Notes: Changed the disappearance of the necklace to last week instead of last month. Makes more sense that way timeline-wise.
Part III
The next morning found me scarfing down toast with strawberry jam, grabbing my jumper, and racing out the door at the first opportunity. Mum looked alarmed, but she didn't call me back so I ran faster and faster into the forest with the compass in my pocket and a magnifying glass (found it in Uncle Billy's study last night) in my hand. Now Sherlock and I could both use magnifying glasses and it'd help us solve the mystery of the disappearances and the missing necklace, right?
True, I think he did know what he was doing with the magnifying glass. I didn't really.
Sherlock was waiting for me in our clearing where we buried the mushroom-treasure yesterday. He looked bright-eyed and alert, obviously excited about the mystery. Even more excited than me, in fact. I suppose it was because it was a puzzle he could piece together with his knowledge. He was just raring for the chance.
"Oh good, you finally made it. I was getting so bored sitting here," he chirped as I stopped in front of him.
I raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?" I asked.
"I was bored," drawled Sherlock, twirling his magnifying glass again. "Bored! Bored! Bored!"
I couldn't help but laugh. Sherlock was pouting as he said that, in a way that really showed that he could still be five sometimes. "Well, now I'm here," I chuckled, causing Sherlock's pout to deepen.
"It's not funny," he muttered. "When I'm bored my brain rots."
"And ooze out your ears?"
"Can't do that, but sure. Maybe someday I'll make that an experiment."
"Good idea." I smiled brightly. "So, now I'm here. We can go investigate!"
Off we ran through the forest. Sherlock had found the location of the most recent disappearance – it was next to the pond in the heart of the forest, according to the papers. When we got there, the site had been marked off by the police yet there were no policemen in sight.
"Excellent. An opportunity to sleuth without police interference." Sherlock looked as if Christmas had come early. He rubbed his hands gleefully, grabbed the magnifying glass, and immediately set off around the crime scene looking for clues.
I stood there awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the next. "What do I look for?" I asked cautiously. I suppose the obvious thing would be footprints, but there were just so many of them on the ground that I supposed even Sherlock would be baffled.
And so he was. "Ugh, the police have messed it all up. I can't see anything interesting in the footprints. But hey! There's something here." He pointed to a pile of ash. "Cigarette ash."
"Do you know who it's from?"
"No idea. However, the chances of it being the hiker's cigarette are less than the chances of it being someone else's. Maybe a policeman or the person who abducted the hiker!"
I started walking around the site as well. The hiker's things had obviously been taken away, which meant that the site in and of itself was not much of a help. At least, to me it wasn't. I'm sure Sherlock found something, at least.
"Well?" I asked after a moment. "I'm confused. You got anything?"
"Not much." Sherlock was wandering outside the scene, poking around in the bushes for something. "Aha!"
"Aha?" I scrambled to join my friend, who was training his magnifying glass on a series of footprints in the nearby bushes. "Those… aren't those the footprints you showed me yesterday?"
"Exactly! Good memory, John!" Sherlock grinned at me, as if I wasn't the older one. Well, he was practically my height anyway. Still didn't make it fair. "These are the footprints of the fake-leg man and the… short person. Can't tell if it's a kid or an adult right now, but I'm sure I'll find something." His blue eyes shined with excitement. "This suggests that your guess yesterday could actually be correct!"
I felt really happy that we'd come to the same conclusion. "So, now what?"
"Now… now we figure out why they're doing all of this. You see, I haven't totally accepted your hypothesis yet. They could be just bystanders, after all. I need to know exactly what it is that brings hikers and campers into this part of the Cotswolds and what our robbers have to do with their disappearance."
"Okay." I looked up at the towering trees and the first sneaking patterns of sunlight below the leaves. "Are we going to look for more clues?"
"We can't find anything else in here; all the data's gone. Same for the other two sites. We'll make do with what we have, but in the meantime, we can get started on the treehouse."
He really didn't sound like a five-year-old. It scared me a bit.
I quickly found out that Sherlock Holmes knew a lot of things. He knew which plants in the forest were eatable and which could give you stomach-aches for days on end. He knew the various types of bugs and birds in various parts of the forest, and the colour of the mud in different areas. He knew different footprint patterns and all sorts of bird-calls.
But one thing he did not know about was how to build a treehouse.
True, he at least had an idea about how to support everything and what sorts of trees would work, but he had no idea how to actually build something. Mycroft must have been relieved at not having to carry lumber for us, because I could have sworn I heard him sigh in relief in a nearby bush. The leaves did rustle a bit.
"Does your brother have to follow us all over the place?" I asked Sherlock as we walked over to his house to find blankets, poles, and string. Instead of having a treehouse, we could have a tree-fort made out of blankets. That, at least, was more doable even if the maid, a kind old lady named Mrs. Hudson, complained about us ruining her sheets.
"I'd just washed them this morning, Sherlock, you'll just get them dirty again," she sighed as she rummaged in the linen closet for us. "You're always making such a mess in your room, dear."
"Experiments, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replied as I staggered slightly under the weight of the blankets and poles (mop and broom handles, mostly, as well as a rake).
"And is this an experiment, too?" Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes.
"No, it's a fort. A blanket fort in the forest."
Mrs. Hudson nearly dropped her sheets. "In the forest?" she demanded.
Sherlock nodded. I sniggered.
"Young man, I certainly won't have any of that!" Mrs. Hudson turned to glare at Sherlock, hands planted on her hips. "I have already resigned myself to the inevitable fact of you soiling my freshly-laundered sheets in the house; I will not have you taking them into the forest!"
"But we're going camping, Mrs. Hudson!"
"I won't hear of it! Go camping in the playroom."
"Playrooms are dull," sniffed Sherlock.
But in the end, Mrs. Hudson won the battle and we had to set up camp in the playroom instead of the forest. "Shame; it's not going to feel the same without the trees," I remarked as we started placing chairs and tables around the fort. Sherlock tied up the blankets and sheets with a thunderous face.
"I'll miss out on any new disappearances," he grumbled. "It's not fair."
"Well, I'm sure when you grow up and become a private detective you'll get to camp in the woods whenever you want," I consoled, weighting down the edges of a blanket with several heavy books.
Sherlock sneered. "Private detectives? What use is there for private detectives?"
"Fenton Hardy's a private detective."
"Police don't go to private detectives."
"Then why'd they –"
"My dear John." Sherlock put his hands on my shoulders, smiling like someone trying to explain why the Earth was round. "You can't believe everything they say in the Hardy Boys."
"Well, it is American and all –"
"No, that's got nothing to do with it. Private detectives are called private because ordinary people go to them. Not the police. Unless they're off duty, that is. I don't see any use in being a private detective, because then you have to worry about money and business and it all gets in the way of the work." He paused. "Why'd you think I was going to be a detective?"
"You looked so happy about a mystery." I shrugged. "I guess it just comes naturally to you."
"I see." Sherlock smirked slightly. "In any case, I'm not going to follow in anyone else's footsteps. I'll be a consulting detective when I grow up."
"Does that even exist?"
"It does now." Sherlock grinned and ducked into the blanket fort. "You coming in or what?"
Mrs. Holmes allowed Sherlock to go over to my place in the afternoon, so we set off for my house down the main road instead of the forest. It didn't take us very long, but when we got to the cottage there was a police car next to Mum's car.
I got scared. Really scared. I ran for the door, Sherlock racing after me with his magnifying glass in his hands (he had been looking at some weeds with it). Mum answered my knocking and nearly fell over as she scooped me up and hugged me ferociously.
"Oh Johnny, Johnny darling, thank God you're safe," she sobbed. "Don't go away for so long again, do you hear me? It's getting more and more dangerous –"
"What's happened?" I asked curiously. Sherlock had straightened up next to me; he seemed to be listening in.
"There's been another disappearance," he said before my mum could.
"Johnny, who's this?"
"Mum, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, meet my mum."
"Oh, you're one of the Holmes boys, then? In the house next door?"
"Yes, Mrs. Watson. Nice to meet you." Sherlock's face broke into a bright, innocent smile. I had trouble connecting him to the five-year-old genius that I had met barely yesterday and already considered a friend.
"Pleasure's all mine! And yes, how did you know that there's been another disappearance?"
"Well, John's been with me all day and you were really relieved at seeing him again, so I guess you hadn't seen him in a while and started becoming worried about him. That and there are policemen in the house which made you believe the worst." He paused, examining her as if trying to figure out her life story. "You don't have to worry."
"Those are kind words, Sherlock, but –"
"But I'll make sure he doesn't get hurt, Mrs. Watson."
I blushed slightly. "That's all good for you to say, Sherlock, but you're five," I muttered.
"So?"
Mum chuckled. "You're a darling. Come in here, come in. Meet Johnny's aunt Petunia – Tuney's just made fairy-cakes, would you like one?"
"No thanks, I don't eat while I'm on a job."
I gave Mum a look that said 'yes, he's like this a lot'. Sherlock had skipped lunch. According to the cook, a kind lady named Glenda who made brilliant pastries, he had skipped breakfast, too. Apparently digesting food slowed him down.
We squished together on an armchair across from the policeman, who was pouring himself a cup of tea. Harry was nowhere to be found. Aunt Petunia said she was in her room.
"So, what is this about disappearances, sir?" Sherlock asked the policeman. He looked up and smiled quickly before taking a sip of his tea.
"There's been another disappearance. Campers. Discovered this morning."
"What does the site look like?"
"Why would you want to know, sonny?"
"It interests me." Sherlock pressed his fingers together like a tent. "Whatever else is my own business."
The policeman looked surprised at Sherlock's reply. I sniggered.
"Right, well. I don't think it's much of a thing for kids," he said after a moment. "Too dangerous."
"I can deal with that."
"Brave of you to say so, lad, but no."
Sherlock sighed and nudged me. "What?" I hissed as Mum started talking to the policeman again. "Listen in on them!"
"I suppose," Sherlock muttered, and I could tell by his expression that he was listening, yes. "It's in the forest, of course. A clearing. Well, that's not going to help; there are lots of clearings there!"
"Shh!" I held my finger to my lips. The policeman looked sidelong at us; obviously he knew we were listening. After a moment he set down his cup and saucer, stood up, shook Mum's hand, and left the house. Aunt Petunia distractedly handed us two fairy-cakes.
"Mum, do you know where the disappearance happened?" I asked.
"It's in the forest. I don't think it's a good idea to let you boys play deep in the forest anymore."
"So the kidnapper was deep in the forest, then?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes, not too far from the last one."
"That's a start," Sherlock whispered to me, smirking. I nodded.
"Could we go there, Mummy?"
"Go where?"
"To the place where the campers disappeared."
"Don't be absurd, Johnny; it's dangerous."
"Please, Mrs. Watson?" Sherlock pleaded. He winked at me before turning back to Mum with the biggest set of kicked-puppy eyes that I had ever seen. "Please? I'm looking for my Mummy's missing necklace and I think I might get clues with the disappearance. Please?"
Mum sighed. "I guess so," she said, stomping over to the coat rack to get her coat. "You super sleuths better stay close to me, though. I won't have you disappearing on me when we get there."
We got to the second crime scene just as the policeman from earlier arrived. There were some other policemen, too, and they were all poking around in the tents and supplies, looking for information.
"The victims left identification this time," I heard someone say. "Twin campers. Bartholomew and Thaddeus Sholto."
"What sort of identification? Credit cards? Run those through if you've got them."
"Wealthy campers," Sherlock whispered to me. "Look at the size of that tent. Fits all of their gear, and high-tech gear, too, judging by what the police are carting out."
"We should look for more footprints!" I added. "Maybe in the bushes –"
"We'll do that after we get more information on these campers," hissed Sherlock. We looked up at Mum, who had been distracted by an inspector named Lestrade. Sherlock winked at me. We ducked underneath the tape and ran into the tent.
"Why would these campers camp over here when they've got so much other things they could do with their money?" Sherlock muttered as he prowled about the huge tent with his magnifying glass out. I tried to follow him, but I didn't know what he was looking for. "Look at the state of their bedrolls and clothes."
"Couldn't the police have messed them up?"
"Muddy tracks outside this entrance."
"Won't the police be back in this tent any moment?" Even as I asked that, I could hear footsteps. Someone was coming back. "Quick!"
We hid ourselves behind two large crates of food. Sherlock grinned at me.
"Listen. They're talking about the victims."
"Their last purchase with the credit cards," I murmured. Sherlock nodded and shushed me. He listened eagerly for a moment, but his expression fell.
"Nothing interesting."
"Really? They bought a book."
"On ghost stories."
I snickered. "But wouldn't that tie in? Ghost stories of the Cotswolds? Maybe one of the ghosts did –"
"John, how many times do I have to tell you? Ghosts do not exist and they wouldn't be able to drag these two brothers away. Judging by the size of their sleeping bags, I think they're rather fat, too."
I giggled. "Maybe they got spooked out and bolted."
"That could be the case." Sherlock frowned. "Let's find the book. As soon as the police leave the tent…"
The footsteps of the police receded. Sherlock sprang out of his hiding spot and started rummaging through the nearby crates. "Ghost stories… ghost stories…"
I dove into the crate with him. "Hey," I hissed suddenly, pulling up a book. "This it?"
"Haunted Cotswolds! That works!" Sherlock grinned at me. I opened it, and a paper fell to my feet. Sherlock bent down and picked it up. "What's that?"
"It's a picture." Sherlock frowned. "Scratch that, make it a map."
"A map?"
"Wait, no. It's not just any map. It's a treasure map."
"What? No!"
"Not an ancient treasure, though, judging by the paper. Rather recent. I guess it's a new treasure that's sprung up. We'll take a look at this outside, won't we? Put the book back."
When we left the tent, Mum was waiting for us with her hands on her hips and a stern expression on her face. My heart sank.
"Boys, I told you to stay within sight," she snarled. I backed away slightly.
"Sorry?" I offered. Sherlock grinned just as guiltily.
"We found something though," he offered, waving the map. "A treasure map! It's of this forest, but it's kinda badly-drawn so I'm not sure where X is exactly. Still…" he trailed off, making me curious. I looked over at the picture.
"What's wrong?"
Sherlock pointed to the dot that said 'HOLMES MANSION' on it. Aunt Petunia's cottage wasn't there, but Sherlock's mansion was.
I frowned and felt the mystery thicken in my head.
