Where a faint light shines alone,
Dwells a Demon I have known.
Most of you had better say
"The Dark House," and go your way.
Do not wonder if I stay.
...
And I know that in one room
Burns a lamp as in a tomb;
And I see the shadow glide,
Back and forth, of one denied
Power to find himself outside.
-The Dark House, Edwin Arlington Robinson
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
There was a light out on the far left side of the ballroom. Each pillar surrounding the grand space was adorned with one brass sconce and a frosted glass fixture, each with a pretty little flame inside. Each of them, but the one in the furthest corner, where the light was needed the most. Behind that pillar, the long black curtains absorbed what little light there was to spare. A plain looking door creaked open under the cover of that darkness, partially hidden by the drapery. Jane Dawson crept into the ballroom, hands braced on the cool marble as she peeked out ever so slightly just to glimpse the dour party.
Not far from her, although flustered guests moved back and forth between her and them, Jane could see Sherlock Holmes and John Watson sharing a- she could only call it intimate- moment. She watched, dark eyes glinting with curiosity, as Holmes fussed with a little trinket on Watson's suit. Watson was entirely still as he did so, his gaze steady on Holmes' hands before drifting up to his eyes. Holmes' hands fell back to his sides, and neither of them moved. The guests swarmed, trying in vain to open windows and doors, but the two of them were calm together. In their element.
But there was something else. There was something there, unspoken. It was in their delicacy and familiarity of touch, their slow movements, assured stance, and all too hesitant advances. Jane watched all of this unfold. From her place behind the pillar, Jane watched as the two of them spoke briefly, checking each other over, before they turned as one toward the crowd again. It had only been a moment, but Jane had seen it. The moment was enough.
"Enjoying the view, Miss Dawson?"
Jane gasped, stumbling around with her back pressed against the pillar, to find Mr. Gates looming over her. His gaze was fixed on the golden lights and panicked crowd with a distant sort of smile. Jane still felt his presence like a furnace. She cleared her throat. "I was just watching."
"Yes, so I noticed," Gates laughed humorlessly. "You've met Holmes, then?"
"I have," Jane nodded as she turned around again, hugging close to the pillar as she peered out. "He is... not at all what I had expected."
Gates' attention flickered down to the young woman. "How so?"
"Well," Jane began, "when he first approached me, he was... harsh, I'd call it. He was demanding, but very focused. He started to ask me questions about Mr. Bell-"
Gates' eyes narrowed. "And what did you tell him?"
Jane's head snapped back to glare up at him. Though she feigned anger and confidence, apprehension seeped through her gaze. "I am not thick, Mr. Gates. I didn't tell him anything incriminating."
Mr. Gates tilted his head. "Be it at your discretion then, Miss Dawson. You were saying?"
Jane let her gaze linger warily on Gates a moment longer before turning back to the ballroom. "He was harsh. That is what I expected, but when he realized that I was - cautious, it was almost as if he softened. It was just as Watson was catching up to him, like he was a reminder, Holmes eased up. He is not as unfeeling as I thought he might be."
Gates nodded, turning his attention to the pair in question. "It is just so in Watson's writing. He often describes Holmes as a cold hearted man. 'All emotions, and that one particularly,' that being love, 'were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind'. I believe that is the quote," Gates leered. "However, the actions and affections he writes into his character tell another story entirely. The content always says otherwise. An interesting paradox, don't you think so?"
"I suppose," said Jane. "Though I wonder why Watson would do that."
Gates only shrugged, adjusting the cufflinks on his sleeves. "For sensation, I would say. That, or Watson may not even be aware that he is doing it."
That answer clearly did not satisfy Jane. She glanced back at her companion, then to the floor with her bottom lip between her teeth, and out to the crowd again. Watson and Holmes were calling the guests together, attempting to take charge. It would do no good. She'd known that from the beginning. Nothing would. Still, their positive ignorance was comforting to witness, and even more so the way the two of them stood in quiet solidarity with one another. She watched, entranced, as when they turned to walk toward the kitchen, Watson led Holmes away with a hand on the small of his back, a gesture of support and protection. It was only a moment, a brief touch that dropped no more than a second later, but Jane had seen it. The moment was enough.
Jane frowned, though her face was soft as she licked her lips and spoke slowly. "You don't... you don't suppose..."
"Hm? Suppose what?" asked Gates.
Jane struggled to find the nerve to speak her mind. "That there could be something more there? Something... intimate between them?"
Gates laughed. She'd barely gotten her last syllable out and he chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "Don't be absurd. There's nothing there."
Jane twisted around, offense burning in the pit of her stomach. "You saw it, you've been watching them just as I have. It's there, you're just not willing to see i-"
"Now Jane, don't be hysterical," Gates bit out. Jane went silent in an instant, leaning back against the pillar like she'd been winded. Gates stepped closer. Jane pressed back. "Perhaps you could take a page from Holmes. You may feel these flights of passion. Control them. They've only served to undo you in the past. Stay focused." Gates walked away. Jane felt the air off his coat tails in passing and reminded herself she could breathe once his shadow was no longer on her. Sinking down against the pillar, she found herself sitting on the floor in a daze. Her gaze rose up to the black velvet curtains, and the one sliver of moonlight creeping through.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
"As you command then, Doctor."
Sherlock and John faced off to each other, and with one wordless nod, walked off to the staircase. They climbed up only three steps, just to get an elevation over the manic crowd. The second murder had, predictably, set them off again but it was getting them nowhere. The exits were sealed, and the windows were too high to break and climb out. However, that didn't mean they weren't trying. Sherlock huffed in annoyance.
"Everyone shut up!" he shouted. No success. The guests continued on in ignorance and desperation. Their voices were a disharmonious wail. Sherlock scowled. "Everyo- I said shut up! Stop!"
A high pitched whistle cut through the noise in an instant. Sherlock's attention snapped down to his side, where John was pulling two fingers out of his mouth and staring out over the crowd with rigid posture. "Quiet," he boomed, and though he did not shout, his voice echoed off the vaulted ceiling. When a moment or two of desired silence had passed, John looked up at Sherlock with a quirked brow. "You were saying?"
"I- yes. Thank you," Sherlock stammered, shaking his head as he composed himself. "If we are all to survive this night, I need cooperation. Another man is dead, and unless you want to see that number rise, I suggest you listen carefully. Dr. Watson and I are going to investigate the inner halls of the mansion in search of an escape. I highly suggest you all remain in the ballroom."
A scowling young woman spoke up to their right. "Why the hell should we listen to you?"
Sherlock feigned offense. "Oh? I'm sorry, is there anyone here more qualified to lead a murder investigation? No? Kindly stop talking." Without another word on the matter, Sherlock looked back to the crowd. "There is, of course, no way we can physically keep you here, so if you wish to wander around, at the very least stay out of our way. And do have the courtesy of wandering in pairs. It'll just make the disappearances easier to count if there are witnesses." Already ignoring John's groan, Sherlock turned and hopped down the last three steps. However, he was blocked off. Lord St. Simon pushed himself into Sherlock's path with a disdainful leer.
"What makes you think," said Lord St. Simon, "you're above all this? How are you so sure that you won't be next?"
Sherlock, on the exterior, remained stoic. His face did not betray a single trace of fear or anger. That was how John knew the comment had gotten to him. His lack of response was more telling than anything. John stepped up, placing his hand on the small of Sherlock's back. With one nudge, he guided him away, his own eyes trained on Lord. St. Simon until the arrogant bastard's image had bled into the crowd. Once they'd broken out of the throng, stepping into open space, Sherlock picked up his pace, allowing John to drop his hand and follow him off to stand under one of the many velvet curtains.
"So," John cleared his throat, "where do we begin?"
Sherlock fiddled with the cuffs of his suit as he thought, eyes flitting about the ballroom. "Well," he hesitated, "useless to look into the victims. They both came alone. No one here knew them personally or there would have been a bigger scene when they dropped. All the evidence is gone, nothing left of them, so, dead end. That leaves..." Sherlock trailed off, brows furrowing in concentration. "I need to familiarize myself with the manor. Know my battleground," he said as his gaze drifted up toward the apex of the grand staircase, the locked door. "More importantly, I need to know what that room Bell disappeared into is."
John frowned, following his line of sight. "Why do you-"
"We'll start with the kitchen," Sherlock headed off in that direction. "Process of elimination, we'll look into every room and wing we can. Get to know old Ignatius. Whatever we can't find must be in that room."
John followed after him. "Is that all?"
"What else is there?"
"An escape, Sherlock," said John. "We've got to get all these people out of here."
"Ah, yes, that too," Sherlock brushed him off and picked up his pace.
By the time John had caught up to him again, Sherlock was already at the door to the kitchen. The deep blue of the slitted light inside was a stark contrast with the warm tones outside. Their silhouettes fell on the floor in a halo of gold against indigo. Slowly, Sherlock closed the door, and cut off the noise from outside.
"Don't touch anything," Sherlock whispered. With a lithe step, he made his way toward the boarded up windows. "No signs of insect damage, but the wood is brittle and the nails are rusted. Square heads, made of iron. It's been boarded for at least a hundred years," he spoke aloud as he brushed his fingers between the planks. Predictably, coated with dust. Sherlock took a strong grip on either end of the middle board, braced his foot on the wall, and pulled back. The wood crumbled under the minute force, exploding into a cloud of dust and splinters. Sherlock coughed roughly, covering his mouth with his sleeve. Holding his breath this time, he pulled off four more planks. The room grew steadily more silver.
Finally turning away from the window, Sherlock looked about the kitchen again. "Alright. Anything out of the ordinary, anywhere the dust has been disturbed, I need it know. Look everywhere."
John glared back at him. "You told me not to touch anything."
Sherlock turned his back to John, already fixated on a door against the far wall. He tried the handle. Locked. "Don't touch anything important."
"How the hell am I supposed to kno-"
"Stop being difficult for the sake of it and help me," Sherlock hissed as he moved on to the next door.
John cracked his jaw, debating for a moment whether or not he'd be within his right to be even more difficult now. In the end, though he decided yes, he gave in. With Sherlock working on the opposite side of the room, John knelt down at the boilers and cautiously opened up the little cast iron doors beneath the brickwork and the pots. To be quite honest, he half expected a rabid badger or a colony of spiders to lurch out at him, but it was thankfully still inside. John couldn't see much, had to angle his head so he could peer inside without blocking the light. "Well," he began, "there are charred logs still sat on the grating, and there are ash and coals underneath, but they're all dead cold. Haven't been used in quite a while,"
"Good," Sherlock encouraged somewhere behind him, "keep going." There was another rattling of a door knob.
John grunted as he pushed himself up. "Uhm," he cast his eyes about, "there's a firewood box in the corner- again, undisturbed, but it's full. So... whoever had been using this last must have had the intention to keep using it. Otherwise they would have just let the supply run out."
"Very good," said Sherlock, further away now. "But..."
"But the party food hasn't come from here, and besides that, it doesn't look like anyone's cooked in here for decades. So, they didn't just stop using it because it was outdated. They left suddenly, which... doesn't make any sense, because Bell is living here with a staff. It's like life just cut off," John mused out loud. "Still, I don't see how this he-" his voice cut off in a choking sound as he turned to find that Sherlock was gone.
It was like the jolt when first starting to drift off to sleep, that light headed state as the body starts to shut down, only to feel an omnipresent force pushing you forward, pulling the ground out from under your feet. The heart arrests, sound is drowned out in roaring blood, and the veins freeze over. Fear did not cover it. John, standing alone in the kitchen, believed in that moment that Sherlock had been taken. Just like Drebber and Strangerson, just like the note had promised, Sherlock was gone. John had let him out of his sight for two seconds too long, he'd failed and- "Sherlock," John breathed, his voice cracking with terror. "Sherlo- oh God, Sherlock!" he shouted.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
The third door had been the charm. Without thinking anything of it, as Sherlock jiggled the handle and felt it give away, he pushed through and found himself stepping into a desolate hallway. The door quietly swung closed behind him, just shy of clicking shut. Curiosity got the better of him, and John's voice faded into the background as he made his way down the hall. It wasn't nearly as ornate as the halls leading off the ballroom. No carpet, no trim, tallow candles melted into the window sills- a servants' passage. Sherlock ran his hand along the wall, feeling the chipped paint give away disintegrate under his fingertips.
He didn't find anything spectacular at first. An icebox, an empty pantry, boiler room with tarnished copper pipes that likely led to the baths. Down the hall, Sherlock could vaguely hear the echoes of John's voice, a panicked call of his name. Ah. Right. Probably shouldn't have wandered off. Sherlock cringed, stepping just a little faster to get to the end of the hall, where there was a sharp turn and- a draft. Guilty as he did feel about breaking his promise to John, curious impulses led him to favour investigating. No surprise there. Sherlock peered around the corner to find an open space, like a grand barn attached to the main house. He stood on a raised platform with a few spice boxes and a cast iron stove. The platform dropped down onto a dirt floor, stretching to stacks of hay and empty stalls. A summer kitchen and stables. On the adjacent sides, there were no walls, just open arches that led outside, one end to a gravel road, the other to a thicket of trees. Sherlock breathed in the crisp night air and exhaled, his breath fogging at his lips.
Turning on his heel, Sherlock hurried back down the hall and into the kitchen where he found John with his hands in his hair, breathing heavy. The moment Sherlock stepped through the door, however, he stopped all together. His hands dropped down to his sides. Several emotions passed across his face: fear, disbelief, relief, and then rage. That one, he seemed to settle comfortably on. Storming across the room, John grabbed Sherlock by the collar of his suit and shoved him back against the door he just came through. "What the fuck did I tell you?! I had one rule, Sherlock, just one! Do. Not. Leave. My. Sight! Your life is under threat, what part of that do you not understand? You scared me half to death!" he roared.
"John! For God's sake, let go!" Sherlock pried himself free. John stumbled back, left hand trembling. Sherlock readjusted his collar. "I stepped out of the room for thirty seconds to follow a hallway. Wasn't exactly snatched out of thin air."
"And how was I supposed to know that?" John seethed.
Sherlock couldn't really respond to that. The impossibility of this all hadn't quite sunken in, he was realizing now. His head told him that people did not simply disappear. Reality was telling him otherwise.
When Sherlock didn't respond, John continued. "Just... Christ, tell me where you're going. That's all I ask," he sighed, finally betraying how breathless he was. Sherlock, again, did not respond. He did not apologise either, which of course pissed John off, but there was a note of regret in his eyes. At the very least, it was there. They had a brief stand off before John finally looked past Sherlock to the door. "Was it worth it, at least?"
"That remains to be seen," Sherlock replied. "It's not enough right now," he murmured. The hallways was a literal dead end for the time being. Sherlock reealuated the room. Nothing had changed since he'd been in there not even two hours ago. Dust was still thick on every surface, with no signs of life- he drew in a harsh breath. "John, don't move," he urged.
"What?" John tensed.
Sherlock walked slowly, retracing in his own footprints. "You came in here before Drebber was killed, right? You stepped into the room, not just in the doorway."
"Yes," he replied.
"And so did I. I walked around the perimeter of the entire room. Jane was coming in and out all night."
John paused. "I'm not following."
"Look at the floor, John," Sherlock instructed. "Like everything else, filthy, but not a single foot print aside from the ones we just made."
"That's not poss-"
"I know it isn't," Sherlock cut him off. "But it's there." He stopped halfway between John and the window, turning about in a circle. The slight disturbance on the floor alone was enough to kick up a small cloud at his feet.
John watched Sherlock's movements become increasingly more frantic. "You alright?"
"I am fine," Sherlock answered. Too quick.
John knew he was lying, but didn't call him out on it. From what he'd seen under the stairs earlier alone, Sherlock was fixated on the dust. That one logic defying detail that canceled out any plausible explanation. It was disturbing him. John swiped his finger along the table at his side, watching the dark line left behind. "I will show you fear in a handful of dust," he murmured.
Sherlock stopped cold. "What?"
"It's from a poem," John explained. "T.S. Eliot's 'The Wasteland'. I read it years ago, ridiculously difficult to get through, but- that was a line from it. Stuck with me, I don't quite know why."
"It's the writer in you, John," Sherlock smiled dimly. However, the expression faded fast into a look of astonishment. "Writer..."
"Sorry, what?"
Sherlock rushed forward, holding John by the shoulders. "You are brilliant."
"I- yes, I'm inclined to agree, but-" John stammered, "why exactly?"
"He's a writer, John," said Sherlock. "Ignatius Bell is an author. A man who's dedicated his life to language, to books and stories. What is going to give us the most information on him?"
John slowly smiled as he caught up. "His library."
Sherlock beamed back at John, the two of them breathless and grinning like children. Parting, but not after a moment too long of staring, they gladly left the kitchen behind. As soon as they pushed through the door, the gold light of the ballroom burst down on them. The guests were generally where they'd left them, huddled in the middle of the dance floor (like a crowd had done Drebber or Strangerson any good). Sherlock lead the way, long legs striding past the group and toward the stairs, only to be stopped halfway there by a hand on the back of his suit.
"Have you found a way out?" Francis Moulton asked.
Sherlock did not hesitate. "No, and your slowing me down isn't going to help," he lied.
John placed his hand on Francis' shoulder, partly just to get the man's grip off of Sherlock. "We're doing everything we can to end this."
Leaving the consoling to John, Sherlock's eyes swept the room, stopping just at a table off to the side where Jane was clearing off empty trays. "Jane," he called as he marched over to her. She nearly dropped the trays as he approached, trying quickly to recover. "Your matches, I need them."
Jane shook her head. "I never said... I-I don't have any matches."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. The girl was frightened, under tremendous pressure and obviously forbidden to help, but he had no time for comforting at the moment. Even so, he continued with less bite to his tone. "Yes you do. The house is laid for gas, you would have to use candles in the dark when there was no point in turning it on. Besides that, I can see the outline in the pocket under your apron."
Jane said nothing. Her paranoid gaze shifted around her before she slipped her hand under her apron and pulled out a small tin of matches. She handed them over, willing her hand to stop trembling.
Sherlock took them with a nod just as John had left Francis to rejoin him. The detective pulled a short length of tallow from his pocket, not ignorant of the way Jane's eyes widened at the sight of it, and lit the wick. He let the wax drip off one side to avoid burning his fingers. "Perfect," he said. Sherlock turned to John with the flame's light in his eyes. "Off into the bowels of the beast."
The staircase stretched on above them, seeming a hundred times taller and insurmountable than before. Beast was a disturbingly accurate comparison. The white marble steps and spindles glistened like teeth, and the darkness cloaking the upper floors looked ready to swallow them whole. John and Sherlock climbed the stairs together, but it was John that paused halfway up. He turned back, looking down over the crowd to find Jane still standing off at the tables. From there, he could see her fidgeting nervously with the high neck of her black dress. She pulled the collar down, rubbing her palm over her jugular. John could just barely catch the gruesome ring of bruised skin that circled her neck. He would have gone back down, but Sherlock was already halfway up the staircase without him. Albeit reluctantly, he put the image to the back of his mind and continued on.
Sherlock stopped at the top of the stairs. On either side of the locked oak doors, two halls stretched in one direction to the catwalk surrounding the ballroom, and in the other toward the inner halls of the manor. Sherlock clicked his tongue, and chose the left wing. Holding the candle out to throw the feeble glow ahead, John and Sherlock made their way cautiously into the darker depth of the hall. The curtains were shut in this part of the mansion as well, thick black fabric blocking out all light but a few slits of moonlight.
Sherlock felt his way along the wall. "None of the boards have been turned up for electric wiring," he mused. "By the time the manor was built, I'd find it safe to assume the gas was laid with the original foundation." He paused as the hall made a slight turn to the right, the glow of the ballroom once again disappearing - once again reminding them how alone they really were in this. Sherlock's hand felt along the wall, the candle throwing off just enough light for him to make out shapes. "An estate as ostentatious as this wouldn't have the switches - the chains - out in the open. Too unsightly. So most likely, they'd be..." the quiet rip of a chain behind a brass sconce gave way to a dim burst of light on either side of them. One by one the lamps on either side of the hall lit up, creating a path for them through the darkness. Sherlock smiled to himself and blew out the candle. "Hidden."
John took the candle from him and set it on a nearby ornate table. "You know you could have just turned the light on if you knew where it was. Show off."
Sherlock only shrugged. "Not nearly as fun," he replied. John tried, and failed, to hold back a chuckle. Sherlock glowed. "Besides, architecture is important, John. It can tell you everything," he said as they began their intrepid journey into the manor. "This house is a Queen Anne Revival style. I noticed as my cab was pulling up the drive. It boasts fine brickwork in a softer finish than most general Victorian structures. The stone casing on the front door is a dead give away, but it's the oriel windows that really define it." John scoffed at his side, prompting Sherlock to explain. "Knowing the difference between architectural styles can give you the layout of the entire building so long as you know how to differentiate between cases. Now, Queen Anne Revival was popular from the 1870's to the 1890's. Jane said that the manor was built in 1895, most likely the year it was finished. Popular styles had moved on by that point, so construction likely began in the late 1880's. Even a house this size wouldn't take over five years to finish, money troubles then. Something that set the original owners back, prevented them from being able to afford to finish."
John listened intently as they walked along, moving through iridescent spheres of gold and then darkness. "What has any of this got to do with the layout of the manor?" he asked.
Light passed over Sherlock's face. "Well, a family that had just gone through money troubles only to just finish their home isn't exactly going to squander expenses on something like a library, are they?" he fired back. "No, they'd have a number of them out in the sitting room, where most of their guests would see them, just to keep up appearances. Bell, though, he's an author. When he bought the estate, he would have had a library put in."
"How do you know this isn't his own family's estate? He could have inherited it," John point out.
Sherlock clicked his tongue. "No, I saw the original family's crest in the stonework at the gates when we were arriving. Dougall, Doyle, Dunkirk, something like that, it was too weathered for me to make out. He bought it." The hallways split off in to directions before them. Sherlock turned left. "Bell would have kept the Master Bedroom for himself, but aside from the servants, it doesn't seem that anyone else lives here. So, he'd have taken the second largest bedroom and had it converted. The Master would have been on the side of the manor with the best view, which would be the eastern wing overlooking the valley and the lake, also closer to the staircase. That leaves the second largest, in the west wing, overlooking the woods." Just as Sherlock finished, they stopped in front of a plain paneled door. Looking down at John, he twisted the handle, blessedly unlocked, and pushed the door open to reveal a room of floor to ceiling bookshelves.
John paused a moment, a smile twitching at his lips. "Ta, well done."
"Yes, I thought so."
The two of them made their way inside cautiously. The curtains had been pulled in this room as well, with no signs of sconces on the walls. Sherlock felt his way over to a small table, where the limited light glinted off the glass of an oil lamp. Striking a match, he lit the wick and passed it off to John. John took the lamp, brows knitting in confusion. For a moment, both their hands were cradling their one source of light. "Well, go on," Sherlock said.
John blinked himself out of a daze. "Go on with what?" he asked. Their voices were in a whisper, their proximity ghosting breath over each other's skin.
"You're the literature expert here. Tell me what you think," Sherlock replied.
"What makes you think I'm an expert? Just because I remembered a line from a poem?"
Sherlock's fond response was enough to prompt John to take the lamp. "No, because you took a minor in English Literature during your undergraduate studies. You're a writer, and you're a romantic. My own knowledge of this field is limited. Romance away."
John... wasn't entirely sure how to respond to that. He let out a long breath, his lungs shuddering as he recovered and took the lamp with nothing more than a nod. He turned to the shelves. "Well," he swallowed hard as he peered at the titles lining the walls. "It's not a very organized library to start. He's got no obvious order to where he puts things- there's an Urdu to English dictionary, a tourist guide of Greenland, and a history of the loom on one row. He's also got a bible- King James, so he was a Catholic," John continued along the wall, eyes scanning the books and their surroundings in an attempt to take in detail; to try to think like Sherlock. Growing frustrated, his confidence ran dry, and he turned back to Sherlock. "Is any of this actually useful?"
Sherlock had wondered off to the other side of the room at this point, peering through a set of empty decanters in the corner. "All information is useful until proven otherwise," he reminded him.
John wasn't too sure of that, but he continued. "Right, then." He moved on to the next shelf. "Looks like he's got a lot of medical journals, could be research for whatever it is he rights. They're scattered between rows of poetry. This one here's on," John slipped it off the shelf to peer at the title, "Tabes dorsalis. Degeneration of the nerves in the spinal cord."
"And the poetry?" asked Sherlock.
John hummed under his breath as he glanced over the collection. "Mostly Victorian, a few of the Modernists, but nothing past 1930. I can see Eliot, Pound, Woolfe, Arnolds, and- looks like he's a fan of Rudyard Kipling, he's got a few of his collections and some of his fiction. The Jungle Book and The Man Who Would Be King, recognize them?"
"Not particularly."
John shrugged, not entirely sure if Sherlock was watching. "Lots of Elephants."
Sherlock chuckled from across the room.
Moving to the next shelf, John bent down to a row not far off the ground. "The Cloister and The Hearth. Questioning Catholic, then. I'm really not seeing much else in the way of romancing..." he trailed off, eyes fixed on a shelf on the adjacent wall. John pushed himself back up with a grunt, setting the lamp down on the small table Sherlock had found it on. His hand stretched up to brush along the spines. "He has... a lot of Oscar Wilde. His entire works, it seems."
"He's the one with the cursed portrait, yes?"
John turned back to search Sherlock out in the darkness. "Yeah, The Picture of Dorian Grey. You've read it?" Sherlock grunted in conformation somewhere to his right. "Thought you weren't interested in literature."
"There are exceptions to every rule," Sherlock replied.
John laughed dryly. "Right." Rubbing his hands together, John scanned what he could see of the cramped little room and sighed. "I've got nothing else, really. He seems to enjoy travel and reading about exotic places, old fashioned, religious..." John rubbed the back of his neck. "It'd be helpful if his study were in here."
The light scuffling and movement that had filled the background stopped abruptly. Suddenly Sherlock's face was appearing out of the darkness, stepping into the little halo of the lamp. "What?"
John frowned. "His study. He hasn't got a desk set up in here."
Sherlock's eyes widened. "You always sit on the side of our desk closest to the bookshelf," he breathed.
"Well... yes. He does this for a living, so he's got to have some space dedicated to writing, right? I just assumed he'd keep copies of his own books there. I don't see any here- Sherlock!" John had barely gotten the last word out before Sherlock was sprinting out of the library. He grabbed the lamp and ran out after him, cursing under his breath. The detective was already halfway down the hall, pulling on locked doors and peering into the ones that did open without satisfaction. "What the hell are you-"
"His study, John!" Sherlock interrupted. "The one thing out of place, he has no study in the library. Why would he keep them separate?"
"Maybe there wasn't enough room?"
"No, he customized that library, he could have knocked down walls and made it as large as he pleased!" Sherlock passed his hand back through his hair as he tried to force open another door. "The only reason he could have wanted to keep them separate is that he's hiding something. That has to be the room at the top of the stairs, that space would usually be reserved for a wall of family portraits, but he made it a study. It's his mind, the centre of the manor. That's why he's locked himself up in there."
John growled under his breath in frustration. "Alright, alright, but I don't understand why that's-"
The lamp went out. Sherlock and John stopped cold, staring at each other from either end of the hall. One by one, in a domino effect the sconces shut off. When the last light faded, their eyes met, and they found themselves suffocated in complete darkness.
