Meet Me Under That Tree
Damn mud! Damn forest! Maybe I should buy a new pair of shoes for this trekking sessions.
Accept it Sherlock, from now on it is your routine. You've passed the six month trial period. You, your experiments, your books and nature. No London, no Scotland Yard, no chase.
No battlefield.
Oh God! Can't believe I settled down in wilderness. What now? Growing tomatoes in my sweet little garden? Famous author moves into a cottage in the middle of nature and creates masterpieces! How cliche! I haven't even touched my foot to earth all my childhood. For years I have lived in the busiest street of London, in the middle of chaos.
And now I am in a green nightmare kilometres away from London. The nearest town is five km away from here. If it was not my experiments and characters I'd truly get mad here.
I have no Mrs. Hudson to deal with my house. The only human being I get in touch to is the weird girl who works in the town lab, Molly. She, much to my surprise, lets me use lab equips. I don't know anyone except her. Well, saying 'know', I mean being in touch to; cause it took me three days to know towners. Everybody is so predictable that you don't even have to observe. It takes a look to figure them out.
Is it a loss? Of course not. The people live here are two times duller than ones in London. Crime rate is zero. There is no murder, no explosion, no robbery, no gun fight. God, they don't even have traffic accidents here! Why would they commit crime anyway? People do illegal things because of their passions. They kill people who block their way. They make devious plans or steal things necessary to reach their goals. But not here. The people of this town are no different than sheep. Their sole activity is consuming calories!
There.
Boletus edulis. Not poisonous. It can be consumed raw.
Yes. Amy's boyfriend – I must give him a name. He likes cooking. Mostly French. Or Italian – yes, it requires less effort. Suitable for his backround. A few paragraph about their little domestic. Draw attention to the boyfriend.
There is nothing in the fridge. Not even milk. I hate this little stuff. If I had brought Mrs. Hudson here… But she wouldn't have stayed long. She has Mrs. Turner and now her new flirt, the bald retiree. Maybe I should find someone for house chores. For laundry and kitchen stuff. Twice a week would do it. An old lady? No, they love small talk. A quiet one, if possible mute. I don't remember anyone mute in the town. I will ask Molly.
I didn't have to deal with this kind of crap in London. The time I used to spend at home was a couple of hours a day. For transferring my notes to computer and refreshing myself.
I haven't written any of my stories in my study. My thrillers are born in the alleys of the city. The characters are mostly real people on streets. The butcher who bites his nails, the boy with angel tattoos, the lawyer who has panic attacks after each trial, Mrs. Hudson's gambler neighbour, bad cabbie… They live in real life. They curse at bad traffic. They lie, they cheat, they fight.
Though I take some notes, I form most of my thrillers usually in my mind palace. I write my stories in crime scenes, not in the comfort of Baker Street. Or I used to. Till all the officers of Scotland Yard decided to hate me for being more clever than their whole investigation team.
Their boss, DI Dimmock is one of the stupidest creature in the planet, but he used to let me in crime scenes thanks to Mycroft. I don't know if he bribed or threatened them, I don't care. The important point was, I had even access to cold case files if the current ones were not enough. But a murder case changed everything seven months ago.
All my life, I have avoided stating the obvious because, well it would not be obvious if needed to be stated! But in time, I began to think people are so blind that they don't even see the realty before their own eyes. And when I told them their addiction from a shaking hand, or their cheating husband from a pair of cuff link they started to call me 'freak'.
I don't really care it in my daily life, I even use it to get rid of unwanted attention. However Mycroft insisted me not to tell my observations in crime scenes. He thought my genius is irritating for those less clever people. And if I irritated SY too much, I would loose my privilege in crime scenes. So I avoided sharing my deductions.
I managed it to some level, apart from getting some glares or whispers from officers until Dimmock was assigned as new DI. The previous was also an imbecile but he at least had decency to correct himself if told. But Dimmock had too much self confidence compared to his little brain activity.
So when we found a dead man lying in his flat with a gun in his right hand; a man who was obviously left handed considering the calluses in his left forefinger, and position of furniture, and keys in his left pocket ... ; I could not stop myself interfering because the imbecile thought it was suicide! Everything is blurry after I told him his brain activity was equal to a seaweed's. But I remember him shouting and kicking the officers who tried to prevent him from attacking me, while I was telling him that his wife wanted a divorce. Since then I am not allowed to crime scenes.
When I realised I will never observe real cases with SY again, I began to look for cases myself. I was following suspicious people who I came across on streets to dark alleys. Most of the time there was not even anything extraordinary. They were meeting someone, buying drugs or going their home in a shorter way. I run across a thug meeting or a man being beaten to death a few times. They sometimes tried to chase me when they noticed. I got a few beating and cuts. But overall I could not find something useful to me.
After a few weeks, my meddling brother thought it was 'dangerous' for me to chase criminals and arranged this cottage for me. He said that I would have gotten in trouble if I had gone like that. He was probably right, even so it did not prevent me hating him.
So here I am. Walking in the forest and taking notes about my new thriller.
Amy's obsession with purple. Purple socks, purple shoes. The day she is murdered. She wasn't wearing purple. Why?
Everything is a mess. I must put these notes together. It seems dry enough under that tree. This forest is so dense. The ground is still damp though it hasn't rained for two days. It's not a comfortable place to write but I figured that I work better here than home. Oxygen rate maybe?
So. Amy.
A girl who loves purple socks. She lives with her boyfriend. Long time boyfriend. Over a year? It is enough time to prove that you put up with another human being, right?
She has glasses though she doesn't wear all the time. Not well educated but loves books. A secretary or… cashier. Yeah it would do. It also explains fats on her stomach.
An ordinary life. So ordinary that it is a wonder why someone would want to kill her. Oh, but she has a strange family. A sister maybe. Not in the beginning, later. We don't know her yet. Even Thomas doesn't know her. Yes, boyfriend got a name and it is Thomas. Or Tom? Why would it begin with 'T'? Amy and Thomas. Amy and Tom. Tom and Amy. Yeah, definitely Thomas. Why doesn't she eve-
Wha…?
It … When?
I didn't even…
It is like a gif.
My forest picture. Me, in the center of it, writing frantically. Then a figure joins this picture. Or it has always been there, like that, and just stirred. No idea. But there.
On four legs, rigid. Chin is up. Eyes are fixed. On me?
It's tail shaking periodically. First left, then right. Again and again. It is waiting.
Or measuring.
A wolf? Seems bigger, taller. It is huge. Tilts its head to the right.
Like asking.
It sighs. No, it is me who sighed. I didn't even realized that I was holding my breath. I am on my feet. When did I stand up? It is taking deep breaths and exhaling slowly. It seems as if its torso is swelling bigger and bigger with each breath.
It has light brown fur mottled with grey. Bright eyes, maybe brown. Its stare is strong. I feel that he is looking not at me but into me. He?
There are barely ten steps between us and I still don't know what to do. I can't move an inch. I can't even blink. Each passing second his reality decreases instead of increase. As if he is going to disappear suddenly and I will never know if he is a hallucination or not. What if I get close to him?
He is moving. Slowly. Three steps to the right. Three steps to the left.
His eyes are still on me. Maybe he is waiting for my next move. I take a step forward and he … snorts? It must be a harsh exhale. But it is definitely a snort to my human ears. He is going to leave if he does not plan to eat me. Not enough data. I must do something before it is too late.
A shallow idea crosses my mind. I have my cell phone in my pocket. What if I take a photo? I must prove myself that it is not a daydream, right? I take a hesitant step. Then another. He stretches his head. He is smelling me. Almond shaped eyes are watching me.
My heart is in my throat. Every beat rings in my ears. So close. So..
A leap.
And he is gone.