Chapter Three: A Study in Scarlet … and Yellow

2 January 2013, 221B Baker Street

'We've been burgled,' said Holmes, exactly eight seconds after stepping across the threshold of the apartment.

It was a quarter past seven in the evening, and Sherlock had just returned from the Royal Institution. He stood, rigid, surveying the scene in the living room; his brown, wavy hair was damp from the January sleet.

'We've been what?' Watson asked, appearing in the hallway. After Kevin left, John had found several other tasks to keep him occupied (including re-arranging his sock drawer), instead of blogging about Miss Adler. Underneath his stripy dressing gown, the doctor was fresh from the shower. His light-brown hair was sticking out in a multitude of directions - evidently he'd just been drying it. From the shower-room, the soothing scent of ylang-ylang drifted down to the two housemates.

'The thief is male, right-handed and dyes his hair.' Holmes spoke without pausing for breath, cool blue eyes flickering from sofa to desk, and back to Watson, where they rested. His silhouette was framed in the living room doorway by the hall light.

'Our thief sent you on an errand. To retrieve something he knew you were unlikely to keep in the flat,' Sherlock's gaze landed on a pile of crumbs on the sofa, 'biscuits – custard creams,' he added. In one fluid motion, the detective drew a folding magnifier from his trouser pocket and began inspecting the dim room.

'This was his first visit.' Sherlock continued. 'A casual acquaintance, possibly from out of town, but probably from abroad - why are you waving the nail-clippers from the Green Baroness case in my face, John?'

'They're right here, Sherlock,' said Watson, 'he didn't steal them, he moved them. They were on the coffee table. You need to stop thinking the worst of people,' Watson admonished his friend.

'They were moved to create a diversion. To draw the attention of lesser intellects.' The detective said absent-mindedly, tossing the nail-clippers in the direction of the sofa. They landed on the floor with a CLUNK.

John opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced by his housemate's extended finger, directing his attention to the center of the room. 'Tell me what you see John!' commanded Sherlock.

The doctor sighed. His patience was wearing awfully thin. Reluctantly, he turned to survey the room. 'Nothing. I don't see anything. Now you're going to tell me that I'm wrong, and -'

'Correct. We see nothing. Observe.' Sherlock ordered, reaching behind himself to slam the living room door shut with a BANG.

They were instantly plunged into darkness. Only the glow of the city lights outside allowed them to see each other.

'Could you please turn the light on Sherlock - I can barely see a thing,' said Watson, with more than a small amount of irritation. Despite the central heating, he was feeling chilly beneath his damp dressing gown.

'Exactly. Oh this is exciting,' the wavy-haired detective enthused, flicking on the light switch.

Nothing happened. The room remained bathed in shadows, until Holmes threw open the door again, illuminating them with light from the hall.

'The snowball Watson - it's obvious!' There was an excited gleam in Sherlock's eyes, as he skipped over to the lamp, and began rapidly flicking the switch on and off.

Once again, nothing happened. No welcoming light emitted from beneath the faded chintz lampshade.

The detective turned the lampstand on its side, sending a cascade of dust into the air.

Where the bulb should have sat was an empty socket.

'It's a message, John, a riddle! He's taken our lightbulbs!' Sherlock said, spinning around to face the doctor, before continuing: 'What did it say? The snowball, what was the message?'

John struggled to recall the words frozen into the ice. 'Something about being hungry and needing to eat,' the doctor answered testily, 'which reminds me, I'm due at Cassandra's for supper in - '

Sherlock had begun to pace the floor rapidly. 'I am always hungry, I must always be fed. The finger I touch, will soon turn red,' he recited to himself, his voice almost a whisper. It was hard for Watson to see his flatmate's expression in the gloomy room.

'Fire, the answer is fire.' said Holmes. 'The answer to the riddle is the opposite ofhow it was conveyed - the opposite of ice. Oh, this is fun.'

The detective stopped pacing, noticing the mixture of bewilderment, exasperation and grudging admiration on his friend's face. This wasn't the first time he'd seen it. (Oddly enough, it was often followed by the offer of a punch to the nose. Normal people could be so difficult.)

'Look for the riddle John!' Holmes ordered, wrenching the lampshade from its stand, turning it upside-down, and feverishly shaking it - looking for a concealed message.

'Can we please go back a step, Sherlock. Why would Kevin steal our lightbulbs? And what does that have to do with - ' Watson's voice was beginning to rise in irritation.

'It has to be here … ' the detective pushed past John, on his way to grab his desk chair. He then proceeded to carry it to the middle of the room, where he set it down, beneath the empty ceiling lampshade. With a hop, he climbed up onto the dangerously creaking piece of furniture, and began to scrutinise the thin paper lampshade - former home to a 60 watt bulb.

'Nothing!' Holmes exclaimed in frustration. He looked down at Watson, breathless from exertion. The slender detective's eyes began darting around the gloomy living room, his lips moving silently. Suddenly, as if frozen to the spot, Sherlock's body became absolutely still. He jumped off the chair, strode over to the window, and pulled the curtains shut with great force. Now that no light from the street could enter, the room was even darker.

'Close the door John!' the detective called over his shoulder. Behind him he heard a CLICK as his friend complied. The two of them were plunged into blackness. 'Look for something we can only see in the dark!' said Sherlock.

By now, Britain's only consulting detective had dropped to all fours, and was scuttling around the floorboards, like a very large crab.

'Not here,' Holmes spoke with annoyance, his voice muffled. Removing his head from beneath the desk, he began crawling towards the sofa.

'Yes!' Sherlock exclaimed mid-shuffle. 'John,' he whipped his head around to address the doctor, 'what do you smell?'

John didn't answer. 'I'll be in my room Sherlock,' said Watson, pulling open the living room door. 'Getting ready for my supper date - which I'll probably be late for.' Everything in the doctor's body language expressed intense irritation.

Holmes sprang up from his position on the floor, crossed the living room in three paces, took hold of his friend's wrist - and dragged him in the opposite direction.

'The rug John - smell the rug!' the detective commanded with urgency, as he struggled with a very cross looking Dr Watson.

Sherlock let go of his flatmate abruptly when they reached the worn sheepskin - causing Watson to lose his footing, and almost topple over onto his backside.

By the time the doctor had righted himself, Sherlock was down on the floor once more - his nose buried in the grubby rug.

With a sigh of exasperation, Watson slowly lowered himself to the ground. Bending over, he sniffed the air once. 'I don't smell anything Sherlock,' he said, voice stiff with annoyance.

'Smell the rug!' Holmes' hand shot out, pushing his friend's head face-down into the sheepskin.

'Mumble-mumble-Sherlock!' the doctor gasped for breath, picking fluffy strands from his mouth.

'Volatile hydrocarbons – n-butane and isobutane. DME - Dimethyl ether … Probably an aerosol deodorant.' Holmes spoke rapidly, rubbing a strand of wool between his thumb and forefinger, and inhaling deeply.

Watson almost shouted at his friend: 'So Kevin used deodorant while I was at Mrs Hudson's. He said he took the sleeper coach down from Newcastle. He probably didn't get a shower this morning. And if he is a kleptomaniac pet-detective, and I'm skeptical, and all he took was our lightbulbs, we should be -'

Ignoring his friend's speech, Holmes jumped to his feet, and began scrambling through his desk drawers. The thrill of anticipation was visible in his body language, and the dim hall light cast a long shadow onto the wall behind the detective.

'Oh no, Sherlock. No.' said John, with barely suppressed panic in his voice, as he sprang to his feet and ran to his flatmate (stopping to cough up several woolly fibres along the way).

The detective's fingers clasped around the cool object he had been searching for, and he purposefully strode back to the rug. Holding off the doctor with his left hand, he used his right to flick the steel cigarette lighter on.

In the bright flame, the two friends were briefly illuminated.

Then, before Watson could stop him, the detective dropped the burning cigarette lighter onto the sheepskin.

The flame caught the thickly sprayed aerosol in the rug. There was a soft whoosh, and, for a second, a blindingly bright message burned clear and beautiful in the darkness:

'The more you have of me,

The less you see.'

And then it was gone.