The Devil's Chord

Chapter Thirteen

Sherlock took the stairs two at a time, cursing John’s stupidity under his breath. The man was a bloody doctor. He should have realized Miss Walker’s rapid fluid intake was unusual, but no, he’d felt pleased she was properly hydrated. Good god. How did the man function?

He caught at the knob, but the guest room door wouldn’t open. He spun around and John nearly crashed into him.

“It’s locked. Check the other bedrooms. She could be trying to throw us off.”

“I’m on it." John sprinted past him down the hall.

Sherlock entered his old bedroom, which was closest to the stairs. Everything was in its place. She hadn’t come this way. He slid open his side table drawer and removed a set of keys, singling out the one he needed.

John met him at the door. “There’s no sign of her."

“We would have noticed if she'd come downstairs,” Sherlock said, as he unlocked the door.

The knob turned easily this time, but the door still refused to budge. It gave ever so slightly as he shoved his weight against it.

Sherlock dropped to the floor to look beneath the door. The sturdy legs of the antique were inches from his face. “The chair's jammed beneath the knob.”

John sighed. “Right. Of course it is.”

Light glinted off a pair of scissors resting on the carpet and a cool breeze blew across Sherlock’s nose. He jumped to his feet, then swept into the adjacent room. John followed.

Sherlock opened the window and removed his torch from his pocket.

John pressed his nose to the screen. “That’s at least a fourteen foot drop. She couldn’t have possibly jumped.”

“You didn’t see her in the barn." Sherlock shone his torch onto the outside wall. “She could have used the drainage pipe.” It was quite sturdy. He’d used it multiple times as a child. He pointed the light onto the ground below. “She didn’t jump or go down the pipe. The mud is undisturbed.”

John frowned. "Then where did she go?”

The roof creaked, and they both stared up at the ceiling.

Sherlock's chest tightened. “I believe she intends to make a far more permanent escape.”

John’s bewildered expression shifted to one of horror. “Oh my god.”

Sherlock headed into his parents’ old suite, John tight on his heels. He slid open the window and popped out the screen. This route would be the best way to get to the highest point of the roof. “Grab a few blankets. She’ll be needing one later. There should be extras in the closet.”

He set a foot on the sill, but before he could slip out, John caught his arm. “Are you sure you’re the best person to go after her?”

A wave of irritation set his teeth on edge. He wrenched back the sleeve on his left arm, exposing a long, thin scar stretching from wrist to elbow. “Lest you’ve forgotten, I do have experience in this particular area.”

John swallowed. “Right. I’ll just wait here then.”

Sherlock stepped onto the window ledge and climbed up the drainage pipe and onto the roof. The stones were slick, but he’d memorized every crack and crevice as a boy. He quickly found a safe path to the highest peak.

A misting rain floated through the air, the drops of moisture whisper-soft against his skin. The low hanging clouds blocked most of the natural light, making it difficult for him to make out much but the silhouettes of the chimneys.