It was the middle of December, and John Watson was chilled to the bone. He stood with his arms crossed, rubbing them together hastily. The crime solving duo, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, were inside what seemed like an old mansion. Right now they were in the main hall, but spiraling staircases and darkened doorways lead farther into the house.
"Sherlock, for gods sake, it's like negative 5 degrees in here." John grumbled, turning around the room.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Actually John it's negative 8." John shot him a look and stuck his hands in his pockets. "And could you please cut the whining down to the minimum, I am actually working here." He pulled out a magnifying glass and proceeded to look down at the ground.
John looked around the hall. Cobwebs hung from every corner and old tapestries and portraits hung from the walls. Their eyes seemed to follow John wherever he went. He was hardly ever afraid, even when he was in the middle of war, he was always the calm and steady soldier. But now, a strong sense of urgency filled him. He felt like a caged animal, like there was no way out.
"But of course there is," The army doctor spoke aloud. "Why, the door's right there, and nothing's blocking it."
"What are you chattering on about?" Sherlock demanded, looking up from the floor. He looked slightly irritated, and seemingly unphased by whatever was bothering John.
"Nothing I just..." John stepped back and wrung his hands. "I'll just go check the back garden for clues. We might find something that would lead to Mrs. Diann's disappearance."
Sherlock made no sound or movement to get up. John frowned and walked over to the front door. A spider had crawled onto his front jacket pocket. He brushed it away; at least there was something he wasn't afraid of.
John turned the knob with difficulty. "Sherlock?" He grunted with exertion. "It's not opening."
Sherlock spun around. "Well then try the back door!" He shook his head and started checking behind doors and under rugs. "Where is it...?" He started muttering to himself. "Why is there no evidence?"
John sighed and hesitantly walked to the hallway behind the stairs. The dark shadows seemed to be reaching fingers sprawled out to grab him, and the the wind howling outside was the moaning of the undead, trying to get inside. John shook his head and walked through the doorway.
His own footsteps were the only sound as John tiptoed down the carpeted hall. He pulled out a flashlight and shined the light across the wallpaper. John thought back to this very case he and Sherlock has recieved that morning, wondering how he had ended up in this dump.
"So you're saying that... Odelia Diann just disappeared?" John sat with his pen held just above the paper, a quizical expression plastered on his face.
"Yes, yes. She was here one minute, and then-" she made a explosion hand guesture. "-poof!"
"I see." John wrote down notes for his blog on the notepad. Mostly the words consisted of crazy and insane. John didn't usually like to judge clients, but this woman defiantly fit the bill of "insane." She had frazzled auburn hair pulled into a messy bun with a sleeveless top that was no match for the winter weather, and yellow pajama pants that the fashion police would've arrested her for. And to make it even worse, she was sitting in Sherlock's chair, causing him to be especially irritated.
"Ms. Burns-" Sherlock swung his violin bow over his shoulder. "How old are you?"
Mrs. Burns (whose first name was Dolly) shot Sherlock a look. "You should never ask a women-"
Sherlock interrupted. "Age."
Dolly's mouth opened and closed twice. "Well...I'm, well. I'm 47."
Sherlock smiled wryly. He pulled a pamphlet out of his robe pocket. "Well it's a little early but you seem to be showing signs."
Ms. Burns looked shocked. "I'm 47! I don't have-" she looked down at the pamphlet. "-age increasing memory loss."
John sighed and snatched up the pamphlet. "Sherlock."
"What?" Sherlock stood up. "Well it's been nice seeing you, but you must get going. Get that condition treated." Sherlock patted Dolly on her shoulder and started to walk her towards the door.
"Mr. Holmes!" Dolly spoke with a fiercer voice than before. There was an edge of something on her voice. It was something that moved armies and stopped brave men in their tracks. Fear. Sherlock stopped talking and spun around.
"Mr. Holmes-" she was slower now. "Have you ever heard, of the Crawley Estate?"
Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. Several emotions crossed his face at the same moment, and it seemed that almost definitely, Sherlock had heard of the Crawley Estate.
"Sherlock? You okay?" John tentatively spoke up. The army doctor unfortunately once again had no clue what was going on.
"And you're sure this was the Crawley Estate?" Sherlock's face was blank.
"Mr. Holmes, do you think I wouldn't know where I was when my best friend disappeared?" Dolly looked offended.
Sherlock stared into the distance for a while, thinking intently. Finally he spoke. "I'll take the case."
"What?" John spat out his water he was sipping. "We don't even know what happened? One moment she's crazy and now we're taking the case? And what's the Crawley Estate?"
"The Crawley Estate once belonged to Richard Crawley." Dolly broke in, picking at her nail polish. "It was in the 1940's when everyone was on edge. It's a long and complicated story, and no one really knows the full of it. But Richard was supposedly a great man. He gave to the poor and some even say he was a spy for Great Britian against the enemy." She paused and tried to find the right words. "But one day he was just gone. He never came back, he was never found. Even the government claims they have no idea where he is. It's been 60 years and still no more Richard Crawley."
"Oh." Was all John could muster out. "But why was Ophelia at his estate?"
"Oh, loads of people have been there before. Trying to find out the secret of his disappearance I suppose." Sherlock swung his bow around. "But in the last 7 years no one's stepped foot anywhere near there. Suddenly, the mystery is added." Sherlock had a gleam in his eye.
"Yes but Ophelia wasn't just a person looking for the secret. She never told me what, but it seemed like she knew something else was there. Something she didn't want to talk about. Something old and ancient... and dangerous." Dolly smiled sadly. "She was always creating these fanciful tales."
Sherlock lifted the corners of his mouth. He didn't say anything, but John knew he wasn't telling him information.
"What happened the night she disappeared?" John prodded.
"We were just taking pictures of the house, you know? "I'm going around to the back of the house" she says. And I waited there for a long time. I waited and waited, and I called her name, but she was just gone. No footprints, no scream, just this-" Ms. Burns pulled out a multi-colored scarf from her pants pocket. "This is all that's left of her."
"Hmm." Sherlock hummed and stood up. "Well, we better get started." He stretched and opened the door for Dolly. "We'll contact you when we get more information."
They said their goodbyes rather hurriedly and practically pushed Dolly out the door.
"What's the rush?" John said, pulling the curtains aside and looking at the darkening sky.
"John! This is the best case we've had in months!" Sherlock stepped on the armrest of the chair and brought down his flashlight from the bookshelf. "We have to start now before I die of boredom."
John eyed the yellow smiley face on the wall. "Yeah, better not let you be bored again."
And so ended John's flashback.
He wondered why Sherlock was so interested by the Crawley Estate. So far nothing had seemed too extraordinary by his standards.
I wonder if he knows what's going on. John thought to himself, tugging on his sweater hem. I sure wish I did.
John poked his head around the corner and stopped dead in his tracks. In the middle of what appeared to be the dining room, a grey statue stood on top of the table.
It seemed to be in the shape of an angel, with a tunic and wide marbeled wings spreading over it's head. It looked extremely old and uncared for. The dress was cracked and had green roots sprouting from the stone. The head had a rather large chuck missing from the top.
But the most unsettling part to John, was the eyes. One hand was halfway across the cheek, and the other was covering part of the eye as if it was crying. The one eye John could see was pure blank and when John looked, it was almost hard to look away.
John walked up to the statue. "Oh isn't that cute." He said, eyeing the mirror across the room that the angel seemed to be staring into. "Looking at yourself in the mirror."
Something compelled John to reach a shaking hand out to touch the stone. His heart pounded as he reached out, about the stroke the Angel's hand.
Instantly, a sudden pain hit John in the back of the head. "Ouch!" He exclaimed, rubbing his neck. He looked around, but all he could find was a tiny rock that had hit him. John scowled and walked out of the room, taking one last look at the Angel.
Almost as soon as he looked away, a sense of relief passed over him. John didn't realize how hard his heart was beating. He closed his eyes and proceeded to walk toward the back door.
When he reached his destination, John pushed open the door with ease. He was surprised to see that it was only 7:30. The sky was a pale salmon color, with a few fluffy clouds dotting the atmosphere like a painting. The air was chilly, and John zipped up his black jacket.
"Let's see..." He said to himself, looking around the house for any hint of a struggle. But to no avail, there was not even a hint of a clue. There was only some old trash and empty Dr. Pepper bottles.
John sidestepped and decided to try the side garden for more information.
His heart skipped a beat inside his chest.
Three more of the strange angels were standing with their eyes hidden with their hands. One was by the rotten tomatoes, one by the back gate, and one by the window for the house, where John was not 10 minutes ago.
He stood unblinking at the statues for 15 seconds, his heartbeat in his ears.
"What is the matter with you?" He scolded himself. "What's there to be afraid of?"
But then John saw what there was to be afraid of.
Slowly, without thinking of it, he blinked.
There was a rush of wind and a feeling of great fear fell over John as he opened his eyes. He screamed when he saw what was waiting.
The Angels had moved! Where they had all stood seperate before, now stood together as one in a row, hands still covering their eyes.
John swore loudly and stumbled backwards. "Oh my god." He breathed and didn't move. He was afraid to move.
"It's a magic trick." He said, rubbing his temples. "It has to be a trick."
John had done plenty of strange things for Sherlock, but this was terrible. How could the Angels have moved?
John blinked again.
This time they were closer and had their mouths open, ready to get John Watson.
"Sherlock!" John yelled and pulled his weapon out of his pocket, keeping it aimed at the statues. "Sherlock we have to leave!" John bounded into the house, bellowing Sherlock's name, not paying attention to the stone angels that followed him from behind.