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The siren. An elusive, surreptitious figure that haunts the midnight streets of San Francisco with only her voice. Some say her tortured soul, trapped forevermore between the dead and the living, roams the city during nights of heavy rainfall.
Amidst the shadows of that small, dark alleyway, Sholmes and I searched for the siren restlessly in the pouring midnight rain. In time, there came a clap of thunder, illuminating our view for but an instant.
That was when she materialized in the alley’s deepest corner. Suddenly, Sholmes sprang into action beside me, waving fiercely with his broken violin’s bow at the space she occupied.
“That must be her. We must pursue her now!” he cried, his cracking voice nearly drowned out by the pounding storm.
I pointed my flashlight to the corner where Sholmes stood, and the alleyway gradually appeared before me. Sholmes’s gaze was transfixed upon a large cardboard crate when he began to whisper.
“The siren’s origins… her gruesome death at sea, waiting eagerly for her lover…” Sholmes’ voice turned to stone. “I believe we have come upon her final resting place, Wilson!”
From inside the crate flew out the apparition of a woman, her arms outstretched as she threatened to take her with us. She truly was the most terrible creature I had ever seen.
23rd November, 10:56pm
San Francisco Police Headquarters
Come November, San Francisco’s nightly rainfall never relents. It is heavy and ceaseless, drowning out the nighttime din and lulling the city’s residents into a collective restless sleep.
Typically, that is. These days, the situation is a bit more complicated.
Inspector Lestrade raps twice against Gregson’s office door, poking her head inside when she hears him grunt in recognition. Her expression is apprehensive, almost fitful at first, until she finds Gregson’s level stare and salutes.
“Got yer nightly rapport,” she announces, brandishing the document to Gregson with trembling hands. He blinks twice at her before setting his container of fish and chips down on his desk to take the envelope.
“What’re the jitters for, kid?”
Lestrade snorts, flopping into the cushioned seat across from his desk. She eyes the remnants of Gregson’s snack with calculated precision. “You’ll see.”
The first fourteen pages of the document are fairly standard, perfectly normal for an evening on the town. Routine checks that went without issue, a small handful of parking tickets, a car robbery report where the culprit turned out to be the owner who’d misplaced his keys inside, and…
“ Seventeen noise complaints for Erie Avenue?” Gregson’s brow creases. He sifts through the pages, confirming that each one is written by a different resident.
High-pitched noise after nightfall that won’t stop.
Closing windows does not help. I repeat, closing windows does NOT help!
Sounds like singing, maybe? Really bad, totally off-key singing. I’ve got perfect pitch, I need it to stop or my ears will explode.
I’ve sent in four complaints already. When will you guys do something about it?
When Gregson gets to the end of the list, he drags a hand down his face. “You gotta be kidding me, sunshine. This ain’t real.”
Lestrade shrugs, and Gregson misses the way her hands don’t quite reach her pockets.
“It’s real, alright. But ‘s not like we haven’t been checkin’ the streets erry night, neither.”
“I take it you haven’t found anything?”
A single stale french fry materializes in Lestrade’s hand, seemingly from thin air. She beams at it proudly before taking a bite and scowling, apparently thrown off by the taste.
“Nada,” she says finally, coughing a bit.
Gregson shakes his head. Worry sinks to the depths of his stomach, as if the heavy rainfall has swallowed his last glimmer of hope for a quiet, ordinary night shift into a massive sinkhole.
Because Gregson’s division has already inspected the entire area. They’re good officers, maybe the best team he’s had in years — one of the best, Gregson amends, as Lestrade tries to dust off a second pickpocketed french fry and coughs it out, too — and even they’re struggling with noise complaints .
“Look, boss. Do ya think…” Lestrade says, clearing her throat. She starts to play with one of the buttons on the seat cushion, looking anywhere but at Gregson. “I mean, this is kinda gettin’ outta hand, so maybe, we oughtta ask you-know-who for some help…?”
You-know-who. Yeah, Gregson knows who. He scowls.
Herlock Sholmes, a local celebrity who stars as the main character in a hit series of detective books. Eccentric, bold, and larger-than-life. To the city, a veritable superhero, who swoops in at opportune moments and meddles with the crime scene in a bizarre, yet timely stroke of genius.
To Gregson, a goddamn menace. Sholmes has done nothing but waste the police’s time for years since the series’ publication. It might be Sholmes connecting the dots, but Gregson ’s team has to do all the dirty work.
“No way in hell you-know-who ’s gettin’ involved.” Gregson gathers his coat in one hand as he stands up, gesturing to the door. “C’mon.”
“Eh? What for?”
Lestrade frowns at him, but she’s already getting up too, holding the keys Gregson swears he’d left in his jacket pocket in her hand.
“We’re not gonna let that storybook detective ruin another crime scene.”
It takes only a moment for Lestrade to notice the we and smile at that, offering a salute and a bright “ Aye-aye, cap’n!” to her boss before scurrying out of the headquarters behind him.
23rd November, 11:27pm
Erie Avenue, Desolate Alleyway
The midnight air is thick with rain and fog on Erie Avenue that evening. Even the officers’ footsteps against the cobblestone make nary a sound, drowned indiscriminately by rampant noises of heavy rainfall.
Nothing else of note has occurred since the officers arrived at the scene. No high-pitched noises, no shrill singing voices, nothing that closing a window couldn’t fix. And certainly nothing that might warrant seventeen formal complaints in the same day. They don’t even see anyone nearby, as far as their lantern’s light can reach, all the way down the street.
“Can’t hear nothin,” Lestrade grunts. She’s just a step behind Gregson on the sidewalk, arms crossed over her chest derisively. “Wha'd they call us out here for, eh? Just wanna waste our precious time or summat?”
“No, that’s not what it is,” Gregson frowns, casting a glance over his shoulder back at Gina. “Don’t write ‘em off yet, sunshine. You never know when somethin’ freakish might pop up outta nowh—”
“ eeEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEeeeeeeeeee— ”
“—ere. Like, uh. Like that.” Gregson tenses on instinct when the sound repeats itself, shoulders shooting up to his ears. “Oh dear lord.”
The screeching sound is — well, the seventeen reports they received that evening don’t do it justice, really. Gregson hardly knows how the whole damn block hasn’t approached the force with a more direct action. It sounds like… a pained woman screaming, maybe. Or a feral cat who’s picked a fight with a nasty raccoon in someone’s backyard. The sound cuts through the air like a honed blade — clearly practiced in volume and projection, but leaving much to be desired in all the other musical qualities. Qualities that, in Gregson’s opinion, will always matter much more to him than volume, anyways.
“Er, boss?” Lestrade gulps. If Gregson could see in the pitch-black, he might’ve seen the chillbumps all along her trembling arms. “I take it we’ll hafta find whatever thing made that noise?”
Gregson sighs. “Right on the money, kid.” He sets a protective arm in front of her. “C’mon, stay behind me. We’re gonna pinpoint its location and deal with it as best we can.”
“Right. If yer sayin’ so…”
The noise gets louder, somehow, the longer they traverse that flooded cobblestone road. Gregson could not describe it as a crescendo — no, pretty, musical words do not belong to this terrible screeching, bouncing incessantly against his skull. The volume reaches a peak when Gregson and Lestrade approach a corner, thunder clapping distantly — only for the sound to cut off abruptly, as if caught. It’s enough of a shock for Gregson to stop in his tracks completely.
“Oi,” Lestrade whispers, after nearly ramming into Gregson’s back. “Wot’s the big idea, boss, we gotta charge!”
“Not yet, sunshine,” Gregson replies swiftly. “If ‘e hears us coming and flees, we can kiss our only lead goodbye.”
Ignoring the sound of displeasure behind him, Gregson takes a peek around the corner. He thinks he can hear footsteps if he listens hard enough, deft and likely practiced in the art of sneaking around in places they’re not supposed to be—
Lestrade gasps. “That’s…”
“Hey,” Gregson whispers angrily. “What did I say about keepin’ a low profile, we don’t wanna get cau—”
Just then a lanky, hooded figure materializes in front of them, and Gregson nearly topples onto the puddle-filled sidewalk.
“Mr. ‘erlock Sholmes?”
The man of myth bows in front of them, drenched to the bone and discreetly concealing an arm behind his back.
“You’re quite right, my dear fellow! One might say you’ve grasped the art of deduction at last.” Herlock Sholmes takes a step back and fires his great deduction hat tip at the pair of officers. “And well, I should hope so, considering your profession!”
Sholmes devolves into a fit of giggles that bounce against the rain, clutching at his sides.
The jab does not go unnoticed by Gregson, whose mood has only darkened since the Great Detective’s appearance at the scene. The scowl that has affixed his face since the investigation’s onset deepens considerably.
“What are you doing here, man?”
Sholmes straightens in a flurry. “Why, I thought that obvious, Inspector. I am investigating the scene of a slew of noise complaints, of course.” Gregson’s heart sinks, far beneath the depths of the puddles he’s trudged through this evening. “I must say, the task came to me as a great surprise. I might have thought the police force could dispel this clamoring commotion with ease, prestissimo !”
“It’s hardly front of mind for the force,” Gregson replies automatically.
Gregson could rattle off any number of cases they’ve had to deal with the past few days alone that distracted him from the growing pile of noise complaints — thefts, break-ins, embezzlement allegations — but in truth, the failure is only the result of one thing: Gregson’s own negligence. So Sholmes has hit a nerve.
But Gregson left his dignity behind long ago, when it came to this man. He’s not above asking him for clues.
“You got any leads?”
“Just one.” Sholmes lifts a single gloved finger. “Do you wish to hear it, officers?”
Gregson casts a glance at Lestrade, who peers thoughtfully at Sholmes as if he were a math equation.
“All right then. Try me,” Gregson says.
At once, Sholmes’s expression turns grim. “I believe it to be a woman’s voice. Not just any woman, mind — a siren .” When Gregson opens his mouth to reply, Sholmes fills the space himself. “Before you object, yes, you heard me correctly. I am indeed referring to the enrapturing feminine creature of the sea.
“Young Iris and I read of the siren’s thrilling exploits once. Legends state that this city’s most terrible siren remains caught in a trap of sorts, in the realm between the dead and the living.” Sholmes leans in toward Lestrade, whispering dramatically into her ear. Her eyes flit away from his face, though, to something behind him. “What we’re hearing, my dear fellows, could very well be the sounds of her tortured soul, screaming fiercely for peace in the midnight rain.”
Gregson swallows. He’d never humored the idea, but something about hearing such a possibility from Sholmes in the dead of the night makes it seem… plausible, almost. Could the culprit really be something supernatural?
“Yuh huh,” Lestrade says, sharp as a knife’s edge. “Cool story. Now, answer fer me, Mr. Great Detective….” She points emphatically at his right shoulder. “Wot’s that there in yer hand?”
His other hand? That had escaped Gregson’s notice.
Sholmes stumbles a moment before retrieving the object — a long, wooden staff with broken strings protruding from its base.
“Oh, this old thing?” Sholmes does his best to shrug it off. “It is for my stringed instrument, Miss Lestrade. I carry this along with my person, everywhere I go.” He raises a finger. “Or have you not realized?”
A string instrument. It would take incredible technique to create such terrifying sounds with such a thing, but then, Sholmes is a man of incredible talent.
Gregson smiles in spite of himself. They’ve caught him now.
“This’s first time I’m seein’ the damn thing.”
“‘nd that wouldn't explain why it’s broken on one damn end.” Lestrade points out. “Er why yer’ve got an instrument in the hand behind yer back. Did did ya think it escaped my notice, Great Detective, that yer the one makin all the noise on this street?”
For a terse moment, silence befalls the three of them. Even the rain seems to still. Then, sudden, uproarious laughter.
“She’s a sharp one, that Lestrade.” Sholmes giggles. He sets a hand on Gregson’s shoulder, which makes Gregson jump. “You’ve brought her up wonderfully. I couldn’t have done a better job myself.”
“Oi, why’re ya talkin’ ‘boot me like I’m not ‘ere—”
Then, Sholmes takes off with both the instrument and its bow in hand, running faster than Gregson has ever seen.
“I was right to entrust her to your care!” Sholmes declares over the roaring wind.
“Wait a damn second,” Gregson shouts, beginning to chase after him. “Damn you, Sholmes! You’re not getting away with this!”
28th November, 4:34am
221B Baker Street, San Francisco
Long, tiring nights of violin practice in the pouring rain always find Herlock Sholmes back in his Baker Street apartment by sunrise. There is nowhere he would rather be than the beloved home he shares with his beloved daughter.
“Hurley,” Iris chides from the couch, once he steps through the front door, leaving a trail of rainwater behind him. “This is far too late, even for you.”
Sholmes’s heart sinks. “Yes dear, I know.” Sholmes shucks off his coat at the door, an action his daughter insisted he ought to do on nights like these. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d be asleep by now.”
She crosses her arms, indignant. “Well, I’m not.”
A beat of silence follows. Sholmes lets the shame sink in slowly, taking in the details: Iris’s books strewn across their trunk, the pheasant set at his spot at the table, the bags under Iris’s eyes. He takes the spot next to her on the couch. “I… paid a visit to our friends at the police station.”
Iris’s tired eyes brighten. “You saw Ginny?”
“And Gregson, as well.”
He tucks a blanket over Iris, who yawns.
“Promise you’ll tell me all about it later?”
Sholmes smiles, soft and warm. “In the morning, my dear.”