by » Tue Mar 13, 2012 5:53 pm
Not many people spared a glance at the man standing outside a telephone box. His face wasn't visible either, as he had a deer-stalker hat pulled down over his eyes, and was looking at something on a mobile phone. He was wearing a black overcoat, buttoned up from the cold, and a navy blue scarf that was just visible. It was Sherlock Holmes. As he paused from his phone, Sherlock discreetly glanced up, and the quickly back down as someone passed. For some incredibly strange reason, he felt compelled to read a newspaper. So, stepping forward, and shoving his mobile back into his pocket, Sherlock set off down the street.
Reaching a new agency, he grabbed one of the free copies that were outside, and then returned to his spot, by the telephone box. Opening the paper, he wasn't surprised to see himself. A wry smile came across his face. So they had indeed believed his fake suicide attempt. It seemed that John had too... maybe he should... no. That wouldn't be a good idea. The poor guy would probably be thinking he was a ghost. That wouldn't be good. As he stood there, reading his paper, Sherlock began to get hungry. He glanced down the street, then rolled up his paper and shoved it in his overcoat, in one of his many inside pockets. He then strolled casually down to a supermarket, and slipped inside.
by » Tue Mar 13, 2012 11:48 pm
The dark haired man sat at his desk, gazing out of the window, his brow furrowed. He was clearly a long way away. The steady ticking of the clock resonded through the ornate room, the only noise that exsisted in the silence. Mycroft began to drum his hand on the desk tops, pondering for about the thousanth time that day what the best course of action would be. Someone was needed to look after the child. WIthout protection, there was certain death. And yet she was clever. It would not take long for her, or them to work out what was going on. He turned to look out of the window, over the woodland and fields. The same conclusion hit him in the face again. It was the only way, surely? And yet, something was eating away at the thought, making it possible to proceed, and yet leaving enough crumbs so that he could think of nothing else. A dead body- a conviction. It was the only way. He reached to the left and picked up a mobile phone.
There's been a murder at the Bromley display hall. Go there, and you'll find the murderer.
MH
And so he sent it to his brother.
by » Wed Mar 14, 2012 1:35 am
She knelt down next to the dead man's body, her arm bloody, her fingers clasped tightly around the handle of the gun. Her breathing was heavy, and she had to blink to clear the tears from her eyes. She wasn't crying- she never cried, but now salt water was streaming down her face, washing away the grime and muck that had accumulated there. She wondered how she should feel. Angry, torn. They thought she was stupid. They thought that she had no idea what they were doing, but that wasn't true. She knew there was a CCTV camera at the end of the corridor. She had seen the survey of the building months before. It was almost as if it was burning down on the back of her neck. It had only been on for a minute. All it would see is her crouching down over the body, blood stained, body heaving. Because no one would notice what had really happened. No-one would want to know. How long would it take? She wondered. Surely no more than a few moments. The blairing of police cars stabbed into her brain from the road outside, and blue light cut through the darkness and into the corridor where she was kneeling. They were getting faster then. The door crashed open behind her, and she heard the pounding of footsteps as -6- men, no 5 men one woman hurried towards her. She just stared at the ground.
"Don't move." one of the men shouted. He probably had a gun pointed at her. The gun that she was holding was empty. It had never been loaded. But they wouldn't realise, would they?
"Oh God-" the woman cried "It's a kid."
She felt a heavy hand on her shoulder, and her head yanked around so that she was facing them. Pain burst through her body, but she didn't protest. One of the men ran behind her, and checked the pulse in the man's neck. They would feel nothing. But that was beside the point. They were missing everything.
"Did you kill this man?" the police sergeant demanded, froth foaming in his mouth. He spoke very clearly and slowly, as if he was asking a three year old a question. The woman looked as if she was about to protest, but she was his inferior. She had no say in this. Sgt. Wynne. She remembered his face from the police profiles.
"I said, did you kill him?" Sgt. Wynne shouted again.
"Do you want to know whether he is dead, or whether I killed him?" she asked, her quite, shaking voice barely audible above the clamour as more and more people hurried into the building.
"What the hell?" he cried, letting go of her coat collar. That had been all that was supporting her. She fell backwards, and was unconscious before she hit the floor.
by » Wed Mar 14, 2012 4:31 am
Natrually, Sherlock had found himself in the tea and coffee isle, not really for any point, but it was just familiar... then his phone bleeped. Sherlock drew it from his pocket. Ah.
There's been a murder at the Bromley display hall. Go there, and you'll find the murderer.
MH
He had been expecting that. Already, the telly wedged in the corner of the shop was switched to a news channel, and people were pushing to look at it. Sherlock shook his head slightly. The crowds. So predictable. Walking out discreetly was easy with the tv's distraction, which Sherlock was thankful of. Once outside, the noise of the London streets hit him, and after the quiet chatter in the supermarket, it seemed rather loud. But anyway. That was a minuscule matter. He hailed a taxi, being sure not to let the cab driver see his face, and was on track for the Bromley display hall. He took out his mobile, and grabbed his chance to text back Mycroft.
On my way
SH
by » Wed Mar 14, 2012 4:43 am
Mycroft smiled silently to himself as he heard the phone vibrate.
On my way
SH
At least Sherlock hadn't lost his taste for a mystery. He was bound to see the truth, even if it took a while. He began to go through a great mass of files at the side of the desk, eventually locating the one that he was looking for. It was titled 'Samantha Brookes'. Standing up, he walked towards the grand fire place that stood at the centre of the opposite wall. He threw the document onto the fire, and watched as the corners blackened and curled beneath the fiery inferno. Not that that solved anything. Of course, there were computer documents, and many other hard copies. It just wasn't directly involved with him in the way it was before. He sighed, and shutting his eyes, rested his head on his hands, leaning against the mantle piece. Would he ever hear the end of this?
by » Wed Mar 14, 2012 4:56 am
As the taxi pulled round a corner to the road that led to the hall, Sherlock looked up, and noticed where he was. "Just here..." he said, and the taxi pulled over. Sherlock had recently taken to keeping money with him at all times, which was of course needed without a car in london, and, paying the driver what was due, stepped from the car. He could immediately tell by the yellow 'do not cross' tape that he was in the right place. But Sherlock didn't listen to that, and he simply lifted it up, and ducked under.
Striding towards what seemed the main source of the problem, Sherlock hoped to get inside without being noticed... but he was approaching a band of Police officers...
by » Wed Mar 14, 2012 5:10 am
Sgt. Wynne had had a bad day. He'd been woken up at 3:30 that very morning, and now he was here at 11:30 at night. A murder. Brilliant. By a child. Even more brilliant! God, think of the paper work! And now an intruder. Just what he needed.
"Excuse me!" he yelled, his voice course and angry under the strain of the day. "What do you think-" and he stopped short.
Oh God no. Not Sherlock Holmes? He blinked, and decided that it wasn't. He'd been part of the investigation himself. That man was dead. He grabbed the stranger by his shoulder. Sgt. Wynne always preferred violence as a means of achieving his ends.
"What are you doing here? This area has been cordoned off by the police!"
Mary Sullivan watched as the scene developed before her- she was new to the force, and had just moved to England from Ireland. she squinted at the man, sure that she'd seen his face somewhere before. Maybe he had a reputation for walking in on police investigations, and had been in the paper for it. Better let Wynne handle it. She hated that he was so cruel, but what could she do?
