A/N: Just odd. Part four. Still not British, a writer, or Schrödinger's cat. -csf
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For a moment, Sherlock relents. 'You believe I'm in your head, John?'
I shudder, tiredly, as I lean back against the book shelves. 'I guess you must be, Sherlock. Although I don't quite understand how come I'm so powerless and you get to have magic pockets. If it's my dream, why can't I have them too?'
Sherlock smirks. 'Jealousy is unbecoming on you, John.' Then, looking away, he refutes: 'How about the candle burn? I felt it too. My fingertip is still sore.'
I look him over under set brows. 'I'm a doctor, I know what fire will do to your skin. You say it hurts, but I can't feel yours, now can I?'
Sherlock faces me with a definite pout in his lower lip. 'You are a lousy doctor, John, if you think I'm dreaming up this burn', he chews the words, resentfully.
My exasperation bubbles over. 'Well, we can't both be the real ones! One of us is but an imaginary friend keeping the other company!'
'Do you really believe that?' Sherlock asks me shortly. Expressionless all of a sudden as only my manipulative friend can be.
I groan, exhausted. 'I don't know, Sherlock, not anymore. I don't know much anymore.'
The genius decides to take the high road, as he turns away from me. 'I believe in you, John, I'll always believe in you', he tells me. 'No matter what. So if you say you're real, than you are real.'
I gulp drily. 'I wonder how many mental patients heard that one from their primary hallucinations...'
Sherlock briskly halts, then deflates. 'Is that what's bothering you?' he asks, turning around. 'John...' he says my name, full of understanding and care.
'Never mind, Sherlock. Let's just solve the case. That's what we do best anyway.'
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'The old lady was the housekeeper?' I take a guess, focusing on Sherlock's case.
'Yes, John.'
'What's her name?'
'Why?'
'Because she's a suspect, I want to call her by name.'
There are instant knocks on the door. We both turn. An older woman in a housekeeper's outfit opens the door. Sherlock smirks. I glance at him, confused. He shrugs. 'You wanted to call her, but I don't recall such useless details like a name, John!' He sends her away with as brief shake of the head. She retreats politely. 'We shall call her "Mrs Hudson", John.'
'No!' I'm instantly sure. Enough with the madness. Mrs Hudson won't be a suspect in our case. She should, however, be paid a second rent now her flat is being used on a different plain of consciousness. 'How about "Mrs White", like in the board game? The victim is "Professor Plum", the visiting relative is "Coronel Mustard" and the twins–'
'How do you know they are twins, John? I didn't tell you that.'
I frown at Sherlock's intensity. He thinks he's onto something.
'I don't know, I guessed?'
'No', he smiles, frantic. 'You knew.' Then he breaks his smile. 'But how did you know, John? I must have told you, but I haven't seen you since morning...'
I get it. I take my hand to my jeans pocket. No magic pockets in my jeans, but I got my tricks.
Looking down on my phone some fuzzy memory returns to me. 'You phoned me, Sherlock. While I was on the underground. The call was breaking up, but I got the gist. Dead guy, locked room, four suspects that all could have done it, yet–'
Sherlock takes a seat over the dead man's desk, a thoughtful expression in his face, dreamy even.
'Huh, Sherlock?' I pointedly look at the body next to Sherlock.
Sherlock looks down on the body. 'Oh, he doesn't mind, I'm sure.'
I blink. 'Well, I do! It's not proper, you know?'
He snaps his fingers, the dead body vanishes. I lean a bit to see if the bloody stains on the chair are gone too. Best stain remover in the market, huh?
'Cool, does that work on your brother?' I smirk.
'I live in hope', he smirks back.
'The twins can be "Miss Scarlett" and "Miss Peacock" for the purposes of this exercise.' Sherlock nods his approval, a bit intrigued, as he restarts those little spheres in the Newton's cradle by his side.
Modest desk, uncluttered, one single piece of decor. 'That', I point at it, 'was a gift, I can see an inscription in the base. I don't know what it says because it's in a language I don't speak. Can you translate it?'
He shrugs, quiet. 'Couldn't read it from the crime scene photos. Not enough pixels, even with the magnifying lenses.'
'And you're sitting on top of pages and pages of complicated formulae. Mathematics? No, the gift points at a background in physics.'
'Good, John', Sherlock nods, still quiet. 'We're here to solve a murder, John.' He jumps down on the floor and walks to the windows with the long curtains drawn to the sides. Not balanced, though. One set is almost entirely open wide, and the other is nearly drawn together.
'Footprints', I mutter, kneeling on the rug where the light is cast. 'You and I have been walking around a lot, it's going to be hard to tell ours apart from any others. And, of course, we don't know if Mrs White, the housekeeper, has hoovered the carpet today. There could be dirt on that carpet from ages ago!'
Sherlock shakes his head in conviction. 'The room's too neat, no dust.'
I send him an evil eye. 'Saw that on the crime scene pictures, did you?'
He huffs. 'Fine, I asked! It's no fun to do the boring detective work, John. I much rather pretend it's all about walking into a room and pointing victoriously at the culprit.'
I start giggling, slowly. He's right. I've helped him before in the boring part of his work. 'Sherlock, it doesn't make you any less of a genius if you have to question the witnesses.'
He hesitates slightly, checking if I'm not pulling him on. 'Really?'
'Really. Cross my heart, scouts' word.' I smile at the rarity of Sherlock's insecurity. 'Go on, what about the footprints?'
He looks shy all of a sudden, just fleetingly, though. 'There were some footprints on the carpet, from the unlocked window to the desk, then out the door.'
'Easy case, then. Except for the twins, I guess they'll wear the same size shoes, it's just going to be about matching the shoe size to the killer's footprints...'
Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically. 'John.'
'What did I miss?' I ask, confused. The consulting detective pushes aside the open curtain with a hooked finger and a theatrical performance. I look on. A bird flutters by the window. We're up high with the birds. Seventh or eighth floor, at least. I finally get it. 'No one came in through the window, they couldn't have. So what were they doing? Hiding behind the curtain? Why? Waiting for Professor Plum to die?'
'Who?' Sherlock is genuinely lost. I'm reminded of how hard it is to play board games with Sherlock.
'The dead man', I remind him.
'Possibly. Or they had another reason to hide in his library.' Sherlock looks on at the desk. I follow his gaze.
'Numbers.' My friend hums approvingly, by my side. 'The killer thought the professor was balancing his accounts. Or waiting for that? No, not asking for money, or blackmailing the professor, the killer wouldn't feel the need to hide, being in a position of power over him. The killer wanted to see if there would be an inheritance – the old relative!'
Sherlock shakes his head. 'The dead man was dying, remember? Your Coronel Mustard could have waited.'
Nice timing to remember the character's name.
'I guess...' I admit defeat, tiredly.
'John? ...John!'
I take a hasted seat behind the desk, where the dead man sat before, crumbling apart with a piercing headache. The pain brings tears to my eyes, and I'm sweaty, and sound is oddly off tune. Violin music impossibly drifts on the background like a degraded echo. But Sherlock never leaves me. Immediately I feel cold gentle fingers prying mine away as my worried friend tries to have a look at my face. The morning light floods in my refuge, nauseating me. Then – I knew it was coming! – the library starts to shake from the ground up.
At least fake books don't fall off shelves, I suppose. The Newton's cradle swings again, the papers on the desk scatter onto the floor as Sherlock holds me tighter, and the light fixture hanging from the ceiling suddenly comes loose and crashes onto the centre of the rug with glass shattering.
'Breathe in, breathe out, John.'
'What is happening, what does all this mean?'
Sherlock answers reverentially: 'It means we're running out of time, John.'
.TBC
