Sherlock Holmes: Balance of Improbabilities, Part 1

Thick, white clouds blemished the already grey canvas of the sky, swelling their ranks with collected droplets of unreleased and frozen water. Penetrating this artful canvas were the tall buildings of the city, reaching up as if to touch the sky, yet they threatened to shatter it.

Tall shafts of concrete and icy rooftops, some the work of dead men and some new structures, freshly risen. New, in a cacophony of old. A city where old and ornate tall structures of brick and mortar are cast in shadow by taller, more modern buildings of cold steel and icy glass. Old begotten by the new.

In the winter months, ice had grown across this mismatched city, old and new alike giving in, wrapped in the bitter embrace of the deep freeze. In the centre of the frozen city, a black cab wove its way through convoluted maze that was made up of the intersecting streets.

Dipping between engrossed, gridlocked streets and the sparser, emptier back ways, the vehicle manoeuvred its way to its location. During this long journey, the sun managed to claw its way through the hanging clouds, exiguous rays of light managing to weave their way down to the city below. Thin strands of luminescence touched the windows of the tall buildings, reflecting and leaping across the city. The sallow light of a cold sun made the bleak metropolis ever bleaker.

It were as if the world had been whitewashed, drained. Black and white.

Eventually, the black taxi cab found its way to its location, flitting off of one street and turning into the next; the driver careful not to skid on the icy roads. Several metres to go and the woman in the back of the cab made sure to pull her thick, woollen coat tighter around her.

As the vehicle finally drew a stop next to a geriatric and abandoned off-licence called, “The Old Wine Cellar,” the women slipped the £60 fare to the driver and climbed out slowly.

As she stepped onto the pavement, her heavy boots clacking underfoot, the cab moved on and within a matter of seconds it had turned out of the street again. Out of sight, as if it had never even existed.

Trecking halfway across London just to look at a flat share, the woman thought to herself with a sigh, pulling her pale grey coat tighter around her and buckling the thin belt to hold it in place.

The woman walked past the off-licence, to a small, black door just to the right of the dilapidated old structure. Her eyes narrowed as she examined the door. It wasn’t exactly remarkable, just an average door with peeling paint and a rusty old letter box.

Nonetheless, she directed her attention to the buzzer, glowering a little as she did so. Apprehensively, she allowed her begloved hand to travel through the air, permitting her index finger to make firm contact with the button. She held it there for just under three seconds, she could hear a rattling buzzing noise come from within the apartment.

The woman removed her finger from the buzzer a lot less apprehensively than she had placed it there.

After no less than five seconds there was the sound of someone coming down an audibly old staircase, the steps creaking under their feet. Then, the sound of shoes on a wooden floor. And then, the clicking of several locks.

The door jutted open abruptly, but was held back from opening in its entirety. Through the brief crack between the door and the doorframe, the beginnings of a face could made out. A steeply sloped nose, set above thin lips and a chiselled jawline that was sparsely populated with stubble.

“State your intent,” came a deep and well spoken man’s voice.

“I’m Joanna? Joanna Watson, I called about the flat share,” the woman’s voice was jittery, just a slight note or two deeper than the voice of the average English female. “I called, but you didn’t answer. I-I did leave a message but it was suggested to me that if there wasn’t an answer then I should come right over.”

The next few moments were perforated by an inadmissible silence and then the man’s face disappeared from the crack of the door, which slammed loudly and without warning.

Joanna found herself springing back a little from the door, lest it smack her right in the face. Fears that she had lost her last chance at a flat share, however, were dispersed when she heard the sound of the security chain being retracted. And then, in earnest, the door opened; quite sharply, too.

The man stood in the door frame was tall, either six feet or just below. As Jonna was finally allowed a good look at his face, she took in the companion features to the steep nose and chiselled jaw. His eyes were a pale blue; sharp and piercing and making Joanna feel as if she was being examined by a meticulous computer. His brow was just as formidable, stern and heavy. The man’s hair was long, pulled back messily and coloured a deep, unforgiving black. The entire set was pushed into pale skin and all together it made for an almost unsettling combination.

The body that accompanied the face was not entirely remarkable. All that could be gleaned from it beneath the clothes was that it was lithe, perhaps a little below average in terms of body weight. The clothes themselves were oddly intriguing. A T-shirt with a half naked woman on it, the word “addiction” set in a bizarre typeface and the T-shirt itself smothered by the fibres of a deep navy cardigan. On the man’s lower half were a pair of black skinny jeans, while his abnormally large feet were bare and pattering on the woodwork of the floor.

“Joanna Watson,” the man replied, his eyes narrowing just a fraction of an inch as he carefully took in the woman’s features. Of am average height and a slender disposition, her thin and oddly cherub-like face framed by flowing auburn hair, a deep jade pair of eyes and a stout nose. Her skin was tanned and her full lips were contorted into a nervous smile which, currently, she was struggling to maintain, a side effect of the already awkward situation in which she had found herself.

“Yes, Joanna Watson,” she replied nervously, “Here about the flat share.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” the man replied in a rapid fashion as he dug his hand into the pocket of his skinny jeans. From the pocket, he retrieved a lock pick and a tension wrench, which he held out to Joanna in his hand. “You shall need these.”

With narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow, Joanna took the lock picking equipment from the man’s hand; examining them curiously, “What will I need these for…?”
However, no sooner had the words left her mouth than had the door slammed loudly in her face and the lock clicked audibly. Several moments later, she heard the voice of the man, calling loudly from the other side, “Pick that lock and I shall consider you as a viable flat mate, fail to do so and you shall take yourself elsewhere. Are my terms agreeable?”

Oh come on, Joanna, you’re not that desperate, the jittery woman thought to herself.

“O-Okay!” was all she could manage, her twisted tongue contradicting her severely befuddled her brain in a split second. As she spent several moments examining the lock picking tools in her hand, Joanna sighed to herself loudly.

Okay, you are that desperate, she chastised herself silently.

Uneasily, Joanna lowered herself to the pavement, kneeling down and directing her attention to the rusting bronze lock embedded in the decaying charcoal door. Slowly, she inserted the tension wrench, pressing it down tightly on the barrel of the lock. Just as carefully, she followed up by penetrating the lock with the pick.

Closing her eyes for the briefest of moments, Joanna took a breath. She knew full well that her continued residence in London rested entirely on her ability to pick the lock on this door. Even as she recited the situation in her head, it sounded outlandish. And yet, here she was.

Finally, Watson opened her eyes and began her work.

She slipped the lock pick in, jutting it back and forth gently as she worked the device. She slowly but surely managed to slip the pins within the lock into the right position, her teeth gritting a little in concentration as she did so.

It took her all of five minutes, but eventually Joanna managed to turn the tension wrench all the way, the lock clicking and allowing her to push the door open.

Stood within the foyer of the apartment was Sherlock Holmes, leaning against the bannister of a decaying old staircase which no doubt led to the main apartment upstairs. The man’s eyes were on the old, leather strapped watch on his wrist, his brow creased and his nose wrinkled a little.

“3 and a half minutes,” said he, an almost approving look on his face. In one sharp and sudden movement he stood up straight, eyes darting away from the watch and to the woman stood before him as his hand slipped behind his back. “I shall have to replace that lock. Close the door, would you?”

Timorously, Joanna stepped into the apartment, her boots clicking on the wooden floor beneath her. She closed the door gently, shutting the biting cold back outside. She felt the warmth of the indoor world bleed into her and with her first smile of the day she removed her gloves, stuffing them into the pockets of her coat as she unbelted and unbuttoned.

Mr Holmes turned his back on the woman sharply, heading up the stairs; the steps creaking loudly under his feet. Joanna wasn’t quite sure whether to follow, until she heard the man call back to her, just as he disappeared upstairs, “Come along, Miss Watson!”

“Okay…” Joanna muttered to herself, nervously approaching the stairs. She placed a hand on the banister, examining the old wood briefly before she quietly traversed the incline.