“And why is he such an ass to you and no-one else?” Sherlock asked, I had just finished telling them what Mycroft had told, because apparently I hadn’t been as damaged by the taxi ride home as I had been on the few other occasions we had caught a taxi as a group. I was generally shocked that Sherlock didn’t already know the answer to that, “Didn’t he mention my mother?” I asked, when he shook his head I sighed, “My mother, like me is… ill, mentally of course, except her condition goes a bit further than mine does.” I smiled, in very bad humour. “My mother killed a man, aged twenty three, because he wouldn't sell her a bottle of milk, it was about that time when she was put in solitary confinement, by your brother.” I added, they both looked intrigued and I found it hard to believe that neither of them had heard about this. “Three years later she was released into a mental hospital and I could go visit and talk to her.” (Not that I ever had, I hadn’t been close with my parents but I didn’t mention that), Sherlock had that look on his face that said ‘I think I know where this is going’. “She escaped, and needless to say, it was quite a while until your brother caught up to her, he was quite looked down upon for some time after that from what I’ve heard, but it would seem that he’s made his way back up to the top again.” I stood as they were both frowning at me, and made my way slowly over to the kitchen and put the kettle on. “Why would my brother be the one in charge of looking for your mother?” Sherlock asked finally, and I sighed at the inevitability of the question.
“She was the head of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, how she got in with her condition I will ever know, but she was always very good at hiding it. This was back when your brother was just another lackey.”
“And that does sound like my brother, he has taken a grudge like this before.” Sherlock stood smoothly and came over to me. John swivelled around in his chair.
“So I take it you don't like me?” He asked, sounding slightly amused as if he was hoping to inform me he didn’t swing my way.
“Not in that way, I, like you am more inclined to my own, um … gender.”
“Ah okay.” He smiled awkwardly and I laughed slightly at how predictable all men were, even sociopathic geniuses like Sherlock.
Turning back to the counter I suddenly remembered that I had found out some pretty interesting information the day of the bombing. “I just remembered something important. I went to the bank where the woman who owns that house works, or worked. And it turns out that her name was Cheryl Berkeley.”
“We found something too,” John called from the front room. He got up and with the use of his cane ventured to the cabinet, the kettle made the clicking sound and the light turned off, so I poured water into three cups. “There was something on that specific track that stood out.” He said looking intently down at the little screen of the Mp3 player that was now in his hands. “Here we go,” he stated as he pressed in a button, I couldn’t hear anything at first but then John pulled the earphones out and I heard very clearly what could not have been a coincidence. “…meet me by the bridge; meet me by the lane…”
“What is that Coldplay?” I asked.
“Yeah but that’s not the point.” I ignored that part of the conversation and walked down into my room and unlocked the drawer that I had been keeping the evidence in. The small clear plastic bag was stowed at the back, if someone broke in then they would find it but I had memorised where everything in that little wooden stash so I would notice if it hadn’t been there. Carefully taking it out and re-shutting (and locking) the drawer I pried open the seal on it and searched through the little tabs of paper. Some of them held numbers and others were imprinted with single words, mostly unintelligible or un-readable but there was one word I could make out and it looked like ‘cold’, I searched the others and could make out another word, ‘Vaccines’. I walked back upstairs and Sherlock and John were talking quietly to each other with large mugs of tea in their hands. “Hey guys, was there any music on that thing by ‘The Vaccines’?” They both looked at me and I lifted my eyebrows, “What?” I asked. Sherlock looked down and pulled up a small laptop that had been just out of sight behind the ledge of the counter. “Did you know that there’s a butchers on the corner of Waterloo Road and Westminster Bridge road?”
“You think meet was actually meat?” I asked thinking it over silently, it made definite sense and would make a meeting place more secluded. “But what about the lane part?” John asked.
“That isn't necessarily part of the message, what I don't get is the bomb plans, where did they come from and if they had been communicating it over the notes and music then why didn’t they remove these to begin with?”
“I guess we will have to figure that out then.” I answered nothing, turning I went to go get my coat but bumped into my uncle on the staircase.
“Uncle, what are you doing here?” I asked.
“There was another murder.”
“Who?” I asked, genuinely surprised, we still didn’t have a motive for the first death.
“Your mother.” He answered and there was sadness so plain on his face that there was no mistaking that the loss of his sister was affecting him.
“Sherlock I’m going out, check the Mp3 for ‘The Vaccines’.” I commanded, I wanted to know why someone had killed my mum.
YOU ARE READING
Sherlock Holmes- Meet me on Waterloo (A Sherlock Holmes Fan Fiction)
Fanfiction.... in a world where light is so often ignored it often means everything, after all what would life be without light. We would after all be blind.
