Death of a Consulting Detective

A Study in Stupidity

December 1, 2013

I have faced many things in my life. I have seen the cruelty of the average human teenager towards a boy different from everyone else. I have faced the world's greatest threats - some of whom would terrify entire nations. I have gunned down another living soul without so much as batting an eye. In all of these situations my heart has never raced like it is now. The trembling of my brother and the Detective Inspector is now present in my own hands. This feeling is foreign to me.

I am scared.

It is very rare for those words to come out of my mouth. Normally when I say scared I'm usually stating the villain is scared yet I feel no fear myself. It has been six days since I began searching for him. So far I've gathered absolutely nothing. I haven't even left the flat for these six days. The only thing distracting me from the case is the occasionally need to shower and be forced by Ms. Hudson to eat. Bloody frustrating really. She doesn't have the mental capacity to understand why I neglect to eat in a case.

The past six days also seem to be the days the whole lot of London wants to phone me about my return.

My parents call and I let it go to voicemail.

Mike Stamford calls and I decline immediately.

Mycroft calls only to get the same reaction.

Lestrade calls and for the briefest moment I am tempted to answer but decide against it right as the ringing stops.

Molly is the only person who hasn't left me a message. She's a fairly smart girl and I assume she knows about the "no calls irrelevant to the case" rule.

I wish John would call. Only then would I answer the phone. I want to hear his voice cry out where he has been taken or by whom. I just want John back.

~

I ran a hand through my hair to brush it out of my face. Today I've been searching for what John did during my absence. He must have some papers hidden away that might hint any possible enemy. I cleaned off the coffee table in front of the couch. The nightstands in his room are bare. The desk contains papers from my old cases (I assume they're mine for John would never conduct an investigation without me). The more I looked the more nothing I found.

There's usually at least one clue after six days but this...this lack of clues drove me insane. Every minute that passed by without progress is another minute that I had to be away from John. I started opening the desk drawers frantically and throwing their contents all over the floor. I hate being scared more than I hate being alone. It clouds my judgment and drives my mind in every direction except the one I need to focus on. Finally I let out cries of frustration as I realized there was nothing in the desk to help.

Ms. Hudson came in holding a plate of food I would probably stow away in some corner of the room to fool her into thinking I'd eaten it. She looked concerned. I don't blame her for thinking there's something wrong with me like the majority of my classmates did. I'm standing here with a robe over my suit; my face pale and tear stricken and my body too small to properly fit my clothes. Instead she set the plate down to rest her boney hand on my shoulder.

"Stop it Sherlock. Stop this." she pleaded.

She doesn't understand. She doesn't know that I don't want food or comfort. She doesn't know that John couldn't possibly be dead. It angers me how she doesn't know but she still attempts to understand my superior mind.

"Please leave Ms. Hudson. You're just here to tell me of John's demise. He's not dead and I'm busy." I said. I tried awfully hard not to lash out and be rude.

"He is though, Sherlock."

"He's not!!" I shout. I knock a pile of papers off of the desk and a few photographs sit on top of the mess, face up.

One of them had a name written in John's handwriting, not mine, at the bottom of the picture. He had been on a case and this was all of his work. I stood above the mountain of paper completely forgetting about Ms. Hudson's existence as I marveled at the achievements of my blogger. He gathered quite a lot of information to find this person and I underestimated John's abilities. I never thought he could be like me, even with the journal I had Mycroft give him after my departure.

"James Moran." I said aloud.

I pushed Ms. Hudson out the door and threw on my coat to go outside for the first time in six days. James Moran. James Moran. James Moran. He must have John.

Fear can do strange things to people like me (if they exist). It can drive you mad or accidentally find what you're afraid of in the first place. It can also make you run out into the pouring rain with a name, address, and no background information in order to find the one you care for. Stupid mistake on my part for I should have read more of John's notes on my opponent before leaving to face him.

Then again don't we all make stupid mistakes.