The room is cold and grey – it looks like a basement, and the only source of light is from a light bulb that buzzes and hums with electricity, offering a flickering luminescence to the dull walls. It is grubby with years of neglect, caked in a layer of black filth and the carcasses of dead cockroaches. There are live ones as well, scuttling over each other indiscriminately. In the centre of the room are two chairs.

Tied securely to each chair back to back are Sherlock Holmes, and a young, twenty-something woman with ash blonde hair tied in a ponytail which has become loose and bedraggled. She is small and slight, and while Sherlock is conscious, staring at the grey wall in front of him as if trying to make it crumble with his mind alone, the woman's head lolls to the side, and her eyes are shut.

…

Madison Smith is a very ordinary person. Nothing remarkable ever happens to her.

As the great majority of people, she leads a pretty normal, uneventful life. What we can deduce from her love of reading novels is an appetite for adventure. What is not so apparent from her preferred method of consuming them, (on the sofa, with a large bowl of pasta and a generous glass of red wine) is that she greatly feels the lack of any excitement or adventure in her life. To understand Madison, you need to understand one basic fact about her: she yearns for an adventure, a break from the monotony of routine, a much dreamed of escape from the constraints of her dull-as-ditch-water reality. What Madison didn't know was that very soon, she would get a whole lot more excitement than she bargained for.

…

Monday morning. Madison's least favourite part of the week aside from Thursday afternoons. Yet unusually, so far, Madison's day is going very well. Too well. Suspiciously too well in fact. Unbelievably perfect, as smoothly as squeezing toothpaste out of a tube. Only when you squeeze toothpaste out of a tube, there comes a point when it runs out, and this rule would prove the same with Madison's luck. OK, I've basically force fed you the idea that something is going to happen to Madison. Unfortunately for her, Madison cannot be at the receiving end of my warning, and remains blissfully oblivious to her imminent plummet into chaos. Being of a particularly optimistic disposition, Madison is also not one to envisage wild, apocalyptic scenarios that could arise in her life at any instance, so she is just enjoying the moment.

This is how well Madison's day had been going: She woke up on time, giving her sufficient time for breakfast. The toast popped up at exactly the same moment she walked past the toaster, so she caught it (earning a sneaky high five from herself) and she added the perfect amount of milk to her tea. She remembered her bag for once and a not unattractive gentleman gave up his seat on the tube for her. She actually got to work 5 minutes early, and strutted past Mrs Smug-pants the secretary, who could think of nothing to say now that Madison was on time, although she did raise an eyebrow in an 'am I meant to be impressed?' kind of way. We shall join Madison when she sits down to her desk to begin working …

"Hey Maddie!"

The enthusiastic greeting was from Jeff, the pimply, half-brained office mailroom delivery boy who had managed to get himself under the entirely false impression that Madison was deeply in love with him, despite her cold rejection of his affections. Like a puppy who loves his owner unconditionally, he managed to kid himself that the cold shoulder treatment actually signified a deeper meaning in their relationship.

"Madison" growled Madison, paying particular attention to annunciating the 'son' as clearly as possible. Why did people always feel the need to shorten her name to such a saccharine appellation? Jeff didn't seem to recognise the dangerous inflection her voice had acquired with her irritation, and carried on in his same cheery manner.

"Ah, Madison. A name as sweet as …" Jeff trailed off, unable to think of anything suitable to compare it too. Looking around the room for inspiration, he finally settled on:

"…You!" Originality wasn't his strong point.

A snort emitted from the photocopier. It was soon revealed to have come from Jill, another office worker, when she stood up after reloading the paper, grinning mischievously. This was met by a withering stare from Madison.

"Don't be mad, Maddie!" Jill chuckled to herself at the pun, as if it had been comedic genius, while dumping a mountain of paperwork in her lap. Madison, unwilling to bear the brunt of anymore infantile jokes from her giggling colleague released her frustration by slamming the pile on her desk, and attempted to make sensible conversation.

"How's Mr Hobson today then, Jill?"

Jill snorted incredulously. "How would I know? How would anyone know? It's not like he ever graces us with his appearance."

It was a peculiar quirk of the office (a fairly obscure financial firm), that the manager stayed in his office all day, and forbade anyone to enter at all. His eccentricity meant that any work he wanted to give to his employers would be left on the chair outside his office, along with instructions, and any work they wanted to send back to him, was placed on the chair for him to collect unseen. He got to the office at an ungodly hour in the morning, so people rarely saw him, and left at an equally ungodly hour at night. The caretaker would occasionally cause a hum of excitement in the office by relaying a new sighting, for he would on rare occasions see him, being the first and last in the building, although the boss had an uncanny ability of remaining anonymous even then. Speculation on the matter ranged from the boss having suffered from a nervous breakdown, causing him to have an acute fear of people to him actually being a famous celebrity, who took on the role as a day job and would eventually reveal his identity, and preferably large amounts of money to his hard-working employees. The success of him remaining anonymous was founded on two facts: firstly, the office, although passively interested in this little mystery, were far too busy to do any serious digging. Secondly, it was no secret that to walk into his office was a sacking offence.

Madison rummaged through the pile of papers she had to catalogue, looking for something easy to start off with. Everything was so dull! She flicked through quickly, a little too quickly in fact, causing the papers to spill onto the floor. To an accompaniment of uncontrollable giggles issuing from Jill, Madison began to collect everything up again, and arrange it in a fairly decipherable order. Jeff also rushed to her rescue, retrieving the scattered papers with a ferocious enthusiasm, on his hands and knees. When the pile was nearly neat and in its proper place once more, Madison's eyes fell on something Jeff was examining. Jeff, noticing her interest, placed it in her opened palm. It was a small, black memory stick.

"Did this come from the pile too?" he asked, in an attempt to be helpful.

"Well I don't know where else it could have come from. The floor was clear before I dropped everything. I'm pretty sure I shouldn't have it though, it's not in my instructions to use any memory sticks. Must have been a mistake. I'd better go and return it."

"And how exactly do you propose to return it, to a boss who never leaves his office?" quizzed Jill.

"I dunno. Leave it on the chair I guess?"

Madison made her way to Mr Hobson's office. It was a fairly long walk, being situated at the opposite end of the building, and it was pleasant to get away from the harsh glaring light of the computer screen and to stretch her legs. It wasn't a very relaxing walk though; something in the aspect of the corridor gave her an uneasy, insidious impression that she was being watched, and it was eerily silent. As she approached the red door to his office she felt subconsciously obliged to walk a little more softly, so as not to disturb the mysteriously elusive Mr Hobson. Madison lingered a little on the threshold, undecided on what to do about the memory stick. Of course, the simple answer would be to leave on the leather chair next to his door, as traditional. Yet it didn't seem right to leave the memory stick there – what if the information was important? It wouldn't be wise to leave it somewhere where anyone could get it. She considered sliding it under the door, but the gap wasn't sufficiently big enough. So Madison just stayed there for a minute, panicking at her indecisiveness. What if he grew suspicious and ordered her to be sacked for showing too much curiosity in his affairs? She shifted her weight from foot to foot, absentmindedly scratching her left ankle with her right foot, and licked her lips anxiously. The red door was directly in front of her, and a thick, oppressive silence prevailed, so overwhelming that she could hear the second hand on her watch ticking irrevocably away.

A combination of the door's vibrant colour and the tension of the wait provoked a devil-may-care sense of bravado in her. You know that stubborn, defiant feeling you get when someone tells you not to do something and you think why the hell not? Well, that's the feeling that got the better of Madison. She knocked on the forbidden door three times, each knock sounding clear, and resonating dutifully through the silence. Madison's heart froze petrified, and her whole chest cavity heaved upwards and remained suspended there in crushing tension, her breath caught in her throat, as she listened to the echoes dying away.

Three words sack, bankruptcy and ruin teared around her brain wildly, and she obsessed over them monomanically in those tortuous moments.

Shit, Shit, Shit!

Why did her authority complex have to manifest itself at that precise time, in an action that would be sure to get her sacked! She had only just gone and signed her resignation!

The silence reigned once more, however. There was absolutely no reaction at all, and the red door continued to glare at her. This struck Maddie as a bit odd – surely, even if Mr Hobson wanted to remain entirely anonymous, there would be some sign of life coming from his office – pacing foot-steps or tapping at a keyboard perhaps, or even making phone calls. He had to do that, right? How could the company possibly survive with a boss who had no human contact EVER? An insatiable curiosity to know the truth of the invisible Mr Hobson spurred Madison on to reach out tentatively for the door handle. She twisted it slowly and pushed.

The door glided open smoothly over the pristine carpet. Inside, there was a typical office: a desk, a computer, a chair, filing cabinets. But something, other than the absence of any life whatsoever, not even a nonchalant spider, was not quite right. Everything was unnaturally neat and pristine – there wasn't a speck of dust on the desk, nor a paperclip out of place. It was as if nothing had ever been used. Madison gingerly tiptoed inside, closing the door behind her. On the shelves, there were many colour coded folders, and Madison flicked through one entitled January 2005 – the numerous pages were completely blank. Very fishy. At the opposite end of the room, a black, high-backed rotating chair faced an immaculate, untouched whiteboard. Madison sat down on the desk facing the other direction in order to collect her thoughts- this was all a scam. Somebody was trying very hard to give the impression that the company had a boss, when it didn't. Who was responsible for this, why they were doing it and how they were getting away with it was too much for her to comprehend however.

Madison spent about a minute there, coming to terms with her newfound knowledge, and examining yet more empty folders. The longer she spent however, the more uneasy she became, and again she got that niggling feeling that she was being watched. The harder she listened, the more conscious she became of her breathing not being alone. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled uncomfortably, and she gulped to lubricate her drying throat. Simultaneously, she heard a badly disguised cough, and in a reflex reaction she spun round, her ash-blonde ponytail whipping around her neck.

'Who's there?' Her voice sound dry and cracked, with a defensive quality like that of a child being surprised.

She looked around the room slowly, trying to pinpoint the location of the noise. But the room was empty, and there were no cupboards. She kept as still as possible, her every sense on standby. Gradually, to Madison's horror, the black rotating chair spun round…

Seated in the chair was a man in a smart black suit, with a long, black, high collared coat and a blue scarf. He was very lean, and you could tell he was tall despite him being seated. He had a messy array of black curls, which emphasized the paleness of his skin, and his cheekbones were exceptionally high, and well defined. The stoic lips betrayed no emotion; the deep Cupid's bow was firm and controlled. The ice blue eyes penetrated Madison's green orbs that were now brimming with guilt and panic.

Madison's first impression was that she had been wrong and idiotic – that there was in fact a Mr Hobson as eccentric as the stories about him, and here he was all along. She launched into a desperate apology, full of remorse:

'Oh my goodness, oh my goodness, I am so, so sorry …'

The man jumped up from the chair, assuming an extremely friendly countenance:

'Nothing to worry about. No, I should be apologising to you. Allow me to introduce myself: Mr Barrett, I'm an accountant, come to check your finances. I do apologise for … '

Both simultaneously launched themselves into bumbling explanations of why they were in the office, each ignoring the other's excuses, being far too concerned with their own:

'… I found this memory stick, you see, and I thought, well that's a bit funny since I only ever deal with hard copies …'

'…taking the liberty of letting myself in but, well you see there was no one around, so I …'

'I thought it was best to give it to you personally rather than leave it on the chair, you don't know who you can trust in this day and age, ha ha ha …'

'… I thought why not go in and get started?! I've already done a check and everything seems in order …'

' … trouble is, you weren't anywhere to be seen, so I thought, why not just leave it on your desk? And, well …'

' … so I better be going, actually, then … ahem, sooo Good Day to you!'

'… and … Oh my goodness, please don't sack me!'

The man's brow furrowed with the sudden realisation that this woman was not meant to be there either, and would therefore not mind his presence. In an instant that boyish affability he had just assumed vanished, as if it was wiped off his face, and was replaced by an indifference to Madison's presence and a brusque, unfriendly manner.

'Mr Hobson, I had no idea you were in here, I didn't mean to disturb you. You're not going to give me the sack are you?'

'Clearly I am not Mr Hobson' he stated simply, in a deeper voice than the one he had just been speaking in.

He proceeded to examine the chair very closely, putting on a pair of leather gloves and picking up a hair he just discovered with a pair of tweezers, before depositing it in a plastic bag.

Madison just looked dumbfounded.

'Oh … er, I …'

'Do shut up, you have been in my company a grand total of 5 minutes yet you have filled the room with so much stupidity it is difficult to think straight. And I wouldn't go for help if I were you, I have already calculated 3 ways to incapacitate you if you try anything, none of which involve me moving from this spot. Oh, and I don't believe a particular person who works here will be especially thrilled if they know you've discovered their little secret, so staying put is just as much in your own interests as of mine.'

The man was now flat out on the floor, squinting, with a small magnifying glass held to the carpet. He then jumped up with immense energy, got out a little tape measure and began measuring the distance from the chair to the desk.

Madison didn't really know what to feel. She felt she should definitely say something to the strange man, but didn't know if she should express her relief at not being sacked, her anger at been bossed around in such a rude manner, her consternation as to what the hell was going on, or her anxiety which was bordering on fear because a random man had broken into the office, and was making threats to her. She decided to keep silent, because she was afraid her voice would betray her fear, and the last thing she wanted to let the man know was that she was terrified. Her mind was racing with theories (most of them ridiculous) about what was going on, but she managed to settle on a particularly worrying one. What if the strange man had murdered Mr Hobson, and robbed the files? This was a fairly neat conclusion to come to – it explained both the lack of Mr Hobson and aforesaid files - but equally scary. It meant she was top of this man's hit list.

'I told my colleague Jill that I was going to Mr Hobson's office, and that I wouldn't be more than 2 minutes, so people know where I am, and they'll come to find me'

It was the first thing she could think of that might dissuade him to murder her. Her voice wavered feebly as she said it, and she blushed at how pathetic she sounded.

The man, who seemed to have forgotten about Madison's presence quickly got up, retracting the tape measure, and inhaled sharply.

'You've just proved my theory'

This made Madison extremely worried. What had she done?

'Err, what theory have I proved?' She asked, in a wavering undertone.

'My theory that you are an idiot'

Madison just stared at the impenetrable, cold glare she was at the receiving end of, and said nothing.

'I presume that look of morbid terror combined with the fact that you just told me that people know where you are, insinuating there'd be back up if I harmed you, means that you are afraid that I may kill you? Please tell me why you've decided I'm a murderer, I need a laugh right now.'

Madison looked a little taken aback, but bravely preceded with her explanation.

'Mr Hobson's not here, and you are, so you killed him for some reason, probably you were disturbed while stealing some files, you've hidden the body, and you're now going to kill me because I'm a witness to you being here'

The sides of the man's mouth twitched in a fleeting smirk.

'Please rest assured that I'm not going to kill you, although I'm very tempted to, in order to stop your insane theories and moronic brainlessness from infecting me. Let me tell you all the many levels at which your deduction fails, although I don't see much point in bothering, for they'll all drift over your infantile brain capacity. One, if I killed Hobson, then why would I be wasting my time examining the room of the crime, getting my DNA all over the evidence? I would have left as soon as the deed was committed, so as to get as far away as possible from the scene, don't you think? Two, if I killed Hobson where's the body? There are clearly no hiding places in this room, and I've been in here since you came, so I had no opportunity to hide it elsewhere in this building. Three, if I wanted to kill you, I've had plenty of opportunity to, yet you are still breathing, so you are obviously not in danger. What can we infer from these facts?'

Madison shrugged.

'Mr Hobson has not been killed, yet here we are having a conversation in his office? If someone had stolen the files, they wouldn't bother replacing them with blank paper. So there's an obvious lack of both Mr Hobson and any files in an office that should have both. You work for a faceless boss unquestioningly. If you've never seen Mr Hobson, how can you be sure that he exists? Thus we come to the conclusion that he doesn't, although someone wants to create the impression that he does. Honestly, I'm surprised that such a blatant trick has managed to fool so many people, although if they're all like you, I take that back.'

Madison got very annoyed by the man's arrogance and rude manner. Who was he to call her stupid? And this was the precise conclusion she had reached herself before it was confused by his presence.

'Now look here Mr I'm-so-clever-I-don't-need-to-bother-about-manners, what the heck do you think you're doing here yourself?'

The man sauntered to the window, opened it, and peered out. He then looked back to Madison.

'What am I doing here? Mr Sherlock Holmes, the word's one and only consulting detective? I trust I don't need to explain to you what a detective is? I do hope we never meet again.'

With a faint nod of his head, Mr Sherlock Holmes leapt out of the window.

'Show-off' Madison shouted after him – she was not going to let him have the last word.

She ran to see where he was going, only catching a flap of coat disappear around the corner. It annoyed her how a small part of her brain kept obsessing over the gorgeous mess of curls on his head, while she was still fuming about how insulting he had been. She slammed the window in indignation.

Madison returned to her desk looking flustered, and deep in thought. She excused the length of her absence, by saying she felt a little ill, and went to get a glass of water from the cafeteria – luckily there was nobody to challenge the credibility of this claim. The rest of her day was uneventful. In fact the next two days passed without anything to note of consequence.

Let us meet Madison again three days after her discovery …

It was only Thursday, yet it felt like it should be the weekend already to Madison, as she trudged back after a particularly tiring day at the office, 15 minutes later than usually due to hold ups with the underground. Upon reaching the door to her flat, she dropped her bag from her shoulder into the crook of her elbow, and began rummaging around for her key.

This proved to be a fruitless effort.

So here she was, locked out of the house, on a chilly January evening, when all she really wanted to do was collapse on the sofa in front of the TV.

She slid her back down the door in despair, until she came to a squatting position. Although it was only quarter to six, the night had pretty much completely descended, and was diffused only slightly by the dull orange glow of the street lamps. Madison lived on the outskirts of London, so the incessant din of the city was fairly distant. She sat there, wondering what to do, the cold penetrating her to the bone.

Then she heard the sound of a window banging, round the side of her flat.

Standing up slowly, gathering her tattered senses, she grabbed a pot plant, and walked confidently around the side of the house to confront whoever was fiddling with it. As she did so, a large black figure dropped gracefully out of the second floor window. Its coat billowed around it as it fell, giving it the appearance of an enormous bat. She froze and stared.

The figure came into the feeble light of the streetlamps, which exposed his features – it was Sherlock Holmes, the mystery man. A pair of icy blue eyes penetrated Madison's stony stare, which crumbled into panic when he began to run towards her. She threw the plant pot, and missed; Sherlock reached her in a heartbeat, grabbed her firmly around the upper arm, and dragged her along. Madison was unable to counteract his strength, and so was forced to half run, half be dragged by this stranger down the street, at a full sprint. Blood pounded in her ears, dulling the sound of the night, and her heart was gripped in an icy, terrifying fear – Madison began to wonder if her theory about him killing Mr Hobson was right, and this was him returning to drag her to some dark alley and murder her, so the one witness was silenced. It soon became apparent why they were running however.

Suddenly, the night became charged with an intense energy and heat, an unstoppable, invincible wall of force that ripped through the suburban road and tossed both her and the strange man into the air with horrifying ease. The air became consumed in suffocating dust and debris, and a sound, unimaginably deafening, howled so vociferously, Madison's ears popped and bled. She was not aware whether she was upside down or not, just that she was airborne.

The next moment, she collided with the pavement, gritty and cold and hard, and her mouth filled with something warm and piquantly metallic.