Chapter 3 Missing – Day 2-3
He had settled just before sunset, finding a spot against a hill on the leeway side. He stretched his legs out, unlacing his shoes and letting his feet breathe. His body cooled down and he shivered, pulling his coat tighter around him. He was thirsty, knew that he was dehydrated. But he had not found any sources for water in his trek, which was frustrating. He leaned back against the hill, eyeing the sky and the clouds that were busy building slowly, filling the heavens from horizon to horizon. His whole body was stiffening, his bruises tight and sore. He wondered briefly if he'd be able to walk tomorrow. He pulled up his sleeve, eyeing the handkerchief he had tied around his burn. He was loath to move it and reopen the wound. Decided in the end to just leave it. He moved his wrist experimentally. It was sore but manageable.
A slow drizzle started and he opened his mouth, trying to slake his thirst as much as he could. The temperature dropped dramatically after sunset and with the rain. He curled up tight as best he could, trying to keep his centre dry as he shook with cold.
He went into his mind palace. Searched his archives until he found the file on hypothermia. He read the symptoms with interest. They blazed in front of his eyes, white against the backdrop of darkness.
Hypothermia is caused by prolonged exposure to cold temperatures. Symptoms include shivering, confusion, memory loss, exhaustion, slurred speech, and drowsiness.
Bach played in his memory palace, a melancholy melody that he couldn't seem to shake. He put the file away, closed the drawer and opened his eyes.
He deduced himself, speaking to John out loud. It helped to keep him focused as his voice broke the quiet around him.
"You see, John," he spoke into the darkness, teeth chattering, "As long as I'm shivering, I'm ok. I know it's one of the symptoms but it's when you stop shivering that the danger zone comes. When your body temperature has lowered so much that you don't shiver to keep warm anymore. I'm tired but that you'll be too if you walked the whole day. I am not confused. I can explain electron oxidation and reduction. My speech is not slurred, ok, not by much." He conceded in the end, lying his head down on his arms, trying to eke out more warmth that was not forthcoming.
He kept a monologue, but his speech slowed until his energy was spent just trying from keeping his teeth chattering. He closed his eyes, his breaths deepening. He was unaware of his body relaxing, of the rain lessening.
He fell asleep, exhaustion finally laying claim to his body.
"No, no and no. You cannot start a fire in the flat. Even if it's in a bin."
"But it's for science. An experiment. I'll be able to prove to that idiot Anderson that Mr Johnson did not burn down his own house. That the fire alarm would've gone off a lot earlier."
John stood in front of the table where a bin was placed, firewood haphazardly thrown in by the other man. Sherlock was standing with a lighter, perplexed that his friend wasn't allowing him to light the fire.
"Surely you can see the validity in what I'm doing. I have a fire extinguisher handy, John. I'm not going to burn the flat down." He thought his logic was sound. He could not understand why the other man was so reluctant in letting him experiment.
"Yes, and everything will smell of smoke, Sherlock. And Mrs Hudson would not be pleased, now, would she?"
Sherlock was annoyed. But he conceded the point that John had made. No. Mrs Hudson would definitely not be pleased.
"Fine. But I'm bored, John. I need something to solve. I need something to do."
He turned away, flicking the lighter on and off as he watched the flame burn and die. That set of his thought processes.
What if….
A long while later he looked up to find John and the bin of firewood was gone. He looked at the time and remembered John mentioning something about work.
He smiled. He had another bin stashed away. He made his way to his room and was more annoyed when he realised that his roommate had anticipated him and removed the backup bin he had stashed behind his door.
What to do.
Bored.
He was bored.
Mrs Hudson entered the flat. "Sherlock, someone dropped this off for you. Can you please let them know that I'm not your cleaning lady or your secretary. There's a dear." She left as she had come, business evident as he took the envelope and examined it.
It smelled nice.
He gave another sniff. Good quality paper. Scents of lavender and rose. Subtle. A woman then.
Why would anyone send him a scented envelope?
Perplexed, he opened the letter, noting the calligraphy and marksmanship of the pen that had made the letters.
All of that he processed automatically as he read the lines on the paper. His eyes widened slightly at the words. He was intrigued.
This was not boring. He thought briefly of waiting for John or leaving a note. Decided against it. This wasn't dangerous, yet.
He grabbed his Belstaff as he went down the stairs with a spring in his step.
The game was on.
Something startled him awake later and he blinked owlishly in the darkness, aware that his shivering had stopped. He was in trouble, but he wasn't sure why.
This was not so good.
"Fat lot that will do to you if you die of exposure, you git."
Sherlock stared into the darkness.
Ah. Hallucinations. How dull.
"Go away. Trying to sleep here."
"You don't sleep when you're on a case, Sherlock."
"Not on a case, John. Leave me alone."
"Sherlock, you need to get up."
He took stock again. Went through the symptoms again. Frowned when he realised that thinking was much harder.
"Sherlock, get up!"
"Fine. But if I catch my death, it would be on you." he managed to get out as he rose. "Now what, John. I can't exactly walk in the dark. No stars right. I can't see, moron."
His imaginary John sighed. "Jumping jacks, Sherlock. Jumping jacks."
"Right."
He hugged himself as he walked around in a circle, trying to work out the circumference and diameter of the circle. Counted his steps as he kept walking. Explained to John that he wasn't going to do jumping jacks. Very undignified and won't work in his suit. Some time passed. He warmed enough to sit down.
Fell asleep again to wake up with John shouting in his ear again.
Got up and did squares this time.
Rince. Repeat.
Until the sky lightened in the east, the clouds grey and overcast.
Day two has started.
Mrs Hudson had not been happy. He had tried his best but, in the end, his own exhaustion had kicked in forcefully and he had fallen asleep, his head pillowed on his arms sitting at her table. She had fussed, made him tea, and then bundled him upstairs. He woke to light streaming through the open window, asleep on the couch and aware that he was much too old to wake up like this.
It has been three days since Sherlock was taken. In that time, Mycroft had bullied, harangued, and pushed others around – most of it his own agents – to try and find his vanished little brother. The older Holmes had published the photo of Sherlock in his deerstalker hat with a number to phone in case anyone has seen him. It had been on the evening news, a short excerpt of asking if anyone has seen this man, please contact missing persons at this number. John had sat downstairs with Mrs Hudson, watching the news as the photo of Sherlock had appeared, larger than life. She had bustled around, hands busy while he had stared at the screen, trying to quell his own concern for his friend in his own way.
Lestrade had been a lot less elegant but had nonetheless gone to great lengths to push the bureaucracy of evidence, police tape and search and rescue.
That was last night. He slowly sat up, wiping his face, feeling his stubble rough against his hand. He grabbed his phone from the side table. There were no messages from Lestrade or Mycroft. He flung the phone back down, ruffling his hair.
Right. Get ready.
He glanced at Sherlock's empty chair. He didn't like where his thoughts were going.
Stop it John. He'll be fine. He's Sherlock bloody Holmes. Mr Invincible.
He huffed and rose from the couch and made his way to the bathroom. Feeling refreshed afterwards, he sat down by the table and opened his laptop that Sherlock kept using because his friend was too lazy to get his own from his room. He smiled at the memory.
A soft knock from the door and he grunted as Mrs Hudson entered the room with a pot of tea and some toast. "Thought you should eat something, dear."
He didn't feel hungry but indulged her as he took a bite of the toast smothered in marmalade. It was sticky and he licked his fingers as he took a sip of the hot tea.
"Anything more, dear?"
He shook his head as he finished breakfast. Thought of yesterday when he had read the forensic report on the car. The blood in the car had been Sherlocks'. They had calculated the amount lost and his approximate body weight and height. The amount had not been deemed significant to cause concern. John had been thankful. He was very aware of how much blood loss affects the body. Had seen first-hand how shock killed soldiers from a wound bleeding out. There were some things to be grateful for.
He wiped the crumbs from his hand as he reached for his phone. He rang Lestrade.
"Hi Greg."
"Hi John. Sorry, mate. Nothing new at the moment. Look, we are getting a lot of people phoning in but most of the sightings are junk, if you get my meaning."
"Yeah. Ok. Let me know when you have something."
He closed the connection. "Sorry, Mrs Hudson. Still nothing."
"Oh, I'm sure he'll turn up, right as rain. Don't you worry, John. I'm sure Sherlock will be okay."
He gave her a quick nod, avoiding her eyes. "Oh John," she stated softly, patting him on the shoulder and then left with the tea set and plate.
Are you going to do something, John? Anything painful like thinking?
Just shut up, John thought. I might not be on your level, Sherlock but I'm not bloody stupid either.
John took his time. He was very much aware that he was not his best friend. That he didn't have the deductive or reasoning skills, but he wasn't an idiot. He was smart enough to know his own limitations but still, he was smart.
The unknown was the man that still hasn't been identified. Mycroft had facial identity running but according to him unless you were in the system, it was a futile exercise at best. Lestrade had printed the photo out, was asking around but people had clammed up and no-one seemed to know who the guy in the suit was.
John was certain that the man was the key to unravelling where Sherlock was.
He exited the flat an hour later, feeling refreshed but his stomach still in knots, worry gnawing at his insides. It took him half a day before he found her. He remembered her from previously, one of the hordes of homeless that Sherlock employed now and again on his cases. Showed her the picture of the man in the suit and watched her as she disappeared into one of the London Underground stations.
All he had to do was wait.
And hope.
Mycroft turned from the screen, watching his agents shift through the data that was being entered by the police force administration department. So far there had been a pattern to the calls. Those that start with questions - "Oh is that the detective bloke." – gets grouped in the false sighting pile. There had been the occasional – "I believe my neighbour has him in his basement" – prank call. They were easy to filter, so obvious in their lies. The harder ones were the ones that were a little vague, where information was a little less forthcoming. Those were the ones that had agents or police go out and investigate.
None of those ones had panned out so far.
His phone buzzed and he looked at the message.
How did you manage to lose your brother? Dear me, I thought you were watching?
Mycroft slipped his phone into his jacket pocket and made his way back to his office. Motioned to Anthea to come with him. She closed the door quietly while he sat down behind his desk.
"I got another text."
"Moriarty, Sir?"
"Yes. It seems the consultant criminal may be involved after all." Mycroft swivelled in his chair, hands together under his chin. "Do we have eyes on him?"
Anthea typed away on her phone, fingers blurring. He waited patiently until she looked up, "Our team in Brussels reported no movement from him. He seems to be still at his safe house there."
"Send them in and bring him here. I think it's time that we had a talk."