The sun only shines upon so much
They say love knows no bounds, but is that really true? They say no matter what, Everybody should be able to love who they want, But is that really true?
No. No it isn’t, and Sherlock learned the cold, hard way.
It was all lies, Lies society spat out to seem more caring, Affectionate, And accepting to the youth. The youth would grow up to be just like the generations before them, and endless cycle of lies and sugar coated truth, They would all promise to be there for the toughest of times, But when the toughest of times came, Whoever would truly be present?
No one.
On a cold, Wintery night on the second of January, Sherlock was returning home after solving a case, quite contempt. Great, He could go to sleep now, and then when he would wake up, hopefully, there would be yet another mystery to keep him on his toes and out of boredom’s grasp.
Sherlock had one hand on his bowler hat, As it was extremely windy, And the man was a bit afraid it was going to blow away, and in another he carried his suitcase. His steps were loud, But the streets were deserted and there was no source of light but the moon and stars, perhaps that's why they sounded loud.
The detective was in a bit of a rush, Hurrying to just get home already, And in that hurry, Did he bump into someone and almost fall over, If that *someone* hadn’t caught his hand. The hand was gloved, But Sherlock could tell it was a man’s hand and looking up after standing straight again, It was certainly a man.
A very handsome one, at that. The man was tall, But not as tall as Sherlock, Sherlock would beat him by an inch or two. Good. Sherlock liked being the taller one, no matter what. It was a bit uncanny, this man was impossibly handsome, With crisp, Neat blonde hair and striking blue eyes. His skin was pale, Yet not too pale. It looked smooth, And he had scarlet lips.
His eyes were the sort of blue that you would see in the Atlantic ocean, perhaps. A very bright blue, Like sapphires, But...darker. Did that make sense? Perhaps, Perhaps not. Not many were smart enough to understand Sherlocks words.
The man smiled at Sherlock, His eyes scrunching up as he did so, Sherlock pulled his hand back, and picked up his suitcase which had fallen to the ground when he crashed into the man.
"Ah, Didn’t see you there." Came the alarmingly smooth voice of the alarmingly handsome man. Since when, pray tell, Did such people exist? Hey, He even seemed like a gentleman. A bit suspicious, if you ask Sherlock.
And therefore, He would not engage in stupid small talk. He wanted to go home, Do some cocaine, call it a day and then sleep.
"The problem isn’t just you, not me, It’s both of us. No worries. I don’t have time for small talk, so don’t even try." The reply was spoken in his usually sharp voice, but the man’s smile didn’t go away, simply twitched. Hah, So Sherlock DID have an effect on him. Good to know.
The blonde bloke however, did not give up, simply stood up straight himself and dusted off his suit, before speaking again. "How rude you are, Mr..?"
"You need not know, Gentleman." Replied the detective briskly, Pulling his bowler hat over his face and stalking off, Without a look back at the strikingly handsome man he had just bumped into.
"What are you so afraid of, detective?" Murmured the blonde, But Sherlock was way too far away to hear him anymore.
___________________________
221B Baker Street was unlocked, as usual. John’s doing, no doubt. Sherlock shoved the door open, the warmth of the fireplace hitting him like a slap. Stale chemicals, bergamot, and the faint musk of old books—*home*. He dropped his suitcase with a thud.
John was slumped in his armchair, a medical journal sliding off his lap. He blinked awake, squinting. “Case go well? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Sherlock stiffened. *Sapphire-dark eyes, scarlet lips, that voice—* “Don’t be absurd, John. Ghosts are for children and sentimentalists.”
John snorted. “Right. And cocaine’s for geniuses, is it?”
Sherlock ignored him, marching toward his room.
“Wait—” John yawned, fishing something from his pocket. “Some posh bloke stopped by earlier. Wouldn’t leave a name. Just said to give you this.”
A small silver box, engraved with roses and thorns. Sherlock snatched it.
“Friend of yours?” John raised an eyebrow.
“Hardly. A pest. Irrelevant.”
But upstairs, alone, Sherlock pried it open. Inside: a black pearl, cold and perfect, and a note in swirling script.
For the detective who sees everything… except himself. –D.G.
He never gave his name. How did—?
Sherlock’s hands steadied as he pulled out his microscope. The pearl: 19th-century, Atlantic oyster beds. The paper: pre-1900, hemp fibers, traces of opium. Impossible. His pulse quickened.
But wait. Who was to say that it..really was from the blonde man? Was Sherlock being irrational? What ever did D.G even stand for? He didn't ask the blonde for his name..
Shit.
_________________________________
It was midnight, Yet Sherlock was not able to sleep. It was driving him mad, Absolutely insane. Never had he seen a case as pesky as this mystery he had just jumped into. Goodness grace, whatever the hell was happening to him?
Sherlock kept examining the oyster, And the paper, Looking, searching. Clues? Perhaps. Perhaps he was looking for clues..He just wanted to investigate this D.G, Find out if it truly is the blonde..
And whatever the hell D.G stands for while he's at it. Maybe a name. What kind of name? D...Desmond? Damian? Dariel? Daphne? Delilah? Danny? Daniel? David? Dean? Dylan? Deigo? Dominic? daisy? Diana? God damnit, Too many possibilities..
As for the G...a last name, Perhaps. What sort of last names started with G? Grayson? Garret? Gibson? Gale? Gilbert? George? Gomez? Gallagher?
Christ, There were just way too many possibilities, yet none at all. Where was Sherlock even supposed to begin? So many names, so many messages, so many possibilities for what D.G could mean, yet nothing but a pearl— oyster, whatever, and a piece of paper to investigate.
Sherlock reached over, with shaking hand, To what seemed to be the last of his cocaine. Damnit, He'd have to buy more later then..he needed to, Cocaine helped him concentrate...or whatever.
He smelled it with a heavy heart, Nasty, But, He still loved it. How would he go on in this world without it?
"It's like a loving girlfriend," Murmured Sherlock to himself. "Always helps me out when I need it."
And if he fell asleep while researching on said mystery, Sherlock didn't realize, Because when his eye opened again, the winter sun was seeping through the windows, Blinding him. Argh.
A knock, Snaps him out of his stupor. Loud knocks on the door, Like someone kicking it continuously. What child was here to bother him this time?
"John, Get the door." Murmured Sherlock, dropping his face down into his desk, Littered with papers and references to whoever D.G could be, or what the pearl could mean.
John however, did not reply, And the knocking did not stop.
"John, Get it..." He mumbled, again, But groaned and stood up when the knocking continued, louder, more frantic.
Perhaps John had left already, to where? Goodness knows, goodness cares. Sherlock had more pressing matters, currently.
Sherlock stalked downstairs, and towards athe door, opening it. He looked like a wreck, but who cared? It was like— six in the morning!
As soon as he opened the door, however, a hand clasped onto his shirt, Frantically pulling at him, And barging inside. The door shut itself, due to wind.
Sherlock managed to steady himself just enough to look down at the figure that just broke into his house (sort of), and was now clutching him like a lifeline.
A woman, Pale, Almost unhealthily pale if he may add, skin, messy, long and light brown hair, and watery black eyes. She was crying like there was no tomorrow, sobbing all over Sherlock and mumbling incoherent sentences Sherlock could sadly, not make out.
He managed to grab the womans wrists, And speak up over all the sobbing that was making the house shake.
"Lady! Lady! Relax! What happened? Christ, who even are you? It's like six in the morning. I swear if john—" Sherlock questioned the woman, If he didn't seem too rude, yet not like he was trying to pry her open and get answers, perhaps he would get replies—
"Who the hell is John!? Oh detective, oh detective!!! I need— i-i— his suicide was staged! He didn't kill himself! Please, he didn't leave me behind!!!! I know— i-i—" Again, The woman's sentences barely made sense, and she just sobbed into Sherlocks shirt, moaning in despair.
Her light pink dress was also stained in the same, salty tears, while she continued her anguished wails.
"Oh sweet case solving detectives wrath," murmured Sherlock. "What are you on about? Who's suicide was staged? Who didn't leave you behind? Calm down and tell me, Or I won't be able to help."
The woman's sniffed right into Sherlocks chest at that, Before pulling away and wiping her tears ferociously. She looked young, Quite good looking. Whatever drove this one in such despair?
"M-my husband— they told me he suicide, but I know he didn't!! I saw it— some man, he smashed his head into the wall! He beat him up!! Then- t-t-then— they went to some blonde man a-and—" the woman was choking over tears the entire time, But Sherlocks world froze over.
Wait a minute.
A blonde man?
As in...?—
The detective shook his head, No. There were many blondes out there. What the hell was wrong with him now? He couldn't go on like this, For goodness sake.
"I see.." he replied to the woman, Who was looking at him like Sherlock was the only hope in the world. It made the detective a bit uneasy, It was still early and he wanted to drink coffee, or overdose on cocaine.
"W-well? Oh detective, will you help me? I'll do anything! I-if it's sexual favours you want then—" the woman clutched her chest, looking away, and Sherlock felt his face burn.
"O-oh god no— I-i don't need anything! Just your cooperation.. I solve cases to deal with my boredom, Not to— to do—" Sherlock couldn't finish his sentence, Because the woman was now hugging him tightly, Face buried in his chest.
Christ, He felt like a father of sorts. What was this feeling now? A father? Really?
"you can let me go now.." he mumbled, cheeks red.
The woman, Seemingly unaware to Sherlocks fatherly feeling, Just continued to speak, Voice a bit muffled due to being buried in Sherlocks chest. "Oh, Thank you! Thank you! I knew you were the right person to come too! Oh detective, I don't know how to thank you—"
"Just tell me your name." Stated the detective, Grabbing the woman's shoulder and pulling her away from him.
"Emmeline Holloway, Though my maiden name is r-ruth—" Answered the woman, Emmeline.
Sherlock nodded, So her husband's last name was Holloway, huh? "How old are you?"
"nineteen.." oh, That was young. Sherlock blinked for a few minutes, Before nodding. He would help this young lady, Only because she seemed to be in so much despair.
The detectives gaze fell on Emmeline's figure, She was thin. Probably because of poor health care after her husbands so called death.. that explained the paleness too. "Ok, Emmeline, Here is what we're going to do. You'll take me to your house, So we can examine around for this 'staged suicide' you speak off, just after I have a cup of coffee and change clothes— oh, do you want some coffee?"
"no, I don't drink coffee.." Replied Emmeline, Sherlock shrugged. "Suit yourself."
It barely took five minutes to make the coffee, Sherlock did this everyday, After all. And he had been alive for some time now.
The detective sat down Infront of Emmeline, taking a sip of his coffee, One leg over the other.
"So..How was your husband to you? And what was his name?" He questioned. Never in his life had he heard the name 'holloway', and if he wanted to investigate, he needed more details.
Emmeline sobbed into a tissue at that, Speaking in a mournful tone. "Oh, He was wonderful! He loved me unconditionally, A-and his name was— was Augustus holloway—"
Sherlock held up a hand, gesturing for Emmeline to stop, taking another sip of his coffee, and thoughtfully rubbing his hand under his chin. "Ok, ok. Augustus, huh?...what was his job?"
"L-lawyer, He collected antiques too though.."
Huh, Ok. An antique collector, And lawyer. Hmm...Augustus Holloway..
"Alright, I'll see what I can do. Let me just change my clothes, and you take me to your house— more precisely, The place where your husband suicided." Emmeline nodded at Sherlock, while the detective left upstairs to change.
Sherlock threw on the first suit he saw and then a long coat, for it was the third of January. Cold. He could see the thick layers snow outside.
This sounded way too interesting for him too worry about his dressing, and so he pulled himself downstairs and towards Emmeline, who nodded at him, leaving the house with Sherlock close on her trail.
He had brought his suitcase of course, it had all his stuff, he wasn't going to leave it behind, but Nothing else. He wanted to give his undivided attention to this case.
"How long a walk is it?" Questioned Sherlock, His head hurt, the morning started way too eccentric for even him.
"One hour twenty minutes." Replied the woman simply, Sherlocks jaw went slack.
"ONE HOUR TWENTY MINUTES—" he choked out, How in the holy name of gods gravy was he supposed to?— "come on, you can't expect me to walk all that way now.."
"Oh, I do. I came to you on a carriage but I thought you'd prefer walking back." The woman stopped, turning around.
Seriously? What was with Emmeline's mindset?
"...people, I will never understand." Sighed Sherlock.
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The Holloway mansion was...about as dark as it got. Who lived here? Dracula? Well, It sure seemed that way, given how it was in the middle of a damn forest that looked dark enough to blind, the mansion itself was painted black and grey. The door creaked creepily when Sherlock went inside, but Emmeline didn't seem bothered.
That's what living in such a place for three years did to you..
"Take me to the exact place he 'suicided', Emmeline. Do not spare me the details." Sherlock ordered, And the woman nodded.
This just got interesting real fast..