Chapter Two: We Have A Case

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Slamming the book shut, I throw it violently behind me. The dull thud is sucked up in the carpet as I huff and curl up on the couch.

"Bored," I mutter into my shoulder.

I had finished unpacking the few belongings I brought an hour ago. I'll get the rest shipped over sometime, but there's not a lot. My apartment is small - just a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and living room.

My phone pings, and, sighing, I check it.

Come down now. It's urgent.


Of course it is, Sherlock. I sigh, swing my feet off the couch and shift my weight onto my feet. I pad across the carpet to my door, shrugging my cardigan onto my shoulders. The door swings open effortlessly - I oiled it well. I can't stand squeaky doors. My soft footsteps barely leave a trace as I run my fingers down the smooth bannister. The carpet slides underneath my socks as I reach down and swing open the door.

"What do you need, dear Sherly?" I say sweetly. He is lying on the couch, eyes closed and face pointed at the ceiling. John is sitting in his usual chair reading the paper.

"What's so urgent that I needed to leave my perfectly good book in order to find some kind of energy to walk down these stairs just to visit my favourite sociopath, hm?"

His eyes dart open and lock onto mine with a surgeon's precision.

"Oh you're here. We have a case!" he says triumphantly.

"No, I wasn't standing here talking for the last 12.45 seconds. You're getting slow," I tease. He huffs and stands up, jumping over the table and walking towards the desk. However, even this simple move is not without its usual dramatic flair, found in the way he flicks his dressing gown. Drama queen.

He picks up a box and throws it to me, once again flicking his dressing gown as he collapses into his chair. That's right, collapses. This man has not changed. I examine the box. 

Made in America. Pine and oak wood. Chinese puzzle box. 15-20 years old, probably kept in a small, dirty space. Opened recently.

"You haven't looked at it?"

"Lestrade just dropped it by. Said it had come up in a case, but that it was strictly for my eyes only."

"Oh yes, I have been hearing about your little servant," I cough, " sorry connection in Scotland Yard." Oh, I have missed this.

I turn it over once. The top opens by itself, the only thing in there is a little yellow piece of paper labelled "Sherlock and Darcy." Well that's weird. Why would someone do that? It only takes a few more seconds for me to open the side compartment. In this, there are more interesting documents. Much more interesting.

The first is a newspaper article about a train murder that happened 12 years ago. The Northern Line murders. A body was carried along the modern day Northern Line, acting perfectly normal, looking like they were sleeping, until someone realised that the person was dead, giving the murder it's name. Various other victims were all found in the same place and the killer was eventually found. Some psychopath with a vendetta against people with a certain background. All of the victims had been people that the murderer, Johnson, said had committed a crime. He never said what though. But he was locked up now. He pleaded not guilty in the court, but all evidence pointed towards him.

I had always thought that something had been off on this case. I had been young, and no one had listened to me, but what could explain the fact that they never found a murder weapon? What else would explain the fact that the man had never told them what this so-called 'crime' was?

Along with this were various documents relating to the murders, victims, and the murderer himself. Where had all these come from? A thin sheaf of yellowed paper slipped from my hand. I caught it, and my eye caught something on it. Cursive writing. A confession? 

A signature. A confession. He knew who did it?

My eyes scanned the paper.

'I didn't do it.'

'He forced me. He told me that he would kill my daughter.'

'If anyone every reads this, help me.'

'Oh god, help me.'

"He died yesterday. This was found in the corner of his jail cell." Sherlock remarks.

I pull one last thing out of the hidden compartment. A DVD. We put it into Sherlock's computer, and it shows part of Johnson's final interview. He is chained to the seat. Dark bags under his bloodshot eyes stand out against his pale, sickly skin. He slumps in the chair, looking defeated.

"Is there anything else you would like to say?" someone off-screen asks.

Johnson stares tiredly at the camera.

"It's going to happen again. God help us. If you don't believe anything else that I say, believe this one this. It's going to happen again." By the end of his little speech, he is on the edge of his chair, straining at his handcuffs and a manic look in his eyes. The screen goes black.

"Interesting," I mutter.

"Well my dear Sherlock, I believe we have a case!"

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