The Adventure of the Left Shoe

by Jolie_Black

Based on the BBC "Sherlock" TV Series

Author's Note:

Set during the Case of the Kidnapped Banker, just before "The Reichenbach Fall".

The idea of Sherlock doing Parkour in his full coated and scarfed glory is not mine. It was planted in my head by the dear Zatoichi on the BBC Sherlock Fan Forum during a silly little discussion as to how Sherlock keeps so fit without ever working out.

As always, your feedback is much appreciated!

Night time. An industrial compound somewhere in London, sparsely lit and apparently deserted. A long, low brick building with several large doors, all closed, like a huge garage. A driveway of broken concrete leading away from the doors, large puddles of oily water in its cracks. The sound of approaching footsteps can be heard, echoing loudly in the silence - a single person running at top speed. A moment later, the figure of a man in a dark coat rounds the corner of the building at full tilt, races down the driveway, leaps neatly over one of the larger puddles in his way, then skitters to a halt just in front of the gates of the compound. They are huge, more than twice a man's height, and made of thick vertical steel bars, not a foothold anywhere.

Seen in close-up, Sherlock Holmes glances upwards, then right and left, making up his mind. He's breathing hard, a vein pulsing in the side of his neck. As abruptly as he has stopped, he gets moving again, turning right towards the mesh-wire fence surrounding the compound. He jumps and makes a grab for the wires above his head, his feet - in smart black shoes - angling for a hold in the narrow gaps and failing to find one. He abandons the attempt and pulls himself up hand-over-hand to the top of the fence, which sways precariously under his weight. Across to the other side, he lowers himself about half-way down and then lets go, dropping neatly into the bushes outside the compound. He straightens up. At that instant, the momentary silence is broken by the sound of more running feet, this time clearly of more than one person. Sherlock whirls round back towards the garage. Two or three points of torchlight are visible in the distance, bobbing up and down. Confused shouting of several male voices can be heard, and it becomes clear that this is not a training session on an obstacle course but a manhunt in deadly earnest. Sherlock takes to his heels, straight across the straggling undergrowth, dry branches cracking under his feet. He's clearly more concerned with speed than with secrecy. He slithers down a steep brambly slope and comes out onto a road. There is a screech of metal on concrete somewhere behind him, presumably the gates being opened, and the roar of a car engine being started. Sherlock sets off down the street, brambles on one side, a long brick wall on the other. Above him, a man with a torchlight has reached the fence and is sweeping the bushes beyond it, but Sherlock has already moved beyond the range of the light. Now a car can be heard coming down the lane, its tires screeching. Sherlock swerves to his left and runs right at the brick wall, his impetus carrying him half-way up. He makes a grab for the upper edge, pulls himself up to the top and makes to jump down on the other side, when suddenly a furious barking starts in the darkness below, and the sound of a rattling chain almost choking a madly aggressive dog can be heard.
MAN'S VOICE (off-screen): He's there!

Sherlock recoils, straightens up and runs along the precariously narrow top of the wall like a demented tight-rope walker. There is more shouting behind him. A few more steps, and he has reached a point where another, lower wall branches off to his left, away from the road. He turns onto that one and continues for maybe ten more yards.

SECOND MAN'S VOICE (off-screen): We've got him!

Without looking back, Sherlock jumps. He lands awry, his left foot turning inwards at a sickly angle when he hits the ground. He stumbles and falls, landing on his hands and knees, pulls himself half up and comes down again heavily. He looks up ahead, baring clenched teeth, and sees a car parked immediately in front of him. He drags himself over to it, sidles around it and settles down with his back against its other side. In close-up, he is sweating heavily, his eyes squeezed shut, drawing great shuddering breaths, listening intently. After a short pause, he pulls out his phone from the inside pocket of his coat. His hand holding the phone is shaking slightly, and the skin of his palm is badly scratched. He hides the glow from the phone within his coat and rapidly punches some buttons with the tip of a grimy thumb. A section of a map appears on the screen. He looks at it for no more than a second, commits it to memory, then slips the phone back into his pocket. He listens again for a moment, but both the car and the men on foot seem to have gone. He sighs in relief. Just as he makes to pick himself up -

MAN'S VOICE (off-screen, from the other side of the wall): He went over somewhere here!

Sherlock jumps up and continues to run across what appears to be a communal car-park at the edge of a residential area, ducking low behind the cars wherever possible, and thus makes his way through a gap between two of them to a low steel barrier marking the boundary of the car-park. Too badly hurt or too tired to climb over it, he squeezes through underneath. An ordinary, suburban residential street opens before him. He closes his eyes for a moment, and before his mind's eye appears the section of the map we've just seen on his phone, but now there is a spot marked on it, a little blinking green dot and a blue line leading to it from a place marked "P" in the lower left hand corner, like a chart from a route planner. Sherlock's eyes pop open again. He scrambles to his feet and sets off along the street, slowly and tentatively at first, gritting his teeth, then faster and faster again, although it is obvious that he can no longer do his former speed. The blue line on his inner route planner that connects his position with his destination begins to shorten slowly.

A few minutes later. Sherlock turns a corner into another quiet residential street lined with small terraced houses. The windows of most of the houses are dark, but there are a few ones that are lit. Sherlock is is merely jogging now and limping rather badly. He slows down to a walk and searches the facades of the houses on his right. There is a glimmer of light in an upstairs window of the second house in the row. He walks towards it as quickly as he can, scrambles untidily over the low garden wall, crosses the front yard to the door with long but uneven strides and rings the doorbell. Silence. Sherlock glances up at the window, and rings the bell again. He's panting for air, not looking desperate just yet, but certainly getting nervous.

SHERLOCK (under his breath): Come on, for God's sake.

From around the street corner, there's the sound of a car approaching. Sherlock, wide-eyed, whirls around in the direction of the noise. At that moment, a lamp above the front door is switched on, and his dark figure is bathed in bright light, a perfect target. He cringes, looking left and right for somewhere to hide, but in the open yard, there's nothing to hide behind. There's a clank behind him as the front door opens on the chain. Sherlock swivels back towards the door. Molly Hooper's face peeps out of the gap.

MOLLY: Who is it?

Sherlock immediately reaches through the gap with one hand, fingering for the light switch on the inner wall, finds it and turns the lamp off.

SHERLOCK (whispering): Let me in, quick.

The sound of the car is getting louder and louder. The glow of its headlights can be seen at the street corner. Molly fumbles with the chain. As soon as the front door is half open, Sherlock sidles in, quick as lightning, and just as quickly closes the door again behind him. A car roars past Molly's house and continues down the street without slowing down or stopping anywhere. Molly and Sherlock stand very still, facing each other in the small space just inside the door, listening to the receding noise of the car. Sherlock is still breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling. When all is silent again, Sherlock looks down at Molly and smiles reassuringly. There is very little light in the corridor, just enough for them to see each other's faces. Molly is in a nondescript t-shirt and cardigan, her hair up in a loose bun, wide awake, her face a study in disbelief.

SHERLOCK (still a little breathlessly): Good evening.

MOLLY(settling on playing amused rather than admitting to being shocked): What on earth are you doing here?

SHERLOCK (perfectly straight-faced): Working out.

MOLLY (taking in his heavy breathing and his sweaty face, frowning): And now you just fancied a drink and a shower and I happened to be in the neighbourhood?

SHERLOCK: In a manner of speaking.

A short pause.

MOLLY: So it's true?

SHERLOCK: What is?

MOLLY (with a small grin): I hear you're out doing Parkour all over Marylebone when you can't sleep.

SHERLOCK: How do you know that?

MOLLY (innocently): John says you do.

SHERLOCK: How does John know? (Peevishly) He's John Watson. He doesn't know things.

MOLLY: Apparently he does.

SHERLOCK: Oh, well. (Gesturing towards the inner rooms of the house.) Mind if I come in for a moment?

MOLLY: Not at all. (Smiling and inviting him with a gesture of her hand) I'm upstairs.

SHERLOCK: After you.

Molly leads the way up a flight of carpeted stairs to the first floor. We can see her smiling privately to herself, hardly able to contain her excitement. Sherlock follows her slowly, steadying himself on the banister, very careful not to put too much weight on his left foot, glancing up at Molly's back furtively to make sure she isn't watching. The moment she turns back towards him, half-way up the stairs, he freezes.

MOLLY: I didn't imagine that you'd dress up for it, though.

SHERLOCK (looking down his own person): I'm not dressed up. I wear this every day.

Molly chuckles as she continues climbing the stairs.

Upstairs, Molly enters her brightly lit living room, Sherlock behind her. It is a rather narrow, longish carpeted room, furnished in an unspectacular but cosy way, with a big, sand-coloured sofa plus coffee-table facing a TV and some bookshelves on one side, a small dining table with four chairs, below a window, on the other side. The moment Sherlock has passed through the door, he immediately switches off the light in this room, too.

MOLLY: Oh, you really don't have to worry about that. We've got no nosy old ladies in the neighbourhood.

SHERLOCK: Nosy old ladies don't bother me. I've got one right downstairs.

He takes off his coat and carries it to an armchair a few paces away, still trying but by now failing to hide his limp. Molly's eyes immediately fix on his legs.

MOLLY: What happ -

SHERLOCK (glancing at her from out of the corner of his eye, the way he avoids looking at his friends when he lies to them): Blisters. New shoes. Pinch a bit.

In passing, he drops his coat on the armchair, then continues straight towards an open door at the end of the room.

MOLLY (in a sudden panic): Sherlock -

He's almost at the door when -

MOLLY (sternly): Sherlock.

SHERLOCK (turning back towards her): Yes?

MOLLY (with emphasis on every single word): That is my bedroom.

SHERLOCK (not disconcerted in the least): Yes. Blame the moron who converted this house into flats for making it the one room that overlooks the street.

Without waiting for an answer, he walks on through the open door into the dark room beyond. Molly hurries after him.

SHERLOCK (over his shoulder): No light, please.

MOLLY (a little tetchily): Yes, I got that.

Molly's bedroom, faintly illuminated by a street-lamp outside the window, is small and very tidy. It has pink wallpaper, a thick carpet, and two windows with blinds facing the street. The blinds are down, but they're the type that let you adjust the slats so as to let in some light. The main article of furniture in the room is, of course, the bed - a girl's dream, with a plushy bed-head of pink velvet, covered with a shimmering, satiny quilted bedspread with a riot of large pink and yellow roses printed on it. Beside it is an – in comparison - almost disappointingly mundane white IKEA-style bedside cabinet with a clock radio on top of it, and some magazines. Another door, on the left as one enters, stands open, revealing a small en-suite bathroom. Sherlock takes in all of this with a single glance as he walks straight to the left-hand window, between the bed and the bathroom door. He inserts two fingers into the gap between the slats of the blinds and pushes them apart a little so as to get a better view of the street. He checks both ends, turning his head to the left and then to the right. As he does, a horizontal ribbon of light from the street-lamp falls across his face, revealing a small, dried trickle of blood from a graze at his temple, half hidden under his hair. Molly sees it and grimaces in sympathy.

MOLLY: Sherlock -

SHERLOCK (his eyes still on the street): Yes?

MOLLY (quietly): You're bleeding.

SHERLOCK: No. It stopped ten minutes ago.

A short silence, then suddenly Sherlock jumps almost out of his skin.

SHERLOCK: Argh!

MOLLY (deeply concerned) What is it?

Sherlock looks down at his feet. Toby, Molly's cat, has walked up to him silently and unnoticed, and is now rubbing himself against Sherlock's injured leg the way cats do, purring contentedly. Molly also looks down, and can't help laughing.

MOLLY: Oh, it's just Toby. Did he startle you? He likes you.

SHERLOCK (deeply irritated, standing rigidly, obviously making a great effort not to aim a kick at the cat): Can you tell him not to do that, please?

Without hurry, Molly picks Toby up and bundles him into her arms, scratching him behind the ears.

MOLLY: I can try. Cats are not so easily trained, I'm afraid. (A note of mischief stealing into her voice) They're independent... proud... (She looks from Toby to Sherlock, but he has turned his back to continue his watch on the street.) Solitary hunters. Secretive at times, mercurial, and shockingly sulky when the mood takes them.

SHERLOCK: Makes you wonder why people put up with them, doesn't it?

Molly sighs visibly but inaudibly and puts Toby back onto the floor, shooing him gently back towards the living room. Toby stalks off, his tail held high in contempt and hurt pride.

MOLLY (to Sherlock, attempting a light tone): You'd prefer a dog, I suppose.

Sherlock turns back towards Molly then. For a short moment, a shadow of real pain seems to cross his face.

MOLLY (devastated): Oh, sorry. I'm sorry. I forgot. That nasty beast.

SHERLOCK (already back in full control of himself): Never mind. (With a wry grin) Never mention it to John, though. (Abruptly) All right. All quiet now. Didn't you say something about -

He stops short. For the first time since he's entered the bedroom, the wall opposite the windows has come fully into his view. It has the same pink wallpaper as the rest of the room, and there is nothing on it except one large poster. It is a reproduction of Turner's "Falls of the Reichenbach". Underneath the picture, it says

THE GRAND TOUR.

Turner on the Continent.

NATIONAL GALLERY, London, Sept. 19th 1998 - March 27th 1999

Sherlock frowns. Molly turns to see what has got his attention. She blushes crimson, looking like she wishes the ground would open up and swallow her.

MOLLY (apologetically, almost stammering): Oh, that. Just - just a souvenir.

Sherlock gives her a sharp, enquiring look, then turns away again to scan the poster and the wall around it with his eyes. In extreme close-up, all four corners of the poster are revealed to be slightly dog-eared. The edges of the paper are yellowed, and there are several old pin holes in each corner. Sherlock's examination of the wall around it reveals the sharp outlines of two square spaces where the wallpaper is a much darker and richer shade of pink than the area surrounding them. Obviously two smaller pictures have hung side by side on that wall for a long time before being replaced by the poster. Words start rolling up on the „screen" of Sherlock's mind's eye:

recently put up - original exhibition poster - at least two previous owners - collector's item - current Ebay prices 40 £. His frown deepens. In the background, Molly's voice continues.

MOLLY: I - I went there once, with my mum and dad -

Sherlock glances at her as if to say "Don't try". She meets his eyes for a very short moment, then turns back towards the poster and keeps talking determinedly.

MOLLY: With my mum and dad, when I was a girl. Wonderful place. (Enthusiastically) It's like nothing else I've ever seen, majestic, larger than life, like nothing can touch it. (Quieter again, almost wistfully) It makes you feel so silly and small... But still you can't take your eyes off it, it's so... (she turns back towards Sherlock, her eyes wide and bright) ... beautiful.

Sherlock doesn't reply. He studies her face intently for a moment.

MOLLY (holding her ground): You ever been there?

SHERLOCK (after a moment's pause): No.

MOLLY (trying to smile): That's alright.

SHERLOCK (after another pause, in a business-like tone, very deliberately changing the subject): Molly, I think I've changed my mind about the drink. What I could use is something to eat though. (He smiles a little apologetically.) I'm starving, to be honest.

MOLLY (smiling back at him, reassured): I'll find you something.

She walks out of the room and pulls the door almost closed behind her before switching on the light in the living room. Sherlock watches her go. As soon as she is out of sight, he very ungracefully slumps down on her bed, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed, propping up his forehead with the heels of his hands, the very image of complete and utter exhaustion. After a moment, he stirs again and lifts up his left leg with the help of both hands hooked under the knee, grimacing with pain, and very gingerly stretches it out across the bedspread, shoe and all. He closes his eyes and sighs heavily in relief.

Molly's kitchen. The lights are on, their bright, artificial glare a stark contrast to the muted half-light of the bedroom. Molly has the door of her more-than-half-empty fridge open, going through her sparse stores. She takes one item after another into her hand so we can see what it is. A short row of small yoghurt cups labelled „SLIMLINE Low Fat Yoghurt – Less than 0,1 % Fat!". A small vacuumed package containing some undefined white mass. A box of „SLIMLINE Low Fat Cheese Spread". A glass of strawberry jam. A Tupperware box which she opens and, pulling a face, quickly closes again.

MOLLY (muttering to herself): Yoghurt. Tofu sausages. Leftovers from the weekend. Oh dear. He could have called ahead.

She straightens up, closes the fridge and places two of her three yoghurts on a small tray on the kitchen counter. There are already an apple, two tangerines and a large glass of orange juice on it. Molly then opens one of the overhead cupboards and sorts through the packages in there.

MOLLY: Sesame crackers. Muesli bars. (She pulls them out.) With chocolate. (Much louder than before, directing her voice towards the bedroom door) Sherlock?

There is no reply. Molly waits for a few seconds, then turns back towards the cupboard. She pulls out a crumpled plastic bread bag, looking relieved.

MOLLY: Oh, good. Can't go wrong with a sandwich.

She opens the fridge again, gets out the cheese spread and the jam, and starts making sandwiches.

A little later, Molly walks out of her kitchen, through the living room and towards the bedroom door, carrying the heavily laden tray carefully in both hands. Toby on the sofa raises his head and makes as if to get up, but she shushes him gently as she walks past him. Molly reaches the bedroom door, half-turns to push it open with her elbow, and enters.

In the bedroom, Sherlock is lying on her bed, on his back, stretched out diagonally across the bedspread, one arm flung out, fully clothed and still shod, fast asleep. Molly stops dead, startled. She hesitates for a moment, then walks on tiptoe to set the tray down on the bedside cabinet. There is a small clink of glass. Molly quickly glances at Sherlock's face, but he hasn't moved. His mouth is slightly open and he is even snoring a little. He looks dog-tired, the light from the street-lamp outside accentuating the dark shadows under his eyes, and very young. Molly stands looking at him for a moment, a warm, almost maternal smile forming on her lips. Then she tilts her head to one side with a small frown, leans over him and with the tip of her index finger very carefully lifts up the curl of Sherlock's hair that's hiding the graze on his temple. She regards it for a moment, her lips pressed together, then as gently takes her finger away, letting his hair cover it again. Her gaze then travels downwards over his limp body, first to his hand, palm up, grimy fingers curled loosely around badly scraped skin. Further down towards the knees of his trousers, which have got a good scraping as well, the fabric badly rubbed and even torn in places, and finally to his left foot, hidden in its sock and shoe. Molly moves over to take a closer look. The ankle looks slightly thicker than it should be, but it's hard to tell in the dim light. The leather of the shoe, in extreme close-up, can be seen to be rather creased and worn, the leather sole badly abraded, the edges of the heel worn down a little and full of dents. It's clearly anything but new. Molly straightens up and shakes her head at the sleeper, but she's smiling all the same.

MOLLY (very quietly): You're a silly man, Sherlock Holmes. And I don't care whether you heard that or not.

Sherlock doesn't move. Molly steps into the small en-suite bathroom, takes an antiseptic spray and small zippered bag – by the green cross on it a first-aid-kit – from the mirror cabinet above the washbasin, and returns to her bedroom to put them down soundlessly on the bedside cabinet next to the food tray.