THE BLINK OF AN EYE
- A Wholock fanfiction -
Chapter 1
The soil crumbled between his pale fingers and fell to the ground as dust. Cold, yet dry. Another one. He moved the palm of his hand gently across the spot, snorted, and was quickly back at his feet.
«Sherlock Holmes.» He had seen the inspector approaching him while he was kneeling on the damp grass, but from the look of his dull, perfectly fitted grey suit and tie straight from beneath the heath of his wife's freshly bought iron, the monotony of the following conversation was hardly worth the effort of lifting his head. Sherlock gave the open door of the old house a quick look, hoping to spot John leaving the entrance after nearly 15 minutes of searching the building - despite the clarity in his statement that he would be wasting his time. The deserted house didn't hold more evidence than the others. But John had been determined to have a look.
He then turned to the inspector, coldly, and was faced with the vague expression of a middle aged man who had grown long tired of his job. The thin, carefully combed hair was already carrying a fragment of grey far too early, firm wrinkles had taken permanent residence beneath the eyes that were currently examining him thoroughly, and a small speck of late night alcohol was still lingering to his breath (even though he made sure not to stand too close to him, in the fear that anyone should notice). «The rumours appears to be true.» He scoffed, shifted his weight from one foot to another with a constrained look of disbelief and reached out his hand. «Chief inspector Dodson. I was signed the case a couple of days ago.»
Sherlock ignored the requested handshake and tilted his head back to get a look at the sky above them. «Has it been raining today?»
Inspector Dodson was suddenly unsettled by the simple question and seemed unsure whether or not to answer. It was indeed a stupid question, which coming from a notorious mastermind who had recently faked his own suicide, clearly had the man confused. The air was still thick with the moist sense of freshly descending rain, and the clouds had been closing in on the sun like water drawn cotton, causing a chilly spring weather for several days. «Yes, it's been raining all day. It only just stopped a few hours ago. Mr. Holmes?»
He rushed towards the small staircase leading up to the Dodson's abandoned home, stopped, gazed upon the crime scene from the blue lights of the four police cars flashing through the gate and along the poorly kept garden, and were just as soon back at the little, dry spot by the edge of the house. «Did they keep something here?» he asked, staring at the spot, which appeared invisible to the one who didn't know what he was looking for. The inspector opened his mouth only to close it again, with the scepticism drawn clearly across his face as he moved a step closer.
«I'm afraid I can't quite see the how this is relevant to the Dodson's disappearance,» he said, but his voice indicated a certain amount of doubt.
«But why would anyone move it, what could a recently married couple, as well as all the other victims, be keeping in their driveway that was so important it had to be deposed of...» he continued without minding Dodson's recent remark, nor his presence. «Unless, of course, it wasn't theirs at all.»
Inspector Dodson only stared at him, not being able to make sense of any of Sherlock's continuously incomprehensible talk. «I'll, er... I'll ask someone to have a word with the neighbours, perhaps they would have seen something,» he said, and had turned to leave the second before the final words escaped his mouth.
«No signs of a forced entrance,» John declared more than loudly enough to be picked up by the ears of the whole investigating team, but by the time the tone of his voice had reached the back of Sherlock's shoulder, he knew John was looking at him. «Dinner's still on the table.»
At last. He turned around to face his colleague. John Watson had just left the staircase, headed closer to him as soon as he'd caught Sherlock's attention, and stood before him with the resting look upon his face that usually stated that he was unwillingly prepared for the comprehensive I-told-you-so-speech that was approaching him. The pure hidden annoyance over this look was enough to keep Sherlock quiet about whichever point he wished to enlighten him of. He had been back working with John for weeks now, but the sight of him still reminded him of how much he'd missed his friend. Not to mention the thrilling, bitter, but tasteful excitement of a yet unsolved case.
«Tell me, what links an old shoe salesman working a late night shift, a nine year old boy and his sister walking home from school, a young student reading in the park and a married couple eating dinner in their own kitchen, all disappearing into thin air?»
He glared at the ground before him and sighed, as if the tip of Sherlock's shoes didn't provide him with the slightest shred of interest. «I- I don't know. Nothing.» A pensive wrinkle appeared as two simple, faint lines closed in by the sleeplessness in his eyes, and he moistened his lip before looking back at Sherlock.
«Exactly. So where does that leave us?»
John blinked. For a moment before speaking it seemed as though his lips were making several disapproved efforts to locate the ability to form words. «Nowhere?»
Sherlock started pasting about the driveway, spinning at his feet, as acting out a live creation of the restless thoughts that were savaging his head. «No, not nowhere.» Once again he was drawn to the single, circular spot of dry ground. He fell to his knees and leaned forward, the coldly delicate skin of his face nearly touching the scattered gravel that amounted the narrow driveway. His eyes flickered; examining, blissful, sharp and green. It was right there beneath him, but he could not see it. What was it? «We're missing something. That's where it leaves us.»
«How do we even know the disappearances are connected?»
«It's the oddness. The implausibility.» He was standing now. «It's like a spreading illness. People are scared. Four unexplainable disappearances in two weeks? They made the connection even before the police did - they want answers, John, they want -» Studying the gravel in his hand, he interrupted himself, but only for a brief moment. There it was again: The flicker in his eyes, a strange fascination, paralysed by thought, already leaving the corner of his eye the moment you spotted it. « - truth.»
As another patrol of policemen left the house, the two detectives headed for the tall and rusty, less inviting iron gate by which all the recently arrived cars were lined up. Inspector Dodson was the first to spot them and was clearly prepared to converse, but was once again ignored by Sherlock, who determinately walked straight past him without so much as a look in his direction. John gave him an apologizing look, got half way through an excuse as he walked by, but changed his mind and hurried after Sherlock.
«I need you to run some basic tests on this.» He was talking to a short woman who seemed rather startled by his presence, while reaching her the dirt he had picked up from the ground. He tilted his hand and the gravel fell into a small plastic container. John admittedly found this a bit strange, but didn't say anything. He knew Sherlock preferred to do the tests himself, and rarely left such a task in the hands of someone else, even a simple one like this. Even so, he knew how for the last couple of weeks they had been forced to keep a low profile, especially now that reporters had started showing up at his door.
The young woman examined the plastic bag for a moment before another thought suddenly replaced her attention. «I was told to inform you that the media is on its way. There'll be reporters rattling about the premises in five minutes.»
John stepped into sight from a moment of blending into the background. «Five minutes?» He looked to Sherlock, but his eyes were firmly fixed upon the police woman. But despite the irritation he felt, John hadn't forgotten about common courtesy. «Thank you, Mrs...»
«Miss Barrett.»
Sherlock stepped back in after a brief moment of studying their surroundings. «Guard that sample with your life, Miss Barrett.» A questionable smile mixed with confusion barely had time to take form on her pale lips before they were both gone.
«Why do you have to keep embarrassing yourself?» Sherlock asked, as John was catching up with him.
«What?»
«It was obvious she wasn't married. It wouldn't have cost you more than a second to take a quick glance at her hand to work that out. She was clearly bothered by your assumption.»
«What do you mean, bothered?»
Sherlock sighed. «It's not just that she isn't married, she's been single for months, which she's not exactly thrilled about, couldn't you tell?»
John didn't get the chance to answer him. «Taxi!» They let themselves into the black cab the very second it pulled over, and which after a quick exchange of words then proceeded to drive off.
«It's not making any sense.» He glared at him; it was almost as if one could hear the little puzzle pieces ticking around in his head. Sherlock had turned to face the rushing streets outside the car window, but John was almost certain he knew he was looking at him.
«No sign of forced entrance, no record of anyone seeing them leave the house, dinner still on the table, a dry spot in the middle of the driveway, and four conspicuously similar, unsolved cases.»
«Well, the only thing I know for sure is that this sounds like your kind of case.» But Sherlock was consumed by the sound of the ticking puzzles, and didn't seem to acknowledge his existence.
The busy streets of London was leaping by them as the comfortable warmth of the cab was soaked in silence. The driver suddenly hit the breaks. A tired, red traffic light was shimmering before them, as confirmed by the long drawn sigh coming from the front seat. Sherlock, who was usually impatient, appeared unaware that the car had stopped. Or presumably, and most likely, simply couldn't be bothered to grant this insignificant detail any of his attention.
John decided to follow his example and took a glance out the window to his left. The tension was already starting to build up, and cars were hanging onto each others tails while waiting for the sore red eyelid of the traffic light to shut close. Across the street, the pavement was echoing in shoe heals and pieces of conversations, stitched together in an irreversible mush. But in-between the rushing crowds, behind the row of cars, something was different.
John squinted. There was nothing different. He shook his head, trying to brush off the strange feeling that had taken hold in him. The lights switched to green and so the car drove on, leaving behind the crowd, the cars and the blue box, just disappearing in the corner of his eye. Still hesitant, he turned his head. «Did you see that?»
«See what?» Sherlock didn't even look at him, as if he was caught up in something else, - which, given it further thought, he probably was. John turned and gazed through the back window once more, but there was nothing unusual about the street that was slowly drifting away from them. He wasn't even sure what he thought he'd seen, or if he'd even seen anything at all. «Nothing,» he eventually concluded, and leaned his head against the seat. «Never mind it.»
But Sherlock didn't seem to mind it at all.
As the cab pulled up by 221B in the falling nightly shadows of Baker Street, the sun was no longer to be seen. John was exhausted. They had investigated five different crime scenes in one day, each more thoroughly than the last. He stepped out of the cab and pulled his phone out from his pocket. It must have been the sixth or seventh time he checked it within the last hour, but there was still no sound from Mary.
«Don't worry. She's fine.» Sherlock slammed the car door closed and the cab proceeded to drive off, leaving them silently outside the door to Sherlock's apartment, with the faint sound of the busier parts of the city humming along in the background. «Her phone's dead.» John's facial expression turned into a mixture of startled and slightly annoyed, something he'd never seen any other face than John's manage to do. With the phone still in his hand, he looked at Sherlock, who was now heading for the door.
«Wh...» He drew a breath, and then asked, «her phone is dead?»
Sherlock turned and saw the look on his friend's face. It was beginning to tilt more towards annoyed than startled now. For some reason, he found it somewhat encouraging. «She forgot her charger.»
There was a click from the lock, followed by the door being pushed open.
«How...» Interrupting himself, he pressed the bottom of his phone against his lips. «Oh, never mind.» He then hurried after, into the familiarity of the building that had once been his home.
To be continued