The Imagination Latibule: Sherlock Holmes - Solve Me a Crime

Chapter 1

You often met Dr John Watson for breakfast at Speedy's café. Every Wednesday morning in fact. He'd have a full English with double the bacon and no black pudding, to which Mrs Hudson, the owner of the café, would put the black pudding that you very much enjoyed on the side of your plate of toast, no extra charge. The two of you would talk about your week; John would tell you all about the cases him and his elusive flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, had solved, and you would talk about how your shifts at Camera store were getting quieter and quieter.

Your father had been one of John's best friends. The two of them had served together in Maiwand as Medical Officers of the 66th Foot, the Berkshire Regiment. They'd been in Afghanistan for three years, the Kandahar Province for six months before a rogue bomb hit their regiment during a routine scout. John took shrapnel to the leg; your father took shrapnel to the heart when he pushed him out of the way. 

You never resented John for what happened, nor did you forgive your father for leaving you. It was complicated. But every week when you and John, who you considered almost a surrogate father, met up, things seemed a little brighter.

"I'm moving," you announced as he read the paper - the Daily express. He folded it in two, and put it on the third chair around the table. You noticed that he'd brought his cane down, and leant that against the third chair also. His limp was psychosomatic, as diagnosed by his flatmate, whom was apparently a doctor as well as a detective. Anyway, you worried sometimes that you made the limp worse. 

"Moving?" he repeated, folding his arms interestedly. 

"Don't know where or when yet," you said, taking a sip of coffee. "But rent's getting ridiculous and the shifts at the store aren't covering it any more." 

"y/n, I can always loan you --"

"--no," you said firmly. "You can barely afford London on an army pension. Thank you, but no." 

"You could go to your mum for help."

"Would you go to Harry for help?" 

John accepted defeat. "Fair point." Harriet - Harry, for short - was John's sister, and they got along as much as you and your mother did. Not at all. After your father passed away, you mother slipped into a depressive state. It was manageable until she decided to direct blame onto you, and that was the point of no return. 

"I'll be fine," you assured John, spreading liberal helpings of jam over your toast. "S'not like I'm fussy. Single tenant, will take anything as long as it's cheap with good access to the underground." You failed to notice the lightbulb that went off in John's head as a smile spread across his face.

"Give me two minutes," he said, and you nodded, watching as he walked away. When he disappeared into the back of the café, you swiftly stole a piece of bacon from his plate and scoffed it alongside the black pudding, a grin forming on your face when the waiter saw you and chuckled. You were familiar with all the staff, Mrs Hudson especially. She was John's landlady, and one of the nicest women you'd ever met. Speaking of...

"Yoo-hoo, morning dear," she said, walking over to the table with John by her side. He spied the lack of bacon suspiciously as you wiped the grease from your lips.

"Morning Mrs Hudson," you smiled. "How are you?" 

"Oh, having problems with my hip, but nothing I can't take care of," she said. "John tells me you're moving?"

"That's the plan," you sighed. "Rent's got me in a bit of a chokehold."

"Well, if you're interested," John said, "Mrs Hudson has a basement for sale. It's small, a bit damp, but nothing we can't sort." 

"Really?" you cried, eyes wide at the offer. 

"Of course!" Mrs Hudson repeated, undoing her apron and slinging it over the counter. "Come and have a looksie dear." She beckoned you out the door, and with a delighted glance at John, you followed, noting that his cane was being carried quite comfortably under his arm. 

The door next to Speedy's led into John's apartment block, 221 Baker street, and you and John waited in the hallway as Mrs Hudson went to find the keys. Despite your eagerness to view the place, reality set in hard and fast. 

"This is a prime spot," you mumbled to John. "Must be expensive."

"Mrs Hudson gave us a special deal," he answered. "Owes Sherlock a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. He was able to help out." 

"Wait, Sherlock stopped her husband being executed?"

"Oh no. He ensured it." 

"He..." you trailed off, glancing up the stairs to where John and Sherlock lived, in 221B. despite living together for over a year, you'd never met Sherlock. John said it was because he was always really busy, but you knew from his reputation that he just wasn't interested. It wasn't an insult you took personally. "You think Mrs Hudson will give me a deal to?" 

"She adores you," John complimented. "Besides, she's the ex wife of a cartel boss. She can afford to." You looked at Mrs Hudson in a different light as she walked out of her apartment with a lock box of keys.

"You had a look, didn't you John, when you first came to see about your flat," she said as she fished one out. "Here we go." She took the padlock off of the door and it swung open. 

"Thank you Mrs Hudson, I really appreciate it," you said as she motioned for you to go down the stairs. 

"No dear, thank you," she answered, following you down. "I couldn't get anyone interested in this flat. It's the damp, I expect. That's the curse of basements." 

"A curse we'd get sorted," John hastily added as he swung the front door shut and brought up the rear, making sure not to dissuade you. 

"Well, I'd happily give it to you for less," Mrs Hudson continued. "What do you think?" 

You glanced around the flat. A bedroom, bathroom, and living area with a kitchen attached. It was the perfect space for you. A bit dark, and incredibly dusty, but nothing you couldn't put right in a days work. You looked between John who was leaning forward with an almost physical want for you to love it, and Mrs Hudson who's fingers were crossed.

"...I love it!" you said, and they both cheered. John brought you in for a large hug which you reciprocated as Mrs Hudson clapped.

"Oh, I'm thrilled," she said, "aren't you just thrilled John?" 

"Very much so," he answered, patting your hair gently.

"Oh, there's so much to do!" Mrs Hudson cried. "I'll get the paperwork, and the champagne. No, just the champagne. We'll worry about paperwork tomorrow." 

"Alright," you laughed as she rushed off up the stairs, shaking the dust loose from the banister as she went. It was the fastest you'd seen her move since you'd known her. 

"Thank you John," you said sincerely, and he squeezed your hand.

"I promised your father I'd look after you," he said, and then he turned away from you, quickly wiping his eye as he got a little choked up. "I just hope that this repays some of that debt." 

"There is not debt," you answered kindly and he nodded, straightening himself up as he planted his cane firmly on the floor, suddenly leaning on it a little. 

"I suppose we better get the hardest part over and done with then," he said, and you raised your eyebrows.

"And what would that be?"

"...Meeting Sherlock Holmes."