Ten
Incarceration

I rang the doorbell for the third time.

This was ridiculous.

If someone didn't want my expertise on an object they'd bought at auction, then they shouldn't damn call me out to the middle of nowhere at this time of night! But oh, no, apparently it was urgent!

"Hello!" I called out, stepping back from the green front door and peering up at the heights of the marvellous Georgian house. I drew my coat closer, shivering in the chilly wind. I checked my watch. I was only ten minutes later than I had said I would be, and that was only because I had had difficulty getting a cab from the nearest station in this god forsaken surburb. That was not enough time for the wealthy businessman who had called me to give up and leave. I mean, this was his home. He shouldn't have left at all.

I rang the doorbell for what I decided was the last time. If no one answered I was going to turn right around and go straight back home to bed.

I waited five minutes and no one showed up apologising and explaining that they'd been in the bath or something.

I huffed and started stomping my way away from the house. When I reached the end of the drive I peered down both directions of the road. There was only one small streetlamp. I groaned. I didn't particularly like the idea of walking the two and a half miles back to the station in this level of darkness.

Thinking I would call the cab agency I had used to get here, I dug into my bag and retrieved my cell phone and their card. I turned on my phone. The screen lit up. Then it went dead.

Oh, Christ, I had forgotten to charge it.

This was so my lucky day.

There should be a phone in the house, shouldn't there? But they weren't answering. That was why I was in this mess in the first place.

I suppose technically it wasn't breaking and entering. I hadn't broken anything, anyway. I had just used the spare key under the mat. So it was just entering. And there wasn't a law against entering.

"Hello?" I yelled after stepping into the dark hallway. "Sorry I used the key, but no one was answering!"

I didn't get any response.

I ran my fingers down the wall nearest me, their tips finally catching a switch. I flicked it, hoping that if anyone was still here, then maybe the light would catch their attention. And if not, then at least I could see the phone.

At least that was the plan. But try as many times as I would, the large candelabra style bulbs hanging from the ceiling would not light up. That was odd. Maybe their fuse was blown.

I looked around the hallway, my eyes wide to let in as much light as possible. From the fact that not a trace of dirt touched any of the surfaces I could tell that someone obviously still lived here. Someone with OCD, most likely.

I spotted the console table to the side of the room and the phone sitting on top of it. As I reached for it, I felt my arm brush against something sharp and let out a yelp of pain. There was a clattering as whatever it was knocked onto the stone floor. I reached and picked it up.

An ornate paperknife.

But there was something strange about it; it was wet.

I jumped as I heard cars screeching to a halt outside. Footsteps clanked there way forward and a bright light blinded my eyes.

"Put down the weapon!"

I blinked, trying to make out anything in the dazzling white light.

Something was wrong here. Seriously wrong.

"I repeat, put down the weapon!" I heard the deep forceful voice commanding me. I didn't get it. Weapon? What were they talking about? I didn't have a w-

It clicked in my mind and I dropped the paperknife with a clang to the floor, using my other hand to shield my eyes.

The footsteps came closer, and suddenly I felt myself being shoved violently against the wall beside the table, my hands being yanked behind my back and pinned there.

"What's goi-"

"That's enough from you, missy." The man who had me trapped said. The light dimmed enough for my eyes to work properly, but it didn't help much since my face was pressed against the wall, only giving me a view of the rather nice yellow wallpaper. Something metal was placed around my wrists with a click.

"You guys check the upstairs! Johnson, Ryans, Lawrence, you check down here!"

I wriggled so that my head was turned against the wall. I was sure my nose was bleeding after that impact. I blinked and saw who my captures were. The police. A whole horde of them. I could make out at least three police cars through the open door, and there was probably more out of view.

Why the hell was there police here? And why the hell had they got me in handcuffs? And why the hell was no one telling me what was going on?

"Sir!" I heard one of the officers cry from upstairs. "You may want to look at this!"

The hands pressing against my back were briefly removed as different ones took their place. I saw out of the corner of my eye a man with greying hair and a dull suit hurry up the stairs and out of sight.

"Look, I know it was bad just coming in like that," I started rambling, "but I honestly just wanted to use the phone to call a taxi. I didn't know the place was alarmed or anything so-"

"Shut up." The new man behind me ordered, twisting my arms a little too far for comfort. I squirmed. Now I liked a little light bondage as much as the next girl, but this was taking it way too far.

A thought struck me. Why would a simple alarm bring all these police officers here? And how could they possibly have arrived so quickly?

But if they weren't here because of my breaking in-

The man in the suit appeared back down the stairs. He reached down and picked up the letter opener I had dropped. I gasped when I saw that it wasn't just wet. What I had taken for water wasn't nearly so pleasant. It was blood.

"Name?" he asked me rudely.

"Melanie Hunt." I answered, trying to loosen the uncomfortably tight grip on my arm behind me.

The suited man brushed the officer away from me and started navigating me out of the house.

"Then, Melanie Hunt, I'm arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

Sorry?

Did he just say murder?

"I know my rights! I want my phone call!" I shouted at the officer who was leading me up the steps towards the police station.

"You've been watching too many movies," he answered, "You don't get that."

"No." the man in the suit, who I now realised must be the DI, followed me up the stairs. The officer opened the door and guided me through. "But we can let someone know you're here and why."

"Would you mind telling me why I'm here?" I shot back.

The DI ignored my question. "Who would you like us to contact?"

"Lu-" I stopped myself.

My brother would be here in a shot if they called him. He would worry, argue and possibly fight to get me released. But what good would that do me? Especially when there was someone else I knew who would see instantly that I hadn't done anything. Someone who already had influence with the police. But Sherlock would never come if they called him. He probably wouldn't even answer the phone. Then what could I do?

"John!" I announced as lightning struck my brain. "John Watson! I, err, don't know his number, but he lives at 221b Baker Street!"

The door to the cell clattered open and a prim female police officer stood waiting. I stood up from the cot.

"Come on," she said, nodding her head to the side, "your legal advisor's here to talk to you."

I slowly stepped out of the cell and she prodded me hard in the back with her truncheon to get me moving down the corridor. At least I didn't have those damn handcuffs on anymore.

"Legal advisor?" I asked confused.

"Yep."

"Who-"

But before I could ask she stopped me in front of a solid blue door, the words 'Interview room A' emblazoned across the neat label. She opened the door and nudged me inside before entering and closing the door behind us.

I looked around the room. It was exactly like the ones you saw on those police dramas – a plain box of a room, empty except for a large table in the centre, a recorder set to one side and chairs in front and behind it.

It was who was in these chairs that caused a small wave of relief to wash over me.

"Sherlock!" I restrained myself from jumping across the table to give him a hug. He nodded at the chair nearest me and I sat in it, slumping my arms onto the table.

"How are you holding up, Melanie?" John asked caringly.

"You mean apart from being arrested for a murder I didn't commit?" I said with a desperately sad laugh. John tried to smile reassuringly at me, but I could see the pity in his eyes.

"Of course you didn't commit it." Sherlock spoke up matter-of-factly. "You can't even look at a severed foot without vomiting."

"That was disgusting!" I told him. "Why did you have to put it in the airing cupboard?"

"It was the easiest way of-"

"Can we please get back to the matter at hand?" John interrupted. I sighed. I guessed there were slightly more pressing matters than where Sherlock kept his latest experiments. Even his foulest experiments.

"What are they actually accusing me of and can you get me out of here?" I asked.

Sherlock looked at me, that dangerous glint of excitement in his eyes. "Samuel Peterson was murdered late last night in his bedroom. He was stabbed seven times by a thin smooth weapon, apparently the same one that you were found holding."

"I didn't-"

"I know." Sherlock said as he turned away from me and started inspecting the police woman by the door, probably analysing every last aspect of her life. "And as for your second question – this is too big for this station to handle. They'll have to bring in Scotland Yard and I've already called to ensure that Lestrade is given the case. He should trust me on this matter."

"But until then-"

"You'll just have to wait, yes."

I groaned and slouched forwards, my head resting in my hands. This was way too much for a girl like me.

John patted me reassuringly on the arm. I looked up at him and tried to smile in return. He looked worried.

"What happened, Melanie?"

No one got the reference last time. It was excitement, and adventure, and really wild things!... (Marvin) Sounds awful.

I love Marvin. Never underestimate a pessimist.

Anyways, review maybe? If you want? Which you do btw.