Chapter 2

It was nine in the morning by the time John finished re-reading the journal. It wasn't that he wrote an enormous amount of material that was hard to read in one sitting; it was just the fact that it was midnight when he started reading and he had to catch snatches of sleep somewhere. He had used his journal as a pillow once in a while last night, too tired to keep his eyes open, but still alert enough that he didn't want to leave the journal behind.

John staggered into the kitchen, his mind whirring with all the memories that he had repacked into his brain. He started to make himself some tea as he mulled the facts over. They appeared like a list within his mind.

The Facts I Know As of Now

Sherlock Holmes is missing, and has been for three weeks.

I was the last person to be seen with him.

I am being tried for his disappearance (and possible murder since it has been three weeks).

No one believes I'm innocent because my brain resets itself at midnight.

I am the only one who will be able to clear my name, and find Sherlock.

This last fact was true. Since no one believed him, he would have to figure out what happened to Sherlock on his own, and he was determined to do so. He poured himself a cup of tea once he had prepared it, and walked back in to look at the journal. He flipped to the back page and looked at his list of questions that he had written. None of them had answers yet apparently, and it was time to start getting the answers.

John picked up his mobile, and turned it on. He scrolled through his contact list until he reached Lestrade's number. He knew it was relatively early in the morning still, but he didn't feel bad calling because the Yard started working early. Lestrade picked up on the third ring.

"This is Detective Inspector Lestrade speaking."

"Lestrade, it's John."

Lestrade let out a sigh on the other end of the phone. He was the one that was, after all, conducting the investigation into Sherlock's disappearance, and was therefore conducting the case against John.

"Did you remember something about the case?"

"No," admitted John, still ashamed that his mind was not strong enough to recollect anything that had happened that day. "I have too many questions. I was wondering if you might have some of the answers."

"John, you know I can't help you out. It would be considered messing with the case, and the only witness. I could get in trouble."

"At least tell me where you picked me up that night," said John. "Where did you find me?"

Lestrade let out another sigh. John could hear the faint strains of other telephones as they rang. Obviously, Lestrade was very busy, but John was hoping that he wasn't too busy that he couldn't help him out with this.

"After you two were missing for over twenty-four hours, we managed to find you a couple blocks away from Miss Murans' cabin, by the costume shop."

As Lestrade talked, John took out a pen and flipped to another clean sheet in the journal, beginning to draw a map of some sorts. He drew a rough sketch of 221B, and marked it as the starting place with an "X". He then proceeded to draw a line from 221B across the sheet and drew a rough sketch of Miss Murans' cabin, connecting the line to that. After that, he drew a costume shop a little ways away, marking it with "PT. 1", then drew a line to connect that. Somewhere between the cabin and PT. 1 something had happened. John circled this area, and let out a soft hum of thought. The first thing he would do is go investigate that area to see if he was able to remember anything or he could somehow find some kind of clue that might have been overlooked.

"John, are you still there?"

"What?...Yes, sorry. I was just writing it down."

"Still having trouble remembering then?"

"Unfortunately," sighed John.

"John, I hate to break this kind of news to you over the phone, but you do realize that the trial will have to happen eventually, and probably sooner rather than later if your condition won't improve."

"I know," said John grimly, hanging his head. "I realize that there is work that must be done."

"Is that all, John?"

John still couldn't believe that no one believed he was innocent. Everyone thought he was guilty. He sighed.

"Yes, that's it for now."

With that, the line went dead. John hung up the phone, and placed it aside, studying the map he had sketched once more. He picked up his journal, and carried it with him towards the door. He wouldn't be able to solve anything while he was moping around the flat. He had to get out and do something while he still had time. He slipped into his coat, and started to descend the stairs.

On his way downstairs, Mrs. Hudson appeared. She stood at the end of the stairs, a sad smile on her face.

"Morning, Mrs. Hudson," said John, trying to be polite.

"I see you must have already read your journal then," said Mrs. Hudson.

John nodded, self-consciously tucking the journal up higher under his arm.

"Yes, I did."

John then noted a small piece of paper that Mrs. Hudson had in her hands. She crinkled the paper in her hands tightly, as if she feared that John really was a psychopath, and would do her harm.

"Mrs. Hudson," said John softly. "I would never hurt you. I would never hurt anyone for that matter."

Mrs. Hudson attempted a weak smile, nodding. John wasn't sure if she believed him though.

"Is that a list in your hand, Mrs. Hudson?"

She nodded again, looking down at the crinkled ball of paper in her hands that had once been her list. John could see now that she was all dressed in a coat and hat, and had no doubt, been about to leave when he had come downstairs.

"I could get it for you if you wish, Mrs. Hudson. I'm going out today anyway."

"No. It's quite alright, John. I can do it myself, but thank you for the offer anyway. It was very sweet of you."

He nodded.

"Anytime, Mrs. Hudson."

With that, he turned and walked out the door. He couldn't bear to look at the fear on her face anymore. He had to change everyone's opinion on him.

He hailed a cab, and took it to the location of Miss Murans' cabin, which he had thankful marked in his journal. He sat flipping through the pages and reviewing the facts while he waited to arrive. Going over his lists, and looking at his maps, he started to try to once again, remember what had happened that day three weeks ago.

"Must you record everything?" asked Sherlock as he looked over at John, his nose crinkling slightly.

"Yes," said John as he looked up from his writing. He looked into the inquiring blue eyes of his best friend, and gave him a smile. "I don't want to record the facts wrong when I blog it later, and I'm sure you don't wish that either."

Sherlock let out a soft sigh, turning to face his attention out the window.

"This might not even be a case worth recording," remarked Sherlock. "It seems very simplistic in nature."

"Come now, Sherlock. She's talking about a ghost stealing her possessions."

"John, she's talking about someone stealing her possessions that she merely cannot see, nor catch. It's hardly enough of a basis to say a ghost stole her possessions."

"So, you think a man did it?"

"Don't tell me that you entertain the existence of ghosts?" snorted Sherlock, rolling his eyes. "The notion is utterly ridiculous, John."

"I realize that, Sherlock, and I'm not saying that I do believe in ghosts," said John, trying to delicately make his point with the detective. "All I'm saying is, that Miss Murans believes that a ghost is responsible, and it could turn out to be something bigger than that."

Sherlock looked at John.

"A ghost to her may be something entirely different to us. With that fact, I agree with you."

John smiled in victory. At least he had managed to get Sherlock to agree with him on a point.

"People entertain such strange fantasies sometimes, John. That's why it's our job to look at the facts, and figure out the truth."

"Is this your stop, sir?" asked the cabbie, sounding irritated. He probably was on some level because he had just asked the question for the fifth time.

John looked up at the cabbie, happy that he had been able to remember something from that day. He would have to record it down before it slipped from his memory again.

"Yes, sorry." He quickly reached into his pocket and pulled out some change, placing it in his hand. "Thank you."

John got out of the cab, and looked at the skeleton of the cabin. It loomed ahead of him into the bright new day, empty and ominous. As the cab drove off, John made sure his journal was tucked safely underneath his arm before walking toward it. What had happened to them once they had gotten here? John closed his eyes, trying desperately to remember, but coming up with nothing.

John cursed under his breath, looking at the path that wound toward the right. If his map he had drawn, and the information that Lestrade had given him was correct, then John had ended up being found in the small town a few miles away from the cabin.

"Time to take a walk, John," he said out loud to himself. "At least it's a nice day to do so."

As John started to walk down the dirt path, the trees loomed up on either side of him, casting their elongated shadows across the path and forest around him. John kept an eye out as he walked, making sure that he wouldn't miss any clues. As John rounded another turn in the bend, he paused. He thought he had seen something in the trees off to his left, but he couldn't be sure. Deciding that it was worth investigating further, John wandered off the path a bit and toward the trees. As John approached closer, he saw that the bark of the tree was marred by what appeared to be knife slashes.

"Could just be an animal," said John as he studied the marks, "But it wouldn't hurt to take a picture of it in case it proves useful later."

John snapped a picture of the marks. As he tucked his mobile back in his pocket, he noticed a piece of paper flapping in the cool breeze that was billowing about him. It was caught between two branches, trying desperately to free itself and fly away. John wandered further from the path as he went to retrieve the paper. He picked it up, and saw that it was torn; the other part of the message was missing. John closely studied the red writing that was in front of him. There was only a single sentence on the paper which read:

The Midnight Hour is close at hand.

John gulped. What did that mean? He quickly tucked the scrap of paper into his pocket, and stood up.

"Time to move on, John," he said to himself, his heart beating rapidly in his chest.

He quickly turned back to walk toward the path, soon arriving back at it. He picked his way along the path at a faster pace, desperate to break free of this forest sooner rather than later.

In his haste, he didn't notice someone watching him from the place he had just left.