Tap tap tap. John's active fingers brush hurriedly over the keys on his laptop, and like commanded, word after word jump out onto the screen.
"Writing in your blog again, John?" Sherlock asks, taking a sip of his coffee. "It's pointless, really. Why do humans have the tendancy to want to relive these memories and look into someone else's life?" Sherlock asks, but John stays silent. It's a rhetorical question anyway.
"Uh, Sherlock?" John looks up from the world of pixellation to look at his partner. "One, you're a human too, let's not forget and two, don't you have this mystery to solve?" He asks.
"Why would one consent to the marriage to Jimmy Moriarty?" Sherlock asks, obviously completely ignoring John's previous question.
It's a good question. Why would anyone marry him? He's twisted, not to mention, a complete doofus. Why? It's a good que-
"God. He's good." Sherlock interrupts John's thinking.
"What? What's good? You've figured it out, haven't you?" John turns to face him, knowing exactly what he's going to do next.
"Maybe. Maybe they didn't get married. Maybe it was all a trick, or part of his plan. So he knew that we would get involved, of course he did. The biggest crime of the year, of course I'd get called." Sherlock starts to evaluate.
"Yes, of course you would." John echoes back those words. He always knew exactly what Sherlock would say or do in times like these. He simply knew his partner too well.
"He left those bodies, or someone left those bodies in the warehouse, and the note with the little clues? He's underestimating us, he really is. There's going to be another murder tonight in the warehouse, and that's exactly where we're headed. Come along, John." He finishes, pulling on his scarf and grabbing his coat, giving John only the time to finish typing his last words on the blog: "The East Wind is coming, he said, and almost as to promise, it did."
The warehouse is like any other, except, it is unused. Abandoned years ago after a raging fire broke out, it seemed like the perfect place to kill, discard and attract attention by the deed of our favourite secret criminal.
Inside, the stink of mould and decay is not only a mere stench hanging dead in the air, but one that could attack the brain and the lungs and it did, making John Watson cough and gag as he and Sherlock entered. It is dark and except from the coughing and gagging or the shallow breaths of the two individuals, only the faint scuttling of some small creatures- perhaps mice- could be heard.
"You got a plan, Sherlock?" John whispers as he follows him, who follows the light of the torch in his hand that led their way deeper and deeper inside the warehouse.
"Plan? When do I ever have a plan?" Sherlock manages to spit out in the middle of coughs and splutters. Clearly, he is a human, but it's kind of easy to forget that sometimes.
"Of course, I should have known." John rolls his eyes, knowing that Sherlock wouldn't be able to see. He stops in his tracks, at first because he has second thoughts about following Sherlock but then because he hears something peculiar.
"Sherlock. Sherlock! Stop." John whispers in the dark and upon hearing him halt, he walks towards him again. "Do you hear that?" He asks, hearing faint footsteps in the silence.
Sniff sniff sniff. Sherlock tips his head back and wafts his hands as he smells the air around them.
Ahem. John Watson clears his throat. "What the hell are you doing?" He states. Normally, he doesn't ask him that, but this time, it's good timing.
"Perfume. Even in this odour, it's so clear." Sherlock replies, turning around to face John. "Can't you smell it? It's fresh, crisp and enlightening." He describes, and John realises what Sherlock had a long time ago. "Don't you think so too, Jim? So juxtaposing to this stench in this pit that we're in?" He spits out the word 'pit' as if it were venom.
The sound of footsteps is clearer, closer, more refined and with that, the smell of perfume becomes stronger.
"Ahh. You knew it would stand out in a place like this, wouldn't you? It's been a while since I've even heard from you and then the biggest mystery comes and bodies fall at my feet. You knew I would come chasing you. It's like an equation and you led me here. So go on then, what have I missed this time?" Sherlock shouts into the silence and the pitch black while John winces behind him.
Silence. Nothing. Not even the footsteps. Just three hearts beating. Yes, three.