The Blank Paper

I woke up the next day with a minor headache, and an aching body. My eyesight was restored though, so I cracked my eyes open, and looked around. My room was completely dark, but I saw a crack of light filtering in through the door. I gingerly got to my feet, and slowly walked to the threshold. I was lucky the door was ajar, because my loose grip wouldn't have allowed me to open it by myself.

I stepped out into the living room, and I saw John siting with his newspaper and tea. He shot straight up when he saw me, and ran over.

"What are you doing out of bed? You'll catch a cold! It's raining for god's sake. Put a blanket over yourself. Is your fever down?" He said as he pressed his hand to my forehead.

"John, I feel fine. I swear, my headache is almost gone."

"That doesn't mean anything. Sit down and I'll get you tea and a blanket." He said as he gently pushed me down into the sofa. I groaned when my neck hit the back of the sofa. It was still sore.

"John, please let me walk around. I'm aching from lying in bed for two days." I said as I got to my feet again.

"Fine, but stay near me incase you get dizzy again."

I made my way over to him, and hovered close while he made my tea.

"Would you like lemon?"

"Yes please." I said as he pulled one from the fridge. He pulled out a juicer, but all of Sherlock's papers were in the way.

"Emily? Would you mind moving his papers? I don't want them getting ruined. He'll kill the both of us."

I nodded, and moved what I could away from the juicer. John pressed the lemon down, and some of the juice splattered on the papers that were beneath it.

"Shoot! I'll go dry these before he gets back." I said, grabbing the papers and fleeing to the bathroom. I quickly turned on the hairdryer and spread out the papers. Most of the papers were from previous cases that he had already solved. But he had notes scribbled on a folder that was new to me. It was the most wet, so I focused the hairdryer on it. I carefully pulled open the folder to avoid smudging his notes.

In the beginning of the folder, there was the picture of the dead mans body with my address engraved into his chest, and beneath it was the blank piece of paper. I picked up both of them with my fingernails. I didn't want the evidence to be ruined. The picture was easier to dry since the juice just slid off the glossy finish. I set it down, and picked up the blank sheet of paper. I put the hairdryer to it, and held it to the light so I could see where it was wet.

As I dried it, I began seeing numbers. I thought it was a figment of my imagination, but the longer I held the heat to it, the more visible it became. It read June 16, 2013. It was the day I got poisoned.

"John!" I yelled. He came in right away.

'Yes, what's the matter?"

I held the paper to him.

'Look. This is the blank paper that was in my room."

He held the paper to the light and his face changed when he saw it.

"That was the day you were poisoned." He said, as he examined it. "We need to tell Sherlock." He took out his phone and dialed him. "Sherlock? No, this is important, there's a message on the back of the blank piece of paper. Yes… it was the date she was poisoned. I thi- Oh, he hung up on me. I trust he'll be here soon. In the meantime, stay away from all windows, and don't answer the door."

I nodded and sat in the kitchen, where I was out of sight.

A little while later, Sherlock came to the door. John let him in, and double locked the door behind him. Sherlock immediately went up to me, and kneeled down so he was at my height. He pressed his fingers to my neck.

"Emily, how do you feel?" He asked as he measured my heart rate.

"Um, fine I guess."

"Can you walk?"

"Yes."

"Run?"

"I can try."

"No, I don't want her to over exert herself. The poison is barley out of her system. What is going on Sherlock?" John said as he protectively stood over me.

"Our whole apartment is surrounded by people wearing black jackets. I'm assuming they all have guns, and if they don't see that Emily was successfully killed by the poison, they will finish the job."

"She's not leaving, Sherlock. She'll die if she's exposed to the cold or the rain for too long."

"We have no other choice, John! We either take our chances and run, or we show them that she's dead. Which would you rather John?" Sherlock said, standing up to face him. The two men glared at each other for some time before I spoke up.

"Jim." I said quietly. "We have Jim."