Timothy woke up before the sun emerged over the little town on Tirt. He lived by himself in a one-storey building he had inherited after his father was killed in a car crash. His mother had met the same fate eleven years earlier.
Life was tragic for Timothy. He was twelve, wore a red beret, and made his living by delivering newspapers to his neighbours on Ire Street. With little education from his father and the diagnosis of Typhus when he was ten, Timothy continuously forced himself to learn one new English word every day to make the most of his spare time. As Timothy slowly dressed, ate, and treated his spots, the sound of silence was painful to accept.
Twenty minutes later he arrived to the town office where copies of the Tirt Times were placed after publishing. As he opened the steel door to enter the brick establishment, the lighting, or rather lack of lighting, immediately convinced Timothy that he had arrived before the staff.
“Hmm…” He murmured out loud. “I wonder if I should wait outside?”
As if on cure, the door behind him slammed shut with such velocity that large particles of dust from the high ceiling fell to the ground. He immediately started running towards the side exit. He rushed past the unoccupied cubicles ladened with stacked documents and, much to his relief, approached the side exit. The wooden floor beneath him creaked as he slowly walked towards the exit, looking around him for any signs of movement.
A black cat crawled comfortably into the alleyway besides the brick building. As it approached the pile of garbage, its ears perked at the sound of footsteps. Fleeing into the rubble, the cat looked on as a young spotted boy with short brown hair under a red hat, opened the side door, which often felt cold to its body. His left foot touched the concrete outside but before the other foot could follow suit, a black hand dragged the boy back in. The door closed.
In London, Sherlock Holmes sat across his writing table with enough space between him and the object that he could comfortably rest a tray of food Watson had brought him, on his lap. There was a gentle knock on the door of his room followed by the sound of a light object being dropped, and footsteps departing. Placing the tray on the table, Holmes opened the door to retrieve today’s newspaper. He retreated to his pipe chair, so called after Watson had pointed out his consistent but unintentional habit of always smoking his pipe in that chair.
“Man wins lottery, Man sues child, no. Oh here we go… Watson!”
The sound of hurried footsteps was quickly followed by Dr. Watson entering the room, breathing heavily.
“I was just downstairs when I heard you shout Holmes. I hope I didn’t I come too late, is it your health?”
Much to Holmes’s amusement and pleasure, Watson was once again putting his friend’s health before his own.
“You are in the nick of time!” Holmes replied before adding, “My health has not declined although if you plan to stay downstairs, to ensure my safety after those recent childish death threats, you must be climatized to my actions!”
Watson sat down in the chair Holmes had previously occupied.
“I trust you have found another case?”
“On the contrary, my dear Watson, the case has found me.”
Holmes handed the newspaper to Watson, as Watson read the headlines out loud.
“Man wins lottery. Man sues child… but Holmes these are just daily events, save the lawsuit against the infant!”
“Not so fast Watson, continue reading the headlines out loud if you please.”
Holmes sat back and observed his friend retrieve his reading glasses from the table’s drawer.
“Let’s see…” Watson resumed, “Sherlock Holmes is wanted in murder of paperboy! Sherlock Holmes is wanted after police in Tirt found his initialled pipe at the scene of a murder. The paperboy was found dead in Tirt’s office of the representative from London. A position delegated to Sherlock Holmes as acknowledgment for his service to the community of Tirt. Robert Moriarty, bastard son of the late James Moriarty, commented to local police on scene that Holmes’s lack of a wife has made him go insane. Another man has confessed to police that he was acting on Holmes’s orders after a series of written threats! Robert Moriarty is also accusing Holmes of murdering his father, and plans to raise the issue with the London Court of Law this autumn after this case in Tirt has been closed. A warrant has been issued for the arrest of Mr. Sherlock Holmes effective this the seventh day of July 1913!”
Watson glanced at Holmes. “I think you have some explaining to do.”
Holmes rose from his chair. He solemnly turned around, looked out of the window and in a low voice murmured, “does the world not know friend from foe?”
A gunshot pierced the glass.
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