Long suffering Dr Watson finally earns his reward.
This must be one of my oldest unpublished stories going back to March 2015. It was intended to be humorous, but it never managed to get there. I'd come back to it from time to time, to have another stab at it, but decided it was worth publishing rather than leave it mouldering forever.
A special thanks to RF-Fast for helping to proofread and ensuring the story is in good shape.
Dr Watson Examines the Merchandise
"Tell me again why we're here, Sherlock?"
"We're here to investigate counterfeit goods, John."
"I know that. What I meant was, why are we actually in this locale?"
"Well, Macclesfield isn't as salubrious as Baker Street, but we need to be close to our client."
"Again, I understand that. What I meant was why we are staying in such a substandard hotel. And more importantly, why are we sharing the same bed?"
"That, my dear Watson, was a bit of a faux pa on my behalf. When I took this case, I neither realised that the town was hosting its annual photocopier sales conference. Or that such events were so well attended."
"Couldn't we have found separate rooms or at least separate beds?"
"Alas, not within easy travelling distance of our client and our suspect pool. Oh, and while I remember, your credit card is maxed out."
"What? Not again? You know it wouldn't be if you didn't keep using it without telling me."
The man was just insufferable at times, taking no account of those around him. It had taken Lestrade's involvement last month to get the peeping Tom charges dropped. I told him the nurses in the flat opposite would not believe he was studying 19th-century iron guttering, outside their bathroom window, for a monograph he was writing. He was even using my telescope. Some considered him a genius, but they didn't have to live with the man.
In the morning, I waited impatiently outside the bathroom sitting on the bed in my pyjamas, bursting to relieve myself. He breezed out, adjusting his scarf.
"Come on, John, the games afoot. No lollygagging." With that, he walked from the room, and I dashed in to relieve myself.
By the time I was done and dressed, without the luxury of a shower or shave, I caught up with him in the lobby. He was chatting with the hotel receptionist, the remnants of a bacon sandwich in one hand and a newspaper in the other. Popping the morsel in his mouth, he sprayed me with crumbs.
"Come along Watson, we have to meet with our client in ten minutes. We must make haste."
Glowering at the back of his head as he left the hotel. I brushed crumbs from my coat and tried to ignore the gurgling of my stomach due to the smells coming from the breakfast buffet.
"Who is our client again?" I asked, as I hurried to catch up.
"I got an email from them a couple of days ago. Manufacturers of certain specialist goods, in business for almost thirty years, but in the last three months, sales have dropped to almost nothing. They investigated their regular customers, surreptitiously of course, and found them stocking. What is the term? They have been buying 'Knock off' products. Cheap copies of their quality wares. Ah, here is our destination."
Chasing after Sherlock with his long stride down drab-looking lanes of old-fashioned brick factories, I'd lost track of where we were or where we were going. The sign above the door states: "Charlie Booker - Adult novelties est. 1985" The logo in the background gives little chance of confusion with paper hats or board games. Some heraldic motifs have crossed swords. This has; let's just say they were sword-shaped.
"Holmes! We can't possibly be going in there. It's a..."
"My prudish Watson! You know my motto, I'll take any client, be it a king or a common streetwalker; if the case interests me."
Following Holmes inside, we trudged up a narrow staircase to a Spartan office. In every available space displayed 'devices' of every conceivable size, shape, and colour. I flatter myself, as a man of the world, but I was agog at some of these items of rubber or latex. Some looked anatomically impossible, and as a medical man, I would have to strongly recommend avoiding some of the largest.
Behind the lone desk sat an attractive woman in her late thirties, although looking a little tired.
"May we speak to Charlie Booker?" Holmes asked.
"Speaking." She replied, smiling. The smile took years off her. "It's Charlene, actually, but it was easier to be Charlie after I took over from my dad a few years back."
She turned her smile on me and, with all these phallic objects filling the room, I blushed. And more so, as her gaze lingered. Despite the surroundings, I got the impression of intelligence and felt she was calculating my net worth to the penny.
"We know the basic details, Ms Booker, using strong-arm tactics to sell inferior knock-off copies of your quality goods. I take it you had a plan in mind before you contacted us?" Holmes asked rather distractedly, eyeing the specimens.
"Of course! I want you two to pose as owners of a new sex shop. Hopefully, you'll be contacted by the scum who are ripping off my patented designs."
"Can you patent these?" I blurted out, gesturing to the array of rubber penis all around.
Holmes gripped a huge purple one at least a foot long and examined it through his magnifying glass.
"Fascinating!" He declared. "There appears to be a tube filled with beads that spiral around the outside."
Charlene looked back to Holmes, still grinning at my discomfort.
"Yes, Mister Holmes. Besides the traditional vibration, this has a tiny motor that pushes them around the tubing. It's extremely effective and I can confirm that personally." Suddenly the thought of her using that toy caused a stiffening in my trousers. Fortunately, and not for the first time, Sherlock missed the sexual overtones.
"I don't see how this plan can work, without more time than I can spare for this case," Holmes said, waving the rubber phallus about.
"Actually, it's already pretty much set up. A friend of my father's is retiring and has sold his old shop to be yet another bloody coffee shop. The new owners don't take possession for a month. And I have the keys."
