I came downstairs to find Sherlock perched on the countertop, head brushing a cabinet. He was completely still. The only thing that gave away his agitation was the slight to-and-fro twitch of his feet, which almost reached the linoleum, and his eyes, which were leaping from floor to fridge to sink with curious intensity. I shivered slightly.

"Why's it so cold in here?"

"Oh, I turned the heat off, you don't mind, do you? It was getting warm." He adjusted his scarf to make his point.

"Or you could just take your coat off…" I dragged a chair away from the table and sat to his left.

"Waste of time, we should get going now anyway."

"Get going where? And why?"

"New case. I got an email last night, thought it looked interesting. So I called the number she gave me."

"And?"

"It was. She hasn't gone to the police yet, as of six hours ago, anyway. She said she might. I would like to get there before that…unfortunate development."

"Who is this woman, exactly?"

"Jeanne Fischer. No one important. She lives in Hendon with her husband and one child. We can take the tube. I'll explain on the way."

I leaned back in my chair. "Okay, two problems with that."

He sighed in a way that suggested there was an interesting case here for the taking and all other things should be of a lower priority. "Yes, yes, you have work tomorrow, I know, but-"

"I'm in."

"I think it would be helpful if-sorry, what?"

"I said I'm in."

The corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly, a crack in the frowning mask. "You didn't even let me explain."

I returned the smile. "What, you really think I'd let you run off on your own?"

"I wasn't counting on it, no. Well, come on then, we…" He trailed off, eyes fixed on a point directly behind me.

I turned around.

Sarah was looking about as threatening as one can look in a nightie. Her arms were crossed. She was tapping her foot. This was a Bad Sign.

Sherlock smiled his most innocent, disarming smile. "Sarah! Hi, it's been such a long time, how was-"

"Get off my countertop."

He slid off without so much as a noise of protest.

"Sarah," I said, smiling just as nervously. "I uh-he was just-"

"Going," finished Sherlock hurriedly.

"Yes," I said, relieved that he had picked up on her danger signs so quickly. The relief dissipated quickly as he started to drag me out with him.

"Er, wait," I said. "Hold on, I never said-"

"Oh, no no no no," interrupted Sarah grimly, grabbing the back of my collar. "I have terms."

"And I have a case," he insisted, pulling me forwards.

"You're going to bring him back in one piece-"

"When have I not-"

"You're not to go looking for trouble-"

"I do not-"

"Before six."

"Seven."

"Six-thirty."

"Deal," she said, and they both let go at once.

Needless to say, I was feeling a little harassed, having just been in a human tug-of-war match and not quite sure who had won.

"Oh, and you're on call tomorrow," she added, pecking me on the lips.

"Thank God," he muttered, as soon as we were out of earshot of the flat. "I thought she was going to call the police."

"I thought I was going to have to report a homicide," I replied, slipping my phone into my pocket. Both Sherlock and I had become slightly obsessive about keeping our phones on us and charged at all times after the incident at the supermarket.

"Has she told you yet?"

"Told me what?"

"Oh-never mind," he said cryptically. "She'll get around to it."


The ride to Hendon seemed short, probably because Sherlock was attempting to make up for lost time by filling me in on any anecdote he could remember from his three year hiatus. I got the sense that he wasn't telling me everything; parts of his stories were patchy, or skipped a few weeks. That was okay, though. There were some things I would never tell him about, either, like how in the weeks immediately following his "suicide" I would keep looking for his presence in things. The skull, the chemistry set, his laptop, a forgotten favorite pen or pillow.

Mostly, I just felt his absence.

We were pretty much the only people on the train, given the time. Sherlock kept anxiously checking the map in between sentences (whenever he paused for breath, anyway-not often).

Finally, we arrived at Hendon Central Station. From there, we took a cab. It was one A.M., dark, forbidding, and terribly cold for November. The air felt tense, like it was waiting for a storm.

"So…case," I prompted, once we were comfortably seated for the half hour long drive. The house was something of a mansion, out in the middle of a forest.

"Right. Here are the facts," he began, with the air of a master storyteller about him. "Two nights ago Mary-Anne Wilkins was over at the Fischer's for a sleepover with their daughter, Martha. They were both twelve years old and went to the same school."

I winced. "Murder?"

"No. The Wilkins girl has gone missing."

"Not really that unusual."

"From a locked room, at night, in a house with a security system and the other girl lying right next to her, untouched?"

"That is weird," I mused.

"Yes. That's not all, though. There were pictures, left behind in the bed."

"Of the girl?"

"No. The first one the mother emailed to me. I haven't got internet out here, but it was a shot of a playground and some children. Nothing unusual about it if you aren't paying attention, but if you look closely there is a figure in the background. A tall, shadowy thing with lots of arms and an indistinct face. Some of the children are standing around it, and its arms are outstretched, like it's…hungry, almost. Obviously photoshopped, but the fact remains that it's an odd choice of parting message."

"The Slender Man?"

His eyes narrowed sharply. "You've heard about this?"

"Yeah, it's sort of an urban legend. Got started on the internet, I think. It kidnaps children and no one see its face, or it looks different to each person. Some of the stories conflict. Apparently only children are able to see it at all. Usually hangs out in wooded areas."

"Appropriate," Sherlock agreed, "but not very scary. Very interesting, though."

The car jerked to a halt.

"I'm not driving past here," said the cabbie gruffly.

We had stopped at a gravel path on the side of the road that had no visible end. I got out, Sherlock following.

"That's fine, thanks," I said, and paid him. He drove off.

The path was lit with nothing but the occasional, forlorn streetlight. Many long stretches remained almost pitch black. Sherlock had gone oddly silent, moving in long, fluid strides. He looked at ease, as though we were taking a walk in Hyde Park and not, instead, down the unwelcoming path flanked by tall, bare trees. It was slightly foggy. I was finding it hard to keep up with him.

I wasn't any more worried than he was, but I did wonder what I was getting myself into.

Trouble, I decided, after we came into view of the mansion.

I couldn't wait.