221B

Chapter 5 - A Study in Pink

Kate:

The next day I rush to work, once again, not late. Jeremy was working the counter again.

"You're late." Jeremy says again.

"I am not!" I say, pointing to the clock. "I'm three minutes early."

"Oh." Jeremy says, disappointed. "Jack is going to be coming again. I'm going to go. Work the counter."

I throw on a waist apron and see John and Erik again, in the same seats as they were yesterday.

I see a newspaper in front of me on the counter a little ways away from Erik.

"Another murder?" I ask him.

"Yes." He answers, gluing his hands together and placing them in front of his face.

I pick up the paper and begin to read. Then I see something that catches my eye. The name Sherlock Holmes. But above the name is a picture of Erik, striding away from the camera, barely making eye contact with the photographer. But it's definitely Erik and striding next to Erik is John, who is correctly labeled as John Watson.

"What is this?" I ask, placing the paper in front of Erik and John and pointing to the picture of Erik "Is this you?" I demand him. He looks at the picture.

"Well, I was going to tell you, but-"

"You're Sherlock Holmes?" I say loudly.

"Please keep it down. I don't want people to know I'm here! Can barely go anywhere without people trying to snap a photograph." He says.

"Why didn't you tell me before?! I wouldn't have said all those things I said earlier!"

"Exactly, which is why I decided to have some fun and ask you what you think about me."

"Why-?"

"Why would I do that? Oh, just to have some fun." He says.

"Kate, you're working the tables." Jack says, walking in, not taking his eyes off his phone. "That's what Jeremy says."

"He just said I was working the counter."

"Until I came in. Which I just did."

"Fine." I say. I look back at Sherlock Holmes and John.

"Well, I'll see you later." I say to them, walking away from the counter and grabbing the notepad and pen and walking over to the tables taking orders from people. At one point when I'm delivering food in a tray right in front of the counter next to the drunken man and I set the last plate of food down the drunken man slaps me on the ass and yells in a taunting voice "Good girl!"

If there's anything I hate most, it's idiots who slap me on the ass-or anyone slapping me there in general.

The man tightens his grip on my rear. I slightly turn my head as he says yet another insulting remark, followed by yet another one, more insulting than the previous slur.

I set the empty tray down at the edge of the table and swing around, bringing my clenched fist to his unsuspecting face.

He stumbles back, tripping on a leg of a stool and falling on his back, his drink spilled a little on his already-stained white shirt and dark brown pants. However, I did forget how many drunk buddies he had with him. Which was about five, possibly six. Chances are, they were going to respond in a rather violent way. They wobble in front of their stools, some of their drinks forgotten on the counter. I assume a punch near my head behind my back is on the way, for I can hear the drunken man stumbling towards me.

I whip around and grab his fist, stopping him in his tracks. His jaw drops in shock. I know another one is coming behind me. Before the man whose fist I have captured in my hand can do anything, I swing him around to the other side. I pull his arm in as I do so, bringing him slightly closer to me. The man behind me is right where I expect him to be. With my other hand, I quickly grab the back of his neck, and collide both of the drunken men's heads together. They crash to the ground, slightly unconscious. They were, undoubtedly, going to have a majour headache to go along with the hangover when they gained full consciousness.

Two down, four or three more to go.

There was another drunken man right behind the men whose heads I'd collided together. He also stumbled towards me. I grabbed his arm and swung him around to the wall, which he collided into before he could stop himself.

Three down.

The next man came running at me full speed from behind me, which I wasn't exactly prepared for. He tightly hugged my neck when he got to me, still running. I used the momentum he had gained while running to flip him over onto his back by simply kneeling to the ground.

Four down.

The next man was facing me. He followed his first companion who had attempted to punch me. So he stumbled towards me with a weak fist slightly drawn back. I dunked underneath his arm when we swung and punched him in the stomach. The punch I gave his large rounded stomach didn't seem to daze him. I quickly grabbed his shoulders with both of my hands and kneed him in the stomach as hard as I could. He clutched his stomach and fell to the ground.

Five down.

Where was the other man? I believe I did see him waiting to punch me. I wait for a few moments before I hear the last man stumbling to deliver a punch. So I simply turn and punch, hitting his face.

I look to see if there are any more drunken companions of the first man who insulted me. Which there aren't. So, fed up with this bloody job, I begin to walk over the crumpled men at my feet to the counter to get my coat, where I notice that everyone is staring either at me or the men on the floor. Most of them stare at me though, including Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. I grab the notebook and pen from the table I'd left the tray at, toss the apron onto the counter, along with the pen and small notebook and then grab my coat.

"I quit." I say. I look over at Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Dr. Watson astonished, and Sherlock Holmes who looks slightly pleased, yet awed at the same time. "Dr. Watson." I say. "Mr. Holmes." I add, lowering my voice slightly.

I swiftly walk around the counter, step over the men on the ground and push open the door onto the streets of London. I begin to walk home, sliding my light gray coat on my shoulders, turning up the collar as I always do. In one simple, swift motion I slide the hair-tie out of my hair. My long hair draping over my shoulders and down my back. I hear the sound of the door to the pub being opened, and the sound of someone running towards my direction.

Someone grabs my arm and pulls me into an alley right next to me. Before I know it, I'm nearly fifty feet away from the street. I trip over pothole and stumble against the stained gray wall. I turn around, my back pressing against the cold cement. I look at the man who dragged me back here. He's about six feet, six inches taller than me. He's wearing an overcoat, the collar turned up just like mine. I can't see his face since he's in a part of the alley where it's darkest. However, I do recognize the outline of the man who's about arm's length away.