Detective on Baker Street

Third: Applesauce

We're at the nursing home now. Sherlock runs up to the front desk, which is situated between an elevator and a hallway. A short woman in probably her 50s with red hair glances up at him suspiciously.

"Are visiting hours over?" he asks quickly. I stand beside him casually, staring down the hallway. It's still, empty, dead.

"Yes, but it only ended a few minutes ago. I'm sure I could figure something out," she says with a thick Irish accent. The woman glances down the empty hallway before pushing an open booklet towards us. "Sign in. Put the time as 2pm." That was an hour ago. Sherlock passes me the pen after he scribbles the needed information down.

"What room is Mrs. Watson in?" he asks.

"Oh, are you the John she talks so much about?" the receptionist asks with a smile. I glance up at him and see him shrug.

"Sure." Her face falls slightly.

"She's in room 10A. It's down that hallway, then on your first right. Her door is near the end."

"Thank you," I say kindly as Sherlock goes rushing off. I then follow after him, taking long strides.

He opens the door as soon as he gets to it and as I round the corner into the room, my heart is pounding in my ears. Mrs. Watson lays propped up on layers of pillows in a double bed eating some applesauce and frowning.

"Visiting hours are over. I've had enough people in and out in one day," she complains.

"What do you mean? Who was here before me?" Sherlock asks. He doesn't look directly at her but instead all over the room. I wonder what he's looking for.

"Just nurses doing their job... but, that's not the point; who are you?"

"We're friends with your son," I speak up. "He's been kidnapped, and we have reason to believe that the kidnapper has been in here."

"My Lord, John's been taken?" Her eyes get watery. "The only people that have been in here today were the nurses, like I said." She looks flustered.

"Did any of them have enough time to steal something?" Sherlock asks, halting his inspection of the room. He seems to hold back a smirk, and I assume he's found what he was looking for.

"No, no. They come in here to give me food and medication, maybe a small conversation, and then they leave. I haven't slept at all, so nobody had the chance to sneak in without me noticing."

"Well, we found this at our door this morning," I say, taking the photo from Sherlock's outstretched hand and giving it to Mrs. Watson. She squints slightly at it before smiling.

"That's my John and Harry. He was going back to Afghanistan."

"Was anyone in here yesterday or maybe even the day before?" Sherlock asks. "Were there any unfamiliar nurses?"

"Wait, John was here yesterday... he was rummaging around. I'm sure it was him, but you said he had been kidnapped." Mrs. Watson frowns over at us. "Are you sure he was taken and didn't just wander off? I bet Mary told you he had been kidnapped; there's something off about her-"

"John couldn't have been here," Sherlock cuts her off.

"Actually," I say, turning to him, "they could be using him as a sort of puppet so nothing seems suspicious."

"Alright, but the receptionist thought I was him. If she had already seen John, she would know."

"Is that lady at the desk new, Mrs. Watson?" I ask her politely.

"Red hair? No, she's been here longer than me. It amazes me that she can live so long off of a paycheck like that. She complains all the time-"

"Who else do they have?" Sherlock interrupts again. Then he walks over to the dresser under the window and opens a shoebox on top of it. He thumbs through some photos and newspaper clippings.

"Did they get someone else?" Mrs. Watson asks worriedly. "Wait, shouldn't the cops be on this case? My son is missing, for Christ's sake! You'd think the law enforcement in this city would do their job, with the amount of thugs that roam around."

"He took more than one picture," Sherlock mumbles. "You can tell from the marks and discoloration on the inside of the box; this stack is smaller than it was. It would be too reckless of them to let him out, so it wasn't their doing. However, they got a hold of the photo and led us to Harriet's. They could have just led us straight here, but why didn't they?"

"Something is at Harriet's," I venture. "Or she knows something. Do you think he could have gone there?"

"They wouldn't lead us straight to John... they need him. The note at the yard sale made me think they had Mrs. Watson, but maybe they got someone else," Sherlock says thoughtfully. He begins to pace, and I glance over at Mrs. Watson. She's sound asleep.

"Who else would they get?" Sherlock mutters to himself. The cup of applesauce is still in the woman's hand, so I set it down on her bedside table. Then, looking over at her, I suddenly feel uncomfortable; something is wrong.

"Sherlock," I say quietly. He stops pacing and looks over at me, then down at Mrs. Watson. Her chest doesn't rise, and saliva bubbles at the small opening of her mouth.

"Nurse," he yells loudly. Sherlock runs out of the room and down the hallway. "We need a nurse," I still hear him yelling. I look over at the applesauce on the table; someone was here but not in the room.

Quickly, I take the spoon from her dead hand and scrape the applesauce out onto the table. They always leave a note. In the last spoonful of applesauce, I see it. It's folded multiple times to make it smaller and less noticeable. When I open it up fully, I see that it's been torn from a menu. The dishes that haven't been smudged out are duck pot pie and roasted duck or goose. Both "duck" s are circled and so is "goose".

Duck, duck, goose.