I RELUCTANTLY took the call from Alice, extremely bewildered. Sherlock has unorthodox ways to do his stuff—couldn't he just simply ask for my contact number?
"Hello?"
"Luce. Are you done with your coffee?" I heard Sherlock's voice, shocked that it was a little different in person.
"Huh? How'd you know?"
"Dumb questi—no, because it took less than 30 seconds for Alice to hand over the phone. Simply, you're at the café. Now the real question, Luce, is . . . are you free?"
Did he just say dumb? And why on Earth is he asking about me?
"Uhm, do you need anything?"
"Yes, you. I need a companion."
"What for . . .?"
"I'll meet Victor Rodin's girlfriend. I need to avoid looking like a creepy guy, alone, covered in bandages."
"What about Inspector Lestrade?"
"As you have heard over the phone call in my unit, the case just got more complicated. They're busy."
It took me a while to be convinced to accompany him. I headed straight to the park where he instructed we meet up. I even had to use Google Maps to make it to the right location. I had to commute, which was a loss to my savings for the next weeks.
I arrived at the park after half an hour of trip around the city. The sun hadn't fully gone down yet, and there were still people around but none of them looked like Sherlock Holmes.
Oh. From a scale of 1-10, I'd rate my stupidity . . . 10.
I didn't take note of Sherlock's number, or any social media accounts to make contact with him. Which means . . . I wouldn't know if he's here already, or left already, or waiting else I can't find.
I walked to an elderly sitting on a bench. "Excuse me . . . may I ask you a question, Ma'am?"
"Sure, dear. Anything," she answered.
"Have you seen a young man who had bandages on his . . ." I paused. I noticed something peculiar behind the bench she was sitting at, something on the lawn. When I had a perfect look, my eyes widened. "Oh my goodness!"
I rushed to the lawn and kneeled to shake Sherlock Holmes's body, laying on the grass. "Sherlock! Sherlock!"
"Keep your voice down."
A enormous sense of relief engulfed me and calmed my nerves down. Sherlock opened his eyes and slowly got up, holding his head as if he has a headache. I checked his whole body and he didn't seem hurt or bleeding anywhere. I didn't understand why I rushed to that grim thought—maybe because his line of work was bound to attract bad people.
"Is everything alright, dear?" the elderly asked, looking back at us.
"Yes, ma'am! Nothing to worry about." I didn't want the sweet old lady to be worried, I'll take it from here. Then I turned to Sherlock. "What happened to you?"
"The lawn was clean," he answered as he get up.
"Huh? What do you mean?"
He began pacing towards the street so I followed him. "I took a quick nap," he said.
"In the lawn?! Outdoor?!"
He's unbelievably bold.
Two of us walked down the street ad the orange sunlight's starting to endold top of the houses. A real unfamiliar neighborhood to me, with a stranger I met yesterday who happened to live next door. Is this the sequel of my story from last night?
"What bothers me the most about his MO . . ." he started. ". . . is that rhe culprit's killing instrument doesn't guarantee a 100% success rate. But the autopsy results showed it's the only way they died."
MO? If I'm not mistaken, modus operandi?
"Did you know that zinc phosphide's fatality rate is 37-100%? That means the doctors could always have a chance to save the patient, it depends on the dosage and time of arrival."
"I see . . ." I said, letting him know I'm listening well.
"Here's my analysis to their profile. Testimonies said the first victim's sexuality is straight. So our culprit is male in his 20s to 30s. His fingerprints found no match to any registered citizen, therefore he lives in an unregistered house and works on a job that doesn't need a valid ID. His confidence boosted after the meticulous murder in the basement, hence the note. He poisoned his secret lover with the intention to kill. When the victim went to the restroom to relieve the first symptoms—nausea and vomitting, he left. I'd say he considered himself lucky because the victim died even with intensive care from the hospital."
"How horrible . . ."
"The second victim however . . . a homeless nobody who doesn't cause ruckus or troubles . . . he wouldn't have any reason to murder him. But he did. Did he like the thought of killing? Yes. He couldn't stop. He probably snapped. Was he experimenting? Probably. He was successful. The John Doe died. But the third victim . . . he let the poor naive old taxi driver come home first to his relatives and let him the chance to be taken to ER. Like the first victim, did he make a mistake? Probably."
"Sherlock," I called out before he could proceed further. "When we went to the basement-studio last night, you had a doubt that the body found there might be not from the same murderer—"
"Oh, yes. I've confirmed that myself when I went to the forensics earlier. No doubt, same perpetrator, same fingerprints. The patterns changed because he learned from past mistakes. I've seen the body, and it had bruises and marks on his wrists and ankles. He was tied up in the basement as he suffered from the poison. And you know what's so different this time?"
"What is?"
Sherlock smiled. "He watched the victim writhe in pain, ask for help, beg for mercy."
"How did you know?"
"The scratch on the door matched the scratch one of the stool's. There weren't any other chair in that basement—one with backrest, none. According to the basement's layout, the best way to relax is to put the stool by the door, use it as his backrest while he watched his victim for hours."
I got goosebumps all over my body—I was listening to a detailed way on how did a psychopath kill someone. How could a human ever endure that scene for hours?
"The key to the case is the red sculpture. It answered almost everything."
"Red? More like scarlet to me."
He stopped to look at me, like I said something remarkablly weird. "Interesting. Anyways, we're here."
We stopped walking and reached a house. Without a second thought, Sherlock knocked on the door. I cringed when I observed what he looks like. Aside from the bandages, people might get weirded out by what he's wearing—hoodie jacket and a pajama, plus a pair of Crocs for his feet. He doesn't look like what he claims he is, a detective—nowhere near. Will this questioning he's about to do work?
"May I help you?" A muscular bearded man answered the door.
"I'm Sherlock Holmes, a consultant for the Central Yard. Can we talk to Alyssa Davies for a minute?"
"What? But the police had already talked to her." The man observed Sherlock from head to toe. He looked to me, then back to Sherlock. "Go away. If you kids think this is funny, I'll call the cops on you."
"Oh, hate to break it to you, they would even vouch for me. So do so if that's what you want."
The man was totally unimpressed so he quickly closed the door shut.
"That was absolutely obnoxious of him," Sherlock muttered under his breath.
I think not, it was an understandable reaction.
"If she was already questioned by the police, what did you need to talk to her about?" I asked.
However, Sherlock had gone quiet. He deliberately ignored me and headed to the streets to call for a cab. I rushed to him when one stopped by—I didn't want to get left alone in an unfamiliar place.
Eventually we returned to Baker Street and he hasn't said a word to me throughout the trip. Not even a thank-you or anything. He went straight to his unit and slammed his door hard that it shook the walls.
If anything, he's the obnoxious one.
A day later and I heard nothing from Sherlock Holmes and from the companies I tried applying for. It gave me a great time to medidate by myself—it even felt like I had all the free time in the world. I also tried writing the novel that I planned to, but something from the serial killing was bothering me. The murders has reached the news now that a famous sculptor was missing and a dead body was found in his basement—turned out that dead body had been pretending to be Victor Rodin for months and nobody had noticed. That one was the most mysterious phenomenon.
The creepy scarlet sculpture also made it to the news and was pronounced as his greatest masterpiece. I distinctively remembered Sherlock said that it was the key to the case.
He waa so good at investigating that even the police consider him their consultant. Even from simple observations, he could probably tell a person's whole life story or something. Why'd he take a long hiatus though?
It was past nightfall when I received knocks on my door. Mr Hudson greeted me with a scowl on her face, her brows knitted and she wasn't saying anything at first. She made me feel like I did something wrong.
"Yes, Mrs. Hudson . . .?"
"Luce, dear. Please you shall be honest with me . . . are you and Sherlock . . . dating?"
"Excuse me?" If my face could be an emoji now, it'd be a huge red question mark. Where did she even get the idea? I met Sherlock two days ago!
"He called the café's number, and asked for you to pick him up in a convenience store. When have you two gotten this close? Is it when I asked you to bring him his food? I was so left in the dark! Alice also told me he did the same thing yesterday."
"No, Mrs. Hudson, you got the wrong idea!" I immediately defended myself before she could say anything else. "I don't know why he does that either and no! No, we're not dating at all!"
Her face started to relax now and her lips formed a smile. "Is that so? Just for the record, dear, I have no problems with you two dating. I trust Sherlock enough and you seemed like a nice girl. Now hurry up and pick him up, he insisted for you. He instructed to bring an umbrella and some cash."
Am I his pocket money or something?!
However, no matter how much I wanted to protest, I seemed to have no courage to turn Mrs. Hudson down, even though originally it's Sherlock's request. The bright side was that she gave me cash for the expenses that Sherlock required so I didn't have to spend my own. She really was like a mother to that guy.
But why would he specifically ask for me? Can't he just go home on his own? Isn't he a little too old to be picked up from somewhere like this?
I eventually arrived at the convenience store where Sherlock told me to pick him up. He made me bring two umbrellas because it was pouring hard, and Mrs. Hudson suspected he ran out of cash to buy one.
From the convenience store's glass windows, I could see Sherlock standing, and talking to the man behind the cashier. They looked like they're talking about something serious. Is this part of his investigation? Sherlock didn't strike me as someone sociable after all.
I didn't have to call for his attention because he noticed me immediately after I entered the store.
"You're supposed to arrive 30 minutes earlier."
I was engulfed in confusion. "Sorry?"
"Apology accepted. Thank you for bringing the umbrella by the way. Did Mrs. Hudson give you cash?"
I didn't know I had to apologize for being not really late because I had to prepare myself before I go out at night. Why is he so rude?
Is this any way to talk to someone who just gave you a favor? That's what I want to ask aloud but decided to keep it to myself to avoid arguments and tension like our first confrontation then.
"Yes. She did."
She suspected Sherlock ran out of money because she noticed he was out all day. Maybe he attended his classes too—as far as I remember, it isn't semester break season yet. He's in semi-formal attire after all, it's a possibility but the biggest question is, why do I care?
"Perfect," he said and rubbed his hands together. "Let's eat instant ramen here."
"Have you been craving it?"
"Hmm?" He tilted his head and averted my gaze, like he was thinking of what to answer. "Yes. Ramen's perfect for a rainy season, and look, it's a nice view for a long slurp."
I looked at what he was pertaining to. He's talking about the view on the glass windows or this store—a dark street in the rain. I sighed, then gave in without a complaint and we bought the ramen we cooked ourselves.
We sat on a table, next to each other and prepared our ramen for consumption.
"Mrs. Hudson told me that you specifically insisted for me. Why's that?"
Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to look at me in the eyes, and proceeded to say, "Because I'm interested in you."