Owen slowly opened his eyes and blinked his mind foggy and his muscles sore. Slowly, his hazel eyes moved around the room, light from the torch outside coming from the covered window indicated that it was night, still, and stopped at Frank sitting comfortably in his spot. Owen stared at the turtle for minutes, waiting for it to say something, it never did and he pushed himself off his bed. His legs felt like Jell-O sitting in the freezer for far too long, stiff but just enough for him to wobble around his room.
Owen rubbed his eyes and winced in pain, as he found touching even the corner of his eyelid painful, shuffling toward the mirror he kept on the wall he found his milky sclera reddened with veins popping in and around his eyes. Remembering eye drops in the medicine cabinet, Owen hobbled out of his bedroom and into the bathroom. Turning on the light caused slight pain and tears poured from his eyes in response; Owen turned off the light and held a damp rag up to his eyes. Carefully searching his medicine cabinet, Owen felt each item with his fingers until he came across the eye drops.
Pulling the rag away from his eyes, Owen dropped the allocated amount of the eye drops in each of his eyes. His eyes involuntary blinked rapidly, attempting to avoid the eye drops, but failed when the solution touched the pupils. Closing his eyes and moving his eyes around, Owen felt more tears pooling under his eyelids. Holding the damp rag under his eyes, Owen hobbled back to his bedroom and sat down on his bed. He attempted using his mobile to check the time, but couldn't turn on the screen without the sharp pain from the light, and only estimated instead. He'd been out cold for no less than an hour or two, at least three for good measure, and remembered something in that thought. Sherlock, what did he find if he found anything, and was his efforts worth the trouble or in vain?
Knock…
Knock…
Knock…
Rapid knocking coming from the main room, urgent it sounded. Owen pushed himself off the couch again and hobbled out of his bedroom toward the front door. He stopped when he heard an indistinct sound, sirens, outside his window. Attempting to peak through the eyehole, Owen only saw a blurry figure rapidly knocking on the door, blue in some areas, wild blackish brown at the top. He heard shouting, "Owen, open the door, open the door!"
Owen did so and found Sherlock standing there, clearly out of breath, and the look on his face was something Owen never seen before in Sherlock. Owen slowly blinked, fresh tears pooling in the tear ducts, as he managed to ask Sherlock, "Mr. Holmes, what happened?"
Sherlock grabbed him by the arm as he took deep breaths. Every time he exhaled he spoke slowly and his voice shaky. "Shelia… Shelia… she… she… she's dead!" He coughed as Owen's jaw dropped in response.
Shelia was dead, how did this happen?
Owen shook his head in denial. "Sheila can't be dead," he argued with Sherlock, but Sherlock pulled on his arm.
Hobbling down the stairs, Sherlock pulled Owen toward Sheila's door. The door wide open, flashes of light coming from the inside, and yellow tape all over the doorframe. Sherlock pulled him toward the doorframe and stopped him, allowing him to peak into her flat, the smell of putrid flesh and blood wafted from the inside.
Owen lowered the rag from his eye and peered into Sheila's flat, crowded with police. The old rose wallpaper, stained from mildew and cigarette smoke, coated in specs of brownish dots. The old CRT TV Sheila kept turned off, coated in more brownish splotches, the remains of the crushed remote scattered on the scuffled pine floors, and as Owen's hazel eyes moved around the room he stopped when he saw Sheila's chair. Little yellow tags surrounded the floral patterned plush chair Sheila always sat in, but that wasn't the only thing Owen saw. Brown splotches surrounded the chair, some bigger than others, and then Owen's eyes moved up to the chair itself. Soaked in deep burgundy, from the headrest down to the cushion, the armrests looked mangled, long gashes where the hands would rest, and the frills toward the bottom had thick droplets of burgundy stuck to them. Underneath the frills, pools of burgundy rested neatly, glimmering the in the dim light and the horrible metallic smell wafted through the entire room.
Owen simply stood there, his skin paling and blood rushing to his feet as his hazel eyes rested on the chair. It was hard for his mind to take in the scene and he didn't want to believe it, himself. Sheila was dead, there was no mistaking it, she died and Owen never knew.
His voice wavered as he managed to croak, "W-what happened, what the hell happened, what the hell happened?"
Sherlock released his arm finally, before he said to him, "I was patrolling the flat, when I was going past her window, at first I didn't see anything. I couldn't have, there was no light, nothing, the TV wasn't even on! So, I pulled the window up and stuck my head in, that's when I saw… her."
Owen listened to Sherlock; he'd been patrolling as promised and came across a grisly sight. The pit in his stomach grew drastically in size as he shook his head in disbelief. He then remembered how Sheila acted, his skin paled further, and he looked at Sherlock worryingly. "Oh my god, Mr. Holmes," Owen whispered as fresh tears poured onto the damp rag. "I brought her into this, I killed her. I fucking killed her!"
Sherlock held up his hands and attempted to comfort Owen in his own way, "You didn't know. How could you, you had no way of knowing what was going on and you didn't have evidence. It's not your fault, Mr. van Burton; you had no part in this."
Owen snapped at him, "The hell it is, it's because of me she's dead. I brought this on her, she may have been a cranky old crow but she didn't deserve this. If I didn't push her, if I didn't call on you, if I didn't do anything she would've been alive!"
"You don't know that, for all you know, she could've died regardless if you called on me or not. Even then, if you didn't call on me, you could've been dead, too," Sherlock reminded him.
Owen turned away from the doorway and stood at the side with the rag covering his entire eyes. Fresh tears freely poured from his eyes before absorbed by the rag as Owen felt his heart beat rapidly, the feeling of pure dread settled in his gut, and he exhaled sharply.
Owen flipped the rag around and pressed it again his eyes, mixed tears absorbed into it as he felt his teeth chatter against his lips. "Why didn't they kill me, I was asleep, they had me dead to rights. Why did they only kill Sheila?" Owen stuttered as he felt Sherlock's hand on his shoulder as Sherlock led him away from the door. Walking up the stairs toward his flat, Owen walked through the doorway as Sherlock held the door for him. Hobbling inside, Owen turned around as Sherlock closed the door behind him.
"Why didn't they kill me, Mr. Holmes?" Owen repeated his previous question. "What goddamn reason do they have to keep me alive?"
"I don't know, Mr. van Burton, I promise you with my life I will find out whom did this and bring them to justice. I assure you the LPD will search every nook and cranny for evidence and suspects, John, and I will sort through them, you have my word. For now, you must remain calm and clean up. Detective Inspector Lestrade will arrive shortly to take your statement and then you will have to vacate the premises," Sherlock informed Owen as he hobbled around his flat. Owen rubbed his eyes with the rag before sniffling; he slowly nodded after Sherlock told him that the detective inspector would arrive shortly. Shuffling toward the bathroom, Owen struggled to get into his shower, before taking a quick shower. It felt like he spent an eternity in the shower, the hot water hitting against his eyes washed away the caked tears and provided some relief and Owen tried everything in his power to understand everything happening.
Sheila knew who were breaking into his flat, she was afraid to tell him because they threatened her. If she told him, they would kill her, but when this happened, Owen didn't know what happened. Sheila never let up, never gave any hint or any thought, and she kept Owen away as much as possible. She should've still been alive, why did they kill her then?
Either she proved to be more difficult to deal with and they killed her or something happened, a wrench in the plan, and they had to kill her. What the answer was, Owen couldn't begin to think of ways to find it.
Sherlock mentioned the detective inspector and Owen felt knots in his stomach form like snakes balling up. He had to give a statement, tell the detective inspector what little he knew. He couldn't even begin to explain how he heard screaming a dream or even to prove it was real. He wasn't even sure what Sherlock even told, at all, to the detective inspector.
Assuming he wasn't arrested for rousing the detective inspector's suspicion and making himself looking worse off than he already was, Owen had another problem on top of everything else. He had to leave his flat for the remainder of the investigation. Given the situation, he wasn't going to be able to grab everything he needed, including his PC.
Running a hand through his soaked hair, Owen shuddered as a cold spell wafted over him. He rubbed his arms and slowly blinked, the cold spell brief yet unkindly, the feeling of dread still lurked in his mind. "God, why can't this end, why won't it end?" Owen mourned as he shook his head, the beads of water splattered onto the tiled walls and shower curtain.
Stepping out of the shower, Owen threw on deodorant and greased his hair before throwing on spare clothes he kept in the bathroom. He stared into the bathroom mirror, his eyes not as puffy as they were when he woke up. Walking out of the bathroom, Sherlock waited for him. He asked Sherlock, "What's going to happen, now?"
Sherlock held his arms behind him as he replied with, "Due in part of your proximity, Detective Inspector Lestrade will regard you as a suspect, for now, I will speak with him on the matter and assure him you are not, but a victim, too. You will also only have a little time to grab what you need before the police escort you out of the building. As for when you will be able to return to your flat, I cannot say."
Owen sucked air through his teeth as he thought about John's offer. Given the circumstances, Owen feared going to John's home would incite more deaths, but he had nowhere else to go outside John's offer. "Dr. Watson offered me a place in his home, but, I don't want to go to it if this is what happens. I will not allow any more blood on my hands, Mr. Holmes. I… I don't know where I'll go from here, but, goddamn it, I'm not gonna let anymore people get hurt because of me," Owen's voice wavered.
Sherlock slowly nodded and responded with, "I understand, Mr. van Burton, but as you say your options are limited."
Owen ran a hand through his damp hair and exhaled sharply. His mind swirled with ideas and possible outcomes, none of which went anywhere he hoped. He finally asked Sherlock, "What am I going to do, Mr. Holmes?"
"The only possible solution I know of is for you to stay in a hotel, not a small one but not a big one either, preferably a chain. Obviously, you cannot tell anyone where you're going, where you're staying, and even then this is a temporary solution," Sherlock informed Owen of his deduction and Owen held his head low.
"Suppose I leave the city, won't that help?" Owen suggested. There were plenty of places for him to run and hide in, cheaper too, granted he'd have to figure out a way to lug his necessitates with him without rousing anyone. "Go to Cheshire, Cambridge, hell, I'll go to bloody Wales if it's what it takes!"
Sherlock shook his head disapprovingly. Owen tilted his head in confusion at Sherlock's response. Generally, leaving the city would be a good idea. The fact no one would have to know where he went or where he gone, he'd disappear into the night and no one would find him. Allowing ample time for Sherlock and John to build up his case until the time comes and the ordeal ends, at least that's what Owen hoped. Sherlock disapproving this idea bothered him.
"Mr. Holmes, why would leaving the city be a bad idea, it's a great idea. I don't know any cheap chain hotels in London, Mr. Holmes, at least anything with what you have in mind, but I'm sure as hell know hotels are cheaper outside the city," Owen dejectedly said as he paced around his flat.
Sherlock explained his reasoning while watching Owen pace around his flat. "If you leave the city, they'll just follow you, do you think by leaving would stop them from coming for you elsewhere. If you leave, I can't offer protection. I may be the "Great Detective" but even I can't extend my hands everywhere. My resources are as limited as anyone else, believe it or not, and I cannot afford anything happening to you outside my protection," Sherlock summed for Owen as Owen walked toward his PC.
Owen stopped and listened to Sherlock. It pained him to say, but Sherlock was right, despite Owen's ideas they'd just keep coming. No matter where he went, no matter where he hid, they'd find him, and like Sherlock said, he'd be unable to get help from him if he ran. He had to remain in London and the only thing he can do was pray. "There's no shame in hiding, Mr. Holmes," Owen felt a lump in his throat build as he spoke. "Why can't I hide?"
Sherlock gave a comforting smile before saying, "Unfortunately, even hiding doesn't get you anywhere. Even if you're successful in changing your name and identity, everything, does it mean it truly ends?"
Sherlock got him there. Hiding, while having its uses, won't help him. Hiding is only a temporary solution and that only time would tell when that solution fails. By then, Owen either ran off into the night or dragged into it by the unseen men. "What would you do in my situation, Mr. Holmes?" Owen asked him.
Sherlock crossed his arms and thought about Owen's question. He spent many years traversing the world, by himself or with his assistant John. All the enemies he made, all the companions he met, and everything that happened. Those who died, those imprisoned, those who suffered permanent damage to either body or mind, and those who simply disappeared from his life, all these facts Sherlock mulled over. He weighed the good and the bad, reminding him of Owen's limitations compared to him. Owen certainly never fired a gun and certainly doesn't have any means to get out of trouble if he was in one. He didn't have anyone to turn to that had power to intervene, unlike Sherlock who had Mycroft.
"I would stay and fight, Mr. van Burton," Sherlock finally gave his answer as Owen stared at him. "If I die than so be it, but I won't let them bully me around, use my fears against me."
He talked brave for a man who been shot at several times, poisoned, nearly strangled, hung, and everything else in a handbook on how to murder someone. The fact that he said this gave some encouragement for Owen; it didn't make him any braver than Sherlock.
"But, Mr. Holmes," Owen sheepishly begun. "I'm not as brave as you. Hell, I don't even know how to fight."
"That I cannot teach you, that you will have to learn on your own," Sherlock gave his sage advice and Owen only began understanding it.
They heard knocking on the door and Sherlock went and opened it. Standing there was a man, he didn't dress like the other policemen, and Sherlock seemed dismal of him. "Lestrade's waiting for you, Sherlock," he said. Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Yes, thank you, Anderson, I could've told you that. Come along, Mr. van Burton, we have much to do."
"Yes, right," Owen gulped as he followed Sherlock out of his flat, passing Anderson who silently thumbed his nose at Sherlock.
Owen felt his ribcage rattle as his heart beat violently in his chest. He may have talked to the police before, but never the detective inspector himself. He chewed on the bottom of his lip as he followed Sherlock down the stairs and toward Sheila's flat. Standing at the doorway, a rather average height man with his graying black hair gleaming from the grease in the dim light, he turned his head when he saw Sherlock coming down the hallway and turned to face him.
"You better have a damn good explanation for this, Sherlock," he stared at Sherlock. "You discovering the body and no one heard anything?"
"Detective Inspector, I cannot provide you all the answers yet, but Mr. van Burton can provide some of the answers you need," Sherlock stepped to the side and allowed Owen a full view of Lestrade.
Lestrade stared at Owen and Owen stared back. Lestrade began with, "Well, Mr. van Burton, I am Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, I will be taking your statement. Sherlock filled me on somethings, but I'll like you to answer things that I'm not quite sure about, if that's alright with you."
Owen slowly nodded as he replied with, "Of course, Detective Inspector, anything, anything to help."
Lestrade nodded as he grabbed a small notepad from his inner pocket and his pen from another. With pen to paper, Lestrade started with, "Where were you at the time of the murder?"
Owen felt his heart strangling itself. He chewed on the bottom of his lip as he answered, "Home, in my flat. I was asleep."
"Can anyone vouch for you, Mr. van Burton?" Lestrade continued as he wrote Owen's answers.
Owen frowned as he shook his head. "No, Detective Inspector, I live alone… I don't have anyone to vouch for me," he watched Lestrade write the response.
"Did Mrs. Ferguson have any enemies?" Lestrade inquired. Owen corrected him with, "It's actually Ms. Forrester, and her husband died twenty-years ago."
Lestrade changed something on his notepad and coughed, indicating he wanted Owen to answer his original question.
Owen cleared his throat as he answered, "No, no, Sheila didn't have any enemies, none that come to mind."
Lestrade nodded before writing it down. He glanced up at Owen, "Do you know if she has any family, we can't seem to find anything."
Sheila never really talked about her family, except for maybe when she was drunk coming back from the pub, but other than that she was quiet. What she mentioned was that she had a son and something happened to him and she still felt agony from his death. "She somewhat mentioned a son, but, I don't think you'll get anything from that. I think he died, I don't know how, but outside that and her husband, I don't know anyone from her family," Owen scratched the back of his head.
Lestrade jotted it all down and then asked, "Did she receive any visitors, anyone particular, perhaps?"
"She never liked company, the only time she ever had company was when a repairman came to fix some plumbing issues. That was four years ago, so, I doubt that's relevant," Owen shrugged his shoulders. He didn't keep track of Sheila's guests if she had any. Lestrade nodded and made note of it, he then inquired about friends. "Did Sheila have any friends?" he pointed his pencil at Owen.
Sheila had few friends, women of similar age as her, they often went out and ate, discussing god knows what and cutting coupons. Often, they go out to pubs and come back completely smashed. "Well, she has some friends; I don't know them very well, though. We never really talked, they were usually drunk when they come in from their pub crawls," Owen mentioned as his hazel eyes stared behind Lestrade and into the flat. So much blood on the walls, floor, and chair, it made Owen sick in his stomach just looking at the sight. What man had such brevity he do such deed to an elderly woman, even if Sheila was a spitfire she couldn't fight against whoever killed her…
"Mr. van Burton," Lestrade snapped him back to reality. "Did you have any problems with Ms. Forrester?"
Owen felt that sickening feeling bubbled. He shifted in his spot as he shook his head. Sure, he had problems with Sheila, but nothing that would make him kill her. "I mean, who doesn't have problems with their landlord, Detective Inspector, we have our disagreements here and there, but, no, she usually leaves me alone unless she needs something and only comes to me for the rent. Otherwise, she watches her soaps and doesn't want me bothering her," Owen earnestly said, but saw a look of doubt in Lestrade's eyes. He flinched a little and when Lestrade finished writing, he looked at him, twice.
"I'm told you haven't paid your rent for six months; care to explain, Mr. van Burton?" Lestrade eyed Owen sharply. Owen shirked in his spot and his hazel eyes jumped to where Sherlock would've been standing, but he was gone.
Owen sucked air through his teeth as he stared at Lestrade. He struggled to get a sentence together but managed. "Um, she gave me six months, f-free, but um, I can explain," he stuttered. Owen watched Lestrade look up and down with his eyes and frowned, he flipped to another page and began writing.
"Well, that's very generous, Mr. van Burton, strange she'd give you six months free," Lestrade's words were latten with distrust and doubt, so much that Owen felt beads of sweat form on the back of his neck. "Why'd she give that?"
Sherlock reappeared, having gone outside the building, and said to Lestrade while walking toward them. "Detective Inspector, tell your men to expand the search radius by six meters."
Lestrade took eyes off Owen and laid them on Sherlock. Confused, Lestrade asked him, "What now, Sherlock?"
Sherlock pointed at Lestrade's trouser pocket. Lestrade rolled his eyes and stuck his pen in between his teeth before digging around his pocket for his mobile. Pulling it out, with one hand, Lestrade unlocked it, went to his messages, and tilted his head. "My god," Lestrade said in a stilted voice with the pen moving slightly, visibly turning pale. He nodded, stuck his mobile back into his pocket before taking his pen out of his mouth, and shouted up the stairs, telling Anderson to come down from the second floor. Anderson hobbled down the stairs and Lestrade told him to take some of the police and go search further from what they already searched.
Anderson nodded and left the building, Lestrade turned his attention to Owen. "Mr. van Burton, tell me, do you by chance have any thought as to who killed Sheila?" he asked, his words further latent with doubt. Owen flinched again before stuttering, "I don't know, Detective Inspector, sir."
"Strange, you didn't hear anything, see anything, and looks like you haven't smelled anything either," Lestrade stuck his notepad and pen back into their respected pockets.
Owen blinked, confused, did he say… smell?
"Pardon…?" Owen blinked.
Lestrade's eyes pierced Owen's and when Owen heard it, he felt his chest becoming tight.
"Where were you two nights ago, Mr. Van Burton?" Lestrade asked his final set of questions.
"Home," Owen responded, in the corner of his eye, Sherlock silently watched.
Lestrade nodded, "Means no alibi, nothing that establishes you there."
"What are you talking about?" Owen crossed his arms.
Lestrade continued to eye him. "Did you happen to see her at least two-three days ago?" he strangely asked. Owen remembered trying to talk to her but she didn't come to the door, she just yelled at him. He shook his head, "I remember trying to talk to her, why?"
Lestrade chewed at his bottom lip as he nodded, walking toward Owen. He stopped when he was in front of him. "Did she ever come out of her flat, maybe open the door?" he eyed Owen accusingly. Owen shook his head again. "No, she just yelled at me, what's this about?" he tried to ask, but Lestrade refused to answer.
"But, you say she yelled at you, correct?" Lestrade ignored his question and instead asked, "What did she say to you, exactly?"
Owen prayed for Sherlock to intervene, but he didn't, he kept standing there and allowed this to continue. Owen couldn't outright ask Sherlock, it was between him and Lestrade. Lestrade wouldn't allow it, Owen could tell. "She just said to stop bothering her, she's watching her soap operas, sir," Owen honestly responded, but Lestrade shook his head in disagreement.
"Mr. van Burton, dead people don't talk," Lestrade pointed out. Owen stared at him, trying to figure out what he had just said to him. "What do you mean, by that, Detective Inspector?" Owen eyed him.
"Ms. Forrester has been dead for two days, Mr. van Burton," Lestrade finally said.
Owen shook his head as he tried suggesting that Lestrade got it wrong, "S-she couldn't be dead for two days, she was alive when I talked to her!"
"The ME confirmed she died sometime in the early morning," Lestrade nodded.
Owen couldn't control what happened next. He felt his legs turned to noodles and his stomach thrashing around in his body. Sherlock tried to help, but Owen felt natural instinct took hold and he hobbled out of the building, took a turn toward an empty area near the stair, and held his legs as he vomited.