The Doctor and the Doorman
“Remember what we agreed,” John said as he examined the man in front of him. His build was perfect but for the some reason the clothes didn’t seem to fit quite right. Even so, it was disconcerting. “You only get paid if he doesn’t realize you aren’t me.”
Jack winked, causing John to shudder. It was like his reflection had taken on a life of its own. “Don’t do that,” John instructed. “That will give you away instantly. I never wink.”
“Do you ever smile either?” Jack laughed. He stopped abruptly at the stony glare from John. “Alright, alright doctor. Straight-faced and miserable it is. I’m sure I can manage that. Will you be fine? Don’t go losing me my job now.”
John adjusted his hat and rolled his eyes. “Please. How hard can opening doors be?” He glanced at his watch. “You’d better get going. Sherlock will be expecting me -you- back from your walk.”
“Right-o.” Jack immediately grimaced apologetically. “Sorry, last time I say that today. You’d best be off too. The hotel manager is pretty slack but you still don’t want to be too late.”
John watched as Jack wandered down the street. He’d taught him his gait as best he could, and it was like having an out-of-body experience. He waited until his doppelganger was out of sight before setting off down the Strand.
You are my voodoo child, my voodoo chiiiild...
John groaned as the song started playing for the tenth time that morning. The music from the lobby was quiet but audible every time he opened the glass and gold doors with all the formality he could muster. He didn’t know who was responsible for the short and terrible playlist but he knew it would drive him mad.
It still beats that violin at 3 am, he reminded himself. That one thought cheered him immensely. No crime scene, no corpses, no smug detective. Just a busy street, pleasant fresh air and the idiotically easy task of occasionally opening a door. He prepared himself as a sharp suited, balding man sauntered under the awning towards the door. John quickly recognized him as the minister of transport. As had become his habit he gave the man a once over. Aside from the silver bow of a gift-wrapped box protruding from a pocket nothing caught his attention. The minister barely acknowledged John’s greeting and carried on into the lobby.
A couple of minutes later a blonde, reeking of cheap perfume entered the hotel as well. No one else came or went before John’s replacement turned up and he was free to go on his lunch break.
Loud, crowded, dirty staff room. Bell boy humming Voodoo Child. Disgusting cafeteria sandwich and watery coffee. The trite and uninteresting conversation of his “colleagues” became an annoying buzz as John got up to fetch the milk from the fridge. As the door creaked open and the light flickered on he automatically braced himself for a severed head, an amputated limb. He was almost disappointed by the ordinary contents.
Here come the drums here come the druuuuums...
Again the torturously familiar song played. A light rain had started to fall and the dampness was making his shoulder ache. To make things more miserable his limp was worse than it had been in months. He was almost asleep from boredom when the young blonde from that morning left the hotel. A familiar but now opened gift box was visible in her purse. An unfamiliar string of pearls hung about her neck.
In confirmation of his theory, the transport minister was only a few minutes behind her. The gift box was nowhere to be seen, he reeked of the blonde’s perfume and there was a smudge of pink on his collar. Just as John was congratulating himself on discovering their affair a voice rang through his head.
A very astute observation, doctor. Even in his mind Sherlock’s voice rang with sarcasm. John clenched his fists and drew himself into the present. He had organised this to get away from Holmes. He neither needed nor wanted Sherlock intruding on his thoughts.
A loud, crowded, dirty pub. The bell boy still humming that damned song while chugging at his pint. Discussions of last night’s rugby match, boringly cliché rumours about staff members. John caught himself almost longing for intelligent conversation, despite the confusion that occasionally accompanied it. The last straw was laid on his back when that agonizingly recognizable song started playing through the pub’s crackling speakers. John pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent the text while he finished his lager as quickly as possible.
Sherlock was sitting in his chair, chin resting on his finger tips when John returned to 221B. The angular face glanced up at him as shrugged off his jacket. “Good evening, doctor. Put the kettle on, would you? Mrs Hudson is refusing to do it.
“I wonder why that would be,” John replied, gesturing not at all subtly at the still smoking bullet holes in the wall. “I thought I heard gun shots when I was walking down the street. I should have known it was you.” Still, he did as Sherlock had asked. But only because he was gasping for a cup of tea.
A few minutes later he placed the cups down on the table and settled into his chair opposite Sherlock. The detective barely acknowledged the tea and made no move to drink it.
“How was your day, John?”
“You know exactly how it was, Sherlock. I was with you all day.”
“Then tell me what you thought of the statue?”
John bought himself time by taking a sip of his tea. Jack had debriefed him on what he and Sherlock had been up to that day. What had he said about the statue...
“It was clearly a plant to distract us from the real murder weapon,” John answered in relief, finally managing to remember what Jack had told him. He pressed on to try and hide his relief. “But you knew that, of course. You said so at the crime scene.”
Sherlock twined his fingers together and leant forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Come now, John. This act is getting boring already. Perhaps if it weren’t so painfully obvious...”
“I...don’t know what you mean.” John shifted uncomfortably and avoided those piercing, dark eyes.
“I admire the lengths you went to, even meeting with him to learn our movements on the off chance I’d discuss them with you. But honestly I find it insulting that you thought a doppelganger would escape my detection. The flecks in his eyes are a different shape to yours. His nose is fractionally longer. His voice is noticeably lower. And it is impossible to fake a psychosomatic limp. His became more pronounced as we walked around the crime scene. Yours becomes less so when you are stressed as your brain is distracted. The sight of a corpse however strongly reminded him of where he was and why, so that he consciously put on the limp.” Sherlock reclined with his usual smirk and finally picked up his tea. “So tell me John, how did you enjoy your day as a doorman for the Savoy?”
John laughed bitterly. “I’ll admit I’m not surprised you saw through the doppelganger. But how could you possibly know that he works as a doorman, let alone which hotel?”
“So I’m right?” The question was said matter-of-factly, so that John didn’t bother replying. “Your doppelganger...”
“Jack,” John offered.
“Jack. His posture is perfectly straight when he stands, almost equal to your military style. This eliminates office work, and combined with his extraordinary manners suggests the service industry. When I asked for a pen he leant we one with the name and address of the Savoy Hotel on it.”
“There’s no way you could get doorman from his posture and a pen. You yourself have a pen from the Grosvenor. As far as I know you have never worked there.”
“Of course not.” Sherlock winked in that smug way that made John want to punch him. “Did you really think someone who looks exactly like you could work in London and I not know about him? I’m surprised it took you this long to find him.”
“Were you planning on telling me about him?”
“Perhaps, if I had ever had use for him. I did rather enjoy your little switch. I had such fun impressing him. It was like the first time I took you on a job. What gave you the idea?”
John studied Sherlock for a moment, to try and perceive if the question was genuine. “Everyone knows the story of the Prince and the Pauper. Granted this was far from the same situation, it’s a pretty familiar concept.”
“Never heard of it,” Sherlock said lackadaisically. As always John was shocked by his apathy towards something that, in his opinion, everyone ought to know. Sherlock glanced at John and rolled his eyes in response to the doctor’s surprise. “How many times must I explain this? If it isn’t relevant to my field I have no use for it. Until now this story hasn’t mattered.” Silence fell as they both sipped on their tea. Sherlock quickly broke it. “Tell me, in this paradigm who is the prince and who is the pauper?”
John shrugged. “Honestly I don’t know. I don’t remember the story well enough.” He thought he saw a flicker of disappointment in Sherlock’s face, but it faded quickly. If it had existed at all. “Any new cases?” John asked, keen to change the topic of conversation.
“Nothing. A city this size and there is nothing to stimulate and challenge my mind. The best problem currently is the case given to me by the wife of the minister of transport. Apparently her pearls have gone missing. My current hypothesis is an insurance scam.”
John’s smile gave him away. Sherlock leaned forward eagerly. “Tell me.”