Chapter Text
Chapter 1: A Sanctuary on Baker Street
The bell above the door of Pandora’s Apothecary chimed softly, admitting a swirl of damp London air and a flustered-looking Adelaide. Her cheeks were flushed, and she clutched her reticule as if it contained secrets.
“Pandora, thank goodness you’re still open,” Adelaide breathed, sagging against the polished oak countertop. It was a familiar routine; the shop was a convenient and discreet place for ladies to meet, and Pandora often set the small side table for guests to take a cup of herbal tea.
Pandora looked up from labeling a jar of dried comfrey, her brow furrowed in concern. “Adelaide? What’s happened?”
“The most infuriating notice! Our building, the one with our apartment, is to be turned into offices! We have a month to find new lodgings,” Adelaide lamented, her voice rising with indignation. “We both need new rooms now. And with your… situation, with that man still lurking about, you must be especially careful. I know you need to stay in this area, to be near the shop.”
Pandora’s heart clenched. The eviction was a dire blow, but the reminder of her situation—the relentless, unwanted attention from a suitor who saw her widowhood as an opportunity—sent a familiar chill through her. Her small apartment, shared with Adelaide and her sister Mabel, had been a fragile sanctuary. Now, even that was being torn away.
“This is dreadful news,” Pandora managed, her voice tight.
It was then that the shop bell chimed again. A grimy-faced newspaper boy entered, his cap pulled low. He nodded once at Adelaide, a clear, deliberate signal, and handed her a small, wax-sealed packet.
Before he could turn to leave, Adelaide stopped him. “Young man. You have done me a great service. My friend here is the one I mentioned, the one being… pursued. By any chance, do you know of lodgings that someone in her particular situation would find… agreeable?”
The urchin paused. His eyes, far too sharp and intelligent for a common street youth, flicked to Pandora, assessing her in a single glance. He pulled a well-worn notebook from his pocket, scribbled something with a stub of pencil, tore out the page, and placed the small, folded note on the counter before darting back out into the evening.
Adelaide’s demeanor shifted instantly from distress to purpose. She picked up the note, a sly smile touching her lips. “Ah, excellent. My… informant is remarkably efficient.” She unfolded it and handed it to Pandora. “It seems your problem may have a solution.”
Pandora took the proffered paper. Scrawled in a hurried, educated hand was a single address: 221b Baker Street.
“You and Mabel,” Pandora asked, a new worry surfacing. “Have you found a place?”
Adelaide shook her head. “Not yet, the notice only came today. But thanks to you, we are not in the same desperate situation you found us in. You gave us work, you co-signed for the apartment. We have established credit and secure jobs now. Mabel and I will manage, I’m sure of it. But we both worry for you, Pandora.”
“A room to let,” Adelaide continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “The landlord is… unconventional, but utterly respectable. And brilliant. I trust this… young man… implicitly. His information has always been sound.” She gave Pandora a significant look, her meaning clear: This is a safe harbor. “You should go. Inquire. Tell him Adelaide sent you. It’s only a block over, and you’ve said yourself you need to be near the shop.”
Pandora looked from the note to her friend’s earnest face. It was a lifeline, thrown at a moment of profound vulnerability. The address was perfect. And Adelaide’s endorsement, cryptic as it was, carried the weight of their shared history.
“To hell with propriety,” Pandora murmured, a spark of desperate hope igniting in her chest. She had to try.
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An hour later, she stood before a familiar black door, the brass numeral 221 gleaming in the lamplight. Gathering her courage, she raised her hand and knocked.
The sound of firm, steady footsteps approached from within. The door swung open to reveal a man who filled the frame, his presence both solid and imposing. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with neatly trimmed dark curls and eyes of a piercing, analytical grey that seemed to take in her entire being in a single, swift glance.
“May I help you?” he asked, his voice a deep, measured baritone.
“I was… told by my acquaintance Adelaide Smith, there might be a room for let?” Pandora held up the crumpled slip of paper as if it were a formal reference, her voice betraying a hint of the uncertainty she felt.
His grey eyes flickered from her face to the note and back again, a quick, analytical dance. “A room has, indeed, recently become available,” he confirmed, his tone measured. He stepped aside, granting a view of the dim, cluttered hallway, its air thick with the scent of tobacco and chemical experiments. “Though I feel compelled to warn you, my establishment is… unconventional.”
He led her inside, his tall frame moving with a quiet grace. “As you can see, it is a modest space,” he continued, gesturing to the walls papered with maps, diagrams, and what looked like a bullet hole surrounded by a penned-in target. “But it serves its purpose. And the location, as you are undoubtedly aware, is prime for your profession.” Pausing outside a closed door, his hand rested on the knob. “However, tenancy here comes with a singular, non-negotiable condition: absolute discretion regarding my work.”
Pandora’s eyes wandered over the strange decor before returning to him. She was a practical woman, and his warning, while odd, was not entirely off-putting. “Your work… will it involve a great deal of coming and going at all hours?” she asked, getting straight to the point. “I feel I must confess, I’m a notoriously sound sleeper; it’s a bit of a personal failing, really. I need to know the comings and goings are predictable, for my own peace of mind.”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. “An astute question that cuts to the practical heart of cohabitation,” he said, his grey eyes holding hers with a disarming candor. “The comings and goings are, in fact, the most unpredictable variable. But they are primarily my own, or those of a single, trusted associate. I do not entertain a stream of clients here; this is a laboratory, not a public house. When clients do call, they are received in the study, and such visits are infrequent and, by necessity, discreet.”
He opened the door to reveal a small, clean, and surprisingly sunlit bedroom. “As for your… personal failing,” he continued, the term spoken with a hint of dry amusement, “it is a trait I shall note for the household log. You may set your mind at ease; the front door is fitted with a robust Chubb lock, which I engage without fail. A virtue of my profession. You have my word that the only unfamiliar footsteps you are likely to hear will be those of the Irregulars—my network of street urchins—and they are under strictest orders to be both brief and silent.”
He moved to the window, adjusting the curtain to frame a view of the bustling street below. “You will find the household rhythm is one of quiet, punctuated by my own occasional restlessness. I am a creature of entrenched habit; once immersed in my study, I am largely stationary for hours. You may come and go with the assurance that the environment, while eccentric, is fundamentally secure.” He turned, his gaze settling on her once more. “The greater unpredictability, I have been told, is my occasional absence. When a compelling matter arises, I may vanish for days. But I invariably return, often in better spirits than when I departed.”
She took in the room, a safe, private harbor so close to her shop. It was more than she had dared hope for. The strange warnings seemed a small price to pay. “I have no problem with that, then,” she said, a note of finality and relief in her voice. The decision was made.
“Excellent.” His voice was firm, sealing the agreement. He extended his hand, a gesture of both welcome and partnership. “Then we have an understanding. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and you are?”
She grasped his hand, her grip confident despite the flutter of nerves in her stomach. “Mrs. Pandora Witworth,” she replied, meeting his gaze directly. “I run a small apothecary nearby.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly, intrigued. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Witworth,” he said warmly. “I have no doubt our proximity will be mutually beneficial.” He released her hand and gestured towards the stairs. “Shall we discuss terms?”