The Labyrinth of Fragile things

Chapter II - The game is on

I awoke minutes before I heard the door creaking open. I took the liberty of making myself a cup of tea, when I saw mrs Hudson in her bathrobe surveying the apartment. She didn't dare to take a step inside, her feet plastered to the doormat. She was oblivious to the fact that I was standing on her far left, her eyes fixed on my violin case. Once she finished eyeing it suspiciously she directed her vision to me, unknowingly. Her eyes stayed fixed on me, her face turned a sickly pale. I slowly walked towards her, making sure that her body wouldn't collapse in on itself.

"You're dead, you're dead, you're dead..." She kept muttering to herself, stiff from shock.

Once I reached her I placed a hand on her shoulder. I completely understood her reaction to seeing me, but trying to comfort her was something entirely different. "Mrs Hudson, listen to me." I spoke clearly, making sure my grip on her was firm. "You're going through a state of shock, dilapidating your judgment. Keep your eyes fixed on me. I'm really here, you're not hallucinating."

She shook her head furiously. "But you're dead. I went to your grave. It... It can't be you."

"That grave may belong to me, but I'm not underneath it." How was I meant to explain my fabricated death to someone who isn't thinking straight? "With the help of Molly, and some other scientists, I was able to trick Moriarty into thinking that I died. In reality I survived the fall, and have been spending the last two years dispatching Moriarty's networks."

Mrs Hudson blinked back a couple of tears, straightening herself up. "Is it really you?" She asked in a fragile voice, scared to hear the answer.

"Yes," I nodded with a slight smile. "It's really me." I wasn't able to say anything else as she gave me a suffocating hug. My arms awkwardly dangled to the side until I gave her a light pat on the back. She finally untangled herself from me, smiling happily.

"I thought you were a ghost!"

"Don't be daft, mrs Hudson." I rolled my eyes at the pure idiocy I had just heard.

A genuine look of pain passed her face, but only for a fleeting moment. "Oh, it's you alright," she spoke with certainty. "Now we just need John back."

I hadn't expected her to talk about John so soon, and to my surprise, felt that gnawing feeling of guilt again. "About John, what exactly happened?

"He was here one minute, gone the next. I'm worried that it could be a kidnapping," Mrs Hudson whispered, as if the utter thought of John being kidnapped made it true. "The police our so lazy. They gave up so fast, as if John doesn't matter!"

As if John couldn't matter. "It doesn't surprise me that the police our left dumbfounded; they usually are. But don't worry, mrs Hudson. John is more than capable of surviving. I'll take up the case. John will be back in no time." I tried to smile comfortingly, trying to convince myself more than mrs Hudson.

"I hope you're right."

~

It wasn't until mrs Hudson left (which took longer than I hoped) that I could properly analyze the apartment. I slipped into John's room, finding it just how he left it. His bed was unmade, half the sheet dangling on the floor. A pile of books were stacked up on his desk, the top one reading The Book Thief. Amongst the books there was a notepad. My hands skimmed the cover, opening the notepad to find all the pages torn out; except one. Scrawled on the last remaining page, was the quote "It's just a magic trick." I recognized John's handwriting immediately. I said the exact quote before the fall, when I called John. I was alluding to the fact that I wasn't actually going to die, hoping that he would catch on. I set aside the notepad, and peered into John's wardrobe. If everything else was left exactly the same I expected his wardrobe to be no different. There was only one item of clothing hanging on the rack, giving an eerie sense of John's return. It was his favorite sweater, the white, woolly one that he used to always wear. I smiled at thought, memories of John in the sweater, complaining about English weather. I shut the wardrobe door hastily, taking one last look at John's desk. It was incredibly cluttered, making it easy for me to miss an important aspect. And so I did. Hidden beneath one of his books, a leaflet stuck out. I removed the leaflet from the book, my eyes trailing over the words: "I believe in Sherlock Holmes," with John signature. It all made sense! The sweater, the quote, and the petition that John signed, all allude to John's case. John wasn't kidnapped, he left Baker street, in hopes of catching my attention and finding him. I chuckled as I put the petition down. The game is on!