Southbank was the darkest most dilapidated area of London and held much accountability for the high rates of lower-class crime across central London. The long wide road was drilled with monstrous potholes and deep sprawling cracks. The once peaceful and adequate council houses that lined either side of the road now lay in mounds of crumbled bricks and wallpaper. The tall narrow houses loomed three stories in the air and their weak foundations groaned under the weight of cracked beams. The remains of some of the buildings had served as outhouses for senescent junkies and urban wildlife, while others had being transformed into makeshift laboratories for London's major drug syndicates. It was the kind of street the city councillors ignored and the police force bargained not to have to patrol. It was deemed a 'lost cause'.
The forgotten street.
John Watson leaned wearily against the beam of a flickering street lamp, the only lamp in the street that still had electricity flowing to it. He squared his thick shoulders and turned the collar of his coat up against the cutting winter winds. Spring was nearly upon them but the sharp gale and rainfall gave no differing indication of the change in seasons. He tried to peer in earnest through the broken windows of the rise of houses for any sign of life, but to no avail.
His heart leaped and a thick lump caught in his throat as several times he could hear the distant sound of footfall, or the definable click of a cartridge being loaded into a gun. John's eyes were wide and burning from the wind but he dared not close them. He rubbed his temples in a desperate effort to ease the headache which his trepidation had built in the front of his head.
It truly was a desolate place.
In the time John had been standing against the lamppost he had witnessed three vicious, faeces-caked rats devouring the grizzly remains of their fallen comrade, snarling as large chunks of furry flesh tore for the dead animal's body.
John held his breath and turned away from the spectacle, dreaming about lemon tartlets, banoffee pie and strawberry milkshakes, with a cherry garnish and a swirl of maple syrup drizzled across the top. John sighed and licked his dry lips as he imagined the thick creaming liquid flow down his throat.
He was abruptly broken from is dreaming by a light but definite pressure on his right foot, just beside his little toe. John recoiled in horror as one of the large, blood-thirsty rats started to chew through the thick leather of his dark shoes. Hopping in circles, John shook his right foot violently trying to loosen the grip of the tiny mammal from his shoe. In a whirl of fearful howls, he finally managed to flick the creature from his shoe. The little animal flew through the air in a low arc and landed in a flurry of feet and fur before scuffling unharmed into a nearby drain.
"Christ!" John gripped his heart and panted loudly.
"Nice to see you've made a new friend", a deep voice chuckled in the darkness of the icy night.
John spun around and could instantly feel the twang of tendons tearing in his neck, "Bloody hell. You nearly gave me heart attack! What the hell took you so long?" John cried, rubbing circles in his paining neck.
Greg Lestrade peered out of the darkness and stalked towards the shivering frame of the older man.
"None of the cabs would take me down this neck of the woods. Had to walk from Ballintyne on foot." Greg replied bringing his large hands up and rubbing John's whitened face.
"Where are we going? I don't particularly want to hang around here for any longer than necessary." John spoke through chattering teeth, eyeing the surrounding buildings like a deer during hunting season.
"All the email said was the Southbank Bridge. So I presume we follow the sound of the water." Greg spoke cocking his ear to the sound of distant gushing. "- this way" he smiled showing the way.
With every rattle of a dustbin or the eerie screech of a tomcat in the distance, the space between the two men decreased until they were rubbing shoulders.
"Why are we doing this alone? I mean, is there no one willing to take on the extra shift?" John's eyes darted around the area.
"The case is technically closed. So I suppose there is nothing to compel the rest of them to take on the task." Greg sighed, dejection riddled in his word.
"But they never actually caught anyone for it. I don't get why the American forces are trying to claim the case anyway. It has nothing to do with them." John shuffled himself in his coat and dug his hands deeper into his pockets.
"They work in strange ways. Word around the office is that they are trying to hide something else about her affairs in America from us. She was such a financial investment to so many clothing companies that they had no choice to follow up and take over it with all their American efficiencies. So I decided that if they are keeping us out of the loop on our own soil, then they won't mind if we continue doing our own outside investigating." Greg smirked, throwing the rulebook out the window. "And what about himself? No sign of him to return to the land of the living?"
"He won't say anything. I had to take the packet of nicotine patches off him last week before I left. No doubt he had another packet by the time I reached the airport. He claims he knows who it is but he can't say anything because it would run the risk of spoiling the Yards opportunity of arresting the suspect. And he won't tell me… well… because of us."
"Fat lot of use that is to us. Always full of speculation that man is." Greg knitted his eyebrows together and frowning at the juvenile way Sherlock was handling their relationship.
A silence ensued between Greg and John as they passed a large burnt out barrel. John peered into the opening out of habitual curiosity. With a loud shrill screech, a wild scrawny cat jumped out of the darkness and reached out its claws within inches of the ex-captains face. John yelped and jumped back into Greg's embrace, his large arms cocooned around John's shaking frame.
"What the hell is wrong with the wildlife?" John spoke, his voice breaking under the strain of his frayed nerves.
"They must all be testing that tremor in your left hand." Greg teased and kissed John's cold forehead.
"Let's get out of here. Now!" John spoke breaking from Greg's arms and dashing hazily towards to noise.
About 50 yards ahead of them in the shows of the last of the buildings, a small rickety footbridge stretched between the two sides of the narrow Thames estuary.
Greg held up his arm in a protective stand in front of John, his hand balled into a fist. He placed a finger to his lips and cautiously walked towards a dark bundle which lay out in the open beside the bridge walkway.
"What if it's an explosive?" John whispered as they walked slowly towards the bundle which seemed to be wrapped in some sort of cloth.
"Well then you're coming with me." Greg winked and gave John's hand a tight squeeze.
The detective turned on a flashlight and threw the light on the mound which stood motionless on the cracked tarmacadam.
Inching slowly towards the package, Greg reached out his hand as quickly draw the cloth off the object.
It was a video tape.
The men stood for a long time and studied the familiar exterior of the tape.
Greg grasped the black rectangular cube and inspected it. He could see through the two plastic windows and noticed the black reel of tape was thick on one side, while the other side of the reel was white and empty.
Written in thick black letters across the white panel on the front read'
Lost souls inn
The two men stood looking at the words before turning to each other, a stupefied look on their faces.
"What they hell is Lost souls inn?" John finally spoke, breaking the eerie silence of the spooky landscape.
"I don't know, love. Never heard of it before." Greg looked back to John and shrugged his shoulders. Greg flipped over the case and spotted a note attached to the back casing.
In neat delicate writing the note read:
All the proof you need.
"Who does this guy think he is, the Riddler?" Greg scowled ribbing his large fingers across the lettering
"We need to get out of here. Now." John spoke in a rush of words.
Greg turned as spotted a group of men gathered on top of a mound of bricks in the distance, slurping from bottles concealed in brown paper bags. The men all turned their heads towards John and Greg and there was nothing but the sound of the water gushing beside them.
"I won't object to that. C'mon." Greg grabbed John's hand and they both made a dash back up towards the street. The distant glimmer of light seemed like a beacon from God sent down to guide them towards the hustle of civilization.
After 10 minutes or so, the two men stopped on the outskirts of the main Ballintyne road. Greg hailed a cab and they both climbed in hurriedly once a small man with a red baseball cap pulled up alongside them.
"Where are ye headed, boys?" the young man asked, rolling a piece of chewing gum in his mouth.
"221b Baker street, please." Greg called out to the taxi man and they sped away into the city lights.
Once John Watson and Greg Lestrade reached the flat, a small note was pinned to the front door.
I can't take it anymore.
Please come back, John
Mrs Hudson.
"That was dated Saturday." John spoke his voice laced with concern.
They clambered up the narrow staircase and burst in through the door into the kitchen. They were greeted to a countertop cluttered with vials of opaque yellow and green liquid and plates of variously discoloured meat.
The pungent stench of rotten flesh burned their nostril and both men gagged holding their mouths and noses in disgust.
"SHELOOOOOOOOOOOOOCK" John roared at the top of his lungs, his face growing redder and redder every second.
The two men stalked into the sitting area and were met by the meditative form of Sherlock cross-legged on the floor in his blue silk robe, exactly the same position he had been in when john left for Dublin last week.
"What in bloody hell are you doing to the kitchen? You know that smell won't come out of the fabric in the furniture. Where is Mrs Hudson?" John asked in a nasaly tone, still pinching his nostrils.
Sherlock sat in silence, his eyes closed and his hands resting lazily on his open legs. The material of his dressing gown barely moved, only that a scattering of cigarette packets lay in front of his feet, John would have guessed he hadn't moved since he left last Thursday.
"Sherlock!" Greg shouted stubbing his toe into the seated figures kneecap.
With a start, Sherlock emerged from his mind palace and his pupils blew out from a pin point into two saucers.
"What day is it?" he asked, his voice croaky from lack of use.
"Monday" John replied, cautiously removing his fingertips from his nose and adjusting to the smell of the slaughterhouse.
"Oh." Sherlock's face curdled as his senses adjusted to the smell of the flat. He looked up to the two men and frowned.
"Whoever's digestive tract made that stench I would recommend they see a doctor immediately." He continued before stretching his arms and back. He twisted sharply and several cracked reverberated along his spine.
John threw his hands in the air and walked towards the windows to let some fresh air into the place. Greg chuckled to himself in sheer exhaustion rather than humour.
"That wasn't us! That was your experiment in the kitchen." Greg spoke rolling his eyes at the frailty of the genius before him.
Sherlock cocked his eyebrows and sat pondering for a long moment. With a gasp he widened his eyes and jumped to his feet.
"Oooh my experiment! I was testing to see how long it would take for someone to notice the stench of a dead body in an urban location. So far the results seem to be inconclusive."
"Inconclusive?" John bellowed, "Mrs Hudson left on Saturday!"
"Hmmm. Maybe it is more substantial than I suspected." Sherlock mused to himself playfully.
"When was the last time you ate?" John asked with less of a tone of anger and more of genuine concern. After the last time Sherlock blacked out John had great fears of going away at all. The grown up child couldn't be left on his own.
"Saturday. I was cooking steak when I thought of my experiment."
Greg and John's faces contorted in repulsion.
"You are a sick man" Greg sighed reminding himself to never buy steak again or to let Sherlock cook for him.
The three men stood staring at each other, their eyes watering from the smell.
"Look we're hear about the 'V' case." Greg continued fishing around in his pockets. He produced the tape and handed it to Sherlock's looming form. "Ever hear of Lost souls inn before?"
Sherlock examined the tape by turning it around in his hand. "Heard of it? Aren't we all a part of it?"
Greg and John turned to each other with questioning looks on their faces.
"We're what?" Greg asked with his forehead tightened into deep wrinkles.
"Lost souls inn! You don't know what Lost souls inn is?" Sherlock deeply scrutinised the bewildered look on Greg and John's faces.
"Wow. It is remarkable how your meagre little brains manage to process the complexities of living." Sherlock sighed, like he was talking to single-celled amoeba.
"Go on so. Enlighten us." John looked to Sherlock and crossed his arms tightly across his chest.
"No exactly a difficult challenge." Sherlock smirked.
"Tell us the bloody story already." Greg's nerves were wearing thin and John stroked the back of Greg's arm at a soothing pace.
"Go on" John spoke, much softer than before.
"Well the modern day interpretation of Lost souls inn is more of a 'what' than a 'where', but Lost souls inn was actually an inn. It was based here in central London and catered for the needs of the lonely souls in the early 50s right through to the late 70's before it was converted into a shop. It was London's most well-known secret at the time. If you and your partner wanted some quality time together you booked into this place. It wasn't originally called Lost souls inn, but over time that's what it was dubbed. I can't remember the original name off the top of my head but it's in one of those books." Sherlock pointed to the top right-hand corner of the bookshelf.
"Yeah but what has Lost souls inn got to do with our 'V' case?" Greg interjected, his voice much calmer than before.
"Well she was a very politically involved gay rights activist, was she not?" Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows once more.
Once again the room was silent.
"Oh God, the vacancy is almost contagious" Sherlock pouted and slumped onto the couch.
"Lost souls inn was specifically for gay men. That's why it was so secretive in the 50s but became so recognised by the late 70s. Most people, including the police, presumed it was a den of solicitation and sexual infection. With the rage of AIDS in the west, it became a very popular place to raid. They often played movies against the back wall of the building. But mostly it was a civilized B&B style service. They were much more liberal thinking in that place than some people still are nowadays."
"Ok. So this inn was a gay hook-up spot? Where is it now?" John asked.
"No it was NOT a hook-up spot! It was a refined establishment which catered for the needs of those who were rejected from society because of something they could not control in themselves. England forced these men into hiding. They were ashamed of themselves and of the lives they longed to lead. Gay man could not go on dates or court each other in public in those days and Lost souls inn provide a refuge for the discriminated and abused English men."
John looked to a clearly agitated Sherlock and patted his arm gently. "But what would such a place have to do with Vicky Vance being murdered? At the hospital you said this was business related. What does her activism have to do with her business?"
"Don't know yet."
"I thought you said you knew who it was?"
"I do. But I don't know what he has to do with Lost souls inn. Each case is like a giant… well… to dumb it down for you two, a giant 'join-the-dots'. But we have to find the dots. They are hidden, waiting for us to find them. And once we connect them all we will have a clear picture."
"Do we know the suspect?" Greg asked straining his words to as further emphasis.
"Yes, you do but in me telling you, you will be completely biased and you will point evidence to convict him, even if it doesn't add up in the greater picture."
That was all Sherlock said. He drew his lips into a tight line emphasising that he was no longer willing to continue on that topic.
"Oh for Christ sake! Ok. Ok, have it your way. So we know it? The building. Where abouts is it so?" Greg asked trying to keep his breathing regular.
"It's actually just off Gower Street, right beside your clinic." Sherlock replied looking towards John.
John's eyes widened and he stepped back towards Greg.
"It's between The Lilybird and the French cheese shop. It's an old dark building. It only has one small window in the front of the shop because no one wanted to be seen in the place. Probably hasn't been touched up since the 80s. You would hardly have noticed…"
Sherlock's words faded into white noise as a stark realisation swept across John. The blood drained in his face and his hands reached absent-mindedly for something to hold onto. Greg caught hold of John's weakening form and he lowered him into his chair. Sherlock continued talking unaware of John's shaken appearance.
"John, love. Are you ok? Hello? Sherlock! Shut up you great fool and get me a class of water. CLEAN water." Greg's voice began to crack as John sunk deeper into his dream-like state.
John could hear the worried expression in his boyfriend's tone but he couldn't revive himself just yet.
This is what it must be like to have a proper Mind Palace, he thought to himself.
He sat and soaked in the realisation.
"Ralph" He finally spoke.
"Ralph? Who the fuck is Ralph?" Greg Lestrade asked his boyfriend, whose face has turned pasty before his eyes.
"Ralph owns a small clothes shop beside the cheese shop. It has been in his family for generations. They were probably the ones who bought it from the previous owners of Lost souls inn." John spoke in quivers.
"The guy you buy your hideous shirts from?" Sherlock broke into the conversation.
"Yeah the same man."
"Well that's improbable because this man you speak of is at least 70 years of age. If his family have been in there for generations then they probably owned it before the shop opened up. It looks like maybe they were the original owners of Lost souls inn"
Greg turned in his crouched position and spoke directly to Sherlock. "Hold on. What are you saying? Is this man Ralph our suspect? Did he kill Vicky Vance?"
Greg could feel John's hand tighten in his.
John spoke softly, looking off into the distant space between dreams and reality. "I've known him since I was a child. He isn't capable of murder. It can't be him. It just… can't…be… can't… be…" John's face wrinkled into angry frows and he beat his fist off the arm of the chair.
Greg reached across and tried to calm John, the anger of a war-broken soldier tearing through the ex-captain's controlled exterior.
Sherlock shot out of his seat and reached for the video tape. "We need to watch this right away." Sherlock crawled on his knees towards the VCR and pushed the box into the mouth of the machine. The television flared to life and the three men sat staring at the lights that danced around on the screen.
It was footage from a CCTV camera. No sound emerged from the tape. It showed the dark interior of a clothes shop. It faced towards the door from behind the till with receipts in full view of the camera.
John's heart sank as an elder man walked onto the edge of the screen carrying a heavy looking box of shirts sealed in plastic bags and placed the box on the counter.
"Is that-" Greg whispered, rubbing small circles into John's hand.
John simply nodded his response and tightened his grip on the detective inspector's hand.
They both turned back to the screen.
The elder man unpacked the box in silence for several minutes, manually recording the prices and taking records of the stock in a large lined notebook.
Sherlock reached for the fastforward button on the machine but Greg shot him a dirty penetrative glare. Sherlock's eyes widened and he retreated sheepishly to his own seated position.
After several more minutes a young woman burst through the front door of the shop and visibly grimaced at the lazily managed and untidy state the shop was reduced to.
Everyone immediately recognised the face of Vicky Vance once she removed her large rimmed sunglasses. He wore a short fitted dress, looking more like she belonged in a nightclub rather than a men's clothes shop.
Moments of dialogue ensued between the elderly man and the young woman, both of them with smiles on their faces. After another few moments Vicky Vance reached into her bag and pulled out a large bundle of papers. They papers flapped about as she handed them to Ralph. He stood and studied the small print of the pages, flipping them over every few minutes, the smile slowly fading from his face. All the while, Vicky had continued taking. Ralphs face visibly changed after he reached page 7. The page was visible to the camera but unreadable. It was dotted with filled post-it notes and sticky arrows pointing to specifically underlined paragraphs. Vicky walked around by the back of the counter and began pointing to the same paragraphs which had already been highlighted. While she talked she pointed to specific parts of the shop, to the lights, to the window, down to the storage room. With every move she made, Ralph face grew visibly graver and graver. He handed the sheets back to Vicky and picked up his financial log. He turned to the last entry and began arguing with the young woman, pointing to figures in the ledger and back to the areas of the room she had previously mentioned. The softness in her face never subsided and her eyes grew heavy as the elderly man grew more and more aggravated. She visibly mouthed 'I'm sorry' several times in front of the camera in the time that followed. Ralph threw the notebook soundlessly onto the counter and threw his arms in the air, violently swinging them in large arches and pointing towards the young woman menacingly. Vicky looked fearfully at the older man and she began to back away from the counter and towards the door. In one second Ralph had Vicky by the arm and was shaking her violently, all the while shouting ferociously at the young women, her face showed every inch of fear. She began to cry out for help, her mouth opened wider and her head tilted towards the door.
It was over in a second and the three men shook violently as the elderly man picked a large marble paperweight from the desk and in one fluid motion he cracked the object against the young woman's temple. Vicky fell to the floor and disappeared behind the desk from the cameras view. Ralph dropped the object and it too disappeared from the cameras view. The old man cradled his tired time-worn face in his hand, visibly convulsing on screen.
With that the video faded to static and the three men were left to their own silence.
Greg turned to face John and a cold chill spread through his body in waves. John Watson's face was streaked red with glistening tears. He sobbed quietly and stared as the static rolled across the screen.
Sherlock reached over and turned the machine off and ejected the tape.
John turned and looked into Greg's eyes, which too had brimmed with tears.
"How could he do this? How could he…" John broke off before sliding off the chair and wrapping himself in Greg's embrace. He wept solemnly for what seemed like days to John and Greg waited patiently, curling his fingers into John's short blond hair.
"We have to find him. Tonight. We have to confront him about this. About all of this." John muffled into Greg's shirt.
Greg looked to Sherlock and was startled by the sheer emotion that spread across the younger man's features. His eyes were grey and heavy and he stared yearningly towards John's weeping form. Greg could see the dejection in Sherlock's eyes. There was sheer pain laced in the curl of his lips.
Empathy.
Maybe he's not a psychopath after all, Greg said to himself.
Sherlock reached his hand towards John, leaving it to linger in the air for a few moments. His fingers twitched but on making eye contact with Lestrade, he dropped his hand and brought it back into himself.
Greg had never seen anything like this coming from Sherlock before. It was almost like he was…
Wait a minute.
What had John said about Sherlock in the hospital?
Greg narrowed his eyes impulsively and Sherlock shrunk his limbs into himself.
He's mine! Greg roared in his own mind. You cannot have him!
"Sherlock, we have to find Ralph and put an end to this." John mumbled into Greg's shirt.
Lestrade shot a look towards Sherlock. Their eyes locked with a burning intensity.
How dare John ask Sherlock for help? I'm a Detective Inspector of New Scotland Yard and his boyfriend!
"O-of course, John. We'll go straight away." Sherlock croaked, a single tear glided down his cheek.
Don't touch him! He's mine! All mine! My precious!
And with a jump, Greg Lestrade broke away from his jealously driven possessiveness.
He looked down to John who clutched at a corner of Lestrade's shirt.
"How could I have been so blind?" Greg spoke just above a whisper. John lay quietly gathering up the pieces of his childhood and putting them back together piece by disjointed piece.
Greg looked up to Sherlock and repeated the sentence.
Sherlock looked to Greg and a single tear rolled down his cheek. Neither man spoke a word. Sherlock's face grew paler every second and the tears burned blood red canals into his cheeks.
"We're leaving. Now." Greg spoke loudly, lifting John into a seated position and leaving his leaning against the front of the chair.
Greg stood up and looked to Sherlock. Their eyes made contact once more and Greg walked out of the room.
Sherlock looked to John. He had stopped crying but he rested his eyes in the open palms of his hands. Sherlock slid across the floor and wrapped his arms tenderly around John's broad but weakened frame. John leaned into the taller man and sighed, like the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. They sat in silence like this for mere minutes but it felt like a lifetime to Sherlock. When Greg entered back into the room, Sherlock turned to DI Lestrade and smiled weakly. Greg smiled weakly back, accepting and understanding the mutual affections both men had towards the small blonde military hedgehog wrapped in Sherlock's arms.
"Let's go, John" Sherlock inhaled John's scent before releasing John from his grips.
The room filled with tension as Sherlock glided past Lestrade to his own room alone.
On returning back, Sherlock slipped his arms into his coat. Greg grabbed John under the arms and lifted him onto his feet. All three men hobbled outside 221b Baker street that night different men than they had arrived