Saturday 31
"What do you mean, gone?" John asked and Mrs Hudson raised her shoulders, "Well, you know what he is like. Came here from hospital, had a lie-in and then off he took. Left a note though."
John was puzzled. This was not like Sherlock at all. He was not one for leaving notes, "May I see it?" Of course, it was held in Sherlock's unique way, clipped and precise and not giving any useful information. John growled and handed the letter back. Where could he possibly have gone?
"I'd say," Mrs Hudson interrupted John's thoughts, "he did look quite worn, poor dear. He would have wanted some peace and quiet." Something like-
-o-
Brighton. Sherlock remembered it from tedious school trips with pompous, ignorant teachers. Hateful place. Cheap, vulgar, and tawdry. Absolutely packed with tourists and language students. Noisy, dirty, disturbingly anachronistic and just to his taste.
He got off the train and made his way into the centre where he stopped at a coffee shop opposite the Pavilion. He shrugged his coat off and checked his mails and texts.
Mycroft. delete
DI Lestrade. Too long to be important. delete
John. 'Where ARE you?' Don't shout at me! delete
Though he had trained himself in being ambidextrous, typing with his left hand was slower than expected. He kept hitting the wrong keys and quietly cursed his injuries when a female voice interrupted his outburst, "Sorry. I happened to overhear. Do you need a hand?"
Sherlock looked up to find a young woman smiling at him. Early thirties. Red hair. Dyed. No nonsense haircut. Elegant necklace, though. Not a tourist. Not English either. Very faint German accent. Belgian top, French trousers. French shoes, too. Identity issues. Friendly, yet not flirty. Helping, not harassing. Short but clean fingernails, no rings. Right-handed. Ink on thumb and index finger. She used a Parker pen, going by the shape of the ink marks. Nice hands. Bit dry. Used to repetitive rinsing and washing with cheap liquid soap. No compulsory washing, though. White residue suggested chalk. Teacher. Not primary school. Not university either. Jacket said Sixth Form. Jeans probably meant state school. Now subject. One quick glance at her table confirmed his idea. Much-used edition of Faust. Hardly pleasure reading. German - very likely. Lots of foreign language assistants these days.
"Gern, danke," he said and added, "Ihr naht euch wieder, schwankende Gestalten?"
"I'm sorry, have we met?" She stared back at her table and took a step back.
"Allwissend bin ich nicht, doch viel ist mir bewusst," Sherlock smiled.
"You do know your Faust," the woman smiled and sat down at Sherlock's table, "I'm impressed".
"Sherlock, pleased to meet you. You were offering-" he held out his phone to her and she took it, smile broadening at the spelling mistakes.
"What are you looking for?"
"Accomodation. Hotel or guest house. Four or five nights. City centre. Something classy, not too upmarket though. No pets." She nodded and went onto TripCoach.
"Single bedroom?"
"Definitely."
"There you go. Take your pick," she handed the phone back.
Sherlock had a look at the given hits. Guest house no. 5 out of 104 seemed nice but had poster beds. Couldn't stand them. The next had a pleasant name, and warm colours. Yes, that was it. He hit the given phone number and put the phone to his ear.