The detective stumbled down the road. It had giant potholes that he kept falling down and twisting his ankle. He grumbled under his breath and cursed the doctor for living in such a run down part of outer London. The tall trees that had grown over the road to create a tunnel effect were thick so only small amounts of light could break through and light the way ahead.
Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder to where his taxi was waiting. The cabbie was tapping nervously on the steering wheel as a large gang men with large tattoos strode past the car.
Sherlock continued forward as he could see the block of flats getting closer at the other end of the tree tunnel.
He finally made it out into the light. He had to blink as his eyes to adjusted to the sudden brightness. He glanced around the large car park the road had led him out to. There was a car here and there but the parking spaces were mostly empty. Sherlock put it down to the rough area.
The large block of flats towered high into the air. There must have been tens of floors but which one was our John Watson on? The block looked like a giant mass of cement with windows. It was dark and graffiti was drawn as high as the young vandals could reach to spray tags and names. Many of the small windows were open and had towels and items of clothing out to dry. The entrance doors looked practically bomb proof with their thick metal framework and no glass.
As Sherlock walked out from the trees he could see John's cab outside the entrance and the doctor limping out. His need for a cane was blatantly obvious. As Sherlock crept closer he was extremely aware of his feet crunching on the broken glass that lay shattered on the car park floor. He just hoped that John would continue in to the block without glancing around that car park.
The doctor hobbled further forward and typed in a security code into a small metal box by the side of the door. He waited, with his hand on the handle, until he heard the beep then he pulled the heavy door open and marched in. Just after John was inside, Sherlock raced forward and put his foot in the door so it didn't click shut. Then he waited. He waited a few minutes so the doctor would have a chance to get up the first flight of stairs and it didn't look like he was being followed. After a couple of minutes, the genius pulled open the door and strode towards the concrete steps that went up, seemingly, forever.
Sherlock listened and in the distance he could hear grunts of pain as someone walked the stairs. The detective stepped up and silently jogged the stairs until he could see the struggling doctor. He then hung back behind the corner of the stairs until the blonde man had exited the stairwell and moved into the corridor area where our row of the painted red doors were. Luckily, for the doctor, he only lived on the 3rd level.
The door to number 12 was just swinging shut as the sociopath stuck his head around the corner. The genius then turned and started to stride back down the stairs, only to stop half way down the first set on his back towards the ground floor. He lowered himself into one of the cold steps with a wince of disgust for his favourite coat.
He pulled his phone out of the coat pocket and opened up his notes. He had some time to kill. The detective sat for a solid two hours as he waited for the sun to finally set and then wait longer for his opportunity to arise.
He jotted down notes as he waited. He knew when his time came because the clock on his phone ticked over to 10:30. He had been sat on the cold steps for almost 4 hours. The detective had attempted to ignore the residents walking up and down the dull stairwell but it had began to annoy him, their constant curiosity.
The sociopath stood and stretched his arms into the air as a yawn broke out of his mouth. He rolled his neck and shoulders as he began to silently climb the remaining steps to reach John's level. Once he reached the area with all the doors he strode over to the red door with 12 written on in in permanent marker and unwilling put his ear to the cold door. He listened.
No sound echoed around the flat which was a promising sign for the detective. From an inside pocket, he pulled a small fabric sleeve full of devices to pick locks. He knelt down and placed the sleeve on the dirty floor by the bottom of the door. He slipped out a thick wire and held it up in the flickering artificial light. He nodded in satisfaction before wriggling it into the lock. He twisted it and pushed and wriggled it but the click didn't come. The genius pulled a face of surprise as the doors in the building were more secure than he had previously expected. He pulled out a thicker wire and a instrument that you'd expect to see in a dentist surgery. He manoeuvred the wire in and with the other instrument he guided it towards the lock and pushed it across. The door unlocked with a soft but satisfying click and a mischievous grin formed on the sociopath's face.
The detective returned the lock picking devices to their places then rolled up the fabric sleeve and tucked it into his inside coat pocket. He stood and gently pushed the door open to reveal a small living room area. The genius stepped inside quietly and pushed the door behind him, not quite but almost, closed. He left the tiniest gap so quick escapes were possible but the flat wouldn't become a target for theft or burglary while he was there. It also allowed a slither of light to penetrate the dark room.
The flat was small and basic. It had the odd piece of furniture here and there but it was mostly bare. A small set of drawers was sat against the far wall. There was an old armchair next to a standing light and a small circular side table was placed under the light. A book was left with its spine up and pages spread against the polished wood. The table was acting as an over sized bookmark. The genius glanced around the dark flat, only the light from outside the window lit the room. He moved silently towards the chair after checking that the coast was clear and picked up the book. The fireplace. The spine was old and worn where the reader had opened it so frequently. The corners of the paperback cover were beginning to fray and become battered. The corner of almost every page had been folded in the past to act as a bookmark when one wasn't in easy reach. Keeping his thumb on the page, Sherlock flipped through the old pages.
He lay it down again in exactly the position he found it. The glanced over his shoulder to make sure that he wasn't being watched before he crept over to the set of drawers. He pulled open the first drawer and dug through pens, shopping lists and other unuseful things. Documents, documents, documents. I need documents. The detective then knelt down to begin searching through the second drawer.
There was a sudden sound and the sociopath froze so he could peer around the room. He waited but the sound didn't continue so he carried on sifting through the bits and pieces in the drawer silently. He picked up a piece of paper and examined it. He was searching for any evidence that John Watson was not actually, John Watson.
Click.
Sherlock froze as the front door clicked softly shut. He swallowed and listened for movement or footsteps. Nothing came so, even quieter than last time, he continued rummaging through the drawer and picking up paper that he hoped revealed the truth.
Click.
The cold metal click of the safely being turned off on a gun echoed through the tiny flat from just behind his head and Sherlock froze. Oh no.