"Well, now this is very interesting." Sherlock Holmes exclaimed as he opened the door to the study where Mortimus Ravensdale had met his end. He swept the room quickly with a look before entering. John hesitated at the door as Sherlock began his familiar ritual of examination. He had been on myriads of unusual crime scenes with Sherlock in the past, but he had to admit that this one topped them all. The room smelled stagnant, like a fishpond in high summer. The windows were clouded with dry algae. Sherlock had switched into full analysis mode. He was darting from place to place muttering, his slide magnifier in one gloved hand. John looked up at the ceiling and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. The chandelier was indeed, as Mycroft had said, draped in pond weed. The effect was odd, almost pretty, but there was something so haunting about it that John felt an immediate impulse to leave the room. He shrugged the feeling off until he turned to look at Sherlock, and it returned threefold.
The brilliant detective was standing in the middle of the room, his hands by his sides. He looked utterly, utterly perplexed.
John couldn't remember ever having seen Sherlock appear so lost.
"And ideas?" he asked hopefully.
"Ahm..." Sherlock turned distractedly, lingering on a thought. "Yes," he said finally, straightening up and masking his confusion in one easy movement.
"There are a number of possibilities, obviously it will take time to isolate the correct one."
"Oh," John relaxed. "Great."
Sherlock took off one of his gloves and placed his hand flat to the wall. His brow furrowed.
"What is it?" John asked.
"Still wet..." Sherlock turned to him. "It's been two weeks, and the walls are still wet."
"But that doesn't make any sense."
"Of course it doesn't." Sherlock took a sample bag and a capped scalpel from his pocket and began to scrape away a fragment of plaster.
"Yet."
777
Molly was running a bath when John and Sherlock returned to the converted stable. It was the long redbrick building they had seen on arrival. Molly heard them banging up the iron stairs to the door, talking, Sherlock's low voice carrying better than John's. Molly could make out the words 'whiskey' 'chlorophyll' and 'idiot'. She turned off the tap and tested the water.
The doorway to the stables led onto a Mezzanine floor above the large, open plan sitting room and kitchen. Spiral stairs led down to it. Three ensuite bedrooms led off from the main room, but only the palatial communal bathroom had a tub. Molly had practically squealed when she saw it, deep and clawfooted, standing in the middle of the room. It certainly beat the cramped plastic one in her flat.
Molly slipped off the white terrycloth robe that had come with the room (amazing) and climbed into the bath, gasping as her skin reacted to the steaming water. She lay back full length and rested her head against the rim of the tub. She had brought a book in with her, but for the moment she lay still, eyes closed, letting the heat work the tension from her body. The room was silent, save for the low hum of voices in the other room, and the tap dripping with a steady 'plink' into the water at her feet.
'plink'
'plink'
Molly's relaxed expression began to shift slowly toward discontent.
'plink'
This was a form of torture in some cultures, wasn't it? That damn tap...
'plink'
Molly's eyes snapped open and she surged forward in annoyance to tighten the guilty faucet, and stopped. The water-stained brass tap wasn't the source of the irritating leak. The water dripping into the bathwater was coming from above. Each droplet stained the water with a tinge of murky greenish brown. Molly wrinkled her nose in distaste. She looked up. Sure enough, a large damp stain in the ceiling above the bathtub was weeping droplets of dirty water. Leaky tank, Molly thought, as she heaved herself up and began to towel off. There was a definite stagnant smell from the water on her skin. She would have to shower in the ensuite before dressing. How revolting... An ominous creak made her glance up at the ceiling once more. The damp patch had begun to swell. Molly reached for her bathrobe, and the lights went out.
777
Sherlock was unpacking his equipment when he heard Molly scream. He registered John moving past him at speed, headed towards the bathroom. Sherlock dropped a test tube and followed. He arrived at the bathroom door just as John threw his full weight against it. The door buckled slightly, but didn't give. Molly's hysterical screams continued behind it.
"Molly, unlock the door!" John shouted. Sherlock pushed him out of the way.
"I'm almost certain she would have, if she were capable." He muttered, before hitting the door hard, shoulder on. The lock splintered and suddenly his arms were full of warm, damp, trembling flesh as Molly careened out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel and fell straight into him. She clawed at his chest, eyes wide.
"There's somebody in there! Please get me... There was somebody in there with me, the lights-"
"Wait here." Sherlock took the distraught pathologist by the shoulders and gently but firmly pushed her towards John.
The bathroom was still in darkness when Sherlock entered, but with the vague light filtering in around the door his eyes began to adjust in seconds. He scanned the room quickly.
Only points of entry: Door (discarded, locked from inside). Window (high, ten foot, wall smooth, no handholds).
'plink'
Sherlock's eyes flicked to the bathtub. It was still full. The water was dark, clouded. Sherlock's nose twitched. Similar olfactory characteristics as the crime scene. Identical, even.
The surface of the water was undisturbed save for a droplet breaking the surface rhythmically, 'plink plink plink plink plink' Sherlock looked up at the dark ceiling to find the source of the droplets and abruptly, they ceased. He looked back down at the bathwater just as a single bubble rose to the surface. Without a moment's hesitation he plunged both arms into the tub.
777
John led Molly to the couch. She was shaking violently, her wet hair dripping down her back. He sat her down and took her face in his hands.
"Molly," he said gently, "Tell me exactly what happened."
He felt her pulse racing under his fingers. Her pupils were wide with fear.
"There was a leak in the roof. I don't know. The lights went out and then... I couldn't see a thing and-"
Molly took a deep, shuddering breath.
"There was... Someone there. In the dark with me. I tried to get to the door and they pulled me back, pulled my hair, they were strong. Is Sherlock in there? Tell him to be careful, please!"
"Sherlock!" John called.
Sherlock appeared around the doorway. He was soaked.
"Hmm?"
"Did you find them?"
Sherlock looked perplexed.
"Who?"
John and Molly looked up at him.
"Oh." He shrugged. "There's nobody in there."
"But I felt it," Molly protested, "I felt somebody touch me!"
Sherlock approached her. He lifted her wet hair away from her neck.
"Doubtless." He said softly. John craned his neck to see what Sherlock was looking at. On Molly's thin shoulder was an unmistakable pattern. Fingerprint bruises just beginning to redden her pale skin.
"Excuse me."
Sherlock turned on his heel and left the room. Molly heard his door slam. John met her frightened eyes.
"Tea?"
777
Sherlock let his head fall back against the door and shut his eyes. He breathed deeply for a minute then straightened up, running his hands through his wet hair. His mind was racing. He couldn't remember feeling this strange before. His brain was taking all the usual routes, exploring every possibility, but at the end of each corridor, instead of a feasible solution, lay a perplexing blank. It made him feel sick, like missing a step in the dark.
And there was something else too.
Clouding his mind was an all too recent image he couldn't seem to shake. Molly, her face pale, her eyes like molten pools, the way her skin felt when she collapsed into his arms... He had taken her fine-boned shoulders in his hands. They felt so fragile, and so small. Sherlock looked down at his hands, and was surprised to see them trembling. He raised an eyebrow.
Interesting reaction.
He closed his eyes again. The image of the delicate nape of her neck when he touched her hair was burned into his consciousness. It was affecting his focus. He needed to delete it.
After a few more deep breaths, Sherlock opened his eyes. The image had faded comfortably into the background, though it did take more effort than he would like to admit.
777
Molly was sitting on the couch fully clothed when Sherlock entered the sitting room. Her and John were drinking tea.
"Coming?" Sherlock asked, taking his coat from the coat rack.
"Where?" John put down his cup.
"I'm going to the lake."