The exterior of 221B Baker Street looked the way it always had - or at least the way I remembered it. It surprised me how little buildings changed; timeless artefacts, when life seemed to carry on continuously around them. They just stayed the same until they too were visibly eaten away by time when it got bored and turned on them.
I slammed the taxi door closed as John paid with a note he'd fished out of his pocket. It had definitely not come from his wallet, I thought, of that I was sure.
He joined me on the pavement before gesturing to the black door.
"Are you going in?" He asked, moving to the side as a pedestrian shuffled past us and into Speedy's cafe.
"I was waiting to be invited in." I said automatically, walking with him until he stopped to open the door.
Peering inside, I saw that even the inside of the building hadn't changed. It was just how I remembered it.
"John, dear, is that you?" A cheerful voice called from somewhere down the hallway before an older woman wearing a purple house dress walked into view.
She paused when she saw me, fixing me in a questioning gaze. Then her eyes filled with recognition and she grinned happily, her face creasing in good humour.
I swallowed and John began to speak but I cut him off by saying, "Hi Mrs Hudson."
Mrs Hudson proceeded over, "Gosh, Everly! What on earth are you doing here?" She asked, pulling me into a tight and warming hug.
I wasn't really the hugging kind of person, usually I just stood stiffly as people cuddled me, but since it was Mrs Hudson, I made an effort to hug back slightly before pulling awkwardly away.
"How's your father?" She asked, her smile managing to thaw some icy part of me.
I swallowed dryly, "He's fine." I lied. She smiled happily though.
"Ah that's good to know. I thought I'd maybe hear from you soon. It's so good to see you!" She cupped the side of my face gently before pulling away.
John cleared his throat, interrupting our exchange, "Is Sherlock back yet?"
Mrs Hudson's face fell slightly, "He's upstairs." She gestured to the staircase, "He's in a foul mood though, for some reason. He keeps pacing back and forth muttering all sorts of gibberish. If he carries on he'll wear out my carpets!" She joked lightheartedly.
"It's not gibberish!" Sherlock shouted from somewhere upstairs before his footsteps faded again.
I smirked, "He's got hawk hearing, I tell you."
Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes then said, "I'll make some tea."
I followed John up the stairs, "Do you have biscuits?" I called to her.
"I'm a landlady not a house keeper, dear!" She called back which really meant, "Yes I'll bring some up."
"You know Mrs Hudson?" John asked me lowly.
I nodded, "Yeah, she was a friend of my mum's." I said with a lump in my throat. I couldn't help but think of the speech Mrs Hudson had given at my mum's funeral and how I'd stared at the coffin thinking that mum wouldn't have wanted everyone to be stood around crying, reciting things that had happened in her life and giving her compliments that she would have blushed at.
Mrs Hudson and I had been quite close - she was like my auntie, but since the funeral we'd drifted and lost contact.
I shook the memory from my mind.
Inside the flat was a mess. However it looked just as I had imagined somewhere would look if Sherlock lived there. Paper and books were lying around, newspapers scattered. There was even a skull on the mantelpiece. By the window stood a music stand with Sherlock's violin propped up against it, the bow positioned perfectly so someone could just pick it up quickly and begin playing.
Sherlock himself was sat in an armchair, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the leather arm. He had ceased his pacing.
"Very homely." I commented, picking up a petri dish I found lying on the coffee table with some form of mould growing in it. I showed it to Sherlock questioningly.
"Put that back!" Sherlock demanded from his chair just as Mrs Hudson walked in with a tea trey.
"It's a mess in here, boys." She said pausing by me and skilfully handing me a mug with a nice milky tea in it and a small plate of Bourbons.
I was impressed that she'd remembered how I took my tea and that bourbons were my favourite biscuits.
I smiled my thanks, feeling quite hungry since I'd missed lunch at school.
Mrs Hudson handed John and Sherlock a cup each then stood back.
"So what are you all planning on doing?"
I blinked then said sarcastically, "To be honest I have no idea why I'm here. Probably for a nice chat."
Mrs Hudson shrugged, "Okay love. Well, shout me if you need anything." Then she disappeared from the flat, her footsteps lightly fading away down the stairs.
"Why am I here Sherlock?" I hissed when I knew Mrs Hudson was out of earshot.
"It's obvious isn't it?" He said cryptically.
"No!" I said, trying to remain casual and not spill my tea everywhere while I talked.
"These murders, what do you notice about them?" He asked walking over to a small coffee table and tapping a pile of newspapers.
"I don't know." I said blankly, "Why would I?"
He tapped them again but more impatiently, "Well look and think, you're clever." - And that was probably the closest he was ever going to go to giving me a complement.
I sighed and sat down on the floor cross legged so I could see all the newspapers and the pictures they displayed.
"What am I looking for exactly?" I asked, shuffling the papers slightly and lifting them so I could see each one individually.
"Anything." Sherlock said, beginning to pace. He knew what I was meant to be looking for, but in true Sherlock style, he was waiting for me to make a fool of myself before giving me a full run through of all the facts to the proper specification.
I tapped my fingers lightly against my knee, still studying, "Well they are all covered in paint." I said finally.
"A perfectly sound analysis." He mumbled, slowing his pace slightly and clasping his hands behind his back.
"But they only use red, blue and yellow paint." I said, spreading the papers wide so I could see them all at once.
"Good, why?" He asked me steadily.
"Because they are primary colours?" I asked back. In response he just gestured back to the papers.
"They are all in business dress, tailored suits and such. It's posh dress but not posh enough to suggest they work in a high position in an establishment so probably office workers. A desk job for a company, maybe?"
"Good," Sherlock said.
"And then they've been dragged somewhere and killed." I said shortly, just because I had nothing else to offer.
I didn't think I'd done badly. I looked up at Sherlock who had ceased his pacing again and was stood looking into the mirror over the fireplace. Through it he gave me a disappointed look, "Try again."
I groaned and looked at the photographs.
"Sherlock, she doesn't know. Stop with your bloody trivia and tell us what the hell you are getting at." John said from his armchair.
Sherlock span around to look at him and snapped, "John, she's a hacker, she observes everything. For God's sake she can steal a wallet without anyone noticing. Why? Because she can pick targets out by just looking at them. She's observant, so don't assume she can't pick details out of some photographs and make a connection." He shot me a look that said I'd better prove him right by saying something intelligent from that point onwards.
John just sat back with a defiant huff.
"Having a little domestic, are we?" I mumbled to the papers, stealing a look at them both.
Sherlock glared at me, "Shut up and think!"
I rubbed my eyes tiredly. What the hell was I meant to be looking for? They were just office workers covered in paint; dead, on wasteland somewhere, each in different locations around London. What was to spot?
Even the articles that accompanied the pictures were lacking any proper detail. It was more like a warning rather then a detailed report. There were no names of the victims, references to families, no references to jobs, not even a proper location was given of where the body was found. Just a picture and a bit of writing about the fact a corpse had been found with paint splashed over it.
Splashed.
Then something dawned on me, something I probably would have over looked like every other person looking at the pictures. Something Sherlock Holmes knew I would spot.
"They've been moved." I whispered, leaning backwards slightly.
"What?" John asked, sitting forward in the chair.
"Well look at them all, they are covered in paint. Someone has chucked it over all them."
"So what?"
"There's none splashed around them on the floor. I mean, if you chuck a load of paint over someone, not all of it is going to hit home. Some is going to splash around. So the bodies must have been dumped in these locations." I explained, double checking the images as I spoke, doubting that I was actually onto something.
John raised an eyebrow and looked at Sherlock who was stood tapping his chin thoughtfully.
"So we're looking for a primary murder site? Probably somewhere that produces paint but only in primary colours?" John asked, getting to his feet and picking up one of the papers in front of me and studying the article.
"John," Sherlock said, sounding far away, chin poised on steepled fingers.
"Yes?" John looked up.
"Get your laptop."