Sherlock's Home

by Steve Emecz

  “So tell us what happened the last time you set foot outside this flat. What did you do that you shouldn’t have, and more importantly, what did you see that you now wish you hadn’t?”

  Nathan was at first taken aback and stared wide-eyed and startled at the accuracy of Sherlock’s deduction. He paused for a moment, weighing up his options and then made a sudden move as if to lunge toward Sherlock. John was there before that last thought had enough time to process, and he fingered his gun beneath his belt making sure the outline was clearly visible, as he warned, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. We just want to help, which we might be able to do, if you start by answering Sherlock’s questions.”

  “I…I,” Nathan began to stutter, “It was just for the money!” he finally exclaimed in a rush. “I didn’t know anyone would get hurt, I really didn’t want anyone to get hurt, but they still shot him! Right in front of me and I just panicked. I was holding the bag with the cash in it and I ran. They don’t know where I live, we only ever arranged to meet in public places and I never gave my real name, not even the one I go by here. But I daren’t go out. I still have all the cash, haven’t spent a penny of it, it’s still in the bag for God’s sake. It wasn’t all of it, they had a load too, but it’s certainly more than my share. And I know they’ll want it back. Not the type of men to be messed with, as the security guard certainly found out, and I don’t fancy the same thing happening to me.”

  Sherlock said nothing to begin with, then leaned forward and again gripped the man’s shoulder.

  “This is what you are going to do,” he instructed in hushed tones, “You are going to contact your brothers straight away and ask to meet them at your local pub tomorrow evening. You will give me as much information as you know on these men you have got involved with, and give me the key to this flat, that myself and John may enter it tomorrow night while you are out.”

  Sherlock and John finally left after Nathan Garrideb had fully agreed to Sherlock’s requests, and John sat in the taxi home puzzled by the events, which was not uncommon for him while on a case with Sherlock.

  “So Michael’s Garridebs who are looking for him, are they who killed the security guard?” John asked.

  “Oh no, they really are his brothers and he will undoubtedly inherit a fortune after the sale of his family home.”

  “That’s sort of ironic then that he ends up in this situation, when if he’d held on long enough, he would have been a rich man anyway. So it’s just all a big coincidence why your old pal Michael put us onto this case in the first place?”

  Sherlock grinned a shark’s smile, “There’s no such thing as coincidence John.”

  The following evening they were back at the flats. They watched from across the road as Nathan did as Sherlock had instructed and left the building and went into the pub on the corner. John was amazed at the ease in which he accomplished this after being confined only to his four walls for so long. He had heard cases of agoraphobia, when the patient took years making even the smallest steps to recovery, and yet here, one word from Sherlock and the man appeared to be cured.

  They entered Nathan’s flat and waited for the men, who for reasons unknown to John, Sherlock was sure would break in that evening. Sure enough, within the hour they did exactly that, and after a bit of a skirmish, Sherlock took off after one man and John the other.

  John followed in pursuit of the second man, up the stairs of the block of flats and through the fire escape on to the roof, but he realised his mistake too late.

  The rooftop appeared deserted at first and John began to hastily look around for an alternative escape route and that was when he felt it. Cold hard metal pressed to the back of his head.

  “Turn around, slowly,” the red headed man ordered. John obeyed. “Toss your gun to the ground, then hands up in the air where I can see them.” John followed the instructions edging backwards until he felt his heels touch the edge of the roof and abruptly stopped automatically taking a step forward again.

  “Close enough,” the man pointing the gun, warned. “Where’s the money?”

  “I don’t know,” John answered truthfully.

  “That’s a shame, looks like it’s a bloody long way down, so hope you can fly?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know where it is,” John said again, rising panic in his voice.

  “Well that’s too bad. I’ll find it of course, not that you’ll ever know, because by that time you’ll be an ugly mess on the pavement down there.”

  John glanced over his shoulder to the street below. There was nothing to break his fall if he jumped of his own accord. He had no choice, there was no other way out of the situation and his chances of survival were slim, but he couldn’t just stand there and wait to be shot.

  John’s sudden movement caught the other man off guard, but his finger was already squeezing the trigger and as the shot rang out, John felt a searing pain in his side. It was just a graze, John knew that instantly. The location where the bullet had impacted was nowhere near any vital organs and even without inspection, he was sure it had passed straight through him, but that was not what was to kill him. The impact of the bullet had propelled John backwards and unable to secure his footing, he was falling over the edge, gravity pulling him down to the waiting concrete below.

  He fell facing skyward and suddenly felt grateful he would not see the ground rush up to greet him. The strange weightlessness felt surprisingly liberating despite his journey’s obvious conclusion, but John’s acceptance of situations was always one of his strengths, something he wondered born out of his days in the army. He had seen many men killed at war and now finally it was his turn.

  Only the rooftop wasn’t becoming further away, if anything, it was beginning to appear closer once again. John suddenly felt light headed. He wondered if it was the shock, but he had the distinct sensation of arms around him, supporting and carrying him back to the rooftop. Just before he blacked out entirely, he could see what looked like feathery black wings sweeping at the corned of his vision.

  “It’s okay John, I’ve got you,” a familiar voice assured him.

  When John awoke he was in a hospital bed. He could hear Sherlock talking to someone just outside his private room. The other voice in the conversation, although speaking in hushed whispers sounded familiar too, and it took a moment for John to identify it as belonging to Mycroft Holmes.

  “That was not your main objective Sherlock,” Mycroft growled.

  “John’s going to be fine. It’s not the first time he’s been shot and he recovered perfectly well before,” Sherlock protested.

  “Precisely! It’s the second time he’s been shot and Afghanistan was a close call too. That’s two occasions when you have been quite sloppy. You know how important he is,” Mycroft continued to lecture.

  “You don’t need to tell me Mycroft, I know how important John is,” Sherlock indignantly spat back.

  “Then you need to be more careful in future, this is your last chance Sherlock. You have been assigned to him; if he receives even a scratch, then you’ll be recalled and your guardian status revoked! Do I make myself clear little brother?”

  Sherlock glowered, “As ever, crystal clear, Mycroft.”

  “Good, wonderful,” Mycroft concluded with a Cheshire grin as if everything was going according to plan and not the total disaster it might have been. “I’m engaging phase two, you see that woman over there?”

  Sherlock turned his head to look in the direction in which Mycroft inferred.

  “Nurse Morstan, yes she’s been attending John,” Sherlock informed him.

  “Yes Mary, charming name don’t you think?” Mycroft asked.

  “Obviously,” Sherlock agreed, “Can I assume she is part of phase two?”

  Mycroft grinned a shark’s smile similar to his brothers, “What do you think?”

 
Just over a week later John had been discharged from hospital and was sitting in his usual armchair in 221B reading the paper. Sherlock was out collecting more prescription pain relief for John, although he was making quite a speedy recovery as it turns out practice makes perfect when it came to this sort of injury. Mrs. Hudson, their cleaner, was vacuuming the flat from top to bottom and fussing about the mess Sherlock’s experiments made, making her job twice as hard as it ought to be.

  “First of all it’s tobacco ash,” she grumbled, “then it’s dissected who knows what, and for heavens sake, are these jars of mud? Not to mention the chickens! What is Sherlock doing with so many chickens? All I keep finding are these black feathers everywhere.”

  John wasn’t listening as his mind kept wandering back to those strange events after his fall from the rooftop, which continued to replay in his mind on what seemed like a constant loop. He was sure it was delirium brought on by shock, but still, it seemed so real and there was something he just couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  Half an hour later and Sherlock still wasn’t home, but Mrs. Hudson had finished for the day and was putting on her coat to leave.

  “I’m off now John, I should think Sherlock will be back any minute now though. Will you be alright here by yourself?” she asked with more than a little concern present in her voice.

  John put down his paper for the moment to answer her. “Yes I’ll be fine. Sherlock’s been taking good care of me and he’s never out of the flat for very long ever since I’ve come home from the hospital, so I’m sure I’ll be okay.”

  “Yes, Sherlock’s been so good throughout all of this; an absolute angel,” Mrs. Hudson agreed.

  A sudden smile spread across John face, as if some vital fact that had for so long been eluding him, finally clicked into place.

  He looked back at Mrs. Hudson and in all seriousness said, “Yes he is, isn’t he.”

  221b For Undershaw

  By Maria Fleischhack

  Leipzig, Germany

  Sherlock Holmes is a man of logic and deduction. While he is indeed familiar with every emotion a human being can experience and what their consequences might be, he ignores them in himself and normally focuses onthe problems at hand.

  But when the great detective opened the evening paper one night in late spring, sitting on his chair in 221B Baker Street next to Watson, smoking, he found an article which touched him strangely. An etching of a beautiful house, abandoned and crumbling caught his eye and he found himself immersed in the accompanying article.

  Ghosts were said to haunt the house; ghosts which did not scare those who visited the place, but which made it seem already occupied, and no one felt they had the right to move into it without being familiar with those spirits first.

  Neighbours spoke of children’s laughter which they heard from the terrace in front of the house; of conversing men, discussing politics and sports; of good night stories, whispered after dark.

  And Sherlock Holmes felt, for the first time in his life, a powerful irrational tugging at his heart, which, after much contemplation, he defined as a violent case of homesickness. For a moment he was a ghost himself and tears shone in his eyes. And like the house, his heart was broken.

  The Doctor And The Madman

  By Cambria Trillian

  San Antonio, Texas, USA

  You may not have heard, but there was a man

  In his mind he held Afghanistan

  Coarse sands strained to blow that man away

  As he doctored up bullet ricochets

  But he was resilient, much fiercer than fear

  His weary heart could not be commandeered.

  Another gentleman, pipe wedged in teeth,

  Stood as an emblem of mad caprice

  His violin hummed at every hour

  He was intellect and dry gunpowder

  Garnet in his cold veins could be set aflame

  Just say to him, “let’s play a murder game.”

  It was unlikely but the pair did meet

  Lived out their nine lives on Baker Street

  Anchored soldier, mercurial friend

  Each the other’s improbable godsend

  Through puzzling cases and cases of cocaine

  The doctor and the madman, always strange.

  The Impromptu Plunge

  By William Warren

  Moffat, Ontario, Canada

  “No, I really don’t see how I can be of any assistance to you,” said Sherlock Holmes. “As far as I can see, no crime has been committed.” “No, there hasn’t been,” our prospective client agreed, “but we just want you to make sure.” The old woman raised her hands in a motion of begging Holmes to stay seated. He rose all the same, and headed for the stack of newspapers in the corner, running back as far as three months ago. “A man falls from a tightrope and dies: accident, case closed, so what? He made a mistake, two, in fact, one, misjudging the distance to the platform on the other side, and two, taking the job of being a tightrope walker in the first place. He fell off just before he reached the end of the rope. There was nothing of note in the event.” “He was blindfolded, Mister Holmes,” the old woman added. “Make that three mistakes, then.” He waved the matter away. “Absolutely not; I can’t help you in the slightest.” “I will pay you just to come down and take another look at the scene.” “Money is not my only desire, Missus Browner,” he snapped. “My wish is to catch those people who think they can abuse the laws of nature and man, all at once, and get away with it. That, and to find diversions so my brain will not implode from boredom. No. Absolutely, positively, no.” “Now, Holmes,” I protested, “really. She only wants some peace of mind about her son’s death; surely we can give her that? And if it turns out to be merely an accident, then there’s no harm done. Besides, it would do you good to get outside for a while.” “Will you please,” Holmes screamed, “stop it! I don’t have to go outside, I don’t need to go outside, I don’t want to go outside, you can’t make me go outside. I will not go outside, and certainly not to investigate an accident.” “Well then,” I announced. “If you won’t, I will.” “Watson, don’t you dare! Whenever you take up deduction, you always end up inside-out and backwards.” “I’ll ask Mycroft, then. I’m sure he’d have more heart than you.” “Have you met my brother?” He scoffed. “I told you, he won’t derail himself from his usual routines unless it is a matter of national security.” His lithe form was quivering with rage. “And is an accidental death of a tightrope-walker a matter of national security? No, I don’t think so.” “Then I’ll go myself anyway!” “If you do, I’ll kill you.” “Then come along, and you will not have to arrest yourself.” He stood up, snatched up his hat, coat, cane and gloves and opened the door leading into the hall. “So let’s go already.” When we arrived at the West End location where the circus was set up, Holmes dashed out of the cab and ran at top speed into the tent where the tightrope walk had taken place. When we caught up with him, he was already at the top platform, having scaled the long ladder in moments. He set about examining the platform while I looked around. The tent was over two hundred feet tall, made of yellow material with wide red and blue stripes. Along the walls were arranged twelve rows of folding wooden chairs. The entire tent was empty, as it had been since the fatal event, though there were a few constables posted at the entrances. “Ah, Mister Holmes,” came the voice of our friend, Inspector Lestrade. “I thought you had declined this case?” “And so had you,” he replied. “But I see you are still here.” “Yes, well, there is something I should tell you about this case before you progress any further. Won’t you come down?” The weasely-faced man cupped his hands around his mouth in a makeshift megaphone at the last. “I think not, I’m much more interested by what I see up here, but I’ll be down shortly, on my own time, thank you.” “I can’t understand that man,” Lestrade scoffed. Lestr
ade is one of the most competent of the Scotland Yard officials, not nearly the oaf that many of my readers seem to have pictured him. Indeed, he could not have been an incompetent buffoon, or my friend Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t have tolerated his company. But he did have an impatient streak to him, which was mainly the reason why his cases were often turned over to Holmes; he wanted instant results, and was not patient enough to wait things through and look carefully for clues. “So I take it you had to convince him to take another look at the case, Doctor?” he asked, sidling up to stand beside me, both of us facing away from Holmes and at the audience’s seats. “Indeed, though it didn’t take much.” “What did you do?” “I threatened to leave him at home and come myself.” We shared a laugh for a moment before we both found ourselves gripped by the shoulder by a pair of long, thin, but incredibly powerful hands and Holmes’ face appeared between ours, led first by the long, sharp nose, then the prominent cheekbones, then the intense, dark, beady eyes and thin lips. “Enjoying yourselves, are we?” he asked, the corners of his mouth turned up in a miniscule smile that was more akin to a sneer. His eyes held no warmth, and I had a feeling he knew what we were laughing about. “Having a friendly chuckle over the scene of a murder?” “Murder, Holmes?” “Yes, Watson. Murder.” “Well, what led you to believe that?” I turned to face him incredulously. “Take a look.” He turned me by the shoulder, which he still held in his firm grip, and pointed to the tightrope with his other hand, having let go of Lestrade. “Examine the distance between the platforms.” I looked, and found that they were closer together than I would have expected. I voiced my observation to Holmes, who chuckled in his throat. “Indeed. Such a short walk is highly unlikely to be the scene of misjudged distance.” “But you can’t base your theories upon only that,” Lestrade protested. “I’m not.” “Then what are you going on?” The inspector asked. “What was that detail of the case you said you wanted me to know about?” “Oh, yes, that. I just think you should know that this is a waste of time. We were just leaving; Scotland Yard has closed the case. They believe it to be a waste of time.” “And if I told you that I was really a chimpanzee,” Holmes snapped, “would you believe that?” “You know, that explains a lot,” Lestrade muttered. “Watson, please accompany me, I would like to see some of the other parts of the circus. Lestrade, please continue on your admirable work.” He strode out the entranceway, and I followed close behind. “Holmes, that was unkind back there.” “Perhaps, but it was also unkind when we won the Battle of Waterloo.” He led me through the pavilions seemingly at random, peering into the tents as we passed. Suddenly, when I happened to glance behind, and then righted my gaze again, Holmes was nowhere to be seen. I returned to the spot of my distraction, and looked into all the tents from there to where I had realized Holmes’ disappearance, when suddenly I heard, “Peepin’ Tom, ah’ wei?” I whirled around with a shout, and saw a circus man standing there, four feet taller than I. He wore bright blue clothes and a frilly top hat with red feathers. His face was a mangled mess, with a many-times-broken nose, puffy eyes and a misshapen mouth. I realized he was wearing stilts. “Excuse me, sir, I seem to have misplaced a friend of mine.” “Misplayced? Dee’ mei, ‘e mus’ be small, fo’ you ‘o loose ‘im so easy.” His voice was unnaturally high, with a sharp edge to it. “No, I mean I can’t find him.” “Wehw ven, you’d be’ah go foind him. G’day.” He spindled off down the hard-packed grass. I searched for Holmes for an hour before I found him, on the other side of the carnival talking to a group of performers. I waited on the sidelines until he had finished. There was much laughing and exchange of quips and small-talk, and after a while, Holmes detached himself from them and came over to stand beside me. “An interesting lot, these circus people,” he said. “If ever I get tired of detective work, I might join up with them.” “What would you do?” His reply completely took me by surprise. “I think I’d be a clown. A juggler.” We left the circus, and returned to Baker Street, after Holmes promised Mrs. Browner that he would devote the entirety of his attentions to the case. As soon as we got back to the rooms, Holmes dove for the settee, and curled up with his pipe. “So this is what you call your full attention?” I asked. “Yes, yes, most definitely.” His eyes were closed, and his fingers were drumming on the bowl of the pipe. “Well, I will leave you to your most engaging work, and go visit Mary.” “Who?” “My fiancé. You remember.” He often pretended to have no idea who Mary Morstan was, even though she had brought him that most remarkable case of the Sign of Four, and he had met her on many occasions since. I have never been able to figure out if his deliberate ignorance was because he simply did not like her, or if he was disappointed that I would be leaving eventually to marry her. Somehow I thought the former more likely; there was always a definite gap between Holmes and myself, and Mary was to him just another woman who had absolutely no connection to him after the Sign of Four case had been closed. “Oh, right, yes of course.” He didn’t say another word, so I left.