Staying Alive

Chapter 11 Inked

Twenty-five years previous…

 

A young Sherlock Holmes shoved through the crowd that was huddled around the last known whereabouts of Carl Powers. He had already lied his way to the scene of the crime, the eerie green pool now engulfed in yellow caution tape. The smell of chlorine still fresh in his nostrils, eleven-year-old Sherlock weaved through the crowd until he could see the row of lockers that several officers partially blocked. Leaning as far past the caution tape as possible without being scolded, he peered at his deceased friend’s locker -- the hanging coat, that same old water bottle, his bag of clothes; nothing looked out of the ordinary -- except the absence of his trainers.

 

“His shoes!” Sherlock shouted and pointed, drawing the attention to everyone in the cramped locker room to himself. “His shoes are missing! Don’t you see?”

 

The annoyed officers did a double take at the obnoxious child before returning to their hushed conversation. Everyone around him resumed talking, leaving Sherlock Holmes quite agitated. So far, he was the only one with any interesting insight, and if someone would just take the time to look into it, he was sure they would find something to link the mysterious death.

 

Before turning to leave the stuffy locker room, he noticed someone watching him out of the corner of his eye. A piercing pair of brown eyes met his, along with an emotionless blank face. Pretending he didn’t notice the way that strange Jim kid stared at him, Sherlock looked down and shuffled out, walking a little faster with every step.

 

His mum met him at the door but couldn’t contain the emotions swirling around in her head: the shock that such a tragedy had happened at her child’s school; the sympathy towards poor Carl’s family; the relief that her child had safely come home. Sniffing, Mummy Holmes held a handkerchief to her nose and stretched out her free arm to embrace Sherlock. He welcomed her hug, although it was slightly awkward trying to hug someone with an eight month baby bump.

 

“I’m glad you’re alright, dear. I heard the news. So sorry about your friend,” Mrs. Holmes tried to console him.

 

“Mummy, you mustn't worry yourself. You’ll go into premature labor.”

 

She let out a small laugh. “I know, sweetheart. But I can’t help it.”

 

“Mummy, Carl never went anywhere without his shoes. But they weren’t at the scene of the crime or his locker. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

 

She shrugged and went inside with him. “I don’t know, dear, maybe he forgot them today.”

 

“No, you don’t understand,” young Sherlock plopped down on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. “He always had those shoes. He loved them. He wouldn’t just forget something like that. It can’t be a coincidence that they turn up missing on the day he dies.”

 

“Sherlock, sweetheart, try not to think about it.” His mom stroked his hair. It couldn’t be healthy for him to be so fascinated with murder at such a young, impressionable age.