capt_facepalm

Title: A Haunting in Baker Street
Author: capt_facepalm
Rating: PG
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (or BBC?)
Characters: Mrs Hudson (and others)
Summary: Set a few months before A Study in Pink
Warnings: No warnings need apply
Word Count: 625
Author's Notes: A ghost story of sorts (Beta'ed into submission)

.oOOo.

Constable Murcher sighed. Today’s young criminals were definitely a stupid lot. Take these four for example: trying to swindle their landlady with some half-baked plan to dress up as ghosts and frighten her away. Mrs Hudson had been completely taken in by their pleasant manners, their concern for her, and their tales of inexplicable sounds and ghostly apparitions. Old folks watched too much crap telly these days, Murcher concluded; sensible people did not believe in ghosts.

The two female suspects were tenants in the upstairs flat, 221B. Their two ‘boyfriends’ were familiar visitors and were treated to the same warm welcome by the doting landlady. Now, all four were in various stages of being arrested. One young man was being loaded onto a gurney with one arm and both of his legs immobilised. A young woman wore phosphorus theatre paint and a bloody costume. The other young woman was frothing at the mouth as if she were out of her mind. The remaining suspect just sulked.

‘Oh give it a rest! Ghosts do not exist; therefore, neither do haunted houses. You were caught red handed... er, so to speak... so leave poor Mrs Hudson alone. She isn’t going to be fooled by you any longer!’ Murcher exclaimed in exasperation before leading Mrs Hudson to her favourite chair in her parlour.

‘No, Mrs Hudson, there were no ghosts. It appears that these young degenerates played a game of dress-up to keep you from finding their meth lab in your basement flat.’

‘They said it was just storage…’

‘Yes, well, they lied and then tried to frighten you into leaving. We found their hidden speakers, a fog machine, and a fancy projector. Good thing they just had to mix in cheap theatrics as well. If the stupid one hadn’t tripped on his costume and fallen down the stairs…’

‘I was pushed!’ the man on the gurney protested.

‘Yeah? By who?’ his accomplice accused as she tried to wipe some of the glowing spectral make-up from her face, ‘We were all downstairs.’

‘Daphne wasn’t! And look what happened to her!’ he argued, gesturing at the one gibbering nonsense.

‘Shut it, you lot! Why don’t you all exercise your right to remain silent?’ The constable roared, then turned back to Mrs Hudson.

‘You were very lucky. If your neighbours hadn’t reported gunshots, we would have never found out what was happening.’

‘Gunshots! In my house! Did you find the gun?’

‘No. They all swear they didn’t have one. We conducted a thorough search. I’m sure you have nothing left to worry about. There are no signs of any damage. Probably just more sound effects.’

Other constables helped the EMS personnel move the miserable foursome outside to the waiting cars and ambulances. In passing, one of the constables collecting evidence commented to the last remaining suspect.

‘Tough break, mate! This stuff is good quality... street value must be several hundred thousand quid!’

‘I’m not your ‘mate’, and we would have gotten away with it, too, if it hadn't been for those meddling ghosts!’ the suspect spat as he was led away.

.oOOo.

The apparitions in question stood at the top of the stairway opposite the doors to the first floor flat. They exchanged a congratulatory handshake as the last of the perpetrators was taken away. The taller of the two shades, the one with the aquiline features, lingered for a moment, before returning to the flat.

The other remained, leaning ethereally on his cane, maintaining his vigilance long after Mrs Hudson had finally turned out her lights and had fallen asleep. Only when faint strains of Mendelssohn could be heard did he relinquish his post and drift back into the old sitting room.

.oOOo.

Please sign the ghostbook