Fairytales

One

"Alex, you've got to try to understand this."

I roll my eyes. "I do Mikey."

He stiffens, but doesn't correct me - I'm the only person in the world who can give Mycroft Holmes a nickname and get away with it.

"Alex, this isn't a game."

"Yes it is, it's Cluedo."

About a week ago, some poor bloke was stabbed in the neck. Right in the centre of London, surrounded by millions of people, and nobody saw the murderer.

"Maybe it was a ghost?" I suggest. "Come back to kill someone he hated?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Mycroft groans.

I grin. "Maybe somebody nicked Harry Potter's invisibility cloak?"

This joke cracks him a bit; Mike appreciates book-humour.

"Look," I say, being serious now. "He was dead in the street - no sign of the guilty party or, might I add, the weapon. We don't know for certain it was a knife. Just because it looks like a knife wound doesn't mean it is. I'd get your men to search the perimeter again and if they find anything, have it checked. Look for prints. It could've been a suicide made to look like a murder."

"Why would somebody go to the trouble to do that? Why not just kill themselves?"

"You tell me."

I stand, taking my jacket from the arm of the chair and hanging it over my shoulders.

"I'll be seeing you, Mr Holmes!" I call out as I make my way out.

Typically, it's raining, and a sleek black car waits for me outside. I hope in and smile at the driver.

"'Ello Bertie."

"'Ello Alex. Where you off to today?"

"Just take me to the other one," I tell him. "How was your holiday?"

Bertie nods and begins to tell me about Spain - about the beaches, the food, the culture - but I'm only half listening. I watch the raindrops trickle down the window, wondering why London is so drab and grey. I think about my suitcase of books - most of them old, with cracked spines and a beautiful bookish scent.

Before long, we reach Baker Street.

"Just carry on, go round the corner, I want to surprise them," I tell Bertie.

He smiles and nods, turning the corner and parking up. I lean forward and kiss his cheek, thanking him for the lift, and stepping out into the rain. I squeal as I run towards the door of 221B; the door is unlocked so I let myself in.

As quietly as I possibly can, I creep up the stairs, hesitating when a step creaks. When I finally make it to the door, I count to three under my breath, before bursting in on the room.

Surprisingly, Sherlock jumps out of his skin.

"Gotcha!" I laugh, clapping my hands.

"Yes, you did," he states matter-of-factly, putting his hand to his chest and catching his breath.

John walks into the front room from the toilet, pauses, and says, "okay, what did I miss?"

"Nothing, John," I say, smirking. "I just made Sherlock jump."

John cracks up, sitting in his armchair. "So... To what do we owe the pleasure of seeing you?"

"Oh, I've come from Mikey's, thought I'd pop round."

John nods, smiling at the nickname I've given Mycroft.

Sherlock turns around, away from the window. "What were you doing at my brother's?"

"Oh!" I gasp in mock-surprise. "He accepts that they're related! It's a miracle!" Grinning, I continue, "we were playing Cluedo with that murder that happened the other week - the man and the invisible murder and the disappearing weapon. I think it's suicide, and he chucked the knife down a drain or something."

"Bit far-fetched though, isn't it?" John comments.

"But not impossible," I say. "Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. One of the several solutions we have has to be correct - personally I think my idea is the best."

Out of the corner of my eye I can see Sherlock smiling at me: a warm smile, a happy one, a proud one.

•••

That night, back in my own apartment, I listen to the tick-ticking of the clock, whist reading a copy of my favourite book by candlelight. The book is The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, and it is a passionate and thrilling book, with a certain air of mystery and humour as well. I first read it at twelve, now, ten years on, it is still my favourite book.

Suddenly, the window rattles.

Now, any average, mediocre person would have shrugged and thought it was the wind but a) it's not windy outside and b) the window never ever rattles of its own accord.

If this was a horror movie, I'd've crept towards the window, only to see a man-eating monster or something. Luckily for me, this isn't a horror movie; I back away from the window, leaving the lights off.

After a while the window stops rattling, and I sink to the floor, a few tears dripping from my eyes. I was so scared it was him - I'm still scared it was him.

I know he'll come for me someday.