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"You the photographer?" John Watson looked up at the short, scruffy man standing in front of him.
Watson stood to offer him his hand. "Yes. John Watson. Pleasure to meet you, Mr...?"
The man ignored his outstretched hand. "I'm Lestrade. Metro editor." He turned and started to walk away. Watson gathered his things and followed him.
"I, uh, have my C.V. and portfolio here–" Watson said.
"You English?" Lestrade said, interrupting him.
"I– what? Yes, I am."
"How long you been in Manhattan, Watson?"
"Three weeks," he answered, wondering if this was actually part of the interview. Stamford had warned him about working for the New York papers, that it wasn't like being back in London.
Lestrade sighed, as if Watson's nationality were somehow a personal burden to him. "Boy, just off the boat, huh? Least you're not Irish."
Watson bit his tongue, reminding himself that his savings were almost gone. He could stand any amount of rudeness, so long as he got paid for it.
"As I was saying, I have my C.V. and portfolio here with me–"
Lestrade cut him off. "You got your equipment with you?"
Watson patted the bulky bag at his hip. He hadn't trusted the flimsy locks on his boardinghouse room to keep it safe.
"Good," Lestrade said. "It's your lucky day, English. You know how to get to the East Village? Go here." He handed him a note with an address scribbled on it without waiting for Watson to answer. "You gotta pick up your writer. And then go here. There's a dead body in a speakeasy, I want Holmes to go see if there's something big behind it." He held out another note. As Watson reached for it, Lestrade snatched it back.
"Lemme make something clear," Lestrade said. "If you show up there without Sherlock Holmes, don't bother coming back. Capiche?"
He lowered his hand, offering Watson the piece of paper. Desperation outweighing his anxiety, Watson took it.
***
He knocked on the door of the house at 12th and 2nd. The row of houses was neat and orderly, hugely different from his closet-sized room in a ramshackle house on Bowery.
A white-haired woman in a silk robe opened the door, cigarette dangling from his mouth. She squinted at him.
"Good morning," Watson said. "I'm looking for a Mister Holmes?"
She didn't answer for a moment, just looked him up and down. Watson began to feel uncomfortable under her scrutiny.
"You're the new photographer, huh?" she said. "Boy, you must starving to accept this job."
There was something off-putting about the way she said it. As though there was much she could say, but it wouldn't help anything if she did.
"Yes, in fact, I am. Is Mister Holmes in, or should I just crawl back to the Times' office now, and hope they'll still be willing to employ me?" Even as he said it, he knew he was being rude. But rudeness seemed to be the only thing that left an impression on Americans.
She sighed, and held the door open. "He's upstairs. First door on the left."
"Thank you, madam."
"Good luck." And as he was walking up the stairs, Watson was fairly sure she whispered something like, You'll need it.
Seventeen steps later, the air was heavy with the smell of cigarettes, and something more tangy and sharp.
Gun smoke, Watson thought, just before the shot ripped through the air.
When he recovered his senses, Watson was crouched against the wall. He could barely hear the old woman shouting over the ringing in his ears.
"Damn it, Holmes, I'm going to put it in your fucking lease, no more firing weapons in the house–"
The door flew open and a bare-chested man with wild, black hair walked out onto the landing, pistol still in hand, "It's these cockroaches, you vile woman. I just killed one the size of a wharf rat. It was crawling up the wall, they're completely fearless."
"I don't care if it was crawlin' up your face, you crazy bastard, you shoot that gun in here again–"
"Who are you?" Holmes said, suddenly noticing Watson. "Mrs Hudson, who is this man on the landing?"
"Your photographer. You didn't shoot him, did you?"
"I'm fine," Watson said, with more confidence than he actually felt. The man was, after all, still holding a loaded gun.
"Glad to hear it," Holmes said. He set the gun in a holster that was strapped to his bare shoulders. "Are you armed?"
He said it as casually as if he were asking Watson if he smoked. "Sorry?"
"Are you armed?" Holmes repeated. "Do you have a gun?"
"I... no, not–" Watson sputtered.
"I see. Perhaps not the best choice, considering where you live." Holmes turned on his heel and went back into the room, but left the door open. "The Bowery isn't the kindest neighborhood. I'd buy one if I were you. Infinitely useful things, guns. MRS HUDSON," Holmes suddenly reappeared in the doorway, bellowing. "WE REQUIRE COFFEE." Turning back to Watson, he said, "Do come in. I'll be a moment, you can tell me about yourself."
Now feeling completely off-balance, Watson followed him in. The room was a chaotic mess; stacks of papers, files, old newspapers, photos, books lay on every surface. There was a typewriter in a desk on the far wall, surrounded by empty bottles and ashtrays that were overflowing with cigarette butts. At another desk were a variety of bottles of chemicals; some of which Watson recognized, for the use of developing photos. Clothes lay in piles on the couch, and Watson shifted one to sit down. On the table, below an empty wineglass and another ashtray, Watson saw a plaque recognizing Holmes' outstanding contributions to the world of journalism. It looked like someone had stubbed out several cigarettes on it.
"So. You're from England," Holmes said loudly from, Watson presumed, was the bedroom. "You grew up in... Cambridge?"
"Close. Colchester."
"Ah, my mistake. And you're a veteran. Wounded in France, presumably, in the war."
"I beg your pardon?" Watson said, wondering how this insane man seemed able to know these things about him.
"Your limp. I could hear it when you walked inside and sat down. And the way you hit the ground after hearing the gunshot rather speaks to some experience with gunfire."
"I..." Watson was saved from having to answer by the entrance of Mrs Hudson, who set two cups of coffee down on the table.
"Don't be such an ass, Holmes," she said crudely. "He loves to play these kinds of games," she said to Watson. "Telling people all about themselves. Thinks it makes him look smarter than everyone else."
"I am smarter than everyone else," Holmes declared as he came out of the bedroom. "Or nearly so. It's not pride, it's just a matter of fact." He was wearing a collared shirt that seemed clean, if rather wrinkled, and was in the process of knotting a dark blue tie. The shoulder holster was already in place. "I'm sure you prefer tea, having so recently emigrated from England, but–"
Watson had already picked up the mug. "Actually, I quite like coffee. I got a taste for it in France. After the war, when I was on assignment," he added, since Holmes was actually looking at him for the first time since seeing him on the landing. "And for the record, I left my gun at home because right now I can either afford bullets or dinner, but not both. This, however," and he pulled out the knife he kept concealed in his boot, "has served me well enough on the Bowery at night."
He felt rather gratified at the look of surprise on Holmes' face, but took a sip of coffee to cover it. Replacing the knife in its concealed sheath, he asked, "Do you often find it necessary to go about the city armed? I know this is America, land of the free and gun-happy, but still–"
"I'm a journalist," Holmes said. "And not just an ink-stained scribbler of the gossip columns and society pages. I can drag up the muck on anyone, anyone. It's not a talent a lot of people appreciate." He picked the gun up off the table and put it in the holster, then drank down half his coffee in one gulp. "Right. So I assume there's a dead body or something somewhere that we're supposed to go look at? Some dark scandal that needs me to coerce it into the light of day? There's blood in the air, I can smell it."
Watson decided not to comment on what he could smell in the air of Holmes' rooms, and pulled out the paper that Lestrade had given him . "All I have is an address and the promise of a corpse."
Holmes snatched it out of his hands and read it. "You know what this is?" he asked Watson, raising his eyebrows. "Best gin joint on the East Side. Run by a jilted ex-lover of the current mayor, no less." Holmes leaned back and lit a cigarette. "It's going to be good day."