SHERLOCK I, II, III & IV • #wattys2016

The Shady Woman

Sherlock and John at last came upon the recessed club buried in a neglected strip mall. The street lights glinted and homeless people tottered around with their hands reaching out for a change or more. Though it was still afternoon, this whole side of Liverpool seemed to have caved on itself in misery and loneliness.

“Drab, don’t you think?” John remarked as he dodged a greedy hand.

“Do you mind slipping through that alleyway to the right of the club? It’s bound to have a back door. Be a mate and slip through there. You can have my pistol if you’d like.” Sherlock pulled out an automatic handgun from underneath his trench coat and slipped it into John’s hands.

“Right. And where will you be?” John scratched the side of his head as he tucked the gun in the back of his trousers

“What I always do. Looking.” Sherlock veered off and pointed John to his assignment. “Meet me inside when you’re done.”

John nodded in agreement and disappeared down the graffiti filled alleyway while Sherlock slipped into the club. Loud rock music boomed all about the room and colorful lights flashed on and off over the dancing figures. Sherlock swept the room with his eyes, picking up anything and everything he knew he would find most useful. The stage was across the pub and was alive with three women dancing around one golden pole. They were all young girls, probably fifteen to seventeen years-old. Sherlock ducked into the crowd and became one of the spectators for only a moment to study the girls’ outfits and condition.

He could tell by their joints and hair extensions that they suffered from self-inflicting eating disorders and by the soles of their bare feet they lived in concrete cells. He took a closer glance and noticed that the brand of clothes were the same as Sonia’s undergarment. If anyone observed the tags closer, the brand was a fake because the trademark symbol was altered just enough that an ordinary eye wouldn’t notice that dove’s head had a falcon’s beak. Sherlock smiled—he loved these games.

With a smooth move, he parted from the crowd and made his way to the pub. He leaned against the counter and drummed the top with his knuckles. The bartender waddled over through sleepy eyes and said in a dreary tone, “What would it be?”

“Water, please.” Sherlock gave him a quick smile and looked down at the feet of the partiers.

“Here you go, la, no charge except you’ve got to return the glass.” The bartender slammed a glass down in front of Sherlock and then returned to whatever he had been doing prior.

Sherlock took the glass of water and wandered to the edge of the dance floor. He casually slid to the floor and pretended to text on his Smartphone. When he found the perfect opportunity between the change of songs, he bended over from the waist and listened to the floorboards. He didn’t hear anything, but when he dribbled a stream off water over a crack in the floor, his answer was obvious. There was another room underneath the floorboards. He had sent John to the backroom as a form of security and distraction if anyone was to be suspicious of their arrival.

Meanwhile, John had managed to break into the back door and spent his ten minutes milling around and collecting scraps of paper which he identified to be the same paper Sonia’s grocery list was written on. The room was part dressing room, part kitchen. The kitchen side made John sick to his stomach with the sight of all the mold and fungus growing about the stone and icebox. The dressing room was layered with risqué clothing and costume jewelry. John sighed and was about to leave the room before catching a note on the wall. His heart stiffened and he slowly walked up to the wall.

With shaking hands and a fear that he could not suppress, he took the note down and read it. The writing on it distracted him from the fact that photo note was probably five years old but disguised to be older. The letter began simply with, “To the man who destroyed my life…” Before he could continue, the door behind him flew open. John, still holding the letter, drew his gun and pointed it to the intruder.

“Sonia?” John declared.

Sonia, still in her neck brace and hospital gown, teetered side to side as if she had been drugged. Through a scattered sentence, she said, “He’s coming after me…I escaped…a cab took me.” She stumbled forward and collapsed into John’s arms.

“Oh God. You’re going to be all right.” John patted her gently and then scooped her up into his arms. He laid her on the floor on a pile of worn clothes. “Stay here, Sonia. I’m going to fetch Sherlock.”

Sonia moaned and her eyes fluttered shut. She was weak, but not weak enough to express her gratification. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem. Be back in a minute or so.” John dashed out of the backroom and closed it behind him, hoping that no one would harm Sonia while he was gone since he didn’t lock the door. He swiftly made it to the front and rushed in, searching for his friend.

Sherlock spotted him first and stood up to meet him. “Ah, John, you all right?”

“Of course, I am,” John said hurriedly, “Sonia’s back, though. She came stumbling in on me.”

“Did she look surprised to see you there?” Sherlock asked.

“What? Um, no. She was in shock and looked badly injured as well. We’ve got to help her.” John grabbed Sherlock’s sleeve and tugged him towards the door before Sherlock gave him a firm tug back.

“John, what’s more important is the room beneath this floor. Once these morons leave, I’m breaking it apart.”

“Well, while we wait for them to leave, we should tend to Sonia,” John retorted.

“No, John. There’s something weird with her return.” At that, Sherlock’s phone rang a text. Sherlock squinted his eyes in annoyance and pulled it out, and glanced over it. He stuck it back into his pocket.

“Who was that?” John asked as Sherlock pulled him aside.

“Lestrade. He was telling me that Sonia had disappeared and that she was going to the bathroom and didn’t return.”

“Listen, Sherlock. Sonia said that “he’s coming”, and I also found a bloody note addressed to me in her room—or, at least I think that was her room.”

“And?”

John leaned in and said through steely anger, “He is going to kill her and the both of us if we don’t get out of here.”

“Oh, no, no, John. He won’t kill her. He sent her here to see if we’d be here. The message on her arm, the part we couldn’t read, I made it out and it said, to the man who destroyed my life. That means that “S” and “W” must have a double meaning. It may not even refer to us, but it may be a warning to stay out of the way or something else. Let me see the letter.”

“I haven’t finished reading it yet,” John noted as he gave him the crinkled letter.

Sherlock unfolded it and skimmed it thoroughly. His mouth parted and he pointed to the end of the letter. “He says, Congratulations! You made it to the next round. If you haven’t figured it out yet, “S” and “W” do stand for The Shady Woman, but they also stand for my pets, Sherlock and Watson. See you soon.”