Weighing His Words.
Chapter Two:
"If Found, Please Return."
By the time I'd gotten to work the next morning, I'd all but forgotten about the bizarre interlude in the hallway. I rubbed my palms over tired eyes and tried to compose myself into somebody that wouldn't get fired within the next eight hours. I went to smooth down my hair but gave up and redid the bun completely. I'd stayed up late reading McEwan's Enduring Love and had only stumbled into bed half an hour past midnight. You'd have thought that I would've learned not to purposefully inflict exhaustion upon myself by now, but apparently I'm just not that clever.
In fact, I was so blissfully out of it, that it took a skull to snap me back into reality.
Parking my cart outside the specified door, I consulted my list to double-check the service I was meant to give the room. A quick glance down the checkboxes confirmed that it was only a standard strip and refresh to make the room ready for its next occupant. My mind must have wandered as I didn't see the elderly gentleman approach me. He requested a paper in his soft-spoken voice but apologised kindly when the sound made me jump. I handed it to him with a small smile and wished him a genuine 'nice day.' I watched him amble away before turning my attention, or as much of it as I could manage, back to the task at hand.
I hauled the box of supplies bound for the mini-fridge through the open door and set it gently on the unmarked wooden desk. Crossing the room with two tiny bottles of Vodka and several cans of Red Bull, amongst other things, I squatted at the cooler door and pulled it open with my free hand. After placing the items in their designated places, I arranged them so that their labels were facing forward. Absently dusting off my knees, I stood up from my crouch - only to come eye-to-eye with the empty sockets of a human skull.
It's an effective wake-up call, I can tell you that.
I fell back against a padded dining chair with a muffled screech, unconsciously pressing my hands to my heart. Fortunately my brain caught up pretty quickly and the morbid part of it urged me to take another look. I impulsively complied. With a shaky laugh, I took a tentative step closer and peered into the long dead face with what I imagine was comical apprehension. Lifting a finger, I unceremoniously poked the smooth ivory temple.
What did I honestly expect it to do? Eat me?
I gave another laugh, this one steadier than the first, and did it again, causing it to slide further back on the polished surface. I went to touch it for a third time but caught myself. Aside from the fact that I was assaulting an inanimate object, if it truly was a human skull, it was hardly respectful to be prodding away at it. I picked the thing up, supporting its weight carefully like I expected it to reanimate at any moment. I turned it over in my hands, studying it closely.
Tilting the skull, I peered into the empty cranium, trying to pretend that this was a perfectly normal reaction. Spotting something, I held it up to the light to try and get a better look. Like the label you'd see in a child's shoe, a small sticker had been stuck to the underside of the bone.
If found, please return to:
221B Baker Street,
Marylebone,
London
NW1 6XE
I sighed, having inevitably decided to return the damn thing; it'd only get tossed in the skip if I didn't. That aside, my curiosity had been piqued too much for me to ignore it. How many people, of those who just so happened to own a skull, would casually leave it lying around a hotel? I wondered idly if the owner was a professor of some sort, unable to come up with another plausible explanation. I propped it up on top of the television for the time being, resigning myself to what was sure to be a highly unusual conversation.
That, my friends, turned out to be an understatement.
...
The black cab rolled to a silent halt outside the requested address. I leant forward, counting out the required fee and passed it to the cabbie. After checking the change for himself, he grunted in acknowledgement and turned his attention, once again, to the Sat-Nav system that sat on his dashboard. Too polite to pass comment, I clambered out and slammed the door on his dark thoughts about his wife.
I twisted to watch the taxi pull away, following it with my eyes until it disappeared into the evening traffic. Hefting my bag onto my shoulder, I turned my attention back to the building in front of me. The white stone was unusually clean for central London and contrasted in mock cheer with the beaten black door. 221B. I took a deep breath, mentally composing my speech.
Somehow "Hi, I found your skull" didn't sound right.
I stepped forward and raised my hand to the rectangular knocker, rapping it firmly before I could talk myself out if it. I waited for several moments, shivering on the doorstep and wondering what foolish impulse had brought me here. As I was about to give up and head for home, the door was pulled open by a small, very pink woman in her late sixties.
"Sherlock, I really wish you would remember your own key. I'm the landlady, not your-" She stopped short at the sight of me. I shuffled uneasily and gave a small smile, but before I could begin to speak, she apologised quickly.
"Oh, sorry dear. I was expecting someone else. What can I do for you?"
"I'm...uh, really sorry to bother you," I began awkwardly, "But I think I have something that belongs to you." I fumbled with the straps of my bag and pulled the skull free, presenting it to the tiny woman. When I looked up, she'd propped a hand on one hip and was smiling kindly.
"Goodness dear that belongs to Sherlock, not me! I can't even look at thing without getting chills," she clapped her hands together suddenly. "Silly me! You must be freezing! Please come in."
"It's fine," I interjected quickly. "I'll just leave it with you."
"Nonsense, dear. He'll be back soon anyway," she opened the door wider and ushered me inside, ignoring my feeble protests. "You go on; take the stairs and then straight ahead. I'll send them up when they get in." She bustled off, leaving me standing in the doorway.
I realised that I was still holding the skull and stuffed it roughly into my bag again.
What? It wouldn't stop grinning at me.
I started up the stairs, feeling very invasive. Reaching the first floor, I tentatively pushed open the unlocked door and stepped inside. The wallpaper was a patterned brown; not that you could see much of it behind the clutter that lined the walls. I guessed that Sherlock was a single man - no regular woman could have ever put up with the sheer scale of junk. As if to punctuate my point, I spied a violin abandoned on a wobbly bookshelf.
I stood awkwardly in the living room, feeling all too much like an intruder. A montage of maps, photographs and sticky notes were pinned over the sofa, which I studied curiously. I tried to make sense of the links that clearly somebody had noticed, but the reason for the connections eluded me. I picked up a stray text book caught my eye and thumbed delicately through the pages. I'd just flipped back to the first chapter when I noticed the hum of an approaching mind. I spun around to face the newcomer, feeling all together like a criminal caught red-handed.
"I wouldn't bother with that, if I were you. It reads like another language," the man said dryly outstretching his hand. "Mrs. Hudson said you'd be up here. I'm John Watson."
"Hannah Spencer," I supplied, taking the proffered limb without hesitation.
As usual, the contact sent a myriad of emotions flowing into my brain. I picked them apart and decoded them quickly, letting go before the contact became strange. Naturally he was a little confused at the presence of a stranger in his apartment but something in his thoughts sighed and accepted it quickly enough. I took advantage of the awkward silence that followed, curious to know why he accepted my invasion so readily.
I wonder what he's gone and done this time. The quiet thought floated from the soldier's mind. Of course this was followed by other, less relevant items that I'll not relay. John Watson's consciousness was like his face: pleasant and honest, with an easy humour to match. His musings flitted from memory to event as he tried to guess why I was standing in the middle of his home.
I shifted my weigh to my other leg and scratched my elbow. The movements helped me to re-establish my own mind. "Your flatmate lost something yesterday. I thought I'd bring it back rather than risk it getting chucked away."
Watson looked puzzled until I produced the skull. His face brightened with comprehension. "Thank God for that. He'd be in a foul mood if he realised he'd lost it. Thanks," he said, shaking his head in relief.
I listened in curiously as he imagined his friend's reaction. It seemed the man would be more vexed at not noticing its absence than actually loosing it. Odd.
I hesitated. "It's not real is it?"
He grinned at my question, nodding, "Unfortunately yes." His smile spread wider as he watched my reaction. "Tell me about it. Sherlock can be a bit eccentric sometimes. It's no one I know, but I do my best not to think about it."
He was trying to make me feel at ease, I realised.
"Here, let me take that off your hands," he said, indicating the skull.
"Oh cheers." I passed it to him gratefully. I was glad to be rid of it.
I went to add something but I stopped when I sensed the approach of another consciousness. Even if I'd been concentrating solely on deflecting outside thoughts, it would've been nigh impossible to miss this mind. This subconscious was vastly different to the gentle doctor's and was easily the most intricate and fascinating psyche that I'd ever heard in my life. It worked methodically and logically, considering all the possibilities before settling single-mindedly on a conclusion. Remember at this point he was only settling the fare for his taxi.
I started to wince even before he burst through the door. It was also bloody loud.
The volume of your thoughts varies widely from person to person. My personal theory is that it mirrors your personality which is why a child's thought pattern can be the polar opposite of their father or sister. In the same way that some people are softly spoken, some peoples' thoughts practically slap me in the face whenever I walk past. In my short time as a telepath, I've met some really, really strong broadcasters, but the man I was about to meet took the cake.
John turned to face his flatmate, intent on introducing me. I raised my eyebrows in surprise – it was the man from the corridor.
My first thought: thieving soap snatcher. The second: how the hell had I missed that?
He entered the room with leisurely ease, but his movements had a confident, almost haughty quality that went beyond entering one's own home. His eyes took in my presence and flickered around the living room, alighting almost imperceptibly on the macabre object in John's hands. His assessment was so efficient and practised that if I hadn't been watching him, I would've missed it completely.
"Ah, Sherlock, this is Hannah. She came to-"
"Return my skull, I already know," he said impatiently, waving a dismissive hand. He plonked himself down on a low sofa and stretched languidly, his legs curling over the armrest. His dark hair was as dishevelled as I remembered it, curling erratically around his forehead and cheekbones.
Defined cheekbones, I noted appreciatively.
"Of course," muttered John, giving me an apologetic glance. "Hannah meet-"
"Sherlock Holmes," he supplied coolly. "Consulting Detective."
I simply nodded. It was a wonder I managed to respond at all. It was taking me a while to adjust to the sheer level of projection.
"Pleased to meet you," I managed finally after I'd wrestled to noise down to a more bearable level. For the sake of politeness, I extended my hand. Instead of reaching for it, he gave me a long, calculating look. I withdrew it uneasily, shooting a questioning glance in John's direction.
The doctor shook his head wearily, smiling apologetically at me after giving his friend a dark look. I got the impression that I shouldn't take it personally.
I turned back to Sherlock. "So, do you often-"
"Please be quiet."
I blinked at the affront, but complied. For someone who was lounging horizontally on a sofa, he had a surprisingly intimidating presence.
I watched as his eyes narrowed slightly in thought. It was about as impossible to not listen in as it was to prevent myself from being fascinated.
Short, serviceable nails suggesting a practical job. There's no trace of paint residue in her cuticles thereby eliminating the possibility of a decorator. She wears clear varnish, possibly a strengthener due to the splits in the keratin but likely part of strict uniform, which in turn indicates an upscale company. Dry, chapped skin on and around the palms and fingers, the result of excessive exposure to cleaning products.
Her earrings – Circa 1930s, possibly favours antiquities but likely a gift. No ring – single - but no bracelets either, suggesting that she's come straight from work. Her shoes are black, utilitarian but well looked after so she's employed in a low income job. Hair is damp but not soaking; she walked a short distance but hailed a cab within four minutes.
The list went on and on; complied of tiny scraps of information about my life gleaned from tiny indicators I hadn't even known were factors. I found his cognition both unnerving and enthralling. It was so unexpected in fact, that it rendered me speechless. I realised with a jolt that only a few seconds had passed and his thoughts had been but wordless impressions that I'd translated.
The evidence converges to indicate a maid working in a hotel near Aldwych.
"You should pay more attention when you iron."
"Excuse me?"
"Evidently you get distracted, judging by the sheer number of burns on your wrists and fingers." He nodded in the direction of my right hand. "That one's fresh. Done earlier this morning, I'd imagine."
I glanced at the side of my palm and dropped it quickly to my side. It was still stinging.
His gaze held a hint of smugness when he registered my action. "But the question is," he mused aloud, drumming the fingers of one hand against the sunken armrest. "How did you know where I live?"
John cleared his throat. "Actually Sherlock-"
"Shh!"
A thousand possibilities scrolled across his brain but he discarded each one as it came. All of a sudden, he sprang to his feet and stalked the width of the room, reaching for the item that I'd so diligently returned. Flipping it over in his hands, he exhaled through pursed lips when he spotted the address.
I could have sworn disappointment tinged his thoughts.
"You did this." He directed the words at his roommate.
It was a statement, not a question but John answered anyway. "Well, yes," he said with a frown. "You are unnaturally attached to the thing."
"Hmm?" Sherlock remarked absently, no longer listening. His attention focussed, once again, on me; pinning and dissecting with those scary blue eyes. His lightning-fast observation and deducing skills were at it again; trying to discover what else had brought me here. He scowled, angry when his brain couldn't provide a suitable motivation for my being here.
I was wondering the same thing actually.
"Have we met?" He asked reluctantly.
"Well you-" I began, but he cut me off.
"That's right – the hotel," he said abruptly before careening off without another word. I stared after him. It appeared that John was accustomed to this behaviour and turned to me with a half-hearted sigh.
"The hotel?" He asked curiously.
"Alton Court, I work there," I admitted. "Your friend stole my soap."
The doctor snorted. "Soap? What the devil did he want that for?"
I shrugged my cluelessness. "It beats me. There's enough in the rooms to clean a fleet of cars."
Puzzlement crossed his face. Hotel room? Has Sherlock been away this week?
"You mean he didn't check in?" I asked stupidly without thinking. I'd answered his thoughts not his words.
He frowned, "How did you-"
"What?" I asked with false bemusement, hoping that he'd drop it. My acting skills weren't exactly stellar. I listened carefully and almost breathed a sigh of relief when he convinced himself he'd spoken out loud.
"Forget it," he gestured dismissively. "My mind is a bit frazzled, is all."
Thank goodness Sherlock wasn't in the room, that's all I'll say.
Speaking of him, I could hear his loud buzz from all the way downstairs; humming away like nobody's business. What could he have possibly discovered up there to analyse? Was he actually thinking about...oh Christ. I slammed that mental door shut pretty quickly.
Body parts, in my opinion, are best left attached to wherever they're meant to be.
I rubbed two fingers against my temple, hoping to alleviate the building tension. Sherlock Holmes: fascinating but draining. I'd noticed earlier that John had long come to the same conclusion.
"Well how the heck did he get into the room without a key?" He opened his mouth to reply, but I headed him off, "Actually on second thoughts, never mind; I kinda get the impression that I don't want to know."
John nodded amicably and offered his hand. I shook it. "It was a pleasure meeting you," he said, the warmth in his voice reaching his eyes.
"Likewise. Although, I'm not sure the same can be said for your friend," I said with a wry smile. The incident had certainly been interesting; in more ways than one.
"Oh and um...Sherlock would never admit it, but he is grateful for you bringing the skull back."
I nodded and searched for something else to say. It seemed my small talk reservoir had all but dried up.
"Any time," I said finally and waved goodbye, taking my leave before the situation became irredeemable awkward.
Hurrying quietly down the stairs, I let myself out, shutting the peeling door behind me. I stepped with considerable relief onto the deserted pavement. The evening air was cool against my burning cheeks. I shoved my hands into my coat pockets and started in the direction of home, having decided that the streets were lit well enough for me to walk at least part of the way.
As I was about to cross the road, my phone vibrated against my fingertips. Fishing it out, I glanced at the display, tapping my thumb against the screen to open the message.
Goodnight Spencer.
You will come again.
SH
If that wasn't ominous, I didn't know what was.
A/N: I thought I'd take this opportunity to give a huge thank you and shout-out to the wonderful people who reviewed: sarahelizabeth1993, Black1Han1d, NotxYetxDead, Silvermoon of Forestclan, LexieBird and smiles. Also much love to any whom favorited and subscribed. Jaw met floor when I opened my email.
This story begins after "The Blind Banker" but will eventually flow to coincide with "The Great Game." I did take the liberty of penning 221B's address but please, please correct me if I'm wrong. Feel free to highlight any errors or give me pointers. My inbox is always open.
