The Case of the Ephemeral Corpse
By Mark Speedy
It was a quiet day at 221B Baker Street. Calm was an odd occurrence at the Holmes and Watson residence, one that only seemed to happen on the rarest of occasions. Ordinarily, such silence would have come as a relief to John Watson, as he sat in his armchair, updating his blog. On this day, however, John longed to hear a noise. A noise more calculated than the ticking of the clock on the wall, and more intelligent than the news that was playing on the telly. The noise of Sherlock Holmes was noticeably absent from the room.
The body of Mr. Holmes, however, lay on the couch directly across from John, as it had been for the past 36 hours. Sherlock's feet lay on the armrest and his hands were clasped together in a way that might have implied praying had his eyes not been wide open, staring at nothing in particular. His slow, even breaths were the only noticeable sign that Sherlock was in fact, alive.
"You have to move sometime," said John, for what he hoped would be the last time. He waited for a response which he knew would never come. "At least eat something," he plead, "It's been over a day." For a moment John considered giving up, as he had done two hours ago, and three hours before that. He knew that Sherlock wouldn't move, regardless of his repeated attempts.
Before Sherlock retreated into his near-comatose state, he had been bolting around the flat: throwing newspapers, scanning furiously through news channels, and constantly refreshing requests sent to the blog. He hadn't gotten a case in weeks, and was beginning to lose control.
"Why doesn't anyone murder anyone intelligently anymore?" he fumed through gritted teeth.
"You know you could just act pleased that the crime rate is going down, like a sane person might do," said John, growing annoyed with Sherlock's nervous spasms.
"Please. Sanity is for the lower minded." After a mildly curious look from John, he added, "no offense."
"We'll find something soon enough Sherlock. Just be patient."
"I don't have time for patience, John. I need to deduce things, and I can't wait any longer." John eyed him suspiciously, half worried that Sherlock would create an interesting murder for himself to solve. But then Sherlock stated quite simply, "I am going into my mind palace to see if there was an interesting murder I overlooked. Do not bother me unless you find a case." And then he lay on the couch, and assumed the position in which he would remain for the next day and a half.
"Come on, Sherlock. I've got a nice murder for you…" tempted John, but to no avail. Even when he wasn't paying attention Sherlock could tell when John was bluffing. "Did you even sleep last night?" asked John, irritated but worried. He now spoke almost as if alone, which, really, was almost true.
He's not in the room. He's not in the flat or even in the entire city of London. He's in his fucking palace.
John blurted out, "You know you can't just leave me alone like that. I'm sure that palace of yours is fantastic but those of us commoners with simple flats in our heads aren't just your subjects to toy with. Some of us actually have feelings alright?" he fumed, hoping to coax some sort of action out of Sherlock but simultaneously hoping he hadn't heard. Sherlock Blinked. John wanted it to be some sort of sign, but alas Sherlock remained perfectly still.
"To hell with it," John conceded, "I'm going to get a sandwich. If you want me to get you anything, just, I don't know, move or something."
Knowing there wasn't anything edible in the kitchen, and that Mrs. Hudson was out, John walked to the conveniently located Speedy's Cafe next door and ordered lunch. He returned to the flat with his meal, a "homemade" sandwich wrapped in a newspaper. He returned to his original position, in the armchair across from Sherlock, who, unsurprisingly, had not moved. John began to unwrap his sandwich when he noticed a headline on his sandwich paper. Maybe, he thought, This would get him off the couch.
"Listen to this one Sherlock." John began to read the article. "Witnesses reported the victim of a gunshot wound laying dead in the middle of a crowded intersection." He looked over to see if he had roused any interest, but Sherlock remained still. John continued: "Reportedly no one heard a gunshot, or saw a shooter." Still no reaction. From then even John could make a deduction: a sniper or otherwise discreet gunman with a silencer would explain the mystery. But with the next line John stopped short. "…When a bystander attempted to approach the victim, he found that there was no body there at all. Several witnesses corroborated that there had been a corpse in the intersection, and all reported that it seemed to disappear in 'the blink of an eye.' Police were dispatched but a body was not found."
Sherlock turned his head to look at John, and with a look that might have even been confusion, asked, "What?"
"Well hello to you too Mr. Holmes. Did you enjoy your trip?" replied John, voice nearly dripping with sarcasm.
"The blink of an eye?" said Sherlock, ignoring John's comments.
"Yes that's what it said, Sherlock. According to this the authorities are calling it a 'mass hallucination, likely from a gas leak.' Hold on, could you hear me that entire time?" Said John, worried what he might think of his earlier statements. But Sherlock continued without a hitch.
"But that's preposterous, multiple people hallucinating the same thing?"
"What about Baskerville, everyone there imagined a dog, could it be something similar?"
"Don't be stupid John, the toxin at Baskerville was chemically designed to have that effect, it wouldn't be caused by your average gas leak, besides which people saw a hound because they expected to see a hound, no one in that street was expecting to see a body. No, no, this was something else entirely. Why would they rule it a hallucination? Surely they can see the flaws in that theory," Sherlock ranted, more to himself than John. "It doesn't make any sense! Oh I love it when things don't make sense."
"You certainly seem cheerful, especially considering that the case was already closed, so technically we can't investigate it."
"Since when have I cared about technicalities, John?" said Sherlock, grabbing John's hoagie from his lap.
"Hey! I was planning to eat that, you know."
"Brain food, John, and mine needs it more than yours." Sherlock grumbled, through bites of the sandwich. "No offense."
"Some taken," retorted John, although secretly pleased that Sherlock was eating again. "So where do we start?"
"Weren't you paying attention? Like I said, whoever ruled this a hallucination must have been hallucinating to do so. What fool made the ruling?"
Detective inspector Lestrade was having a rough week. After nearly a month without a worthwhile case, he had grown tired of sitting at his desk, filling out papers. He almost wished there would be a violent murder for him to solve. Almost. He had grown excited when there was a call about a shooting in the middle of a street, but by the time he arrived on the scene it was nowhere to be found. And with no evidence to prove it was ever there, he was forced to believe it was a hallucination, or a prank, or some combination of the two. And to top it all off, the most useful pain in his side, Sherlock Holmes, was texting him. This usually meant one of two things: one, there was a case to be solved, which the inspector himself would play a very minor and unsatisfying role in solving; or two, Holmes was in trouble, and needed an officer's assistance for his personal use. On this occasion, Lestrade hoped for the first option, because a case solved by Sherlock Holmes was better than no case at all. The text read briefly, "The ephemeral corpse is real. You will be requiring our services." Lestrade sat up in his chair, paused, and then walked out of his office.
"Where are you going?" asked sergeant Donovan, as Lestrade walked past her.
"We've got a case. One of Holmes's."
"And I was just getting used to never seeing that freak again. Shame," said Donovan in earnest, as she began to follow Lestrade towards the exit.
"Easy girl, he's on our side. Besides, we haven't had s decent case in ages." Lestrade tried to hide the hint of excitement in his voice.
"Keep talking like that and you'll end up like him. Minus the cheekbones that is." The pair left the building and entered a car, and departed on their trip to see the illustrious Sherlock Holmes.
To be continued...