The IQ of the Whole Street

"Shut up, Anderson," Sherlock said scornfully. "You're lowering the IQ of the whole street."

Anderson gaped at him for a moment. This was the third time Sherlock had said that to him in a month! He was only suggesting that Sarah Willis's nephew might have poisoned her. They were at 221B Baker Street, and Anderson had stopped by yet again. It had been an exceptionally busy month, and they'd seen more of each other than they'd have liked to.

"You know what, Sherlock? I don't think I am! I think you just can't stand having a second opinion, even a good one. I'm a trained professional!" he concluded indignantly.

"Even monkeys at a circus are trained," Sherlock noted.

"Well, well," Anderson sputtered, reaching wildly for a comeback. "You could at least have the decency to think of a more accurate insult. I'm not bothering anyone except you."

Sherlock rounded on him, and he flinched internally. "Do you know Billy Mayfield?"

Anderson narrowed his eyes. "No." Sherlock turned back to his desk and continued shuffling through papers. "What does he have to do with anything?" Anderson asked cautiously.

"You've bothered him a great deal. He lives at 235 Baker Street. He's in grade seven, and his report card came in this week.

"After your visit here on Monday, I did some investigating."

---

Sherlock had only had the letter open for 8 seconds when it was snatched out of his hands, but that was all the time he needed.

"What are you doing reading my mail?" the woman asked furiously.

"Just... observing," Sherlock answered casually. "Billy's gone down a letter grade in three subjects." The woman stared at him, and hurriedly shifted to reading the report card.

"A D in science!" she exclaimed. "He was doing so well."

"I wouldn't blame him," Sherlock said. "It's all Anderson's fault." He handed her the open envelope he was still holding. "By the way, do you remember the word for a baby cow?"

She looked puzzled for a moment. "It's just called a baby cow, isn't it?"

"Most people would call it a calf." He strode off down the street, leaving the confused woman staring.

---

"Billy dropped by at least a few points in every class since last semester, and his mother could not recall the word 'calf.'"

"People forget thugs sometimes. I wouldn't call that evidence of anything," Anderson said.

"Not by itself." Sherlock pulled a sheet of notes off his desk. "I did some more experimenting."

---

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called from his chair. "Mrs. Hudson!" She hurried upstairs.

She had barely entered the room before Sherlock asked, "Mrs. Hudson, what is 5 times 7?"

"Oh, well, it's been a long time since I took maths, dear. Let me see. It's not... No it can't be anything ending in a three. I'm quite sure there's a three in it, though -"

"Mrs. Hudson!"

"30," she remembered. "No, 35."

"And 5 times 6?"

"Oh, well, hmm - 30." Sherlock nodded approvingly. Mrs. Hudson looked at him with concern. "Are you having trouble remembering your multiplication tables?"

"No," Sherlock replied shortly. "I'm conducting an experiment. John!"

There was silence for a moment, except for the faint sound of running water. "John!" Sherlock yelled again.

"I think he's in the shower, dear."

"Well could you go and get him? I need him here."

"I think it would be better if you waited for him to finish." To her faint surprise and great relief, Sherlock nodded. He continued to stare at the wall as she left the room.

Around twenty minutes later, John walked into the room, his hair still wet. "What is the square root of thirty six?" Sherlock said, seemingly addressing the wall.

John looked around to be sure Sherlock was talking to him before answering. "I don't know what a square root is."

"You should."

"Well, it's something from maths. I don't really remember that sort of thing."

"What is the capital of Paris?" Sherlock tried.

"France," John answered immediately and certainly. Sherlock waited a moment to see if he would realize the mistake.

"Paris is the capital of France, John."

John looked surprised. "You're right." He glanced around the room. "Are you going to France, Sherlock?"

"Leaping to conclusions," Sherlock muttered.

"Sorry?" John asked.

"Anderson's influence," Sherlock explained. John looked baffled. "He's lowering the IQ of the whole street."

----

"I intend to speak to Lestrade about this," Sherlock concluded. "We can't have you coming over here so frequently, or it might begin to affect me. And Billy Mayfield has suffered enough already."

Anderson was sure he should say something. He'd just been insulted. But all he could ask was, "Do you know who murdered Sarah Willis or not?"

"Technically the maid. But she was threatened by the nephew. You'll find he's immune to the poison that was in the tea. Shut the door on the way out."

Sherlock didn't look at him again. All Anderson could do was leave, thinking to himself as he did, I knew it was the nephew.