SH Short: The African Star

Chapter 1 - Part 1

The streets of London could not have been more quiet during the morning hour as the Sun slowly rose from the depths of the Moonlit darkness, thus peeking over Big Ben with glorious rays after a long slumber. Not even the dogs had made such a fuss that night while their masters slept on; while only the occasional constable paced the pavement in rounds of watchfulness; making sure the silence was kept just that... silent. But sleepy England began to come alive again as the lanterns were put out; the shops unlocked and opened; the smell of bakers and tea shops filled the cold streets. Then suddenly, every corner street soon shouted with a young man's voice for the Times.

"Extra, Extra... Bank of England Plates Returned To The Treasury!"

The loudest of the young men in London seemed to smile proudly as he stood only feet from the door, in which the very man who had returned the plates to the treasury, still lived.
The boy waved the paper in front of the Baker Street residents as they walked by, not knowing that the detective in the windows above was on the couch of his flat sitting room with a pillow over his head.

Inside the downstairs hall echoed lightly with the shuffle and clatter of Mrs. Hudson; landlady to the flats, working on breakfast in the kitchen. As the red carpet of the staircase lead upwards, a door on the end of the second story was ajar, while just above up another flight, there could be heard a long creek of oak and hinge.
A tall middle aged man with a dignified mustache and reddish purple robe draped over his blue pajamas, walked down, barely audible in his slippers to the open room.

A muffled and unintelligible groan came from the sofa, apparently not very pleased with the way the boy outside shouted praises of him with the headlines. A smirk crossed the slightly wrinkled features as the mustache grew crooked in the expression; crossing his arms he walked over to the chair on the other side of the room to face his irritated friend, still hiding under the goose-feather cushion.

"Good morning Holmes!"

He exclaimed with deliberate intent to disturb the peace for the sleeper; another muffled and higher groan came through the fabric and fluff as the detective Sherlock Holmes waved a hand in agitation.

"Please close the blasted window, will you Watson? It's a wonder many of the town's people are not deaf by now."

Holmes said groggily; lifting the pillow slightly to communicate better.
The doctor stood, whereby, the noise suddenly cut to half it's volume as the boy continued his rant.
Dr. John Watson turned back to see Holmes finally sit up on the crimson couch (most of the room consisted of crimson furniture, rugs, book shelves and various desks and tables laden with odd objects and one with scientific experiments surrounded by tan-cream walls). Both yawned greatly, unsure if it was the other that had yawned first and made him do so in turn and the doctor returned to his chair.

"So, I'm glad to see you finally slept... though I would have preferred you to use your bed rather then the sofa."

Watson raised a brow as Holmes grunted lightly in dismissal; his long hand brushing at his hair only in vain as it stood back up in every direction.

"Hardly any difference between the two, I will observe."

He said in a softer baritone then his first complaint of the day.

"I'm surprised you'd recognize the difference, at all considering the fact that you sleep on neither of them."

The doctor chuckled brightly, and so with this the morning officially begun. What lay behind the door of 221 B. Baker Street was on very many days such as did unfold just then, the innocent debates of the two gentlemen and occasional, annoyed disapproval of the landlady normally in relation to the cleanliness of the flat. But more often then not the detective's occupation would interrupt and shake their lives with mystery, horror and danger... and such things, would only fill Sherlock Holmes with a glint of delight...

"Mr. Holmes... there is an urgent letter for you from the Museum."
Mrs. Hudson said as she walked into the room, already dressed in her usual dark blue dress and apron.
Holmes stood and took the letter placed into his waiting hands, his quick slender fingers braking the seal with no need for an opener to unfold the stationary. His grey eyes darted left; scanning the thin lines on the page to the right and darted back to the left and down. Obviously, the letter held some importance as soon a grin came upon his face.

An hour later (with great protest from Dr. Watson for not being allowed to eat his breakfast before leaving) they were at the Museum, the building not yet open to the public due to unfinished renovation but as the detective gave his name they were allowed inside. Holmes glanced around at the bare walls, open crates and artworks large and small in the long halls and open spaces and two gentlemen who were furiously talking amongst themselves stopped suddenly realizing their presence.

"Mr. Holmes... Dr. Watson, I presume. It is so good of you to come on such short notice, we are in desperate need of your services... though, quite frankly, I have no idea how to begin."

The two gentlemen, after a good ten minutes guided the detective and doctor around the halls with nervous and hesitant, but polite manner; talking of the history of the building.
the employees who were dismissed for the day except for the guard at the door and art works that were there. Holmes, however, held a dulled and exasperated expression and Watson a slightly puzzled one.

Finally they arrived to the third to last room, and as the owner Mr. Daniel Greenwood grew quiet in no further explanation, Holmes took this as opportunity, his grey orbs suddenly circled the room and suddenly rested on a spot. Before either the owner, secretary or doctor could ask any questions, Holmes' voice echoed with a distinct and stern tone.

"I give you credit for the wonderfully detailed and scenic tour of the not yet finished displays. But I find it rather odd that you would come so slow to the point which sits... or rather doesn't sit here."

Watson looked over to Mr. Greenwood to see that his face was pale and his eyes wide with shock.

"How... How did you know?"

His stutter was soon cut off by Holmes who raised his finger up.

"It is nothing remarkable to observe that the, "African Star", that once sat on this pedestal and which has been one of the greatest subjects in the Times of late, is not only missing from this room... but doesn't reside in what would be it's new home about two rooms down the hall with the more impressive jewels. You have failed to inform me, yet, that the diamond was stolen last night."

His voice gripped a firm tone that hung in the air; the men glanced towards other with amazement as Watson stared at his friend in disbelief,that the, "Africa Star" had been stolen? It was the secretary who had broken the silence.

"Yo-You are quite right, Mr. Holmes... the diamond was stolen last night between eleven forty and five twenty-five this morning. I was the one to discover it's absence..."