A Consulting Detective, Ex Army Doctor, and Child Mercenary Walk Into A Room

Chapter 1: The Hounds of Baskerville

Sherlock and I came home to 221B covered in blood. "Well that was tedious," Sherlock sighed. "You two went into the tube like that?" John asked. He was sitting in his armchair staring at us. I put the harpoon gun on the table. "None of the cabs would take us," I said puzzled.

I cleaned myself up and walked out to the living room when I heard Sherlock being agitated. He's still carrying the harpoon gun, gesticulating with it. John's surrounded by a litter of newspapers and the remains of breakfast. "Nothing?" I ask John. "Military coup in Uganda -" Sherlock groans. " - a cabinet reshuffle -" "Nothing of interest, I mean! Oh God." Sherlock maniacally bangs the end of the harpoon off the floor. "John, I need some. Get me some!" My eyes narrowed. "No," John and I said at once. "Get me some!" Sherlock pleaded. "No! Cold turkey. We agreed. No matter what," I said, not giving in. John sighed, "Anyway, you've paid everyone off, remember? No one within a two mile radius will sell you any!" "Stupid idea! Whose idea is that?" "Yours," I growled.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock yells. He lays the harpoon aside and starts rooting through the bric-a-brac of the flat, flinging books, magazines, laptops over his shoulder. "You're doing really well, Sherlock. Don't give in now," I plead. "Tell me where they are, Lune. Please. Tell me. Pleeeease." "She won't help you. Sorry," said John steely. "I'll let you know next week's lottery numbers." A skeptical look from both me and John. Sherlock crumbles. "Worth a try." He narrows his eyes - then pounces on an old, curly-toed Persian slipper tucked away near the fireplace. With a cry of triumph, he burrows his head inside - but it's empty. Sherlock hurls it disgustedly across the room.

Mrs. Hudson pops her head round the door. "I had an emergency packet. What have you done with my emergency packet!?" Sherlock yells. "Eh?" Mrs. Hudson asks. "Cigarettes! Where have you hidden them? I know you've got them somewhere." Mrs. Hudson glances quickly at John and I. We shake our heads urgently. "You know you never let me touch your things." "I thought you weren't my housekeeper," Sherlock said rather sharply. "I'm not -" John throws an appealing look at Mrs. Hudson. "How about a nice cuppa? And perhaps you could put away your harpoon." "I need something stronger than tea. Maybe seven per cent stronger."

Sherlock spins around and looks Mrs. Hudson up and down, forensically and not a little creully. He picks up the harpoon and points it accusingly at Mrs. Hudson. "You've been to see Mr. Chatterjee again." "Pardon?" asks Mrs. Hudson. "In the sandwich shop. You're wearing a new dress but there's flour on your sleeve. You'd never wear that for baking -" "Sherlock ..." John warns. Sherlock points the harpoon at Mrs. Hudson's hands. "Thumbnail. Little traces of foil. Playing the scratch-cards again? We all know where that leads, don't we? And 'Casbah Nights'. Pretty racy for first thing on a Monday morning, isn't it? I've written a little blog about the identification of perfumes. It's on the website. You should look it up."

"Please -" Mrs. Hudson starts. "I wouldn't pin your hopes on that cruise with Mr. Chatterjee. He's got a wife in Doncaster that nobody knows about." "Sherlock!" John shouts. "Well, nobody except me." "I don't know what you're talking about. Really, I don't," says Mrs. Hudson. She marches out, on the verge of tears and slams the door. "What the hell was that all about?" John asks, angry. "You don't understand. Of course you don't. Lune does. But only a little bit." "Go after her. Go and apologize," John says. "Apologize?" Sherlock throws down the harpoon and flops into his chair, hugging his knees to his chin. "I envy you so much, John," Sherlock mutters. "You envy me?" "Your mind. It's so placid! So straightforward. Barely used."

This earns a look from John. "Mines like an engine. Racing. Out of control. A rocket, trapped on the launch pad, tearing itself to pieces. I need a case!!" "You've just solved one! By harpooning a dead pig apparently!" John yells back. "That was this morning. Where's the next one?" "Nothing on the website?" I ask. Sherlock grabs an open laptop and shoves it at me. "Dear Sherlock Holmes. I can't find Bluebell anywhere. Please, please, please can you help?" "Bluebell?" John asks. "A rabbit, John," I answered. "Oh." "Ah, but there's more! Before it disappeared, Bluebell turned luminous! Like a fairy - according to little Kristy. Then the next morning, Bluebell was gone, hutch still locked, no sign of forced entry - what am I saying this is brilliant!"

Sherlock grabs the laptop from my hands. "Phone Lestrade, tell him there's an escaped rabbit!" I cock an eyebrow at Sherlock. "You're kidding. What drugs are you on? Who are you and what have you done to Sherlock Holmes?" "It's this or Cluedo," said Sherlock defiantly. "No. We're never playing that again," said John. "Why not?" "Because it's not actually possible for the victim to have done it, Sherlock, that's why." "I couldn't see any other solution." "It's not in the rules!" "Then the rules are wrong!" The doorbell downstairs buzzes. We all look at each other suddenly. "Single ring!" I squealed. "Maximum pressure, just under the half-second!" Sherlock continues. There were big grins all around. "Client!!" we all call out.