A mist drew out from John's lips, slow and long, like cigarette smoke. Not that he smoked, at all. John shuffled his fingers in his jacket pocket in a feeble attempt to keep them warm. He wished Sherlock would hurry up; rifling through someone else's apartment usually didn't take him more than a few minutes.
Quick in and out, no evidence, he said. Wait out here, I'll just take a few minutes he said.
John sighed again and shuffled his feet this time. A woman in a perk pink jacket and black blouse strode past, she had beautiful blonde hair. She smiled at John, he smiled back. She seemed a bit familiar. She held his eye, and then stopped at the door, put her hand into her purse, and slid her key into the lock.
John frowned, wasn't there something he was supposed to –
"Uh." He uttered. The rattling of the key stopped, and the woman turned, smiled.
"Hello?" she said. She pushed a lock of fair hair behind an ear. John started, and then stopped. What would he say? He couldn't just blatantly tell her 'Oh hey you can't go in there my flatmates currently turning it inside out pursuing evidence that may or may not exist'. John stared at the woman; awkwardly.
"Hello?" she repeated, her face showing slight signs of panic. The key began to move in the lock.
"I...Ah," John tripped over his brain activity. "I was just wondering if you lived here?" Oh good job John, what an ambiguous, cryptic message. I'm sure her brain is mauling overtime, trying to figure out how to answer that. That'll work. That'll buy Sherlock some time.
A frown crossed her face, and her eyes slowly shifted over to the right. "Um, yes." Her voice was quieter. The jiggling of her keys in her lock was a little bit more frantic. "Why?" doubt crept into her voice. Her smile wasn't of honest friendliness anymore; it was a forced smile from fear. If I stop smiling, what would this man do to me? Would he think I was being aggressive? Would that provoke an attack? Best to keep smiling then.
John had an immediate reaction to this, holding up both his hands, trying to render his innocence. . "Oh no, I didn't mean it like that." John frantically flicked words from his mouth. "I just want something from you." Oh great, now he was a tit and a rapist. "No, no I mean. I mean. I..."
A look of understanding suddenly overcame the woman's face. "Oh, are you here to pick up the package?" John stopped.
Hooray.
"Yes! Yes I am." He replied happily. He held out a hand for it. The woman stopped, and then took his hand instead, shaking it, bemused. "Emily Launder, and you are Rodney, right?" she grinned.
Her hand was soft, and as John shook it, it seemed that she was leading the shake. Maybe he was getting old. Just as he was about to lead the shake, she simply coaxed her hand from his. The key turned in the lock, and the hand she shook with returned to the knob. "Come in."
"No!" John cried. Emily flinched, her hand centimeters from the knob. John tried to revive from this tactless strategy. "I mean, I've got some stuff to sort out with you first."
Emily seemed confused, but amused. "Well can't we do it inside? Out of the cold?" her hand went for the knob again. Desperate, John clutched it, bringing it away from the knob, towards him.
"No, I have to do it now, while it's fresh in my mind." he managed. He secretly grinned; nice. Emily paused, but then turned, giving him her full attention.
"Okay then, what is it?"
This is where it gets tricky. "Um." He blundered. "Okay, Emily, how do you know me?"
She frowned. "You're my sister-in-law's pediatrician? At least that's what I was told."
"And what am I picking up?"
"...Her cookbook?"
"And were there any special reasons why I am the one picking it up, not her?" She was giving him all the information he needed for this set up. John cackled childishly in his mind, like an evil tyrant who's just cooked up his latest scheme.
"Because she said you were dropping by this area and she lives in, like, Narnia?" Emily was a little doubtful. "Why are you asking all this?"
Crap. "I was just observing something." Observing? What, when did he do the observing? "Your sister and you don't have such a close bond right?" now he was getting somewhere. Emily's face was blank for a second, and then the calm of the storm was overcome with outrage. She slapped him, right across the face.
"How dare you! Who are you to talk about my sister and me?" she held her hand up again, and John tried to move out of the way. But Emily held it, and then decided against it, withdrawing her palm. "Don't talk to me." She pushed her shoulder against the door, and turned the lock.
The door opened.
"No, wait!" John yelled. But Emily shut the door in his face. John sighed, and leaned his head against the door; so much for the helpful sidekick. Suddenly the door opened, and John toppled awkwardly into the hallway of the house. He lay sprawled on the carpet; stunned. Then, he managed to regain his balance, and get back on his feet. Around him lay chaos; pillows were flipped, ripped to shreds. Books lay on the floor, pages dog-eared against the floor, spines cracked and loose pages here and there. Crockery and shards of glass lay on the floor, most of it condensing in the kitchen. Chairs overturned, tables flipped and lamps lay smashed and lifeless on the ground. Decorations littered the floor, and there was a gaping hole in the plasma flat screen in the living room.
"What, what happened here?" John managed. A part of his forehead was tender; he must've hit it when he fell onto the floor.
"You tell me." Emily said. "You were the one so adamant on me staying outside."
John rubbed his head. "I didn't...Sherlock." he realized. "Sherlock!" he called. No one answered. He looked around again; Sherlock couldn't have done this. He was meticulous about being invisible. He never changed more than what he had to in order to find evidence – John should know; he had watched him in action.
So where was he?
"Sherlock!" John called again. He began walking toward the kitchen, but something pulled him back.
"Hey! Don't just go wandering about everywhere, this is my house!" Emily stated. "Now tell me, who are you, and what do you want?"
"I'm – I'm really sorry, but I have to find my friend first, he might be hurt." At this Emily's grip on John's jacket relaxed, but not so much that John could leave her side.
"Your friend did this?" Emphasis on the friend.
"Well, no, I don't believe he's really capable of such..." he looked around. "unordered misconduct. Which is why I think something might've happened to him. Come on."
Yank.
"Oh no, you're not leaving here until you tell me everything. Why was your" her index finger waggled as a sarcastic asterisks. "friend rifling through my house?" her voice was much more menacing than he had anticipated it capable of. John swallowed.
"Well, I think Inspector Lestrade will be able to explain everything." Then he looked upstairs, hoping that was where he might find Sherlock. "Well, maybe not everything."
John felt a small push. He turned; Emily had a large bright yellow umbrella in her hand, and the other clutching his jacket. "Well let's go then, find this bastard." John smiled gratefully, taking a step, only to be haltered back like a rabid dog on a leash.
"But if I find out that you've involved me in a gang, or some murder thing or like a drug deal, I'll find you, and I'll kill you." She threatened, and then pushed John, umbrella in hand like a lance.
The first few tentative steps up the stairs were accompanied by noisy creaks, and grimaces that contracted their whole face. But as their steps became surer of themselves, they rode up the staircase with speed. The hallway was bright, and a tabled had been turned, a vase smashed and flowers along the wet carpet. John's shoes squelched as he waded past them. The silence seemed to only override the fear, not quench it. The first door they came to was to the bathroom; the sink was destroyed on the ground, but no water was sprouting from the pipes. The shower curtain lay on the floor, the remaining tiles covered in plastic rings. The second and last door was slightly ajar, and you could hear a breeze from outside. John timidly pushed the door open. The bed sheets were strewn across the bed, clothes pulled from the wardrobe. The window was open and the cold breeze was pushed the curtains across the length of the room.
Emily hurried over and shut the window, then turned and looked at the room. "He's gone then."
"Yeah, probably." John admitted, but the fear in his heart wasn't gone; it only grew. "But if he's gone, then where's Sherlock?"He glanced around the room – amid the disarray of colors he spotted something that made his heart clench. He slowly walked over.
Please don't let it be – please.
He bent down, moved a white blouse from the way, and picked up the navy scarf. His fingers ran themselves along the length of it; it can't be – please don't.
"Whose is that?" Emily leered over John's shoulder. John's heart lurched. He turned.
"It's not yours?" he asked hesitantly. Please.
Emily frowned. "No, I don't own scarves; I have a phobia of choking. Why?" John gripped the scarf.
Bzzzz.
Both eyes darted to the floor in the fraction of the vibration. Emily looked to John, then back down. Slowly, almost fearfully, John bent down and picked up the phone. There was a text.
I have Sherlock. Come play. – JM.