The Red-Headed League

Indeed when he had finished and withdrawn, Ms Watson wiped her lips with the back of her hand and smiled at Herlock as he replaced himself in his trousers. "You can do that to me any time," she smirked as she leaned back in the seat, her legs still bare and now spread suggesting that she really did not care of the low impression I was receiving of her. Indeed she looked over to me as she licked her lips with her tongue and wiped around her chin with a glistening finger which she over-dramatically licked, apparently for my entertainment. "Feel like a go?" she invited me with that seditious smile.

"Certainly not!" I thundered.

Which to my surprise did not seem to at all upset the girl or Herlock. "Your loss," she scoffed.

I looked to Sholmes for support.

He shrugged. "What she said," he added and left it at that.

I decided to be the voice of reason. "So how are we going to solve this case?" I demanded of Sholmes, "if indeed it is a case."

"Oh that it certainly is," Herlock assured me. "There is a mystery here as deep as the Northern Line at Highgate. While Ms Watson is a remarkable women in many ways, is it not strange that she alone was selected for an essentially pointless job on the basis of the colour of her hair?"

"Well, someone had to get the job," I retorted.

Scholmes chewed on that for a while. Then he exploded. "By Jove, Wilson, I think you've cracked the case!"

"I have?"

Herlock was all of a flurry of activity now. "Look, I am sorry Ms Watson, Wilson, but I have some work on this that I must do immediately and in private. Let us reconvene at The Wild Duck at eight o'clock. From there we will tackle your former office at Goldhawk Road. Charge your phones and wear dark clothes. We must be vigilant and erect."

There he goes again, I groaned privately.

Part II -- The Appointed Hour

At the appointed hour I alighted my Uber on the Goldhawk Road just before we reached Seven Stars Corner and gave the driver a handsome tip of one shilling which he looked at with some disdain before pocketing it and driving off. This allowed me to soak in the chill night air as I strolled the few yards to the entrance of The Wild Duck, a darkened foreboding two-storey building. Even the windows had been painted over black. A woman sat mostly concealed in a designated ticket booth abutting the entrance. She appeared to have forgotten to don part of her attire. It appeared that I could make out her breasts through the sheer material that was her sole item of clothing above her waist.

I greeted her cheerfully. "I am here to meet my friend," I informed her hopefully.

The dour doorgirl responded tersely "Ten quid for the nude show."

"My name is Wilson," I told her sternly, "and I am a happily married man."

"Of course you are," she responded sullenly. Something caused her to hastily cloak herself in a wrap she had handily draped over the back of her seat.. "Ten quid," she repeated.

"I'm here to see Ms Watson, the redhead," I tried.

She almost smiled. "They're all here to see Ms Watson. Ten quid or clear off."

Grudgingly I paid up. Entering the place, I took a moment to adjust to the lighting and the loud, throbbing music before I noticed my friend had already set himself up at a table near the stage. His station had two chairs the other of which was occupied by a thin woman whose outfit of a lacy black brassiere and matching drawers offset her flawless pale skin, most of which was on display, achieved by a not surprisingly lack of clothing. She leaned forward across the table, apparently rapt in what my friend was telling her. He saw me approach their confab and nodded to her upon which she stood up which revealed her black stockings and the white skin of her bare thighs. Smiling at me, she gestured at the seat which I had vacated. As I moved to take her place she gently put a hand on my arm.

I smiled at her. "Thank you," I assured her, "but I am happily married." Maintaining her smile she strode off. It was possible that she had not heard me clearly over the din of the music.

After the thin pale woman who Herlock insisted was named Chastity returned with menus and took our orders which my friend insisted on organising on my behalf, I sat with my friend nursing a sweet, sticky drink that I did not want. "Dammit Herlock, how long do we have to stay in this abominable premises?"

My friend shushed me dramatically. "Wilson," he advised in a stage whisper, "the show is about to begin." He seemed unnecessarily eager. But it was clear that we were going nowhere else for the present.

Regarding the show he was correct. The loud ambient music turned to silence and on that cue, the few women sitting at the tables, waitresses I guessed, retreated to the back of the room. We watched the empty stage as some sort of smoke billowed out of the wings, no doubt a cheap attempt to create a mysterious atmosphere. Some sort of ponderous self important music blared and at some sign, seven women strutted onto the stage, the middle one instantly recognisable as Ms Wilson. Herlock smiled and nodded at me as if this was a necessary part of his investigation into her case and that he expected me to take careful note of everything that was happening around us.

Ms Wilson wore the same outfit as the other six women on the stage, a black tailcoat which I noticed had only one button done up at the front, stilettos and the hint of some underwear beneath. We did not have to wait long to see what these so-called performers had on under their coats. On a further sign that I did not notice, the seven of them whipped off their coats dropping them behind them on the stage to face the house all seven of them now wearing nothing but their brassieres, waist cincher corsets and some thin material concealing their most private parts. They paraded the stage for a moment to the evident delight of almost all the patrons of this grim Sodom.

It took them only a further moment to strip off their brassieres. All had voluble busts which they had no hesitancy in showing off to all who were watching. They did this by cupping their hands below their bosums to push them out at the audience as they approached the front of the stage. To my horror, one of them stepped off the stage and drew to close proximity with the men at a nearby table. At which point I realised something of terrible importance.

"Damnation Herlock," I shouted over the demonic heavy beat of a track I recognised to be by The Pussycat Dolls, "they're all redheads." I nudged my friend to point out Ms Wilson along with her troupe now strutted the stage in all their glory to the apparent delight of the clientelle. The dancer who had left the stage leaned over the table for all to see, her breasts dangling teasingly in front of two delighted young blades.

"Buttons," Herlock shouted at me with the excitement of remembering things past. I smiled agreeably back at him. "And all natural ones too," he continued since all seven women had removed the thin material that constituted their lower garments on cue and were now proudly displaying their bushes and who knows what else. "Wait, by Jove, you're right," Herlock gushed with greater enthusiasm. "This case gets more vexing by the moment."

At that moment the remaining six women stepped off the stage. Two of the virtually naked redheads provocatively slunk like sirens towards our table in only their corsets and stockings. The shorter one tried to plant herself on my lap.

"I'm a married man," I explained. Although she smiled at my revelation, she ignored the broader implication of my protest and pushed my chair back so that she could rub her buttocks over my lap. I looked over at Herlock who appeared to be suffering the same indignity. He smiled over at me suggesting that he actually appreciated such attention. He was apparently enjoying himself as the rather tall nude redhead rubbed herself over him. He even put an arm around her waist as if to assist her in her fiendish ministrations, allowing her to unbutton his trousers. Then his brows furrowed and he frowned at me. "What did you say?" he asked me as the dancer released his semi-erect cock and held it tentatively in one hand.

"That I'm a married man."

"Happily married," he teased. "No, before that." The dancer smiled down at Sholmes' engorged manhood. He was quickly coming to life.

I thought back, trying not to be distracted by the scene in front of me. "Ah," I recalled, "they're all redheads."

He thought about that for a moment. Then reached his conclusion and sat up suddenly dislodging his massager from her ministrations. She reached her own conclusion about that and turned to rub her bare buttocks against my companion's truncheon. He affected not to take any notice of her attention, rather directing his concerns at me. "Once again your dart has struck the bullseye at the centre of this conundrum, Wilson. I smell a rat."

"It's a wonder that you can smell anything in here," I retorted. In response he tapped his nose like he had a secret hidden up in there. Then his entire visage darkened. "That's it, that's the missing piece. Well done, Wilson."

"What?" I stammered.

"We're in here."

"We certainly are," I agreed. The redhead sitting on my knees, rubbing her bare buttocks against my thighs, was trying to reach into my trousers with an exploring hand. I firmly stopped her.

Sholmes gently removed his nude provocateur from his lap. Misunderstanding his gesture, she gracefully bent over the table and spread her legs no doubt exposing all of her womanly parts to him. Uncharacteristically, he was not this time interested in that. "Wilson, we should not be here. We have to get out immediately. There is no time to waste, we must hurry back to my lodgings right now. I fear that a terrible trick has been played on me to get me away from there. Why, at this moment Mrs Huston may be in the greatest peril. We must make haste."

As Herlock fumbled his johnson back into his trousers, I summoned an Uber on my phone. It was the least I could do for my friend. By the time we had convinced the hatcheck girl to return our coats, our ride was waiting outside The Wild Duck for us. I deemed it likely that the hatcheck girl was in on the plot too. "You have to stay for the next show," she insisted initially indicating that she was reluctant to return our coats to us. A glare from my friend and a five pound note was good enough to put paid to her obstruction.

"I'm surprised you didn't tell her you were married," Sholmes smiled at me as we departed.

"That," I responded tetchily, "is an argument that does not seem to hold much water in this place."

Sholmes gave me a knowing smile. "I was wondering when you would realise that."

As we entered the Uber a figure emerged out of the premises and ran towards us arriving just before Herlock could close the door so that we could depart. Ms Watson wrapped up demurely in a long coat grabbed the door to keep it open staring wildly at us. "If you are going to solve this case, I want to be there to see it for myself," she insisted as she puffed from the exertion of chasing after us. We could hardly stop her as she got into the Uber forcing Herlock to squeeze into the middle of seat between her and myself.

"Are we taking anyone else?" the driver asked drolly.

"No driver," I snapped, "now make haste to Baker Street!"

"As you were," he drawled while he gave Ms Wilson a sly look out of the corner of his eye that no doubt he thought I had not noticed.

Herlock also noticed the driver's knowing look and studied Ms Wilson more closely as she clutched her coat tightly around her body. "You are not wearing anything under the coat, are you?" he determined.

"Well, I do have the corset on," she pouted, "I only had a minute to grab my coat when I noticed that you two had decamped without me." I stared at our intruder who turned up her nose at me. "Like I said," she repeated, "I want to be there when this whole thing is solved. I thought we were a team," she added indignantly. We rode on in silence, concerned as to what we may find when we would reach our destination.

Part III -- The case is solved

The relatively short trip across London from The Wild Duck to Baker Street seemed to take forever. In the silence, I could sense the tension building up in my detective friend. And the stress of the journey was further exacerbated by our other companion's attempts to rile me by flashing open her coat to hint at the swell of her bust each time she caught my eye.

Finally Herlock noticed her behaviour, nodding silently to assuage me before he turned to look sternly at Ms Watson. "Are you trying to titillate poor Wilson?" he ordered. She smiled and nodded. "Well," my so-called friend continued, "I don't like a tease. Rather I think you should let him observe the whole exhibition."

And with that Scholmes spread open the coat exposing Ms Watson's entire chest down to the top of her corset. Typically she seemed far from perturbed. I pretended not to be interested while privately in awe of her firm white pillows topped with two pale cherries of nipples, so close to me but so far. I tried to shut away any unwarranted thoughts towards this woman, trying to think solely of my Mary and quietly cursing that the performance occurring in our Uber had me thinking of the chance of seeing my wife in the same situation as this. A chance that was of course so close to zero to be irrelevant except to my galloping mind. Herlock gently placed his hands under Ms Wilson's bare breasts to lift them up on the chance that I had not noticed them and been enthralled already without his assistance.

While Scholmes fondled our fellow passenger, he leaned over to me. "Wilson, please try to call Mrs H on your mobile. At least we can give her a warning!"

I tried this while Herlock watched me, his hands now firmly covering as much of Ms Watson's bosom as he could. "She's not answering!" I blurted, as much perturbed by my inability to make contact with our acquaintance as by the adjacent activity of my travelling companions.

"Try again," Herlock urged as Ms Watson let out a shriek.

"My nipple, Mister!" she exclaimed, as I hit redial.

"Sorry," Sholmes eased. He must have squeezed it too hard.

"Do you want me to look at?" I asked her. "I'm a doctor."

"I'll be fine," she smiled as Herlock appeared to be gently caressing it now.

Fortunately our Uber driver came to my rescue. "Sir," he addressed Herlock, "we cannot have that sort of display in my vehicle. It would cost me my licence."

"Of course," realised Herlock, "I am so terribly sorry." And he covered up Ms Watson again. They looked into each others' eyes as if they had telepathically agreed to behave better. Herlock however placed both his hands within the coat and proceeded to privately fondle our fellow passenger, to her apparent delight.

"Most grateful sir," the driver intoned, "much more acceptable."

Scholmes was exploring as much of Ms Watson as he could, cramped into the seat next to her as he was. Fortunately before he could go much further we turned from Marylebone into Baker Street and our eventful trip was over.

Scholmes noticed first of all that his abode appeared to be shrouded in darkness. "Mrs Huston should be in there with the place illuminated," he worried. "I fear we may already be too late." He leapt out of the vehicle with Ms Watson quickly following him, leaving me to pay the driver.

"That will be ten shillings," he gruffly announced. "And an extra sixpence for the lady's breasts." I grumbled but paid the quoted fare and quickly followed my companions, ready for whatever horror faced us inside the once safe sanctuary of my friend's rooms.

Herlock set off at pace up the stairs from the street as soon as he could work the key in the lock. Ms Watson and I chased him, trying to keep as close as we could to back up our friend in whatever situation he would find when he actually managed to enter his rooms. We waited while he fumbled the lock at the top of the stairs. Finally he had it open to find nought but quiet and darkness. All was silence and stillness. Herlock turned to us with a look of dread concern on his face. He edged along the hall towards the room where he had earlier entertained Ms Watson in that most appalling manner only a few hours before.

He took a further step towards the room and flicked a light switch. And standing there now revealed was a sight that he did not ever expect.

"Happy birthday, Herlock!" the assembled group shouted. He stood there aghast for a moment while he composed himself. Ms Watson slapped me on the back with a laugh. Clearly she had been a conspirator in this dastardly plot.

Mrs Huston stepped towards my friend with a smile on her face and glass of champagne already partly consumed, in her hand. "You had forgotten, hadn't you?" she ventured.

Sholmes wore a wide grin, clearly happy to have had his birthday acknowledged, I begrudged him that. A drink was placed in his hand and in mine as we were drawn into the revelry. As the party progressed I noticed that Ms Watson appeared to have lost her coat although that did not seem to worry her in the least. She apparently seemed to enjoy the attention she was getting from the male revellers who she determinedly confronted. No doubt forcing them to acknowledge the authenticity of her red hair.

From a safe distance, I watched Ms Watson toy with Herlock's brother Shycrock who was completely flustered having no idea where to look as the animated woman in front of him, wearing nothing but her corset and her heels, as she completely unselfconsciously regaled him with the details of her dilemma with the Red Headed Society. At one point she absently scratched her bare nipple -- possibly the one that Herlock had mauled -- then immediately placed her hand on Shycroft's arm causing the poor man to spill some of his wine down the front of his shirt.

Even Inspector Lastrade spent some time conversing with her, apparently complementing her nether regions at some length while using his fingers to give her a thorough, nay forensic, investigation. I kept my distance, concerned at what I may have to explain to my wife if ever she got wind of the nature of the gathering which, in recounting to her as no doubt would have to be done to explain my absence, I intended to pass off as a small and inconsequential gathering to acknowledge the detective's birthday.

I looked for an opportunity to politely leave and save myself from experiencing any more embarrassment than I already had that day. But the waiting staff consistently refilled my glass each time it fell below half empty. Defeated in that purpose, I remained and mingled with the more upright guests, those who were also keeping their distance from the shameless redhead who was intent on being the life of the party.

I even made pleasantries briefly with Moriaty who gave me a superior sneer that I did not appreciate at all. I told him that I was surprised that he would even show his face in this place given his history with Scholmes. He brushed that off with the unlikely suggestion that misunderstood colourful identities such as himself should be given the benefit of the doubt. I shook my head at that preposterous notion.

"Give my regards to your wife," he sneered with a somewhat knowing smile which I dismissed as his usual impertinence. I would have taken greater offence and responded appropriately but at that moment I noticed across the room that Herlock appeared to have lost his trousers and was wandering the room in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, bare below decks with his erect johnson on display. No one seemed to care too much and in fact all of the guest he confronted seemed amused at his unbecoming display to judge by the cries of mirth as he approached them.

Therefore I could hardly complain when my priapic friend came over to my side and put his arm around my shoulders. And to make matters worse, my captivity at the hands of my friend also attracted Ms Watson, in all her glory.