The New Client

4.

Watson shut the door slowly as he was always reluctant in leaving for a job away from home. However, having waited an hour for Holmes to finish packing useless items that had no apparent significance to the accomplishment of their case, he was looking forward to getting some fresh air.

The door closed softly and the lock twisted with a gentle click. Watson bent down, picked up his bag and umbrella and straightened up into the beaming face of Holmes.

“Ready.” He said eagerly, like a child waiting to be taken to the zoo.

“Yes.” Watson sighed as he began to walk down the stairs.

“Fantastic.” Sherlock smiled, clapping his hands together. John continued down the stairs past all the furnishings of their beloved home. He had to admit it, although Sherlock was by no means the perfect colleague, he was the perfect friend. Watson remembered back to the time he first met Holmes and ever since he has relished those sometimes long years. Each turn of the spiral staircase brought him face to face with old memorabilia from past cases. Suits of armour, African tribal masks, thrones, boomerangs and various other oddities, these were of no particular meaning to Holmes, so he left them outside for their Housekeeper. Watson chuckled to himself as he remembered the reaction of Mrs Hudson upon seeing a stuffed tiger standing outside her door. He was facing the truth, without Sherlock Holmes he would lead a very boring and ordinary life, which he did, on occasion, sometimes wish for.

Halfway down the stairs John heard a sudden whooshing and looked up to see a great black object hurtling straight down the stairs, he watched as it rushed passed him and crashed to the floor at the entrance to the house. He came to realise that it was Holmes’ suitcase this could only mean one thing. He turned and trudged down holding his umbrella out to his left. There came another peculiar sound and again a rush of wind as Sherlock whizzed past Watson down the banister, grabbed hold of the umbrella and began brandishing it like a sword.

“God cry for Harry,” he cheered in his best actor’s voice.

“England and Saint George.” Watson ended. He loved Shakespeare and couldn’t help joining in, he often found Holmes’ moods infectious, though many often described his character thus, and meaning so not in a good way.

John reached the bottom of the house and began to pull his scarf round his neck and place his bowler hat on his head. He knew not many people wore them but he found them brilliant and believed more men should wear hats as it made them look more distinguished. He had purchased a deerstalker for Holmes the Christmas before as a present but so far had only see him wear it once, and that was at Christmas dinner whilst everyone was wearing those paper party hats Holmes described as ridiculous and cheap. Just then the housekeeper’s door flew open and Mrs Hudson came storming out.

“What is the meaning of…” She began only as she was prodded by the tip of the umbrella in Holmes grasp.

“En garde.” He smirked whilst maintaining his fencing pose.

“Out!” she screeched. “Get out! Get out! You boys will be the death of me.”  She went on as she ushered them towards the front door. Watson allowed himself to be shepherded out the door apologising continuously for his colleague’s behaviour, all the while Holmes just laughed to himself as he skipped out the door onto the pavement.

“Unbelievable.” John muttered.

“Oh Johnny.” laughed Holmes.

“No, you can’t just go around jabbing old ladies with umbrellas.” Watson said seriously, slowly realising how funny it had been and allowing himself to smile a little. “I have no idea why you must behave so childishly.”

“Watson you must learn to stop fretting so much, it’s aged you horribly.” He said “The game’s afoot!” Watson sighed and turned to face the house. The golden numbers 221b glistened in the fresh autumnal morning. John inhaled deeply, getting as much fresh air into his lungs as he could.

There was a light ringing and Watson turned around. Holmes was standing with two bicycles and childishly plucking the bell. Watson’s eyes widened alarmingly and he dropped the suitcases to the ground.

“No.”

“Yes.” Cried Sherlock

“No Holmes, you will not get me on one of those death traps.” John said as he caught sight of a large rusted patch and flat tyre. He wasn’t too worried about the bikes themselves, but more of the effort needed to cycle.

John then walked off round the corner in a very purposeful stomp. Sherlock smiled to himself. He always enjoyed winding Watson up and did occasionally earn the treat of a tantrum. Holmes walked gently away and lit a cigarette sucking in deeply watching the world go by in its usual mundane fashion.

Suddenly there was the screeching of tyres and the sound of metal on metal and a crunching sound. Holmes spun round, his coat billowing behind him. Watson sat in the front seat of a shiny jaguar XC220 in British racing green, the convertible roof drawn back. He wore a grin from ear to ear and revved the engine nodding to the bags then gesturing to the boot. Holmes stood in awe, then in shock took the cases and loaded them into the rear of the car.

“Ready?” said Watson, mimicking Holmes’ voice earlier as he entered the passenger seat. Sherlock sat silently and gazed out the front of the car.

“What’s the matter?” asked John. He felt the engine growl and began to slowly creep forward.

“You…” Holmes started but there was a horrendous noise from beneath them like the breaking of metal bones. “Ran over my bicycles.” He finally said.

“I know.” Grinned Watson and they sped off down the road, off Baker Street into the unknown, to their latest venture.