Valiant {Book Two of the Incandescent Trilogy}

Chapter Three: The Return of an Idiotic Genius

Mrs Hudson laughed. “At my age?”

“I’m sure you could catch the eye of a younger one. I’m sure they’d have a better stamina, if you’re still up for that sort of thing.”

The elderly woman laughed again. “Your mother has a lot to answer for, Amelia.”

She was unable to hide her grin, and drank the rest of her tea in silence. “Right, then.” she said finally, her gaze flitting to the ceiling. “Shall we get this over with?”

♠

Amelia hesitated in the doorframe, leaning against the wall. Dust motes spiralled through the air, and the entire room smelled of damp, and stale air. Nothing had been touched since she’d left—there was a broken bottle of whiskey on the floor, its contents long since dried into the carpet. Sherlock’s knife was still stuck in the Cluedo board, the pieces scattered about it. She hadn’t cleaned it up before she’d left, unable to bring herself put away the memory of the Great Detective, and his somewhat-flawed logic.

“Nothing’s changed.” Amelia breathed out as she forced herself to enter the room, running her fingers along the desk. She picked up one of Sherlock’s notes, his handwriting barely legible.

-Terry Wong, murdered by midnight
-Nobody in restaurant saw anything
-Check Twitter and emails
-There all night by himself??? Why???
-9 customers, 2 waiters, and ­2 kitchen staff
-Therefore some, or ALL, are lying.
-Need to find proof
-Call Mycroft or Amy will hit you

Amelia smiled at the last one, remembering her threat. It seemed like decades ago when she, John, and Sherlock had set out to solve the case of Murder at ‘The Orient Express’. They had solved the case in the end, concluding that everyone had done it, but with no substantial evidence to produce to the police, no one had ended up behind bars. Both Sherlock and Amelia, much to John’s irritation, had been pleased with how the case had turned out. Nevertheless, the man’s killers had got off free. Justice was cold, and cruel in this wicked world, and Amelia had suffered from it more than many.

She flinched under Mrs Hudson’s hand on her shoulder. “Take your time,” said the woman.

The brunette blew out a heavy breath, and swept her hair away from her face. She wandered around the room, picking up various objects, and cradling them in her hands. Each item held a memory of a different place, and of a different time. Sherlock’s skull friend, Billy, was still on the mantel, alongside the knife that had been stabbed into the wood since before Amelia had arrived at Baker Street. The mirror was clouded with condensation towards the edges, reflecting Amelia’s pale and distorted face back at her. Amelia chose a book at random, and blew a layer of dust off the cover.

Practical Handbook of Bee Culture
with some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen

By Sherlock Holmes

Amelia scanned through the first pages, and opened it to the first page.

Dedicated to the one whose impression is just as strong as her analytical conclusions.

Below, Sherlock had written in his same handwriting, although perhaps this message was neater than his notes:

That means you, Amy.
Yours truly,

Sherlock.

“Anyone ever buy that book?” Mrs Hudson said, nodding at the brunette. “He always did love his bees. I’m not sure it would’ve been popular though. I did read it once—it was terribly heavy, but very…Sherlock.”