448 Allsop Place. A street over from Baker St. The door is worn around the edges: slammed many times. Scratches around the doorknob: drunk.
"Hello, Mr. Cheveux! I admit, I was a bit surprised that you would rent without seeing it first, but I'm happy to get a tenant."
"Hamish."
"I'm sorry?"
"Call me Hamish."
"Right, of course. Well, I'm Marge, then. The flat is a bit small, but great for a single guy. You don't have a girlfriend, do you?"
Why does everyone assume I'd want a girlfriend?
"Not really my area."
"Oh. Okay. Well, there's only one bedroom anyway, and the kitchen is small. But very serviceable. The utilities are a part of the bill. I hope you like the furniture, as it came furnished."
"I know, it shouldn't be a problem."
"Great! Well, have a look around. I live in the flat next door if you need anything."
"Some tea would be great."
"Well, there's a faucet and a stove. Have a nice day."
I wish Mrs. Hudson was here. Not for any silly sentimental reason, of course. She just made great flat is dark, shabby, worn down. Wallpaper peeling near the ceiling. Sofa the same red as John's ridiculous Christmas jumper. Someone sat in the left corner of that sofa and put their size 10 boots on the extremely scratched coffee table. The orange shag carpet is repulsive. Five boxes in the corner: delivered at 8:00 this morning. I suppose I should unpack what little I have. Mycroft must've gotten my things from 221B and sent them here. Where's my skull? I'm going to have to have a chat with my insufferable brother. He probably found my cigarettes too. Well, I can always get another pack, while that skull was irreplaceable. What is that annoying sound? Oh, a text from Lestrade.
"Could you come down to the station? We have new information."
Finally, something to do!
"Donovan would kick me for saying this, but I think Sherlock was framed."
Lestrade is sitting at his cluttered desk. His feet are planted on the ground, which is unusual. He's not comfortable. His eyes are animated and motioning with his hands: excitement. Eyebrows furrow: confusion. He dresses well.
"Why?"
"He couldn't have faked that much. He couldn't have fooled us to that degree. I worked with him personally, and I know he was brilliant, possibly brilliant enough to not have to fake it."
"Could that conclusion be based in sentiment?"
"Initially, I thought so. The man was a bloody fool, but I did care about him a great deal. Which is why I thought it was my affection for him that made me think he was innocent. But as I review the cases he solved, I'm beginning to think it wasn't affection. There were many cases he inexplicably solved with what seemed like zero evidence, but every time, he had a plausible explanation."
"He could've planned it that way."
"Maybe, but I doubt it. Call it intuition. Regardless, I'd like you to interview some of the people who knew him best. Here's some names and addresses. Let me know what you come up with."
Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, John. I should've known. My disguise is well done though, and it's close enough that their emotions could cloud any reasoning capabilities. I can pull this off. Maybe they will actually have useful information. Doubtful, but possible.
"Alright. I'm on it."
Lestrade's feet are back on the desk. He's comfortable. He doesn't seem to resent me as much now. Cared about him. Affection. I thought he despised me. I thought I was a wonderful judge of people. It's sentiment. That's what it is. It always throws me off. Because I'm not capable of it.
He cared about me?