The Trouble With Sentiment

Chapter Two

*Updated as of 12/31/2016*

The cabbie complied, turning right at the next intersection.

John eyed Sherlock, an odd expression on his face.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"You laughed, and now you've got me worried."

Sherlock forced his smile to remain. While in his Mind Palace, every action was supposed to be disconnected from his physical self, much like the paralysis the body experienced when dreaming. Wonderful. Another Mind Palace problem to solve. He shrugged. "I amuse myself sometimes."

"Yes, and that's why I'm concerned."

A smirk tugged at his mouth. "Can't you just relax?"

John rolled his eyes. "Haha. Very funny."

Eight minutes later, the cabbie dropped them off at their destination.

John stared up at the shop. "A cheese monger?"

"Yes. Paxton and Whitfield. Cheese mongers since 1797." It was the reason he'd laughed. A wheel of cheese had hit the cab in his Mind Palace, not a tire. Up close now, there was no mistaking the tiered rounds of cheese on display. The shop's interior was dark, and orange lights from across the street reflected off the wide window.

John pressed his nose to the glass, fogging it up with his breath. "It doesn't look like anyone's in."

Sherlock checked his watch. They had three minutes.

Someone had decided to play a game with him. Not that he minded. But who? Obviously someone who knew he appreciated a good puzzle. Perhaps an early Christmas gift? He eyed John. The wrinkle line on his forehead indicated his confusion, so clearly he wasn't involved.

"It's a simple cheese shop, Sherlock. No dead bodies in sight."

"How unfortunate."

"Why are we here?"

Good question. Snowflakes danced through the air, sending icy pinpricks against Sherlock's face. What was he missing? His gaze zeroed in on the orange light reflected in the window. His breath caught. He spun around, then had the urge to slap himself.

The lights illuminated a sign for an Indian food restaurant. Tamarind.

Sherlock pointed at it. "There. The lights reflected in the window were the clue, not the cheese shop. The point was to determine where our photographer was when they took the photo."

"Wait - what?"

Sherlock didn't bother to explain further. He gripped John's elbow and dragged him across the street. It wouldn't do to be late.

Curry, cardamom, and garlic teased his nose as he entered the restaurant. Gold pillars gleamed in the brightly lit rectangular room. A curving glass wall separated the kitchen from the dining area, allowing the patrons to view the cooking process. One man set a dish inside a tandoori oven, while another deftly removed freshly baked naan bread from the inside wall. A steady beat, the twanging strings of a sitar, and a woman's low undulating voice sang softly in the background. Despite the cold weather, the tables were nearly full.

A young couple sat in the corner, eyes only for each other, while a rowdy crowd of university students gathered around a long line of smaller tables. Judging by their flushed faces and overly loud voices, they'd imbibed a number of alcoholic beverages before dinner. Three elderly couples and five groups of parents with children dotted the room.