Frustration wasn't unfamiliar to Sherlock Holmes, however, he currently felt defenseless to his own particular perplexity. There was an excessive number of inquiries and insufficient answers. Was this how John felt? He pondered. It was unusual- his mind palace couldn't understand. It doubted him, provoked him, screamed at him. Continually indicating in circles; constantly wound up where he began. With those few questions. How did she get to London? Why was the interior of her house in an alleyway? Who or what did this to her? Of course, Sherlock wasn't actually believing her delirious claim of her television becoming a vacuum spontaneously. There had to be something behind it. Sherlock had tried to evaluate it through his mind palace the previous evening, but there were too many holes in the situation. He had too many questions. He needed answers.

Perhaps, Moriarty wasn't dead. He managed to stump Sherlock with his brilliant schemes and insane methods.

Dissatisfaction was extremely all he felt. That he didn't have answers, as well as the single witness was unconscious. He was hoping he could decode her. Observe her. Understand why she was the target. Without Ashton awake, however, this would be quite a challenge. He had seen her wakeful once previously, however, she had been nonsensical, on therapeutic medications, and in shock. These definitely affected practices.

He was in a continuous loop. Scan the pictures, rush to the crime scene. Reobserve, reobserve, reobserve. He knew nearly every detail of her life, from what she ate for breakfast to how organized she was, however, he couldn't make sense of what had happened a couple of hours prior.

Sherlock let out a frustrated cry and stabbed the photos with a few kitchen knives to the bullet-riddled wall. He ran his fingers through his curly hair, combing it, pulling it, and shaking the bouncy locks in frustration. He thudded onto the love seat, hands tapping restlessly against his temple as he pressed his eyes and thought. Was this how typical people were with straightforward perceptions? How pitiful.

"Why the tantrum?" John addressed from the entryway. He considered the condition of the untidy front room inquisitively, not missing the several carving knifed stabbed into the wall. "Is it that difficult to figure out?" John's interest got the best him, investigating the photographs.

"This is not a tantrum, John. I am simply solving this case."

John's eyebrows climbed his forehead. "You've been huddled here in the living room for two days now. If you were solving this case, you'd have been done at this point." John tasted at fresh tea cupped in his hand.

Sherlock lifted his face and sat up, sinking his brow to his knees. He huffed, unwilling to concede to defeat yet. Not until the girl was awake. Sherlock adjusted his collar and quickly pivoted, "I'm off to analyze her things. Coming?"

"Again?" John asked incredulously, grabbing his coat regardless, "You've been there twelve times!"

Sherlock was about to walk to the door, but he did a double take when he looked to one of the fifty photos he had hung on the wall. He scrunched his eyebrows, perturbed by what he saw; something that shouldn't quite be there. Something that caused his made his skin tingle and slither with dread.

He was swift, slipping out the door, and waving a taxi down. He stated his destination snappily, demanding to accelerate. He sat firmly the whole ride, his mind going over what he had seen. Had he truly observed what he thought he had?

John saw Sherlock's uncommon apprehensive behavior, and he became cautious. "Sherlock? You good? What'd you see?" He narrowed his eyes at the fidgety detective. What had made Sherlock so uneasy?

Sherlock's hand ran through his wavy locks, "I'm not.. sure. It's to do with us." His eyes held an on edge manner. His eyes flash over to a stressed John. Letting out a breath, he chuckled emptily, "It's not dangerous or anything, just... unnerving." Startling.

John considered and watched out the window with a confused, concerned demeanor painted on his face, "Okay, but what does that mean? To do with us?" He finally burst the question, turning to face the detective. "Surely something that made you this upset would be important."

Sherlock scoffed, "I'm not upset." His body language betrayed him. Sherlock's fingers tapped on the seat as the taxi eased back to a stop and he scurried out of the car, John in tow. Sherlock pretended not to hear the ex-army doctor.

"Sherlock! What was in the photograph?" John's voice was requesting, almost begging, he was so bewildered. John felt ignorant next to his brilliant friend. He couldn't figure out a person's life story by viewing their outfit, and he couldn't find out who was a murder by seeing their footprints. He could just truly go off of what Sherlock let him know.

Sherlock was shuffling through her belongings when John caught up and had ducked under the caution tape. The detective could almost hear his thoughts churning in that little mind of his. Sherlock battled a shudder, despite the fact that his coat was still on. Sherlock took a long stride to where his eyes watched in suspicion. Hunching, he carefully got a handle on what had grabbed his attention. He could feel John's eyes on him as he worked the object from the pile. He held it in the air, enabling John to view it.

It was a small DVD case, which disturbingly had Sherlock and John posing for the photo. Large words read Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes went over what they had seen in the photograph, the little BBC printing at the top and the words describing the film. Sherlock felt his heart stammer as he looked over the printing, and that this was the first season. Ominous words, Study in Pink, Blind Banker, and Great Game were supposed to be the episodes, ones that Sherlock only knew from John's blog.

John felt Sherlock grimace as he took the case into his own hands, turning it over and seeing the same things Sherlock had observed. He might not have been as brilliant as Sherlock, but he wasn't a complete idiot. "Is someone stalking us? Is the girl? I mean, this is.. is it fake?"

Sherlock stood, placing his hands in his pockets, "Professionally done. Not the girl. There's a price tag," He pointed to the little sticker. "Bought from a garage sale; handwritten. Scratches. Dust. It's old and played excessively. Daily, even." Sherlock wasn't meeting John's eyes, as they were flickering over the DVD case once more.

Sherlock nearly felt disgrace; he'd generally depended on his capacities, however now they were futile to this peculiar case. Nothing connected as they always had.

John shrugged, "Maybe she is right? Maybe the television... did, swallow her up. I mean, who knows?" He turned the DVD case over in his hand, "Creepy, though." He squinted at the title page, "And a horrendous picture of me."

Sherlock split a little grin, taking the case from John and fitting it into his long coat. "Now... to get all this to the lab."

John raised his eyebrows in surprise, "All of it?" His mind automatically replayed how crowded their house and lab already was.

"Try not to be idiotic, John. I meant simply the imperative things. Like her wallet, her shoes, some things for her when she's moving in. Items to analyze."

"She's moving in!?" John shouted in dismay. His jaw had dropped in astonishment as he froze to stare at the detective.

Sherlock brought his attention back to John, disappointment hinting on his face for John's absence of reasoning. Shaking his head, he got back to plucking items from the heap that would make great research on the baffling young lady. "Goodness, do keep up, John. She has no place to live. Obviously, she's moving in."

"Well, this is news to me." John crossed his arms, huffing and crouching down to help sort the mass of items. He pinched an edge of a black plastic, and to his surprise, it was a large bag full of trash. He mumbled under his breath about how rarely he was informed while eyeing the trash, carefully picking up the reeking bag and holding it before him.

Sherlock turned upward from his engaged position, attempting to get any longer insights he could from the pile of things. It was too simple to read her and what she did. It resembled reading a book, with the exception that Sherlock could read twelve books on how she ate soup from only one look. Furthermore, Sherlock had had plenty of glances.

John let a vacant laugh slip, "I discovered some rubbish." He announced. He held the bag out to Sherlock in distaste. He had no need to go near the putrid fumes that were being emitted from the black bag. He gave a knowing grunt and shoved it into the detective's chest impatiently, "Here. Just don't put anything in the microwave."

Sherlock stood with excited energy. Investigations going through his mind, he grinned like a child on Christmas. "Splendid, John. Splendid!" He applauded a took the pack, looking in, "Ohh, this ought to be fun. Take a gander at that old banana peel!" He murmured in awe, shutting the sack and setting it to the side. "Astonishing."

Sherlock kept on scavenging through the stack and snatch things he discovered imperative, similar to the vase shards and particularly the broken TV. Anything suspicious was set in a couple of empty boxes found in the heap. Sherlock was set to discover the purpose for this abnormal case.

John watched as the brilliant detective organized the items thoroughly as he stood there awkwardly. He watched him locate the sensitive shards of the vase which could be as little as a pea. It was all very entrancing, the result.

Sherlock ended up with seven larger boxes of things. Some for the case, some for experiments, and most sacrificed for the teen, who now apparently had nothing. He ended up balancing five in his arms, while John held the other two. It was interesting, carrying five boxes to the taxi, but he was always up for a challenge.

John watched the ridiculous detective as he carried five boxes that looked half his size. Raising an eyebrow, John helped stuff the items in the cab, although it did take some motivation of the skeptical driver. They were squished inside, boxes on their laps, under their feet, and in the middle of them. It made John's muscles to ache, sitting in such a position, however, he reminded himself it was around fifteen minutes to Baker Street.

And it did, with some chatter between the pair, the ride seemed quick. Sherlock was eager to get the items quickly into the flat and thank the cab driver, tipping him extra.

Almost immediately, Sherlock was on the floor, looking over the items with his magnifying glass. John snorted at the curly-haired man, who was so animated in solving the mysterious case he didn't understand.

Eventually, Sherlock had gone into his mind palace, John was quick to make himself comfortable, making tea and sitting on his chair. He glanced uncomfortably at the detective, who was who was muttering to himself and hands clasped in a praying position. Once in a while, John wondered what he experienced in that genius brain.

Probably genius stuff.

Sherlock was stuck trying to figure out how it might have happened, but it all led back to the television and those main questions. For once in his life, he questioned himself. Imagine a scenario in which John was correct. Imagine a scenario where she truly had flown through the television and laws of material science had been broken.

Amid his existential crisis, he contemplated numerous things that had passed his brain. About the proof he'd found, and how they connected back to what the girl had claimed. About how a person could go about causing such a demonstration. He speculated possibly Moriarty was back, prepared to befuddle him and test his limits. But in all truth, Sherlock was stumped. He truly didn't realize what had happened.

He yelled in impatience, flashing out of his mind palace. A startled John sat in the recliner, his eyes wide in surprise at the sudden motion. Sherlock wanted to shoot something, the wall, perhaps, as he did sometimes when he was bored. But this time, it was of frustration.

He stood, calming himself and straightening his coat. "I'm off to get the girl." He stated roughly, "Lestrade told me yesterday about her condition." He grabbed his scarf and quickly threw it around his neck, "She'll be alright."

Sherlock was out the door before John could react, calling a taxi. It was a peaceful ride, as one would expect without talkative John there, intruding on his thoughts. It was decent... although, to some degree.. desolate. Lonely.

Into the hospital, clad in his long coat, strode a tall, mysterious figure.

~ᏕᏂᏋᏒᏝᎧፈᏦ ᏂᎧᏝᎷᏋᏕ~