"Locks can only be perfectly opened by someone who has the key."

-Day 4.

The lights are off in Molly Hooper's flat. Her "cousin" has gone on a "night-time tour of the capital of England". No one should be home. Consequently, no one should hear the soft rustles in the flat, or see the occasional slither of a slim shadow atop the floral wallpaper.

A pair of furtive hands flips open the buckles of "Sigmund Hooper's" suitcase. Slender, trembling fingers sift through garments and fumbles in pockets, searching for any information that may shed more light on "Sigmund's" hidden intentions.

Crash!

Suddenly, the feeble wooden door of the flat flings open, and in a second, the light in the living room flicks on. Exposed and stung by the abrupt brightness, the woman yelps and rubs hastily at her eyes. A squad of men in suits swiftly surround her, holding her still in the centre of the living room at gunpoint. "Sigmund Hooper's" suitcase lies still by her feet, a few colourful shirts sprawled over its edges.

A leader pulls out a badge from his pocket, waving it in the woman's face as he speaks. His tone is impassive and cold as ice.

"Clara Crawford. There is someone who would like to speak with you."

Mrs. Crawford whimpers and buries her forlorn face in her trembling hands.

-Chapter 5-

Dancing Molly

-Day 5

'Caught C in the act. Need to talk. -M' -31 Mar., 2012. 0:21A.M.

'In 10 minutes. -SH' -31 Mar., 2012. 0:21A.M.

The floor of the lavatory vibrates steadily as the train quietly rumbles. Sherlock crouches atop a shut toilet, his features crumpled in annoyance and disgust as he whispers into his mobile phone. "Mycroft, Ipswich and Arendale's body were the beginning of the criminals' breadcrumb trail, and of course I had to follow it swiftly in order to obtain any useful information! Can you imagine the amount of evidence I would've missed if I hadn't got to the body in time, and let that idiot Franklin declare the case a robbery gone wrong? Don't try to shift all the dirty blame of forgetting about Crawford on me. She had a spotless record and a long-standing friendship with Molly. None of us even considered that it may have been she who let in the kidnapper. We all thought he came through the window, including Molly herself!"

"I'm most certainly not trying to slight you, for I also haven't foreseen Crawford's involvement," declares Mycroft's impatient voice on the other end. "But it is undeniable that you have been unacceptably neglectful. You ought to have at least suspected Crawford, having spoken with her and inspected Miss Hooper's flat."

"It's the cat's fault," Sherlock grumbles with a roll of his eyes. "Molly's stupid cat constantly perched on the window sill. I assumed it had wiped the ledge clean with its unnecessarily long fur. If it weren't for that, I wouldn't have left London without investigating Crawford."

A sigh projects through the phone. "Sherlock, you would've left London without consulting me at all if you could've helped it."

Sherlock tries to ignore the truth in the statement, though he cannot help but groan.

"Are you certain that you wish to return to London?" Mycroft diverts the subject, after concluding that there would be no reply. "It might be more sensible to stay and investigate in Ipswich - "

"What do you want me to do there? Wait for the autopsy report which would take weeks to compile and probably offer no extra insight?" Sherlock snorts dismissively. "I'm on the train back, Mycroft; there's no stopping me. Besides, with Dubois's suicide, all chances of obtaining further clues at the Wolsey Gate have been obliterated."

A rude knock on the lavatory's door cuts him off, and he yells apologetically with a strained, high-pitched voice, "Sorry, my stomach really - oh Jesus - stupid diarrhea - this might take a while more!"

"Was Dubois the murderer?" Mycroft is perhaps the only man on the planet who could respond to his brother's sudden, ridiculous outbursts without with the slightest hint of amusement.

Sherlock frowns. "He was certainly the one who taped Arendale's body to the Gate, but he was not the murderer. His cataracts were severe, and I reckon he's been nearly blind for the past year at least. Arendale was killed with a single clean blow to the side of his head that fractured his temporal bone and lesioned his middle meningeal artery. A man with Dubois's vision couldn't have done it without initiating a violent scuffle, but Arendale's attire was relatively tidy. Dubois - I doubt that's his real name - was a smart accomplice, too. The scene was flawlessly tidied up. He'd even cleared out all his belongings save a funny mask which has been wiped clean; I imagine it's some sort of symbol for his organization. There were no useful clues I could find in his room, in which he apparently lived during his days working in the church. My only trail to go on, it seems, consists of factories that still store Y1 tobacco. I figured I'd start with the one in London. Besides, it was raining when I got on the train in the afternoon, and Arendale's body has been in the rain."

"Got a photo of Dubois? I could get someone in Ipswich to look into his background."

"Of his body, yes. Snagged one with the phone when forensics weren't looking." Sherlock pauses, and another thought catches his mind. "Speaking of photos, isn't it about time you texted me a screenshot of Molly's updated blog? I've been waiting all night."

There is a short hesitation on the other end. "Relax. You're on the way back, aren't you? It'd be safer, I imagine, for you to view the blog on Crawford's computer later; my agents have left her keys on the tea-table in Miss Hooper's flat. I think you'll discover quite a few secrets in Crawford's computer. Besides, the criminals aren't yet aware that we have Crawford. We have a head start."

Sherlock recalls the gruesome crucifixion of Arendale, and is instantly certain that the last thing he could do right now is to relax. He cuts off Mycroft with a loud grunt and abruptly hangs up, giving his phone a piercing glare before jumping off the toilet.

However, without useful clues on the Arendale case to muse on, the consulting detective cannot stop his mind from wandering as he returns to his seat and taps his finger idly on the table before him.

Mrs. Hudson's hip seemed quite a bit worse. He needs to somehow maneuvre her into a hospital for a good examination, if he has time after finishing the case. At least she seemed fine otherwise. Pity he didn't see John when he waited on Baker Street. John was probably watching crap telly in the flat. Or maybe he went on yet another date with that scrawny lecturer from the University of London. The thought that he is occupied with an intricate case that requires investigation on multiple ends while his valuable partner is squandering precious time with some sub-par telly farce or some unimportant woman is beyond infuriating.

God, if only John were here.

God, having to sit on a train and simply wait is so unbelievably boring!

Sherlock rubs his head frantically and thrusts himself back on his seat with an exasperated growl, earning a few questioning glares from dozing passengers around him. "Sigmund" quickly glances around and nods apologetically, until a light slump sounds beside him.

Molly's notebook has fallen from his large coat pocket onto his seat.

A smirk seizes Sherlock's lips. How did he forget that he has had a mystery to solve in his pocket all along?

-D-A-

14 Apr., 2011

Dear Antirealist,

It's been a while since I last wrote to you. I'm sorry to have left you dangling for this long. The brief explanations of realism and anti-realism in my last letter certainly weren't enough to quench your curiosity, were they?

Let me try to give you an example, then.

All matter is made from atoms. Electrons are sub-atomic particles that are crucial in establishing an element's chemical properties. Now, pretend that we are in the year 2007, where we could not yet observe electrons under any microscope. You, dear antirealist, would argue that electrons are non-existent because they can't be seen. Of course, you have a point. How can one be sure that something is physically existent when one can't even see it? You would say that electrons are only convenient tools invented by scientists, to establish scientific theories which can then be used as predictable models to advance human technology.

But we realists don't think that way.

We hold firm that electrons are real, because their hypothetical existence served as a basis for scientific theories that were - are - astonishingly accurate. How can electrons be non-existent, when they have allowed us to predict physical and chemical properties of the matter around us for countless times without fail? How can we deny their rights of existence, their roles in the development of modern technology, simply because we can't see them?

Dear antirealist, how can you be so certain that electrons were unreal, instead of being material entities that were too deeply hidden? How can you be so certain that they were not simply waiting for us to finally discover them by eye in 2008?

How can you be so certain that all things existent must be visible to the human eye?

Sincerely,

A Realist

-D-A-

Sherlock stares pensively out of the window of his cab, nibbling his lower lip lightly and rubbing the tip of his chin thoughtfully with a slender finger.

He was at first dismissive, as he stepped off the train and stuffed the small notebook back into his pocket. None of the details of sub-atomic particles are relevant to his science of deduction, he thought, whether or not they were - are - observable. But as he plopped himself on the seat of the taxi, he remembered Molly's last line in the diary entry again, and it dawned on him that Molly did have a point.

It isn't solely about electrons.

Sherlock recalls one of the countless cases he has solved: the first case he has ever tried to investigate, but did not solve until much later. Clostridium botulinum. The toxic bacteria which killed Carl Powers. He isolated them from the victim's shoes and observed them under the microscope, leading him to his final conclusion on the cause of Carl Powers's death. He knows for a fact that they are existent, because he can see them.

What if he were born before Clostridium botulinum became observable, say, more than a century ago, before microscopes were even invented? If he were to work the same job he is working now, would he harbour a similar attitude toward Clostridium botulinum - or bacteria in general - as how he felt about electrons before they became microscopically visible? Would he dismiss the concept of bacteria as nonsense? Probably, as how he once dismissed sub-atomic particles as nonsense, or as how he deems everything he can't immediately observe, such as the precise functioning of the solar system, irrelevant to the nature of his work.

And yet there is a possibility that those he scorn as non-existent may in fact have been real all along. There is a possibility that he can't see them now only because they're waiting to be seen.

The far future may eventually prove his present perceptions of certain entities terribly wrong.

Sherlock chews his lip harder as his eyes narrow. He may hate being proven wrong, but he hates being deluded that he's right infinitely more.

The drive from King's Cross to Shoreditch quickly passes in Sherlock's uncertain, wavering musings. The consulting detective stuffs a hundred-pound bill absentmindedly into the cabbie's hand as the taxi pulls to a stop. He shuts the door on the driver who is still breaking the change, and fumbles in his pocket for keys as he steps pensively toward the door of the flat. His fingers brush across the rough leather surface of the notebook, and he is suddenly hauled out of his philosophical trance.

"Your change, sir!" The cabbie runs up the steps to return his money. Sherlock accepts it with a robotic nod, before pulling out the pink notebook once more to stare.

A single letter to a presumably fabricated identity of a "dear antirealist" - a little less than a page of hand-written, simple words - has kept him from boredom and induced a relatively irrelevant, almost pointless muse for an entire half-hour.

He chuckles softly as he shakes his head and turns to the door, keys in hand.

"Molly, Molly. You are becoming a very interesting puzzle."

Mrs. Crawford's flat is, in layout, identical to Molly's. The intricately-patterned carpet, the ornate furniture, and the shiny china displays, however, do not offer the same domestic comfort. Sherlock flicks on the lights, and nearly winces at their hostile brightness.

Nothing conspicuously suspicious at first glance. Of course not. She seemed normal enough to fool even him. Sherlock snorts as he seats himself behind the kitchen table and flips open the laptop upon it.

"Password," the consulting detective groans, and, after a moment of thinking, heads into the bedroom. "Molly's spoken to me about her landlady's old-age forgetfulness before; Crawford's got to have her passwords written down somewhere. Probably stored away in that writing table in her bedroom. Let's see here... three drawers, and the top drawer's slides are most worn from dragging; clearly opened most often. What do we have here? Ah! A locked notebook. Password's got to be in this one."

He scowls as he catches a scent in the air, and sniffs the lock slightly. "Faint smell of honey; can't have accumulated unless the lock was often exposed to it."

Taking the notebook with him, he returns to the kitchen and violently searches the cabinets and cupboards. A fat jar of honey sits in a mirror cabinet above the stove. Sherlock twists the cap open, and finds a small key taped within it. With a triumphant smirk, he detaches it and jams it into the notebook lock, and the shackle pops open.

The consulting detective flips through the pages and easily finds a list of passwords filed under different dates.

"Avid changer of passwords, are you, Mrs. Crawford? I'm certainly looking forward to the things I'll find within your accounts." he mutters to himself as he types in the most recent scribble under "Laptop: March 2012". A few crisp, melodic notes jingle, and a Windows desktop reveals itself.

Sherlock rubs his hands with a smirk. "All right. Molly's blog, here I come."

In a few moments, he finds himself staring at a pink, flowery web page filled with cat images. He grimaces. "That silly colour scheme makes me wince every time. She has got to change this layout if she wants to blog regularly again."

Indeed, the blog has been updated, and the content of the newest post is not long. Sherlock absorbs everything on the page in a few moments, and he leans back and frowns.

The post contains some generic apologies for having left the blog abandoned for nearly a year, some declarations that she would update often from now on, and, most importantly, some sketches.

They are Molly's self-portraits. Dancing.

Eleven caricatures of dancing Molly, in various performance styles, along with a slim cat sketch that Sherlock has often seen Molly use as a signature.

-B-L-O-G-

30 Mar., 2012

I'm back! I know I said I won't be keeping this diary any more, but recently I felt that it's kind of a waste, isn't it? Leaving a blog up here on the net and not making a good use of it, I mean. Well, I'm sorry I've been absent for so long. It won't happen again, I promise.

I want to use this blog now as a sort of art storage. I draw a lot on my free time and, well, any artist would want their art to be appreciated. I also want to record how my drawings evolve over time, I suppose. I don't know. I just want to use this blog for something moderately useful.

Well, here is my first batch of sketches. They're dedicated to a friend that I write to all the time, and they're a bit rough.

[Ballet] [Hip-Hop] [Jive] [Tango] [Swing] [Gigue] [Ballet] [Hula] [Tango] [Indian] [Jive]

-[Cat]

I know it's a lot, and these are quick sketches. But I still hope they're pleasant to the eye!

I'll be back tomorrow with more :)! X

-B-L-O-G-

"Molly, Molly. What am I supposed to deduce from this!?" Sherlock can bottle his frustrations no longer, as he paces around the table, releasing periodic groans. "Granted, your little image code is acceptably clever, with each distinct dancing Molly representing a different letter of the alphabet. I imagine that must be the case, because several pairs of the sketches, namely the first and seventh, fourth and ninth, and third and last, are exact duplicates of each other. The friend that you write to daily must be the 'dear antirealist', and given the pattern of your drawings, I'm almost certain that your code corresponds to the word 'antirealist'. But I'm going to need more than that to understand what's going on, and you're saying you won't come back with more until tomorrow? Are you really going to make me wait, particularly when you're the one in danger?!"

Unfortunately, yelling at the blog does not solve the problem. Sherlock grouchily takes a seat again and attempts to trace the IP of the blogger, with no success. As suspected, she was posting this under surveillance, and the criminals have blocked her IP.

"And yet they allowed her to update the blog," Sherlock taps the table thoughtfully as his frown deepens. They must be either very confident in their eventual success, or they must be true thrill lovers who are willing to put their plans in danger for sheer excitement. Sherlock has every reason to believe they are the former.

"They'll regret this," the consulting detective grits his teeth, and begins to investigate Mrs. Crawford's email accounts.

-Day 6

Constable Evan Daniels is in a rotten mood, as he stares with disinterest at the food tray before him.

He woke up feeling dizzy and nauseated, and his limbs felt as if they'd been tied to and dragged by heavy weights for hours. He reckoned it was something like a cold, and would probably improve during the day. It is now dinner time, and his nausea has instead gotten considerably worse. Not even the prospect of wolfing down his favourite burger can ease it.

"Hey," a familiar voice greets behind him, and before he can turn around, he feels a firm pat on his back that almost sends him toppling forward and smacking his face into his tall burger. He groans.

"Bateson, I'm trying to eat here."

Bateson, evidently in good spirit, sets her tray down beside his and laughs as she sits. "Since when have you become a weakling who can't even take a light hit?" her laughter pauses as she surveys his face with concern. "Though you sure do look like shit. You okay?"

"You're very flattering as always," Daniels grumbles and pokes at his fries with a finger. "And I'm fine, I guess. Might've caught a little cold, but otherwise fine."

Bateson studies him more carefully and shakes her head. "You need to get some meds and some sleep, I say."

"Oh, believe me, I want to," Daniels replies dryly. "But there's a lot to be done about the Arendale case. DI Franklin wants us to search the church again tonight for more clues."

"For God's sake, he won't find a thing if he searches that place for fifty times," Bateson rolls her eyes and takes a bite of her chicken wrap. "Dubois was a smart man. He fooled us, and clearly planned to. Hell, Agent Hooper didn't even find anything useful."

Daniels shrugs. "I suppose Agent Hooper is a lot more shrewd than our detective inspector. How's the autopsy going?"

Bateson's nonchalant expression morphs into a frown. "I was rather hoping you wouldn't ask on the dinner table, but now that you did... there's something questionable that forensics found, and it needs to be thoroughly investigated."

"What is it?"

"They briefly analyzed a blood sample yesterday," Bateson's frown deepens as she twirls her glass of cola with her right hand. "And there were lower than normal leukocyte counts. Arendale hasn't been dead long enough for white blood cells to begin degenerating, so this was likely due to a pathogenic infection before he was murdered. They're going to have to do some tissue analysis soon."

Daniels jolts suddenly and stares at the band-aid on his left index finger, feeling cold sweat gather in his palms. "Really?"

"Yeah," Bateson takes a sip of her drink, before catching sight of Daniels's ashen countenance. She slams her glass on the table in alert. "Why? What's wrong?"

"Oh God. Oh God!" Daniels is shaking now, his hands clutching the sides of his head, his fingers groping unsteadily at his bushy locks. "I cut myself with a scalpel at the crime scene! And I've been feeling sick all day!"

"Shit!" Bateson springs from her seat and pulls her disoriented colleage up from his seat. "Daniels, we need to get you into a hospital. Right now."