No triggers in this chapter, though quite a bit of swearing!

Chapter Nineteen

Having met in the main concourse, at Euston, and boarded the train, John and Sherlock took their seats and, as the train pulled smoothly from the station, the steward served them coffee and Sherlock brought his companion up to speed with what they knew about Arthur's disappearance.

John could see Mycroft's point of view. How could Arthur's family possibly have the wherewithal to sanction such an action? It made no sense. But he knew better than to voice these reservations. Sherlock had asked him along to provide back up and, whatever may transpire during this jaunt 'Up North', he would have his friend's back. His not to reason why, his but to do or die – though preferably NOT die.

Once he had passed on all the relevant information, pertaining to the case, Sherlock lapsed into silence and closed himself off from his immediate surroundings, retreating into his Mind Palace, where he stayed for the greater part of the journey. John amused himself, reading the complimentary newspapers and taking full advantage of the complimentary menu. Sherlock drank his coffee, mechanically, and when the empty mug was replaced by a fresh, full one, he drank that one, too.

As the train pulled into Manchester Piccadilly, the consulting detective came back to life, jumped to his feet and dragged his valise from the overhead storage before striding, purposefully, to the nearest exit and stepping off the train the moment that door opened, leaving John to follow in his wake. Dr Watson was well accustomed to this protocol and took no offense. He knew better than most how detached and withdrawn Sherlock became, when he was on a case. It was a crucial aspect of the way he worked, constantly scanning, analysing and abstracting.

They made their way through the rush hour foot traffic, that was milling about in the main concourse, to the Transpennine platform and, amongst all the strap-hanging commuters, squeezed on board the local train that would take them to Arthur's home town, duplicating Arthur's own journey, of just two weeks before. John noted how Sherlock stood out like a sore thumb, with his sharp, angular features and aloof bearing, staring into space, seeing nothing.

He also had a private chuckle at the way the other passengers edged away from the tall detective, giving him a wide berth, never bumping into or jostling him. The doctor shook his head, ruefully, as he was pinned against the side panel of the carriage by a large sweaty man in a rumpled suit. No such considerations for him! It was with some relief that he stepped down onto the platform at Stalybridge and looked around at the Victorian architecture.

'Where are we staying?' John asked, casually, and was not surprised when Sherlock replied with a blank look.

'Didn't get that far in your planning, then?' the doctor quipped, sardonically. Fortunately, he had. He took out his phone and accessed Google Maps then said, 'Follow me,' and led the way from the station to a nearby building of similar vintage to the station itself, appropriately named the 'Railway Hotel'.

Entering through the grand, Victorian portico, John approached the check-in desk and smiled, winningly, at the Receptionist.

'Good evening, sir,' she smiled back. 'How can I help you?'

'Good evening, Miss…Dorkins,' he replied, reading her name from her ID badge. 'Dr John Watson. I have two single rooms reserved.'

Miss Dorkins tapped at a key board then reached under the desk and came up with two large metal keys on heavy, clunky key rings, which she placed on the counter top in front of her guest, with another charming smile.

'I see you've left your departure date open,' she commented.

'Yes. We're not sure how long our business will take to complete. I checked with the manager, when I booked. She said it was OK.'

'Oh, yes, sir, it's not a problem. We're not too busy, for the time of year. We do have a wedding party, at the weekend, though.'

'I think we should be sorted by then,' John assured her. 'But, if not, we understand that we may have to move to different rooms.'

'Oh, that's not likely, sir. Most wedding guests want doubles or, at the very least, twins. No, I was just warning you that things might be a bit…lively at the weekend. Y'know, rowdy?'

John just grinned. He was charmed by her lilting Lancashire accent, just tweaked towards RP, like a telephone voice. But, mostly, he was really relishing Sherlock's response to suddenly finding himself in the middle of a traditional Northern bun-fight.

'When you've quite finished flirting, doctor,' Sherlock cut in, reaching over John's shoulder to grab one of the room keys, 'I'd like to go to my room. Where is it?' he demanded of the girl, rather bruskly.

'Top floor, sir, second and third doors to the left,' the girl spluttered, somewhat flustered by Sherlock's abrupt manner.

The stroppy detective strode toward the stair case – in the apparent absence of a passenger lift – and ascended two steps at a time. John turned to the receptionist and winked, conspiratorially.

'Oh, don't mind Mr Grumpy Pants. He's like that with everybody. Comes from being a bona fide genius, I understand.'

Suitably mollified, the young lady smiled again and, as John picked up his case, she leaned forward and said,

'If you go round to the right, there, you'll find the lift. You're on the sixth floor!'

John gave a bark of triumphant laughter and strode off to the elevator.

ooOoo

When Sherlock eventually arrived at the door to his room, he was surprised to find John's door open and the man himself standing in the doorway, looking smug. He deduced, obviously, that the other man had used an alternative means of transport to reach the top floor before him so did not give his friend the satisfaction of asking him how he had achieved this feat.

Instead, he unlocked his own door and dropped his bag on the floor to prop it open then stepped inside the room and took Arthur's switched off phone from his pocket. Turning to face his friend, who had followed him over the threshold, he said,

'I'm going to turn this on and ring one of his sisters.'

John nodded, to show that he understood and approved of the plan.

Sherlock took that as the signal to proceed and pressed the Power button then sat on the bottom of the bed, to wait for the mobile to power up. No sooner had the phone become live than a flurry of text alerts pinged, one after another. Sherlock opened the most recent, read it and showed it to John.

Arthur, you dick! Where the fuck are you? What's with the Sarah Bernhardt impression?

This was from Rosie, the older of the two siblings.

The text before that one, also from Rosie, read,

OK, I give in, you win the 'not speaking' contest! Answer your phone, Fuckface!

Sherlock flicked through a dozen texts, all of the same ilk but each one more demanding than the one sent before. If any of Arthur's family were involved in his disappearance, this sister was not one of them.

There were two missed calls from Josie, the younger sister, and she had left a voice mail. Sherlock accessed it.

'Arthur, when you get this message, please ring me. Rosie is going to burst a blood vessel if you don't! You promised to keep us in the loop so, come on, bro, don't ditch on us now! Love you lots.'

Ah, so he had been right about the 'LOL'. Sherlock congratulated himself on his knowledge of social media speak.

'You better do as she says,' John prompted him, cutting across his little reverie.

Sherlock gave a small shrug and dialed Josie's number.

She answered almost immediately, as though she had been holding her phone in her hand.

'Arthur! At last! I was beginning to think you'd run off to join the Foreign Leagion!'

'I'm not Arthur,' Sherlock replied.

There was a short pause, as Josie processed the words spoken by the strange, cultured, baritone voice, then he heard,

'Oh, hello, whoever you are! No wonder my brother hasn't been in touch. He's lost his phone! Thank you so much for finding it for him…'

'No, Miss Brocklehurst, it's not his phone that is lost,' Sherlock interrupted her.

'What? Not his phone that's lost? What do you mean? Who are you?' She sounded alarmed, now.

'My name is Sherlock Holmes. Arthur is…engaged to my brother, Mycroft,' he explained, speaking slowly and distinctly.

'Oh! Right! Er…hello!' she stammered. 'Sorry, this conversation is a bit surreal. So you are Arthur's brother-in-law-to-be, yes?'

'Yes, I suppose I am,' Sherlock confirmed.

'So Arthur hasn't lost his phone because you have it, yes?'

'Miss Brocklehurst, it's a bit more complicated than that. May I come and see you?'

'Well, of course! But I'm in Stalybridge. Where are you?'

'I am also in Stalybridge. I came here to speak to you and your sister, both at the same time, if possible.'

'Oh, well, of course. I'll call her and ask her to come here too. Do you know where I live?'

'I do not,' he replied. 'Could you tell me your address?'

'Do you have a pen?'

'I'll remember it,' he assured her.

Somewhat dubiously, she told him her address then asked,

'What time should I expect you?'

'We could be there in thirty minutes, unless my companion needs to refuel, beforehand,' he said, aiming the last part of the statement at John, with the quirk of an eyebrow.

'Refuel? Oh, eat! I see. Well, I'd offer to feed you both but I'm afraid I wasn't expecting visitors. Though, I could nip to the chippie!'

'No, please, don't go to any trouble. I'm reliably informed that he has no need of sustenance at the moment. We will be with you in the next half hour.'

He said goodbye and closed the call, then stood up, took one step toward the doorway and picked up his valise, releasing the door which began to swing shut. John put out a hand to stop it and said,

'So, when are we leaving?'

'Twenty minutes. It will only take ten to get to Josie's flat. I'll knock on your door when it's time to go.'

John was looking at him with that 'how could you possibly know that' look on his face.

'I memorised the map of the town on the way here,' he declared, as though it should have been obvious.

John's expression changed to the 'when exactly did you do that' look.

'I looked up Stalybridge on Google Maps, in the cab on the way to Euston, and took myself on a guided tour, in my Mind Palace, on the train to Manchester. I timed all the routes from the station to wherever, which is how I know that it will take ten minutes to get from here – or from the station, which is right next door – to Josie's flat.'

Having given this entirely unnecessary (in his opinion) explanation, he put the flat of his hand on John's chest and urged him out of the doorway into the corridor.

'I will knock when it's time to go – in fifteen minutes, now,' he added, pointedly, and let the door swing shut.

ooOoo

Blake had been standing in the foul-smelling room all afternoon, watching Arthur pour out his soul and Knowles have multiple orgasms, at the opportunities the young man's confessions provided for him to spout his pet theories and denounce the Devil that was – in this instance – Arthur's sexually abusive boyfriend. Blake had heard more than enough.

He was fairly confident that, unless the 'patient' had a sudden change of heart and reverted to antagonising his 'therapist', he could leave them unattended for as long as it took to grab a breath of fresh air and phone in a progress report to his boss.

He strode though the empty building and out through the now redundant 'Public Entrance', where he paused to light a cigarette then leaned on the wall of the building and fished out his phone. He took a couple of long, satisfying tokes of his cigarette while he waited for the call to be answered. When it was, he unconsciously stood up straight, almost to attention, at the sound of his boss's voice.

'Well, how's it going?' asked the other party.

'He seems to have accepted that his sugar daddy is exploiting him. He's weeping and wailing and begging for redemption but, to be honest, I don't buy it. He's a smart one, this guy. I think he's playing Knowles for the self-obsessed, delusional twat that he is. The minute we let him go, he'll recant the lot and go running back to Popa.'

The other man chuckled at that visual image but sobered up very quickly.

'So you think he's putting on a show?'

'Asolutely.'

'Well, perhaps we need to cut to the chase, bring this stage of the operation to a hasty conclusion?'

'The Boss' considered his options for a moment then came to a decision.

'Show him the tape.'

Blake nodded, even though the man on the phone couldn't see him. Then he almost clicked his heels, as he replied,

'Yes, sir, Colonel Moran.'

ooOoo

I'm taking a calculated risk, here, that Stalybridge, like nearly every other British town with a Victorian railway station, has a Victorian railway hotel right next door! If not now, I bet it did once!