Joseph Ganisewski
The Periwig Runner
-Part 1-
John hummed quietly to himself as he
pulled out a rag to wipe down a nearby table. It had been just three days since
he had taken the job at the coffee shop across town. He had needed the money
since consulting detective work turned out to be a rather low-paying job; not
to mention the notable lack of employers looking for ex-military doctors with
psychosomatic limps. In fact, the only reason he had taken this particular job,
was because he was certain Sherlock wouldn’t find out. It was on the opposite
side of London, in a district the detective rarely frequented. It wasn’t that
he was ashamed of needing money--food doesn’t pay for itself—it was just that
he was certain it would lessen Sherlock’s view of him; something which, in John’s
eyes was, unacceptable.
As John continued to carry out his
duties as barista, his mind turned to the tall, scarf-wearing man he had
recently moved in with. The two had undoubtedly hit it off, what with John
saving Sherlock’s life and all. But John still couldn’t help but think that
perhaps things were moving too quickly. He thought back to what an officer had
said about Sherlock at the first crime scene they had visited together, “You’re
not his friend. He doesn’t have friends.”
“Could that be true?” he thought, “Most people have friends.
Though admittedly most people don’t have someone they refer to as their
archenemy; and if they do it certainly isn’t their older brother.”
Still John Watson found himself
strangely drawn to Sherlock Holmes, and not in the way everyone seems to assume.
He felt like he had finally found a true friend; someone he could trust. He
just hoped Sherlock felt the same way.
-------------
Sherlock sat motionless, staring out
the window in the main room of 221B. Moments later he snapped out of it,
realizing he had become fixating on a man at the street corner, smoking. “Lucky
bastard” he thought as his mind raced through all the possible places John and
Mrs. Hudson might have hidden his secret supply. He didn’t really even want to
smoke; it just seemed a humorous thought to him that they thought they could
hide something from him.
As he continued to sit there, his
eyes began surveying the small flat. He couldn’t help but notice several
things; the most pressing of which was that John appeared to have left for the
day. “He didn’t even say goodbye,” thought Sherlock. Then again, perhaps he
had—he couldn’t be expected to keep track of everything John said.
“Mrs. Hudson.” He cried out in the silence. No reply. She was
probably out talking up the shop owner next door. If she only knew about his
wife in Piccadilly, she’d stop wasting her time. He had been about to tell her
so the day earlier, but John had stopped him; saying it was in poor taste.
Perhaps he was right.
As he thought on the matter, the
sudden urge for tea struck him, causing him to drag his body up and into the
kitchen. They were out. Normally he would simply repress the urge, but today
was a Tuesday, and he and John had agreed that he needed to be more human
sometimes; and it had been decided that the ‘sometimes’ would be Tuesdays.
Moments later the slender detective
was tying his scarf around his neck and throwing on his long coat. As the door
to 221B slammed shut behind him, he realized he hadn’t turned up his collar,
which he promptly did with a smile. John often accused him of doing it just
because it looked cool, and he was right; though Sherlock would never tell him
that.
-------------
John stared at the faces of the
customers as they approached and left his register, ordering their coffees and
teas. He often found himself trying to notice things like Sherlock, but was
never quite able to. He would occasionally notice a detail that seemed to hint
at something, only to have it contradicted later on.
As he stood behind the register working,
but lost in thought, a woman with brilliant red hair approached him. She stood
in front of him for a moment before she ordered, giving him some time to
attempt a deduction. He easily noticed that she was rather attractive, on the
shorter side, and that her eyes were surrounded by thick, black glasses. And
then, of course, there was the hair: a bright red mass of tangled curls
precariously held in place by a large, black pin.
As he took in the young lady’s beauty
he became suddenly aware that she was talking to him, “Where is your bathroom?”
she asked, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for an unknown
threat.
“Umm, oh, around the back through that door there, but watch
out: the door’s a bit squeaky,” he replied after a second, motioning towards
the rear of the shop. He smiled at her while he did so but she seemed so
distracted by whatever or whoever it was she was looking for that he was sure
she hadn’t noticed. And then she was gone, replaced with a line of unremarkably
ordinary customers.
John could have sworn he had seen the
woman before; perhaps she was a regular customer. “Yes,” he thought, “that was
it: he had seen her sitting at a table outside the front of the shop; although
he had never before noticed her hair.” As he continued to think about the
woman, he remembered that she only ever ordered the same thing: a blueberry
scone. John stood, deep in thought, trying to remember more about this
beautiful woman. So deep in thought in fact, that he failed to notice two large
men step up to his register.
“Oi mate, I said two black coffees, large,” said a deep, gruff voice which broke John’s trance, “is you
dumb or something? Two black coffees, large.”
“Very sorry sir,” John replied, flustered by his own lack of
attention, “that’ll be 4 quid 50.” As he did so he looked up, and, for the
first time noticed the two, rough-looking men standing before him.
“Highway robbery this,” remarked the smaller of the two men
as he reached for his wallet, “Hang on, I think I left me wallet in the cab.”
“Never mind your wallet,” whispered the other in a tone
easily heard by John, “the boss said we have to finish this today.”
Just then, a high-pitched squeaking
came from the rear of the shop, making the two men silence their hushed
conversation. John too found himself compelled to check on the sound, turning
just in time to see a flash of red pass through the rear door.
-------------
Sherlock hated talkative cab drivers.
Normally he would have simply walked somewhere local for tea, but he was apprehensive
about possibly running into someone from the station. He knew they all hated
him. It wasn’t his fault he was better at their jobs than they were. He stared
at the people walking outside as the cab sped down the road: two lawyers, four
divorcees, and one woman with particularly bright red hair.
“Shut up.” Exclaimed the detective suddenly, causing the
cabbie to look back in surprise.
“I didn’t say anyth--” he started before being cut off by
Sherlock.
“You were thinking; terribly annoying. Let me out just up
here. And please do so without opening your mouth.” After paying for the cab
and suggesting the driver try a new pair of shoes to help with his bad back, Sherlock
started making his way towards a nearby coffee shop.
As he walked briskly down the
pavement, he was suddenly thrown off-balance by a large man in a black coat
walking even faster. The man made no attempt to apologize for the incident; in
fact he didn’t even turn to see what he had hit. Before the man was lost in the
crowd, Sherlock was able to see a slight bulge beneath his coat, the shape of a
handgun. As Sherlock contemplated the reasons a sidearm would be in the hands
of a man so clearly not in the military, judging by his unpolished shoes, he
continued towards the shop.
After walking for several minutes but
still half a block away, Sherlock saw a flash of red hair identical to that of
the woman he had seen walking down the street before, but this time it seemed
to be running towards him.
-------------
“Actually I think
we’ll pass on those coffees mate,” said the taller of the two men as he craned
his neck to look at the back door of the small shop, “something’s…something’s
come up.”
Before John could say anything, the
two men had taken off towards the rear of the shop, “That was strange,” said
the next customer as he approached to place his order, “why do you think they
were in such a hurry?”
But before John could answer, his
mind raced back to the beautiful woman and the way the men reacted when she
left; then he remembered their hushed conversation. Almost before his mind
realized what his body was doing, he threw off his apron and ran out of the
back of the shop, bursting onto the crowded pavement.
In the distance he could see the two
men chasing the red-headed woman, shouting as they gained on her. John cried
out as well, racing and pushing through the crowd only to be knocked onto the
ground by a bicyclist.
-------------
Sherlock's eyes scanned the crowded
street, looking for the reason for the woman's flight. She was slipping through
the crowd with ease and was quickly advancing on his position. A loud shout
snapped his eyes to a familiar figure in the distance, which quickly
disappeared in the swelling crowd.
As the woman passed him, Sherlock
spotted a single strand of auburn hair dangling from the bright red mass of
curls. He also took note of a peculiar scar just above her left eyebrow.
Moments after the young woman passed him, Sherlock was met with the sight of
two men stumbling down the crowded pavement; gasping for air.
"Officers," said the detective with a sly grin, "you look like
you could use a doctor."
-------------
John's eyes opened to the sights and sounds of a crowded
street in downtown London. His hazy mind struggled to recall what had happened
just moments before, resulting in a piercing pain shooting across his skull.
"Fantastic," he thought, suddenly remembering what had occurred;
"now I have no job and a headache."
John struggled to find his footing. Despite his blurry
vision, he could make out a tall figure pushing its way through the crowd
towards him. Moments later, the strong, familiar hands of Sherlock Holmes
gripped his shoulders tightly, planting him on his feet.
"What are you doing here?" Was all the stunned
doctor could manage to get out.
"We were out of tea," Replied Sherlock curtly,
"Now, onto the case."
"The case?" John started, "What case?"
"The case of the red-headed woman John. Why was she
running? Why were the police chasing her? The game; is on."
-Part 2-
“Irene
Adler,” announced Sherlock as he and John burst into the small flat at 221B
that evening, finding Detective Inspector Lestrade standing in their kitchen,
“you should have told me you were after her.”
“Look it’s
like I told you over the phone,” began the policeman, “we were handling it fine
until you interfered.”
“Oh, and I
suppose you planned on her outrunning from your two men in the coffee shop.
Honestly Inspector, I don’t know why you ever try to solve crime without me.”
Suddenly, a
rock smashed through the large window in the front room of the flat, interrupting
Sherlock. He rushed to see who had thrown it and caught a glimpse of a young
man in black walking away swiftly. “Come on John,” exclaimed Sherlock, still
wearing his long coat and scarf, before bolting out the door and down the
stairs. John quickly followed, giving no mind to his leg.
-------------
The two men
pursued the vandal for what seemed to John like ages but was, in reality,
closer to ten minutes. They ran across rooftops and through back alleys,
finally catching up to him nearly thirty blocks from where they had begun. Cornered
on the roof of a four story building the young man turned to face his hunters, “You’ll
never catch her,” he said, looking down at the street below, “No one can catch The Woman.”
“Are you
talking about Irene Adler?” asked John just before a loud crack rang out across
the night air. John looked on in horror, and Sherlock in indifference, as the
body of the young man crumbled onto the rooftop. Sherlock approached him slowly,
checking the surrounding rooftops for the shooter, while John rushed to check
for a pulse.
Without
warning, Sherlock swooped down and jabbed his finger into the hole the bullet had
made, causing the man to cry out in agony. “Sorry, but we’re on a schedule,”
Sherlock said to John before focusing entirely on the man writhing on the
ground. “Where is she?” he demanded as the man cried out in the silence of the
cold night, “Where is Irene Adler?”
“Gaaah!--On
a train--out of Bromley.”
-------------
The cab in sped
through the streets of London, rushing John Watson and Sherlock Holmes to the
elusive Irene Adler. They had left Lestrade and the paramedics to handle the
young man and his wound; they were on the hunt for a much larger prize. Earlier
that day, Sherlock had told John who Irene Adler was, a woman of sin and
mystery. The truth was that the British government didn’t know all that much about
her, except that her name was connected with countless crimes.
As the taxi
sped on into the night, John looked at Sherlock and wondered if he had been
hurt by the fact that he had kept his job a secret. Almost as if on cue,
Sherlock’s voice boomed awkwardly in the cramped cab, “You know John, if you
ever need money--”
“No, it’s fine
it’s just that--”
“I was just
going to say… that I would be happy to steal some from my brother for you.” said
Sherlock, smiling as he did so.
“Bromley
Station, just ahead.” Announced the cabbie; breaking the laughter that had
erupted between the two friends.
Within
minutes, Sherlock and John were in the middle of a crowded station, looking for
a woman who seemed destined to elude them. “So we’re looking for red hair?”
asked John as his eyes scanned the faces of passers-by.
“Not necessarily,”
replied Sherlock just loud enough for John to hear over the buzz of the crowd, “that
was a wig so it’s likely she looks completely different.”
As Sherlock said
this, a woman walked into him muttering, “Sorry babe,” as she did so. Sherlock
looked at her eagerly, but was discouraged to find the wrong shaped nose;
noting only a small scar just above her left eyebrow.
John and Sherlock
continued to scan the hundreds of faces in the crowd, looking for one in particular.
“She could be anywhere,” said John in defeat, “we know she wears wigs; what’s
stopping her from wearing prosthetics?” This last comment caught the ear of the
detective, who gripped John strongly by the shoulders before throwing up his
hands in amazement.
“Oh that is
good. She is good” he shouted.
“Who is? Who
is good Sherlock?” asked John just as a loud voice rang out calling for final
boarding.
“She’s on
the train!” shouted Sherlock, pushing his way through the crowd, trying to make
it to the train before it left. As he fought against the horde of people, he could
see a flash of brilliant, blonde hair just ahead.
The doors of the train slammed shut
just as Sherlock reached out his hand to grab the woman’s shoulder. She smiled
at him as the train lurched forward, blowing him a kiss before taking off her
wig to reveal long locks of dark, golden brown hair falling to her shoulders.
As he watched the last car of the
train grow smaller in the tunnel, Sherlock found himself intrigued by the
mysterious Irene Adler. Flashing a quick smile, he determined in his mind that
he would one day catch her.
John Watson watched as his friend,
the infallible Sherlock Holmes, stood on the edge of the platform. Realizing it
was the first time he had witnessed Sherlock fail in a case. Then he saw a
knowing smile slowly appear on Sherlock’s lips; and he knew that it wouldn’t be
the last they saw of the woman, Irene Adler.
