I was happy to get out of the flat; Sarah and I had just fought, for the second time that week. I'd never been married before. I wasn't sure this is what it was supposed to feel like.
Mrs. Hudson, for one, received me with a hug and a peck on the cheek. "He's upstairs," she said, lowering her voice. "In one of his moods."
It looked the same. That was incredibly reassuring-I had been apprehensive in turning the doorknob to 221B Baker Street for the first time in many months, in the fear that somehow it would have changed to accommodate my absence. But no. The wallpaper was horrendous, the comfortable chair at the foot of the stairs had not moved an inch, and the air still smelled of coffee, formaldehyde, and…
"Are you baking something, Mrs. Hudson?"
"Oh, yes. Cookies. Sherlock didn't want any, I've already asked. Should I bring some up?"
"If you don't mind."
He still doesn't use the coat rack, I noted as I started up the stairs. Sherlock preferred to hang his coat on the banister. For some reason this observation was accompanied by a sudden rush of affection. I don't know. My feelings were a bit muddled from my recent argument with Sarah, and I hadn't seen him in a few days. I was starting to worry about him. He was texting me at odd hours of the night, asking disconnected questions about my health. Had he guessed?
Pushing aside my suspicions, I opened the door. For a minute I didn't see him, but then his baritone issued from the sofa-
"You took your time."
"You called?"
"Yeah. My magnifier is on the table."
"Your magnifying glass?" He hated it when people called it that.
"You are being deliberately difficult," he snapped, enunciating the alliteration.
"Yes. Because you didn't call me here just to fetch your magnifying glass. You're being difficult."
Silence. He's a child, sometimes.
"Well?" I prompted.
"You've fought with Sarah."
That threw me. "I-what?"
"Don't try to deny it."
"How could you tell?"
"Just your expression." He glanced up, his expression uncharacteristically concerned. "Everything alright?"
I tossed him his magnifier. "Don't worry about it. What's that?"
He was holding a piece of notebook paper. After examining it and giving a nod of satisfaction, he held it out to me.
"Fan mail."
If you value your life, it said, stay away from the house.
I sat down on the table, incredulous. He sat up, facing me, so our knees were touching.
"No," he said, holding up a finger as I opened my mouth to speak. "Don't. Two things. One, we know it's nothing supernatural now."
"This is ink, right?" I demanded, waving it around. "Dark brown ink?"
"No, it's blood. A touch melodramatic for something presumably bent on driving us insane. Two. We have to go to the house."
I paused. "Sherlock?"
"Hmm?"
"I don't want to…to scare you or anything-"
"I'm not easily frightened."
"I've been having these nightmares."
"The…" He didn't want to say it. He thought, understandably, that it was the other thing again, and I could see the image forming in his mind-me, gasping for breath in the middle of the night like I was drowning in air, just back from the blood and death of a battlefield in the middle of the desert where the bodies kept coming and nothing made sense.
We had never discussed this. He knew, of course-once or twice he caught me as I was coming downstairs for a glass of water. He didn't say anything, didn't intrude, and for that I was strangely glad.
In his own way, I suppose he had been trying to help.
"No," I said quietly. "They're different."
"But…bad."
"Yeah."
"What does that have to do with anything?" he said shortly.
I bit my lip. "It's…yeah, it's nothing."
"I agree. Let's go." He used me to brace himself as he sprang up off the couch, suddenly full of energy.
"Wait. Mrs. Hudson made cookies, I told her to bring some up…"
"Trust me, you really don't want to stick around."
"She's a good cook!"
"Yes, but she wanted to borrow some sugar, and…"
"She took the salt."
"Ehh…no, not exactly."
"Sherlock…" I began, exasperated, feeling absurdly like his mother. He was tying his shoes as a pretense for not meeting my eyes.
"Well, it was a salt," he muttered at the floorboards.
I sighed. "Are you going to tell her?"
"Are you?"
"Yes."
"It'll have to wait. We're going."
He grabbed arm and all but shoved me out the door before I could protest.
"You're asking the wrong question," he said, as soon as I opened my mouth.
"You don't even know what I was going to ask!"
"You're wondering what's at the house our correspondent is so keen to keep us away from."
"Huh."
He smiled. "Good, right?"
"Lucky guess."
"I never guess."
"Liar. Why is it the wrong question?"
"Well, it's a good one," he acquiesced, pulling out the note. "But it's not as interesting as the one I'm thinking of-where did they get this much blood?"
"They might have pricked their finger…"
"Nope. Lines are too thick, and that's a hell of a lot of trouble to go to just to scare us. And then there's blood tests."
"You think they'd be on record somewhere?"
"Medical ones, certainly."
"You can't get those, though. That's illegal."
"Never stopped me before."
"So if it's not their own…"
"Who's is it?" he finished.
The Fischer house was in a panic.
Mrs. Fischer met us at the door, her arms full of clothing. "Oh, thank God, it's you," she said breathlessly, ushering us in. "Those idiot policemen haven't been any help at all. So sorry about the mess-"
There were boxes strewn everywhere.
"Has something happened?" I asked.
She turned to me, her eyes full of a manic desperation. She lowered her voice to a hysterical whisper.
"The house is haunted! We're not staying here any longer, I won't have it, not with that, that thing in here! I don't care, we're staying with my sister until someone does something about it. We've brought the Devil upon us, mark my words, and it's only a matter of time before someone dies! The school will fire me! I'm the best headmistress they've had! Higher salaries and a better music department, but that won't matter now-" She choked, unable to contemplate the loss of her position any longer.
"Maybe you should sit down," I said, guiding her to an overstuffed, flowery chair. She was fanning herself with one plump hand.
"Exactly what prompted this decision?" asked Sherlock. "Tell me from the beginning."
"It was late last night," she began. "Everyone was asleep. I heard a noise, so opened the door and the dog was prowling around."
"Where?"
"On the landing, in front of my daughter's room. Scratching at the door, that's what woke me."
"Is Laika usually up that late?" I asked.
"No, never. Something had woken it as well. When it saw me, it turned and ran down the stairs."
"And you followed," said Sherlock.
"I did. I've always maintained that dogs have a certain way of sensing the supernatural. They see things that we can't."
"Quite," said Sherlock indulgently. "But go on. This is very interesting."
"Well, it was sitting at the back door, scratching again. I opened and turned the light on and…"
"What happened?"
She lowered her voice. "The trees. There were bags full of blood strung up on the trees."
We were led out back. Just as she had said, there were blood bags strung up on all the trees, like some sort of grisly Christmas ornament.
Sherlock examined one, then turned to Mrs. Fischer triumphantly. "You said you were a headmistress."
"Of St. Mary's school for Girls, yes," she replied, drawing herself up to her full height.
"There was a blood drive today. Red Cross. There was a flyer on the fridge," he explained, in answer to my nonverbal question. "That narrows the field down considerably. Now, Joanna," he said, smiling amiably at Mrs. Fischer. "If you don't mind, could we have a look in your basement?"
