Chapter 8-The Three Garridebs

At the Little Britain, I dangled my feet mindlessly over the dge of the bar, listening to Mycroft pace. He closed the bar today, as it was Sunday and the part of town we resided in remained dry on that particular day. My mood scarcely lightened, and a feeling of emptiness crowded my chest.

As I sat there, I realized how unappreciative I was of my father at times, how he's spoiled me to no end. Mycroft told me a number of times that if it weren't for my father, it is possible I would still be unable to walk. Instead, It was through his own stubbornness and refusal to carry me about that I am able to even hobble. And yet the last things I said to him were hateful, and the possibility of never seeing him again was a constant torment to my already racked brain. I tried to force the thought from my mind.

We remained in our vigil for virtually an hour, Mycroft stopping only once to sit for mere moments before standing again. He then turned to me, holding my hand to let me know he was near.

"Your father is fine, I know he is," he said, rather unconvincingly. "He wouldn't want for us to sit around and mope."

I scoffed at him. "You say that as if he's already—never mind; let's not think like that. I want to know what you saw."

Mycroft reached behind the bar and poured himself something to drink (most likely water due to the lack of smell) and a Nihi soda for me. Again, he was stalling. I kicked in the direction of his knees.

He already sounded exasperated as he began. "Alright, if you insist on knowing everything about this entire fiasco that I will tell you. There were grease stains on many large portions of glass and the mantelpiece."

Grease meant machinery, which narrowed the number of possible suspects and locations down. I used this to further my questioning. "Auto or industrial?"

"Most likely industrial," he pondered. "The grease left near perfect prints, so it was thick unlike auto." Mycroft downed the rest of his drink and went around the bar to clean it. I was yet to even touch my soda; my death-grip put the bottle in danger of shattering. There were two sections of the city in which factories were located.

"Footprints?" I begged.

Mycroft busied himself with tidying the bar, distraction his coping mechanism. My uncle never disclosed to me how he managed to remain calm, even under the most dire of circumstances. People wondered the same about my father as Doyle published more stories. I know first-hand though that during some moments in which Uncle John wrote about, such as the story in which "good ol' Watson" was shot, my father's normally cool and collected behavior flew out the window. With nothing else to tidy, Mycroft sauntered around again and held my hands.

"There were a number of footprints, actually. I found no less than six different types of prints on the floor, and all of them mud too. They were dark brown, though most likely red when it was still fresh." Granted, colors meant absolutely nothing to me, but that sounded familiar somehow. I implored of my uncle to continue.

"Now, I do not want this to alarm you," he prodded. Slowly, I shook my head. "I noticed a small amount of blood on the floor, almost invisible, in two different patterns." Mycroft traced my hand to illustrate. "The first was just a small spot near the mantle, more than likely a small wound quickly covered. But the second began in a large pool and dotted along the floor to the front door, like this." He tapped an arc across my hand. "It was no wonder the police didn't see it; the floor is nearly the same color."

As disconcerting as the thought was that our floor is the same color as dried blood, I plowed through my remaining questions. "Which pattern looked more fresh?"

Mycroft sighed. "The second. Michelle, if it's your father's, he put on a fight, sweetheart." His words did nothing to soothe me. Hope for my father began to diminish by the second. Suddenly, a yawn became the better of me. I asked for the time. "Nearing four in the afternoon. Doesn't John usually call you at about this time?"

The sudden realization slammed into my chest like a hammer. That was it. When Uncle John first arrived Deddy had asked how he'd gotten red dirt on his shoes. And there was only one place in the city of New York that contained red dirt.

"Call a cab," I ordered. "I know where Deddy is."

So yeah, I'm not gonna apologize for being late on this one. College decided to kick my ass and I've hardly had any time to do much of ANYTHING! But that's about it. I'll have the next chapter up within the week, that much I can promise.