Sherlock's Home

by Steve Emecz

  Stopping outside one of the many bathrooms the Pentagon held, Sherlock let out a small exclamation. “Did you know that the Pentagon has more toilets than it should?” Watson, Major Powell and the two officers looked bewildered at Sherlock. Sherlock continued, “Yes originally the architect had designed the building to feature segregated facilities, with separate toilets for ‘blacks’. But when President Roosevelt looked around before its opening he demanded the removal of the ‘whites only’ signs. The Pentagon was the first and only building in Virginia where segregation was not allowed at that time.” Sherlock then promptly walked into the lavatory. “Watson will you join me? This is a piece of American history right here,” Sherlock said as he disappeared into the lavatory. Watson hesitantly looked at the American officers beside him, shrugging he followed Sherlock into the men’s room. “With those accents, you can never tell which side they bat for,” one of the officers jested.

  “Sherlock! Have you lost your mind?” Watson said sharply. “What are we doing in the bathroom?” Sherlock began talking in a fast, hushed tone. “I need you to remain here and then make your way to General Mendoza’s office. Once in there, wait and see if anything unusual happens.” “Why?” “Because I have a feeling that what I’m about to do could potentially have me detained, and without you in the office, I won’t be able to solve this case.” “You never make things easy do you?” Watson said despairingly. Sherlock walked calmly out of the bathroom and explained that Watson was otherwise ‘occupied’. Leaving one of the officers to escort Watson back once he’d finished, the major guided Sherlock back to the control room.

  Back in the control room, Sherlock turned to Major Powell, “Right, we need to recreate the events of the day.” “Excuse me?” Powell said incredulously. “I need you to sound the alarms and unlock the security doors,” Sherlock requested. “Absolutely not!” Powell said. “Do you want to find out what happened or not?” “Mr. Holmes, I have been patient enough with you, you will tell me what is going on, or I will have you escorted from the premises,” Powell demanded. “Well, it’s patently obvious that this was no kidnapping,” Sherlock said intolerantly. “What do you mean?” “No threats or demands had been made on the Pentagon or General Mendoza. Your security cameras were not disabled, the office windows have not been breached - no one could have possibly entered or exited that office without you knowing,” Sherlock said as he casually strolled around the control room. “Which means that General Mendoza is still in his office.” Sherlock finished speaking and then, without another word, suddenly flung himself at a nearby control desk and hit several buttons he had studied earlier.

  Watson was waiting in one of the cubicles of the bathroom when alarms started sounding in the corridor. “Here we go,” he thought to himself. Cracking open the restroom door, Watson peeked out. The officer left outside was now running away from the toilets towards the direction of the control room. Watson made his way to General Mendoza’s office. All was quiet within the room, the thick wooden door muffling the sound of alarms outside. Nothing looked out of place – it was just as it had been earlier. Moving around the office, Watson made his way to the desk and sat down, to wait for Sherlock or some angry military personnel. Suddenly, the computer monitor flickered out of sleep mode. A new window opened and a countdown timer appeared. Watson stared as the numbers hit zero. There was a loud click and then a grinding sound. Watson turned around to see a segment of the wall behind him, near the window, sliding to one side. Inquisitively, he approached the previously hidden doorway and gagged as a pungent smell emerged. Covering his nose, Watson found himself in front of a thin side room. He stepped across the threshold. The room ran along the back wall of the office, behind where the painting hung. It appeared to be some form of panic room. Finding a switch, the lights flickered on with a buzz, as though they hadn’t been used for a long time. Now able to see the room more clearly, Watson reeled as he spotted the body of a middle-aged man dressed in a military uniform. Moving closer, Watson saw the name badge bearing: ‘General P. Mendoza’. Giving the body a very quick check over, he deduced that suffocation was the most likely cause of his demise. As Watson turned to leave, the sliding door suddenly slammed with a bang. Trying not to panic, Watson pulled out his mobile phone. There was no reception; either the panic room blocked out the signal, or it was to do with the Pentagon’s security. Watson knew that certain high-profile military buildings used signal-blockers to prevent any un-monitored communications. “Damn it!” he exclaimed. Looking around, he finally saw a small panel with coloured buttons on the wall above Mendoza’s body. Relief set in, and he pressed the buttons, one by one. There was no response, either they had been disconnected or were so old they had stopped working. “What?! No!” He yelled out. Watson reduced himself to banging on the door. A loud metallic sound echoed in the room, hopefully someone would hear. But then Watson looked back to General Mendoza’s body; he had suffocated, which meant that this room was airtight and most likely sound proof. The air, already stale with the smell of Mendoza’s rotting corpse, was becoming increasingly harder to breathe in. Watson sank to the floor, knowing that asphyxiation could set it at any time – he would become dizzy and blackout. There was nothing he could do. His breathing became increasingly laboured and he could feel the dizziness setting in, he was losing consciousness... Then the panic room door slid open. The silhouettes of two men moved forward, dragging Watson from the room.

  Watson found himself lying in General Mendoza’s office. Major Powell and four officers were standing around him, Sherlock stood by the door to the panic room, in handcuffs. “You’re lucky to be alive,” Powell said, helping Watson to his feet. “We’d have been here sooner if you hadn’t stopped me,” Sherlock churlishly mumbled. “Don’t push me Mr. Holmes,” Powell snapped. “You’re lucky that we only handcuffed you. Now, perhaps you could explain your actions in full. Otherwise, I will charge you.” Sherlock sighed, “As I’m sure are aware, the Pentagon was built during the Second World War. It is likely that certain offices for high-ranking personnel, such as this one, had extra security features built into them – such as a panic room like this,” Sherlock said, pointing at the hidden room. “When the incident happened earlier this month, the alarm systems were activated and certain security doors unlocked – including this panic room, and while General Mendoza was talking to his secretary, the door automatically opened. “Like you, I’m sure that the general had no idea that this room existed, and thinking that someone had opened the door from the inside, he went to investigate,” Sherlock explained, looking around to see if everyone was following his deduction. “Now, following you’re procedures, you set the building into lock-down. This, I believe, locked off the panic room’s door and shut down the emergency supply of air, meaning that the general was unable to open the door and ultimately asphyxiated.” “It seems absurd that something like this could have been overlooked,” the major said. “Is it?” Sherlock said wryly. “It’s highly possible that in renovating the building and updating the security software that something could have been overlooked. “I would imagine, that the Pentagon’s original blueprints would have some exclusions. Remember, it was built during the biggest war history has known; the U.S. government wouldn’t have wanted exact plans detailing its newest and biggest military building to be potentially leaked to Axis forces.” “So the general’s death?” Powell asked. “Was all an unfortunate accident,” Sherlock said. “Your former employee is guilty of the virus, but had no malicious intent towards General Mendoza. And I suspect he was just working alone. “This unknown panic room should not have been affected in the lockdown, it is an anomaly in your system; a ghost in the machine, if you will,” Sherlock finished with a dry smile.

  September 18th 2011: 221b Baker Street, London.

  “Sherlock, it’s your brother, dear.” Mrs. Hudson’s kind voice could be heard from the hallway. Sherlock made a rude sound under his breath at these words. He picked up the stuffed beaver from
the mantelpiece and sat down in his armchair, pretending to be engrossed in studying it. Mycroft Holmes walked into the living room, giving a smile and a nod to Watson, sitting on the couch, reading the paper. Watson politely nodded back. “Sorry to intrude, Sherlock,” Mycroft began. “I was on my way home and have been asked to pass on a message. The US government send their thanks for your help the other day.” Sherlock shifted in his chair, giving a childish grunt, not looking away from the beaver. “Well then,” Mycroft smiled once more in his awkward way. “I won’t interrupt you any longer.” Mycroft turned to leave and stopped, looking back to Sherlock. “Oh, I’m glad to see you are enjoying your present.” Sherlock looked up to his brother quizzically. “I was sure it would fascinate you.” Mycroft smiled again and winked at Watson, then left. Sherlock looked down at the beaver that had been puzzling him for so long. “Bloody hell!” he exclaimed, dropping it to the floor with child-like fury.

  The Adventure Of The Second Mantle

  By Jack Foley

  Sunderland, UK

  Upon recollecting the more than 120 cases I have had the pleasure of documenting during the 23 years I spent working with the great detective Sherlock Holmes, not one presents such an unusual chain of events as the adventure of the Second Mantle. It was to be the last case of Sherlock Holmes, where Holmes’ methods of deduction were used against him. It was the winter of 1904 and I was living out in the country with my second wife, Violet. After vacating my lodgings at Baker Street I had made myself a good living through my country practice. I had not seen Holmes in several months and, upon my return, I was apprehensive as to the state in which I would find him. When I arrived at our rooms Holmes was his usual self. He was sat in his armchair, facing the fire, glancing over a pile of documents.

  “Ah!” he exclaimed, barely looking up from his work, “My dear Watson, pray take a seat, I trust you had a good journey.”

  “Holmes, you haven’t changed a bit, what have you been up to?” I enquired as I took a seat, noting the scars upon his face. He threw down his papers and looked up at me. Holmes told me that he was on the verge of bringing to justice the most dangerous criminal gang in Europe, an organisation responsible for no less than seven brutal murders in the past year. That Friday, they intended to murder a wealthy Scottish medical practitioner and author living in London. It was Holmes’ intention to be waiting for them. Holmes and I had only been speaking for several minutes, when we were interrupted by Mrs. Hudson, who brought us Inspector Lestrade. My friend, as usual, seemed uninterested by the Inspector’s arrival and imprudently asked him,

  “What trivial matter do you wish bring to my attention today Inspector?”

  “The murder of Lord Ashdown,” replied the inspector, stepping into the flat.

  “Why do you feel the necessity to concern me in this matter?” rebuked Holmes.

  “There was a letter accompanying the body, a letter addressed to you.”

  “Watson,” Holmes began, leaping from his chair, clearly intrigued by the case, “As you are in London for the day will you be good enough to join me on this case.” Having been away from Baker Street for some time I had long wished to accompany Holmes on another case. I joined my friend and the Inspector in the four-wheeler that was waiting outside for us. On the way I told them how I had met the victim just one week earlier, at a dinner hosted by my friend and former superior officer, a Mr. Charles Harding. He was a rather jovial gentleman who took great interest in myself, and my stories of my work, with Mr. Holmes. Lestrade informed us that the body lay in the middle of the room, the blood stains from a single bullet upon his shirt. The room had also been completely emptied, save for the furniture, in what Holmes described as a desperate attempt to hide the group’s motives. We arrived at the empty house in North London finding the body exactly as described, in its possession, a letter addressed to my friend. He glanced over it once and passed it onto me.

  Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

  We trust that you will find this letter. It was your involvement in our affairs that has forced us to push forward with our plans. We have learned much about your methods over recent months and we thank you profusely for your help in arranging this matter.

  “Whatever does it mean Holmes?” I asked, placing the note down on the table.

  “Last November, in the light of a ghastly triple murder I became knowledgeable of a criminal gang working in London, the Second Mantle, one of the most dangerous organisations I have ever encountered in my career. I had reason to believe they were planning to orchestrate one of the largest robberies this country has ever seen. In order to bring them to justice I needed data and therefore, over the successive weeks, I posed as a homeless man in need of employment. I gained their trust, carrying out minor errands for them, eventually becoming part of their organisation, meeting regularly in a disused tunnel under the Thames. “They took me into their confidence,” he continued crouching down beside the body, “They told me what I wanted to know, they informed me of their plans; that this Friday, they were to murder Lord Ashdown, a wealthy Scottish author, living here in London. I intended to be ready for them. However, it appears they were aware of my involvement and have pushed forward in their plans. All my work has been in vain. I have been duped; I cannot trust anything I have been told. I have learned nothing while they now know everything they want about me.” “What do you intend to do?” I enquired, observing Holmes pacing round the room, looking for any evidence he could.

  “They know everything about my methods, I cannot trust any evidence they have put before me. They know exactly what I will be looking for.” Holmes explained that all he could deduce from the little convincing evidence available was that there had been five people here last night. They all came and left different ways, taking different things. Examining the room he saw that there were droplets of water around the fire. It had been put out in haste. This fact, combined with the fact that Lord Ashdown couldn’t have seen his killer and the position of the bullet in the body pointed to the fact that he was shot from the window, while he was sat by the fire. Holmes wrote a short letter addressed to my friend Mr. Harding, he asked me to return to Baker Street to collect some documents and take the documents and the letter to him. Holmes and the Inspector were to go to Scotland Yard. The Inspector was, under the orders of Holmes, to ensure a police presence around the home of Mr. Harding. Holmes gave me clear instructions to meet him at the British Museum after delivering the letter. I returned to Baker Street to pick up the documents and took them, along with the letter, to the home of Mr. Harding. As Holmes had requested there was a visible police presence around the house. I gave Mr. Harding the letter as I was instructed to.

  It was just after six when I arrived at the museum. Holmes was waiting for me inside and he showed me through to a store room at the back, asking whether I had been followed. Inspector Lestrade was waiting in the store room with about a dozen officers. Holmes gave us his instructions. “I expect them to arrive at around eight,” Holmes began, “This is a risky crime they are committing tonight, so I very much doubt that the leader will be with them. However, as for the other four, I feel I can pinpoint their movements with reasonable accuracy. Two members will enter through two different windows on the West side of the building, on the ground floor. Their aim is to get any security or police over to that side of the building. They will only be here for a short time, very unlikely to steal anything. Lestrade, if you wish to catch them you must ensure your men stay hidden until the gang members enter and when they do, you must be quick.” “Another member will enter through the store room door, the door through which we entered. I have a feeling he works here and he will make his way through the museum, making his way to the other store room on the second floor on the East side of the building. He intends to find the object he is after and open the window; the final member of the group will be waiting below for the object. He is a young athletic man, he will take the object back t
o their hideout.” “Now Inspector,” Holmes looked sternly towards Lestrade, “I suggest you organise your men, in order to catch these criminals before they know that they are walking into a trap. Do you believe yourself capable of doing so?”