Chapter Text
“Wait- Mr Holmes! I haven't told you my address!” At this point, Carl was still a fair way behind the pair however Sherlock projected his voice loud enough for them both to hear.
“Don’t need to, I’ll follow behind, oh look, there's the bus now- Right on time!” John being used to Sherlock, had gotten pretty good at catching up, and so the next words he spoke only Sherlock picked up.
“Sherlock you know I-”
“Oyster card! See you there!” He shouted facing the wind.
“Right.” John looked behind, Carl now only just catching up. He stood beside John with his mouth slightly agape and panting mildly. The pair both looked at Sherlock's silhouette getting further and further away, eventually disappearing around a street corner.
“Yeah he does that.” Carl nodded, still catching his breath. “You don’t happen to have any change do you? I’m all out.” John patted his pockets. Carl wordlessly reached into his pocket, John feeling a sense of dread looming. “Don’t worry,” he gasped, “I’ve got an Oyster card.” John scoffed as he walked slightly ahead of the middle-aged man, muttering under his breath. “Smug bastard.” A lopsided smile was plastered on his face. (He does that-)
Carl caught up and the two got onto the bus. Upon asking how far away he lived, he told him through a sigh as he sat down by the window, “about 20, well, I just round it,” John bowed his head in defeat, “with traffic and stuff, it normally takes about-”
“24 minutes,” Carl looked back at John with a smile on his face, pointing to his watch on his wrist, “Yes! Wow. That blog of Sherlock's didn’t mention that you were just as good!” Carl looked out the window on his right, shaking his head in disbelief. John turned to look out the window on his left, staring at nothing in particular, muttering halfheartedly under his breath, “yep, still my blog.”
He didn’t know why he was shocked when he knew Sherlock's track record was annoyingly consistent in every way. He’d think he’d have gotten accustomed to that fact after knowing him for enough time to know that of course he was bloody right. (-call me a ‘smug bastard’ I mean.)
The bus stopped a hundred yards-or-so from Carl's house. John and him stood up just as the bus's brakes hissed, swaying slightly as it came to a full stop. The door flung open in its typical manner and John ever-so-chivalrously let Mr Stevens disembark first. Upon touching the pavement, John looked to the direction that Carl was facing, apparently already looking at something up ahead. A taxi had only just parked about a car's length ahead of them, as if it were waiting for them.
The taxi door was slammed shut with just enough force to cause an audible noise, but with not too much force as to damage the frame or any internal components. John sighed before walking to the taxi, Carl right on his heels.
“How on Earth did you know where to go?” Sherlock waved a thanks at the driver as he drove away opening his mouth to speak when his arm returned by his side.
“I-”
“And don’t you dare say your homeless network because there’s no way you’ve hired the entire bloody tramp population of London.” John looked more intrigued than irritated. He positioned his hands on his hips as he awaited an answer.
Carl looked equally amazed and confused upon seeing Sherlock arrive before they did, and upon hearing the mention of a ‘homeless network’.
“Yes, well that would have been much more straightforward but instead I used my mental database of all of the bus schedules in London, taking into account traffic, weather and the day of the week. Then I simply worked backwards to select the route that best fitted with Carl's schedule.” John raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “There were a total of 5 buses that matched, then all that was left to do was to choose the one that stopped by the station as well as one that was, for the most part, reliable. Some buses have rather terrible drivers who rarely take the most efficient route.” Sherlock spoke the last part mainly to himself. Giving himself a short pause to breathe by pointing his finger in the direction of the nearby bus-stop, with the gesture holding no meaning whatsoever. He then continued at his typical fast pace. “After that I simply picked the stop 20-or-so minutes apart from Blackfriars Station- and here we are,” he said, smiling in satisfaction. He then glanced around absentmindedly as if he had just recited something as simple as his ABCs.
“You’re serious?” John now looked genuinely amazed. (He truly did).
“Of course not. I just asked the driver to follow the bus.”
“You cock.” John said with a dry laugh.
Sherlock smiled victoriously as he walked ahead. John felt as if he had been caught looking up at the ceiling to see if GULLIBLE was written there, except he had, embarrassingly -or in unrivaled confidence, depending on the way you choose to look at it- fallen for it one-too-many times. (And his face is always priceless).
Carl moved past John, rummaging to get his keys from his pocket as he jogged to catch up to the detective, who was waiting impatiently at the door. Shaking off his smile, John too followed.
The trio now stood on the outside of a semi-detached house, Carl's house being on the left, neighboring a small garden that clearly wasn’t his judging by its high level of upkeep and the abundance of colourful wildflowers decorating the interior perimeter.
There was really nothing special about the house upon first glance. Roughcast walls surrounded the cuboid, with three windows visible on the front, one of which was a bathroom window evident by its height on the wall and its smaller size. The curtains looked to be old, likely having been put into the house long before Carl got his hands on the keys. They appeared to have a wash of yellow, compatible with the consistent use of nicotine left by the previous owner. Mr Stevens was many things, but he was not a smoker. His job, or his life for that matter, left no time for the habit. (Plus his online dating profile said that he didn’t smoke. John found that bit out).
There was a flower bed under the ground floor window. Or at least that was its intended purpose. Now it served as a rather unimpressive rock garden. The soil underneath was practically cracking due to its neglect. In between the flower bed and the door were two ceramic plant pots, both containing the same dry soil and remnants of what used to be well-cared for flowers. Carl clearly wasn’t a gardener.
During this, the key had only just made its way into the lock. Carl opened the door to reveal a narrow corridor with stairs on its far left. The door opposite the front was left ajar, the view of an oven and counter-tops could be seen as the three made their way up the stairs. Carl led the way, with John following behind Sherlock.
“Nice house you've got here. Very cosy.” John always was keen to please. (He really only makes conversation so that all of our outings don’t consist of total and utter silence. I just thought ‘Keen to please’ was much less wordy).
“Nah- it’s a shithole, but thanks.” The Doctor nodded in polite agreement.
“This is my room,” he said as he opened the door located on the left of the small landing, ”and this is where the clipping was left.” They were all now standing in Carl's room, it being about 8ftx10ft in size. Sherlock moved past Carl as he went to look at where he was pointing, seeing an array of objects dotted on his window sill. But there was one that particularly stood out. The mirror.
It was circular in shape, with two sides, one of which was magnified. There was a circular stand at the base, all with a silver finish. It didn’t seem to fit with Mr Stevens’ simple and rather frugal aesthetic, so perhaps a gift?
No.
Who’d he know to give him a gift in the first place, let alone a mirror? That’s not the kind of gift someone would give. Unless of course the receiver was a narcissist. But I think we can safely say that Carl was not. It must have been on sale then.
Upon turning it over, the remains of a peeled off sticker could be seen on the base. Likely from where he attempted to scratch it off, but eventually gave up. Looking at the window sill closer there was a circle of dust where the mirror stood. It had been there for quite some time, in the same place.
Sherlock put the mirror back where it was found, spinning around towards the back wall that was opposite the window. On it was a map. More specifically, a map of marked train routes. From the look of the paper, it had been facing the window for quite a while, the whole thing faded evenly.
Carl likely put it up a while ago and never found the time nor reason to take it down. Lazy? Check. Dead end job? Check. He then turned back towards the window, looking for something.
”What are you looking for?” John asked.
”Don’t know. But there has to be something here, something that I’m missing.”
”What, like signs of a break in? Broken locks?” John glanced around the room, looking through Carl’s limited literature collection.
”No, it wasn’t a break in. Something else.” John turned.
“What do you mean? Carl’s the only one who lives here, there’s no other explana-“ he continued looking around the cupboard of a room, “they didn’t need to break in.”
”Yes, how?” During this Mr Stevens was standing awkwardly as if he was the one intruding in Mr Holmes's and Dr Watson’s flat.
“Well, no signs of break in or any witnesses of an intruder probably means that they have a key, or at least had one?”
“Very good John.” Sherlock gave up on his search and encroached on Carl. “Where is it? What have you done with it?”
”W-where’s what?” Sherlock sighed.
”Oh, your bathroom.” Carl pointed shakily out the door, “no- they key! Of course the key. Where is it?” The detective's energy seemed to have given their client whiplash.
”I-I told you, I only have the one,” he patted his pocket, “and I never had a spare key cut.” Carl’s eyes followed Sherlock. “Yes, you’ve said.” Sherlock ruffled his hair in annoyance. “You didn’t, but someone did.”
“Sorry- What was that Mr Holmes?” Sherlock moved back to the window, ignoring Carl’s useless questioning. “But why here?”
John stood by him now, staring out at the combination of nearby houses and greenery. “What- the mirror?”
“Yes. Why here, why under the mirror?”
“Why not?”
”Well why not post it through the letter box? Why risk getting seen, going into someone else’s house and all the way up the stairs just to leave a piece of paper?”
”Maybe posting it was too risky- maybe he wouldn’t have seen it?”
“No. Did you see all the post on the floor when we walked in?”
”No?”
”Exactly. He gets no mail, so he would almost certainly have seen it. Unless…” Sherlock gasped, smiling in celebration. “Ah! I see-“ he moved closer to the window, leaning on the window sill and looking at the woman’s flat.
”See what, Mr Holmes?”
”It was right in front of our faces!”
”Yeah,” the Doctor said to Carl, “he does this too.” John spoke to the room now, “see what, Sherlock?”
”The mirror! She left it under the mirror. She could have pinned it on the board, or left it on his pillow, she could have put it in the toilet for all she cared, but she didn’t. She chose here. All the other options would have given the same result; that the note was discovered. She put it here because there’s something here. Something that she wanted us to see.” He scanned the area almost robotically, looking for anything. Then he stopped. ”How long has this mirror been here?”
”Since I moved in really. I got it because-”
”No. How long has it been here, in this exact position?”
”Since I moved in. Why?”
”We need to go to her apartment.” He moved to run down the stairs, before stopping himself. He lurched back to straighten the mirror back to its original position, delicately tilting the face back until it looked right. He then flung himself around again and flew out the door. Before John could register that he too should follow, Sherlock shouted his name from the stairs. He didn’t wait for the Doctor to catch up. He turned left out of the door, down the path just right of Carl’s house, and then straight ahead. His coat trailing behind him like a material shadow.
“Right- yep, come on,” he moved at a more reasonable pace, jogging every now and then.
“W-where? I’ve never been to her apartment before.”
“Yeah well me neither, just follow the toddler in the trench coat.” (I’ve been called worse).
The pair caught up. Sherlock was seen standing at the entrance, looking at the intercom buttons on the brick wall. He scanned over them with a leather-clad finger, sporadically taking time to lean back and observe the windows that ran up the length of the building.
John attempted to make conversation with Carl.
“Ah-“ Sherlock pressed a button, the chime of it ringing drawing the pair’s attention again. It rang for a few seconds, but no-one answered. That was to be expected.
John turned away, looking at the surrounding greenery and concrete, trying to think of another way in. Maybe they could call the building from their website? Maybe they could leave a note? Maybe-
John looked back to Sherlock who had not-so-elegantly pressed all of the buttons, creating an irritating dissonance of buzzes and chimes.
“That also works.” He sighed as they waited, the cool breeze doing little to comfort them. Luckily they didn’t have to wait long.
The building was old. The entrance doorway told him that. It looked as if it had been patched up just enough to function. The door was practically falling apart from rot. And so it was no surprise that when calling each intercom, a flurry of voices all spoke at once, the aged technology not accounting for a prioritised response. Sherlock didn’t respond to any of them, to whatever it was that they were saying. He held a finger to his mouth, shaking his head in a I-know-what-I’m-doing way. John waited in anticipation, listening to hear if the door lock would click open.
Out of the 20-or-so residents, one of them had to be expecting something. Whether a parcel, or a person. Someone was bound to let them in. They might not have been expecting anything at all, but that was a flaw with most people and their uncomplicated thought processes.
‘If someone rang, then they must live here, or at least are meant to be here. I’ll just buzz them in.’
And someone did. It only took a couple seconds of not responding for someone to let them in. “Ah good- that would have been rather embarrassing.” Sherlock opened the door, holding it open for John and routinely letting it go, almost hitting Carl square in the face. (I obviously didn’t do it on purpose, but it’s hardly my fault that I forgot he was there).
John’s keen eye caught the door, stretching to grab it as he rolled his eyes at Sherlock. Carl nodded in a ‘thanks’ as he walked inside.
The reception area looked nice. It was much more looked-after than the exterior, likely because people spent more time inside of it then gawking at its less-than-average appearance. The carpets were a maroon-brown and the walls were painted cream. There was a desk opposite the door, but no-one worked there. It didn’t look as if a receptionist had worked there in years, going by the state of the surface and the disconnected, and rather outdated, landline.
It was probably a good job that there wasn’t another pair of eyes, seeing as they didn’t actually live there. But then again, Sherlock doubted whether there would even be security to get them out.
”So, what are we doing here?” John said.
Sherlock looked to inwardly- and also outwardly- roll his eyes. John knew exactly what he was thinking, “I know why we’re here, cause the woman lived here, but why are we here?” Sherlock looked to Carl for possible clarification. He just shrugged. John sighed in disbelief that someone like Sherlock could be so dense. (Again, this is for accuracy. I was simply going off of his expression. As well as the fact that he said the last bit out loud. Yes, I did hear that John). “Shouldn’t we be calling Greg? I mean it’s a missing person Sherlock. We have to call the police.”
”Oh right, the police, of course.” He fished his phone out of his pocket and held it in John’s general direction.
“You know I also have a phone?” John moved to retrieve his.
”Yes, but they’ll reply faster if I call. No offence.”
”Yes- right, give it here.” John took it and pressed on the number. Sherlock waltzed around the lobby, looking at nothing in particular. John didn’t spend long talking, all he had to say was an address and that a missing person was involved. He quickly hung up, Sherlock's impatience getting the better of him. He was eyeing up the stairs to the right, ready to ascend as soon as his phone was returned.
“Best not to call ‘Greg’ though John, he may tamper with evidence and I don’t think Lestrade would appreciate another amateur.” He placed a hand next to his mouth, obviously excluding Mr Stevens from their conversation as he smiled playfully. John gave him back his phone.
”You’re taking the piss again aren’t you?” He said. Excepting him to reply with something along the lines of ‘of course I am’.
”What? You really want some stranger sticking his nose into our crime scene? I must say you really do surprise me John.”
”Greg is Lestrade's name.”
”Oh- well it’s reassuring to know he has one. I was beginning to think his parents actually named him ‘Lestrade’.” He laughed awkwardly, getting the sense that John was irritated.
“How do- you know what, never mind.” John said. “So, what floor are we heading to?”
”I-I thought we were waiting for Lestrade?”
”We are. We can wait for him upstairs. Maybe then I won’t want to tear my hair out.”
“What was that last bit?”
”Maybe there’s a chair up there.”
”Ah yes maybe,” Sherlock looked at the sign beside the stairs detailing which rooms were located on which level. “Well- there’s no time to waste!” He made a beeline up the stairs. John casually walked behind with Carl in tow. Sherlock’s mental gymnastics fatiguing them both. As they walked, Carl made idle conversation.
”So, how long have you known him?”
”Eh- a couple years now.” Carl nodded in recognition, laughing in admiration.
”Got any family?”
”Yes, a daughter.”
”Ah nice, you have a partner? Wife- husband?”
”I-,” John stopped on the stairway landing, enunciating each word, “I’m not gay.”
“Right- okay,” Carl didn’t realise that inclusive language was such a sore spot for the Doctor. He gestured that they should continue walking now that that was cleared up. “So you have a wife?” John brushed himself off, walking up a couple stairs at a time to catch up with the man. ”Yeah. I did yeah.”
”Oh, I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
”No, it’s fine. It was about a year-or-so ago now. I’m fine.” He smiled thinly in reassurance. Looking ahead slightly to see Sherlock waiting impatiently at the top of the creaky stairs.
“Did you find it?”
”Yep.” He said, popping the ‘p’ at the end of his sentence.
”…”
”…”
”It’s locked?”
”Yep.” He repeated. John sighed whilst Sherlock flashed a cheesy smile at Carl before almost instantly returning to his resting face. (It was supposed to be reassuring).
John sighed before walking to the door. “Stand back.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
“Ah- listen John, it’s a thick door you’d break your foot before-”
Sherlock swallowed, effectively eating his own words.
John had somehow managed to kick the door open, the chain holding it closed now clicking against the door frame.
John brushed himself off, turning to face Sherlock as he smiled in satisfaction. “Sorry- you were saying?”
“Yes, well done John,” he drifted past John, “I’m sure the landlady will be thrilled.” He made a beeline towards the window, and just as expected, he could see the mirror. However it wasn’t angled to face directly at where Sherlock was standing, but was turned to face another room. He made sure to place it in the exact position it was before, there was no mistake that it had always pointed this direction. But why? It had to mean something, but what?
At this point John had stepped into the room. Nothing really stood out to him. “Landlady?” Sherlock was brought out of his thoughts, opting to focus on something much more trivial to take his mind off of the questions he had not yet figured out.
“Ah, simple really.” John knew that it would be anything but.
“There’s a Fiat 500 parked just up the road, I noticed it when I got out of the taxi.” He turned to John, “it’s a hideous yellow colour.” The doctor nodded for him to continue, but Sherlock would have done so anyway. “Yes, the car, a woman's car.” He clocked the uncertainty in John’s eyes. “Statistically.” He articulated. “And it’s the landlady's because all the residents here are either in their 50’s or are strapped for cash. Don’t worry John, I hear you asking ‘but what if it’s just someone who lives here’, and it would be a valid question under any other circumstances but,” he paused, pointing sharply at the door.
John heard the stairs creak, Carl did too.
“Ah hello!” Sherlock greeted the woman now standing in the doorway. John noted her annoyance at the broken chain. Sherlock moved to briskly shake the woman's hand before explaining his ‘deduction’ to John, consciously lowering his voice.
“I called her on the way here and told her to wait a bit for dramatic effect. Worked quite well, didn't it?” His proud smile was wiped away when he saw John’s lack of amazement. “Anyway-” he faced the lady again, “who lived here?”
“Ah, sweet girl, Daisy. Always chatted to me.”
“Yes, very nice. Did she ever talk about anything odd? Invite anyone over?”
“I- are you detectives? You don’t look like-”
“Yes we’re undercover,” Sherlock blurted, “tell us about Daisy.”
“Oh right, yes. She never mentioned anything ‘odd’, in fact she was talking to my son just last week, he struggles in school-”
“Yes, yes! But what about her?” Sherlock persisted.
“No- she never had people over. She was just a normal girl.” She looked around the room fondly. It looked as if someone was still living there. There were no signs of anything being packed in an effort to flee. It was as if she had just vanished.
Sherlock made an irritated noise as he scratched his head. “She can’t have just vanished! Someone must have seen her!”
Carl then piped up, “I saw-”
“Not from your window Carl, face to face!” He moved to the window again, scanning for anything that could be even remotely relevant. He sighed when he smelt the mustiness of Carl's clothing get closer.
Carl breathed out a laugh as he viewed his house. “And here I was thinking she was interested in my train map!” He said as he acknowledged his false hope, “but you can’t even read the bloody title from here.” He smiled as he shook his head, trying his best to make conversation with the mysterious detective.
Sherlock paused.
“What?”
Still smiling lightly, he pointed to his room. “The title, you can’t even read it from here.”
Sherlock couldn’t believe it. He looked into Carl's room, and though he already knew the answer, he read the map again. It clearly read ‘London Overground Map’. He whipped his head to Carl.
“What does that sign say?” Without looking, he pointed out the window to a sign by the road. It was a similar distance, Sherlock determined, perhaps even easier to read.
“I- uuhhh,” Carl squinted as he scratched his head, “ha- guess these eyes aren’t as good as they used to be.” That was all Sherlock needed to hear.
He had another question now, one which could be answered, but he himself doubted its relevance. (I really need to stop doing that.)
He faced the landlady once again, who was clearly in deep thought given by the far-away look in her eyes. “Hi- yes,” Sherlock wafted his hands impatiently, causing her to blink at the detective.
“Yes?”
“Your son,” here it goes, he had a feeling he knew the answer, but he had learned to not always trust feelings in dire times like these, but here he was. She perked up at the mention of her son. “Is he deaf?”
She smiled. “Yes, how did you-”
Sherlock smiled wider now, signally to John that they were leaving. The lady moved out of the way of the door, just in time as the pair breezed past her, leaving Carl in the dust. Sherlock was unable to stand still at the revelation, he practically jumped down the stairs as John followed.
“How could I be so stupid when it was staring me right in the face!” He feverishly exclaimed. John’s face gave away his suspense before he could express it.
“Oh come on John, even an idiot like you could figure it out,” they eventually made their way back to the road by Carl’s house, Sherlock practically ran there. It wasn’t long before a taxi was called and they were on their way back to Bakers Street. He could hear the cogs whirring in John’s head and it began to grow annoying.
“Carl needs glasses.” He enunciated his words as if his visual impairment was a momentous conclusion. (Which it really was.) Sherlock sighed when John was, reliably, about ten steps behind.
“She wasn’t waving, John, she was talking.”
“Sorry, what? Talking how?”
“The waving, the mirror, the landlady, his eyesight-” Sherlock wafted his hands in self-loathing at his inability to put the pieces together, “she wasn’t waving, she was signing- Carl only saw blurs moving back and forth,” he said as he gestured accordingly, “he had no real reason to suspect anything else. He’s a train driver who knows the routes like the back of his hand, he could probably drive them blind.”
John sat back as he took the information in. “She helped the son because she knew sign language.”
“Correct.”
“But why does she know sign language?”
“...”
Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “I’m not sure.” He rested his head against the glass. “But it has something to do with the mirror. I’m sure of it.”