Chapter 5
Similarly, there were various cases, which Yon always gave a convenient name. There was, for example, a case called Sign Four, when Yon met Mary. A very pleasant lady at about his earthly age. Then there was Scandal in Bohemia, the Red-Nosed Society and a few others. Slowly, Yon tried to bond with the detective.
He was most successful when Sherlock was under the influence of narcotics. That was a fairly frequent occurrence in nature, especially when he had no case. During that time, he may not have had the cloaking device on. One even kissed him in that state, but soon found out it wasn't right. It wasn't real. And he wanted it to be real. That's why he spent as much time with the detective as possible when he had the chance.
Once, when they left Scotland Yard, they walked side by side. They touched lightly with their fingertips. Yon took a deep breath, summoned all his courage, took Sherlock's hand, and laced his fingers with it. Holmes merely looked at him conspiratorially with a playful smile on his lips, and without saying anything they continued on their way. Since then, holding hands has become a kind of pleasant commonplace, no matter what society thinks of them when they see them like this. When he wasn't helping Sherlock with cases, or keeping him company in other ways, he was working on repairing the ship.
Almost a year later, he was able to get his communicator working. As soon as the machine turned on, a mass of messages and missed video calls flooded in. All were in an attempt to contact him. Yon switched off his eye mask and contacted the base. His signal was weak, but that should have been enough. The machine immediately switched to a call, when a blue beam flashed from the screen and Yon came face to face with the ultimate intelligence.
„Yon-Rogg, we haven't heard from you in a long time. We feared the worst,” a pleasant but stern voice greeted him.
„Unfortunately, I crashed during the mission. I'm on a less developed planet and it's very hard to get parts to repair,” he explained.
„We understand that, of course. We will send another ship for you,” said the intelligentsia.
„What about Thanos's spy? He's also on this planet. I'm on his trail,” he protested. He'd like to stay while longer.
„If the planet is as backward as you say it is, it won't matter if we leave him behind.”
„Let me find him. If I don't find him, it's very likely the whole planet will be in danger.”
„Get to the point, soldier,” the voice said sternly.
„Let me find him and capture him. I'm on his trail,” he said determinedly.
„We'll send reinforcements,” the intelligentsia suggested.
„No. He's smart. He'd notice and hide. I can handle it. I'm just asking for more time and a small module with parts to repair.”
„You have three years. If you are not back by then, we will send reinforcements to take you away and bring you home. Otherwise, you can volunteer to come back at any time. We'll be expecting you. Until then, goodbye,” and with that, the conversation ended. Three years was more than enough time.
From that day on, it was as if he was unconsciously trying to do the exact opposite of what he and the detective had been trying to do last year. Gradually, he spent less and less time with him. Mostly he assisted him on cases and then used the Mary he recognized on the case as his excuse. He claimed to have gone to see her, but in fact, that was the name of his ship, which he had worked hard on and in which he had picked up his own investigation. He searched for any mention of a spy, though it could theoretically be anyone now.
This partial theft also affected the detective. He felt betrayed, dumped. And he thought he was on the right track with the doctor. He even planned to introduce him to Mycroft. He could not be more wrong. He also made his outrage clear. He blamed Watson for seeming to mean nothing to him. That there never seemed to be anything between them. That's why each time the doctor left, their farewells almost always culminated in an argument. Cases didn't increase much either, and he had no idea what to amuse himself with. Especially when he tried to go to John, apologize and talk like old times, but he would always turn him down with the simple excuse that he didn't have time, even though the detective knew full well it was a lie.
One morning, when Sherlock was again trapped in his misery, Mrs Hudson brought him the day's mail. The room was completely dark, and the detective was lying on a tiger pelt. He didn't care. Mrs Hudson went inside, only where the light from the door reached, before placing the letters on a small, crowded table.
„Today's mail,” she said more kindly. Deep down, she felt sorry for the detective. Especially after Sherlock and the doctor put it together. Apparently, she was wrong about Watson. But at least he has restored calm here. Now it was quiet too... mostly, but it was no longer the pleasant atmosphere it had been. Holmes no longer argued or teased with her. Who knew it would be like this for him.„What happened to John is terrible, but you should try to live a little again. Get over it,” she tried.
„Mmm,” came the reply.
„If you need anything, tea, talk, I'm downstairs,” she said from the doorway into the darkness and left.
Sherlock slowly scrambled to his feet and walked over to the window. He moved the curtain slightly to get some light in. It was a little shock to his eyes. He already regretted even bothering to get up. Finally, he pulled it wide open, adjusted his dressing gown, took the letters, walked with them to the chair, where he toppled over and began to read. One letter more boring than the other. But the penultimate cover caught his eye. It had a New York stamp on it. More specifically, from Buffalo, a city in New York. He was intrigued. He examined the writing carefully first. It belonged to someone with a steady hand, a confident one, and someone who was dominated by fears. He opened the envelope and read:
„Most esteemed Mr Holmes,
I write to you from a great distance, as I am burdened with fear for my only daughter, Edith Cushing. Five weeks ago, on August 20 of this year to be precise, she left for England with Baronet Thomas Sharpe. According to my informant, the baronet had been married several times before, and his wives had mysteriously disappeared days after the wedding. I'm asking you to save her and put him behind bars. If you accept my request, I will pay you $500,000 upfront and $500,000 after. Please, you are my last hope.
Yours sincerely, Carter Cushing.”
Interesting. He thought aloud and put the letter on the table. It was obvious that Edith was of great value to Mr Cushing. The letter also included some documents and pictures. On one of them was a young, self-assured lady with blond hair. She was barely twenty. A tall man with black hair stood beside her. Or at least he guessed from the negative that they were black. Maybe dark brown. He had sharp cheekbones, a sly smile and a penetrating look. According to Sherlock, it was a face he would not soon forget, even if he tried. That is if he decides to accept the case. Though he has already made up his mind. With new energy, he stood up, changed into something more acceptable, and adjusted himself slightly.
He left Baker Street and was the first to head for the cafe opposite Scotland Yard. He had to admit that they served good pastries with their coffee. Not only was it delicious in taste, but they had countless different varieties. From sweet to salty. Although the sweet variety was prevalent here. Now it made sense to him why all sorts of Scotland Yard workers were gathering here.
After a small breakfast, he walked over to that very building, the main district in which the archives were kept. You couldn't find a better archive in London. But it could have been better maintained. The archives held files and files on all suspects, convicts, and, as an oddity, information on people who held a title, such as princes, lords, professors, and, of course, baronets. He walked unnoticed through the main hall, took Lestrade's keys to the archives, and shut himself in. That kind of information in one place. A little paradise on earth, though to him it was mostly useless information. The archive, in appearance, resembled a large, even endless library that, instead of books, contained boxes of folders ordered by title and alphabetical order.
He took a quick look at the introductory book at the entrance to the archives, which contained a register with the contents here and the location of the files. The title of baronet was almost at the beginning, alphabetically, but it was almost at the end. He walked over to the shelf and began to search. It took him a moment since the inside of the box wasn't that organized. In the end, he managed to find the file that bore the name of the Sharpe family. He smiled slightly to himself before putting the box away again, tucking the folder into his coat and, as unnoticed as he had come, leaving. He put the keys to the archive on a random table, since they didn't know anything about the order in the station, so no one would notice anyway.
Along with the file, he returned to Baker Street. He shut himself in his room, took the papers with the pen, sat down on the tiger hide, and began to examine the file. He hoped to find out something useful.
The Sharpe family won their title under James I in the 17th century when the title was inherited from the oldest male descendant. The last surviving family members are Sir Thomas Sharpe and his sister.
Their father, James William Sharpe, left the family and died of myocardial infarction.
Mother, Beatrice Sharpe abused her children. Note: The children bore signs of malnourishment and physical abuse. Their mother likely abused them psychologically as well. The mother was killed by daughter Lucille in the bathtub. No murder weapon was found.
Lady Lucille Sharpe, after a difficult childhood and the death of her mother, was taken to the Girls' Institute in Switzerland. After turning 18, she returned to England.
Sir Thomas Sharpe, inherited the title. After his mother died, he lived in a private boys' boarding school. After turning 18, he left boarding school and went missing for unknown reasons. A year later, he made a miraculous appearance at Allerdale Hall. Family status: widower. Five failed marriages.
Status of investigation: no evidence.
„Interesting indeed,” he muttered to himself. But something about all this did not sit well with him, and it is very possible that Mr Cushing was justifiably concerned about his daughter. Sherlock took a piece of paper and set to work. He wrote down the most important things, and along with a picture of the Sharpe siblings and a separate photograph of Edith, he subsequently created a tangle of a spider web to help him think. There was the question of whether Lucille had planned all this and was simply abusing her brother. After all, after such a childhood, she couldn't be mentally perfectly healthy, could she? On top of all that, he had no important facts at all. The file was for orientation only. He had to find out more. He put the file on the Sharpe family in one of the books, got his coat, and headed out.
He had a friend of his make several copies of photographs of Thomas, Lucille and Edith. Subsequently, he made his way to a shanty-town, a special street where a group of homeless people gathered, often working with the detective for a small bribe. As the scum of the city, they had almost unlimited access everywhere. Above all, no one paid any attention to them.
„You will be my eyes and ears. If you see any of them, you follow them and then you let me know. If you move in twos at that point, or even in a larger group, one will follow the target and the other will come for me. Is that clear to everyone?” he handed out his instructions, then handed them a purse full of change. When I finish the case, you'll get another.
„Easy, boss. We'll find them,” the little grubby boy assured him. Sherlock knew that even if they failed, he would bring them the money they needed anyway.
„Thanks, kid. I'm counting on you,” he smiled wearily at the boy, wished the rest good luck and returned home. Now all he had to do was wait. After all, the Sharpes didn't live in London, so it would be like trying to trap your own shadow.