Fun, only normal people think running is fun. Fun, is solving a problem that nobody else can. It’s challenging yourself to be the best. To observe everything and never miss a clue, one day your life might depend on it,” Sherlock said, his face glowing at his idea of fun.
“I want to be a doctor,” John blurted because of his nerves. Sherlock glanced down at him, brows raised.
“One day John, you will be,” he said. John shook his head, this boy couldn’t possible know his future. They sat in silence thinking over each other’s words.
Another boy ran over to them. He was average height and had brown hair. A smirk was spread across his face. There was something unsettling about him. John thought it was the way his blue eyes watched him.
“Got yourself a boyfriend, have you Sherlock? I’m sure the whole class would like to know,” the boy said. Then he shouted “Sherlock’s got a boyfriend,” loud enough for everyone to hear and come running over. Voices rang out around them, fingers pointed and eyes glared.
The boy walked over to John, pushing Sherlock aside. “I’m James Moriarty, you shouldn’t talk to Sherlock. He will fill your head with lies, he pretends to know everything to cover up how dumb he really is,” James said and the spectators snickered. “You shouldn’t be around people like him. They will only drag you down. Why don’t you come with us now? We can show you how to be the best,” He said stepping back, arms wide welcoming John to his little gang.
John didn’
t like this boy. He was too cocky. James slicked his hair back as he watched while flashing his pearly whites. He shouldn’t talk to Sherlock like that, everyone was equal.
Slowly pulling his feet in, he stood, holding the bench to steady himself. Sherlock watched curiously. John put one hand behind his back, three fingers spread wide.
“I’m sorry but I’m going to decline your offer. There’s nothing wrong with Sherlock. Of course he’s rather self-centred, but so it seems are you,” John said with a smile. He didn’t like bullies and James was one. Confidence flooded through him. Sherlock stood up behind him. John bent one finger leaving two up.
“Are you sure? You’ll be a weirdo like him if you decline. Nobody could want that,” James taunted, with the same smile plastered on his face.
“Well, actually I’d rather be like him than you,” John said, at the same time bending another finger.
“So be it,” James said with a frown now. It seemed nobody had declined his offer before. James stepped forward coming nose to nose with John. John bent his last finger, his hand now clenched into a fist, just as Sherlock stepped up beside him. Together they pushed Moriarty. He fell down in shock while John and Sherlock ran laughing together as they went.
It seemed John had made one friend after all. He’d also stood up to a bully who needed to be put into his place. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson made quite a team. Together they ran out the school gate, John lagging slightly behind, but he was having fun. They passed the Baker street sign a few moments later. John looked at his watch to see it was 2.21pm.
Mrs Hudson’s voice shouted at them as they ran. “You boys, Get back here at once. You’ve already caused enough trouble, come back before I call the police!”
Sherlock laughed harder.
“What now?” John asked.
“My older brother Mycroft is one of the local policemen,” Sherlock said panting from the run.
“Really? Is that what you want to do as well?” John asked, trying to imagine Sherlock as a policeman.
“Ah, I’m afraid not John. That’s far too easy. Instead I’m going to be a consulting detective,” Sherlock said with pride.
“Is that even a real job?” John asked. He’d never heard of it before. His brow creased in confusion, his brain trying to search for the words.
“No it isn’t. I’m going to be the first. Sherlock Holmes, the world’s first consulting detective,” Sherlock shouted with confidence in his voice. An eccentric laugh pierced the air, and John couldn’t help but join in. John thought Sherlock must be crazy but he kept his mouth shut.
Later that night, sitting at his cluttered desk John wrote:
Dear Diary, Today I made a new friend…
The Matchmaker Of Furrow Street
By Aine Kim
London, UK
It was a cold, drizzly evening on May 17, 1895, when I was disturbed from my pipe by the sound of a hansom cab clattering to halt outside of 221B Baker Street. Minutes later there was a thumping noise from upstairs. Holmes darted past me to the window and pressed his sharp, eager face against it while casting about through the gloom, as though to draw the cab’s passenger in from outside. Presently, the doorbell rang and my companion danced down the stairs to fling the door open and enthusiastically welcome our visitor.
Detective Inspector Lestrade had soon settled himself by the fire, while Holmes paced up and down the length of the room.
“Damned unseasonable weather, don’t you think, Holmes?”
remarked Lestrade.
Holmes’ response remained unspoken as Mrs. Hudson swept into the room bearing a tea tray and a copy of the day’s paper.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade, I suppose there’s been some kind of grisly murder that you’re here to ask me about,” Holmes made a desultory swipe at the paper, but it was swiftly recovered by Lestrade.
“You won’t find it in there, Holmes. The Yard is trying to keep this one quiet.”
Holmes fell into his chair and leaned back, “Then, pray tell me about it yourself.”
Mrs. Hudson took this as the cue to make her exit.
“Well,” began Lestrade, “I trust you remember the case of the Putney Butcher.”
“Watson, my file, if you please.”
I passed him the brown manila file containing records of most criminals and crimes from the last century. “Hum! The Putney Butcher... Yes. Murdered 12 people and disguised their carcasses as those of animals for six weeks... Imprisoned for life at the Old Bailey in 1886. I suppose there’s been another death that occurred in such a fashion so as to make you believe it was him? As I recall he escaped from Pentonville Prison at the end of last month,” mused Holmes as he skimmed through the file.
Lestrade nodded, “Right on all counts but one.”
It was too late. Holmes slammed the file shut and began to prowl about, waving his hands whenever Lestrade tried to speak.
“So... The Butcher returns, eh? But how can you be so sure that it is he? His recent escape from incarceration and the simplicity of the method of killing make him an easy target for impersonation. I expect you’ve already looked for the obvious signs mark of a butcher’s hook under the right ear, knife wounds to the ribcage-”
“Holmes,” interjected Lestrade, “we already know he’s not the killer.”
My companion froze. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because,” explained the Detective Inspector patiently, “he is the victim.”
As we sat in the cab together, I watched as Holmes leafed through his ever-faithful brown file and listened to him ponder the killing.
“So the Boston Cannibal... there’s motive there, I believe they met and came to blows in 1882... but I suppose this transatlantic issue might render it implausible. Walter Wilkerson certainly motivated, but also deceased.”
The cab drew up on a darkened side street, heavily populated with a crowd of police officers. Holmes made a swift exit and strode purposefully towards the body lying on the soot-encrusted cobblestones.
“Watson, what do you make of this?” he called to me.
I approached the corpse and was surprised to see that the skin was mottled with dark, irregular bruises.
“This man has been stoned to death.”
“Precisely. What else do you notice?”
I looked closer, and realised that what I had initially taken for a wizened old man was in fact a much younger and stronger specimen, as his thin head of white hair came away in my hand.
“Holmes, this man is heavily disguised, and to professional standard.”
Holmes laughed bitterly. “He knew I would be searching for him or rather assumed. I cannot be called upon to investigate every petty murderer who escapes from a moderate security prison.”
I stood there as Holmes stalked about the crime scene, occasionally pausing to give away a cry of delight and pounce on some small element of our surroundings. Suddenly, there was the ringing of hooves upon stone and another police cab came into view. A young constable leapt out of it and ran to Detective Inspector Lestrade.
“Sir,” he cried, “there’s been another, sir!”
Once again, I found myself in the back of a cab with Holmes, who was growing extremely frustrated.
“Who could it be? None of these criminals came from a culture where stoning is practised, and the size and shape of the bruises tell us that the stones were all smaller and pointed, so the killer is either a very young woman or an elderly and infirm man. But now to say which of those it is...”
We again disembarked and Holmes noted the location of the corpse.
“Both of these deaths have occurred within one square mile of each other... Now what we may or may not infer from this will be confirmed by the next victim.”
“Next victim?”
But
Holmes had disappeared down the street and into the darkness, swinging a tiny, guttering oil lamp and taking the answer to my question with him.
The presence of a a trail of blood-spots on the ground caused Holmes to utter a great cry of “Aha!” bringing me to the end of the alleyway at once.
I found him stooped over the body of a young man, his cold, grey eyes alight with the joy of the chase, like those of a bloodhound. Held aloft in his long, bony fingers was a white card printed with the words, “Matches made in Heaven,” and an address.
“You will observe, Watson,” he said, “that this gentleman is a customer of Carhill’s Matchmaking Service of Furrow Street.”
“Yes, Holmes. Would I be right in thinking that this would be the very Furrow Street that lies not half a mile away from here?”
“Quite correct, my dear Watson. I would be honoured if you were to accompany me there.”
Furrow Street was a small, dimly-lit stone-paved road that seemed to be solely frequented by balding, middle-aged men who gravitated unashamedly to a lone location. Carhill’s Matchmaking Service was housed in a nondescript little building that squatted toad-like in the middle of the street.
Holmes and I ducked into an inn across the road and made our way to the window. My colleague whipped out his file and leaned forward.
“Both victims, we have established, were customers of this matchmaking service. The first victim’s motive was obvious- having just escaped from prison, he needed to settle into a new life as quickly as possible, hence his compulsion to find a wife and also those dreadful side locks. The second... hum! He has been identified as Mr. Benson Forbes, who was happily married.