Death of a Consulting Detective

Missing Bloggers

November 21, 2013

All the cabbies in London refused to drive me to my flat because of my bloodied face. I tried to explain to them how important it was that I show up to 221B Baker Street but being the one and only dead consulting detective with bumps and bruises over my face apparently bothered them. There isn't a number that I know of (and I know very many) that would be appropriate for how many times I was told to sod off. No one has been very welcoming today. They're either about ready to burst into tears or put a bullet through my head.

My lip had stopped bleeding a long time ago and dark red streaks of dried blood painted my chin. My nose was still a mess and I'm around 80 - no 90% sure George had stuffed it up. Ms. Hudson will have to use John's first-aid kit to fix it. As for my eye, well it's mostly swollen shut. I must've looked like a bloody madman who ran into almost everyone or everything I passed as I walked home. Yet another example of why humanity is not an advantage: any physical harm will have some sort of influence on my mind palace - taking complete control from my brain and making me appear to be a mindless idiot.

I walked anyway. There was no deducting to be done today, John or Ms. Hudson could deal with my injuries like normal, and then we could all have some tea and catch up a bit. I'm feeling quite social today, especially when I think about seeing John. He'd just love to hear about my, as he prefers to call them, adventures. Perhaps "adventures" is just one of his many sarcastic come backs, but regardless of what John would call them he would give his life to hear just one story about a consulting detective.
I'm getting distracted. I often find myself doing that when there's nothing of great importance to think about.

~

The door that I have grown accustomed to link with "home" was the same as when I left it last. It was smooth and black like the night sky with a few small chips in the paint here and there. The faded golden numbers stuck to the wood were an indication that this was, in fact, the correct building. There's also the sandwich shop to my right, but I always let that slip from my memory.
Before stepping through the threshold I straightened the golden handle below the numbers which was no doubt the doing of Mycroft. He just loves to mess with petty little things to get on my last nerve. Suddenly I felt incredibly nervous about seeing John. I'm not sure what the cause was for this sensation - whether it is the thin layer of dust blanketing the stairwell to our flat or the eerie silence that greeted me after I closed the door. John has to be home by now. He never worked late unless we were on a case.

Mycroft and Lestrade had me concerned. This stillness has me scared.

"Ms. Hudson!"

I heard something fall behind Ms. Hudson's door. There was a split second of hesitation then someone fumbled to open the door. I do not allow much to toy with my emotions but I must say Ms. Hudson is one of the exceptions. She looked like a corpse that walked among the living. Her hair was nearly white and there were a few new wrinkles from long nights of stress and agony. This could not be Ms. Hudson, not the one from a year ago.

"You're dead."

"Yes Lestrade said something rather similar to that."

She was beyond creating any new words. She just chose to repeat the same two from before.

"No Ms. Hudson, I've been on a case."
Then came the tears. She cried on my shoulder and let out muffled shouts of "he's dead, he's dead" over and over again. I decided to be kind to the poor woman due to how much she's going through at the moment. I made the miserable attempt to comfort her which will probably never be tried again.

"My dear Ms. Hudson no one is dead. I'm here."

She let out a large sob and I made a mental note to keep myself from ever repeating those words. Emotion is not really my area so the situation grew very awkward very fast. Maybe Ms. Hudson wants to be alone to grieve rather than stand there with me. Usually everyone prefers the latter decision because I'm bloody terrible at offering words of advice or comfort.

"Ms. Hudson where's John? He'll want to see me."

There was no answer except "he's dead, he's dead" which started to get on my nerves. It was like when John always stated the obvious without actually diving into any important details relevant to our case. I left Ms. Hudson by the doorway and entered the flat John must have been in. The only problem was there was no sign of John, or anyone as a matter of fact, living there. Most of my belongings were in the process of being boxed up and the place looked almost spotless.

"John! John I'm back!" I shouted.

Ms. Hudson walked up behind me and turned me around. She stopped crying over the unnamed dead to tell me something, maybe about John's current location or the event that has hurt all of those dear to me.

"I've been telling you Sherlock but you don't listen, you never do! He's gone! The papers say someone shot him by that pool-.."

"He's hiding isn't he? John!"

John isn't gone. He somehow knew I wasn't dead and he merely set up this ruse to throw me off. He's gotten clever while I was gone, lovely. I ran throughout the flat. I checked the bedrooms, the kitchen, and any hallway built into the damned building. He was nowhere to be seen though. Perhaps he's out hiding somewhere else. This means I must think to reunite with him! John always knew about my fascination with riddles. Ms. Hudson, who had grabbed my shoulders and stopped me as I ran about the flat, must be in on it too because she continued to tell me John was tracking someone from Moriarty's network and he left one night and never returned. She expects me to believe my blogger would go out trying to be me in my absence.

"Ms. Hudson, please be quiet my dear. I'm looking for John."

"Sherlock-.."

"Is Gabriel helping? He must be. The way he charged at me earlier was very clever. Ms. Hudson who else is helping John hide?"

She shook me to make me quiet down for a moment and she looked me right in the eyes when she said her next few sentences. Her eyes looked so serious when she spoke. I almost believed her. Almost.

"Bloody hell Sherlock! Just listen! John isn't here! John...John is...John is dead."

Pity I already know about this whole scheme. She should get whatever money she spent on acting classes back. They obviously are not helping her now.