How They Met Alice (BBC Sherlock Fanfiction)

Chapter 17

EIGHT HOURS TO GO; SEVERAL HOURS LATER; 221B

(Alice’s POV: )

 The wall behind the sofa was covered with paperwork: maps, photographs of Connie Prince – both when she was alive and pictures taken in the morgue – photos of Carl Powers, press cuttings and various sheets of paper with notes scribbled on them. Pieces of string were pinned between some of the exhibits, linking them together. Sherlock was pacing back and forth in front of the sofa as Lestrade stood nearby. Sherlock had rolled up his sleeves and taken off his suit coat. I sat in Sherlocks chair, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees and my head hanging down, thinking hard and not needing the clutter of visualizations to help me think.

“Connection, connection, connection. There must be a connection.” Sherlock muttered under his breath. He stopped and gestured towards various spots on the display on the wall as he spoke. “Carl Powers, killed twenty years ago. The bomber knew him; admitted that he knew him. The bomber’s iPhone was in stationery from the Czech Republic. First hostage from Cornwall; the second from London; the third from Yorkshire, judging by her accent. What’s he doing – working his way round the world? Showing off?” He rambled. The pink phone rang. My head jolted up. He took it from his pocket and saw that the Caller I.D. again read, “NUMBER BLOCKED”. He answered, and the old woman began to narrate what’s being said into her earpiece.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Joining the...dots.” She sobbed.Three hours: boom...boom.” She cried in terror, and then the phone went dead. Sherlock looked at Lestrade for a moment, then switched the phone off, put it back in his pocket and raised his hands to his mouth in the prayer position, concentrating on the wall in front of him. I stared at him, and then returned to my earlier position.

(KENNY PRINCE’S HOUSE; John’s POV: )

In a beautifully and elegantly decorated house, a hairless cat meowed as it wandered about on a sofa. Kenny Prince, a man in his late fifties who was wearing a very fancy purple shirt which would never rival Sherlock’s, (I thought) came into the room. Behind him the much younger and far dishier ‘houseboy’ Raoul stopped at the doorway and gestures for me to go in.

“We’re devastated. Of course we are.” Kenny said as I walked into the living room. He reached the other side of the room and turned back, propping his arm on the mantelpiece. Feeling a little uncomfortable, I sat down on the sofa beside the cat.

“Can I get you anything, sir?” Raoul asked from behind me.

“Er, no. No, thanks.” I said awkwardly, looking at the houseboy. Raoul looked across the room to Kenny, who smiled at him. Raoul returned the smile, then turned and left the room.

“Raoul is my rock. I don’t think I could have managed.” Kenny said, appearing to attempt regal or noble by the mantelpiece. He looked down sadly. “We didn’t always see eye to eye, but my sister was very dear to me.” He continued. The cat has climbed onto my lap and I moved it, trying not to make a face. The naked cat meowed loudly in protest as I picked it up and put it down beside me.

“And – and to the public, Mr. Prince.” I stammered.

“Oh, she was adored. I’ve seen her take girls who looked like the back end of Route masters and turn them into princesses.” Kenny said. I looked down at the hideous, sanitizer-smelling cat in frustration as it climbed into my lap again. “Still, it’s a relief in a way to know that she’s beyond this veil of tears.” The man said, looking around sadly. I nervously held the cat as it purred contentedly on my lap.

“Absolutely.” I assured him awkwardly.

(221B; Alice’s POV: )

Mrs. Hudson had joined us and was standing between Sherlock and Lestrade as they faced the paper-covered wall. Sherlock was talking into his own phone, and I, again, was sitting in the same position but my head was up, blankly looking at Sherlock.