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Image source: Wikimedia Commons
It was the worst of times for Sherlock Holmes. He perched on a sofa by the window, Mycroft, by the door talking to someone on the phone and me… me? I was shuffling through newspaper strewn across the table. I left I was the only one trying to solve the case that perplexed every one, even Mycroft who often behaved as if nothing could confound him. How do I narrate a tale like this? I would start from the beginning but no one knows the beginning. I’ll start from the little city of Bakersfield.
The City Of Bakersfield
Bakersfield was a little town famous only for one reason: the defunct Adeni Horj Sanatorium. It used the be the place to manage all sorts of nut cases, until the government moved it to the Island of Miles. Twenty years later, people still refer to Bakersfield as the city of nut cases. This time, I believe it is well deserved.
A local plumber ran to the precinct one morning and claimed he was responsible for his wife’s murder. We all chalked it to guilty feelings until word got out that his dead wife was haunting him. Local police brushed it away. After all, Bakersfield was the city of nut cases. Well, it happened all again and again. Except for few weird ones, no one took the sightings of ghosts seriously; especially as only criminals reported the sightings. We got to know about the case when Sherlock’s university professor, Mr Martin Degas turned himself in. He came forward to apologise for the suicide of several young boys in his class. He also reported being haunted by the boys
Sherlock wouldn’t believe it. Mr Degas was a rational philosopher to the core. That he would claim to see the dead bodies of boys was more than he could take. We travelled to Bakersfield. Sherlock and I by train, and Mycroft by his many spy birds. Sherlock’s appearance turned up the local coverage. Soon media houses were following the case; they all wanted to know what the famous detective made of the case. They never got an answer, for that night, Sherlock saw his dead uncle. The following morning, Mycroft arrived in person.
The Stalker
“Mycroft, could you kindly tell your detail to stay out of my sight.” Sherlock demanded angrily, startling everyone from the solemn silence in the mystery drenched room.
“What detail Sherlock? Seeing dead men again?” Mycroft asked as he walked towards the window.
“Funny brother” Sherlock scoffed. “Two ‘o clock. Blue coat, Red hair, clean shaven.” Sherlock announced, not looking up.
“Er… There is no body there Sherlock.” I offered after I peered through the window.
“Don’t be stupid Dr. Watson. You don’t expect him to stand all day, do you?” Sherlock spatted at him.
I was used to this. Only two things could induce this kind of behaviour in Sherlock: the absence of a case (which happened regularly) and a case that made him doubt himself (which rarely happened).
“Brother dear,” Mycroft began, “I don’t have any one watching the house wearing a blue coat. Perhaps it is one of your many fans who…”
Sherlock sprang from the sofa and reach his coat. “Dr. Watson, we have ourselves a stalker.”
“Just a stalker? How does this…”
“There is no way I could miss the dark green eyes. Those eyes that peered through me knife through butter. Common, the game is on.” We left a slightly amused Mycroft behind.
“He was standing at this exact spot so he could get a good view into the apartment. He had a giant built but walked like a woman, injured perhaps?” Sherlock muttered, half to himself as we glanced around looking for something we had no knowledge of.
We had crossed the road and were standing across the street from the apartment. It was a fairly busy evening. Everyone seemed to be headed towards the tub station.
“He’ll try to blend in. This way Dr. Watson.” I turned to see Sherlock walking toward the tub station. I half ran, trying to catch up with him. I was half worried he had seen his dead uncle again. By the time I arrived at the mouth of the underground staircase, Sherlock was standing at the bottom, his face white as paper. I rushed down to find a piece of paper in his hand. It read: ADENIK HORJ SANATORIUM. 12 MIDNIGHT. COME WITH A DOCTOR.
Sherlock Becomes A Mental Patient
The Adenik Horj Sanatorium stood majestically on a hill by the river. The moon was as white as white sheets and the stars were all in attendance. With large flash-lights forcing a moving circle in the darkness, we made our way briskly to the abandon building that was once a renowned mental hospital. I noticed recent clearings. Certainly, the facility was not as closed as many thought it was. We pushed a large door open and the glee of a young girl rent the air. I felt my blood race for a while; Sherlock seemed unperturbed.
We enter what was obviously a large waiting hall. There was a counter where the receptionists no doubt conducted their business. Sherlock sniffed the air; I fondled my left pocket.
“Go on, Dr. Watson. Hit the bell.” I noticed the bell on the counter and tapped it. It rang loud and true as it had been recently replaced. A young lady walked down the hall and stopped in front of us.
“Hi! Are you patients or guest?” She asked, flashing a smile.
“I’m the patient and he is a doctor.” Sherlock responded.
“Aright, fill this form and walk down to consulting room one. Everything has been prepared.” She announced as she walked away. Sherlock seemed particular about her gait; so much that, if I didn’t know what manner of a man he was, I would say he was attracted.
I had no idea what was going to happen. When Sherlock looked at me and nodded in the direction of the form, I wondered if this was some kind of game and I was at the losing end. I filled the form and soon, we were seated in Consulting Room One.
There was an observer waiting for us. He was around his fifties, clean shaved and wanted to proceed at once. It felt like a trance. How is it that the Hospital was still functioning, even after twenty years and no one had a whiff of what was going on. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed very relax.
“All right, please interview the patient.” The observer urged.
“How about I interview you instead?” Sherlock with a smart look on his face. “Watson, the door.”
Finally, what I was waiting for. I made my way to the door and brought out my revolver.
“Please go ahead.” The observer looked unfazed,
“Alight, let me start with what I know. Every one who ever confessed to a crime had visited this mental hospital at some time. Somewhere, classified discussions regarding those visits were stored right here on this facility and you managed to access them. Using some sort of technology, you either change your face or have someone else do so and threaten victims of your choice. Am I correct?”
The observer smiled. “You’re probably right. But the question is, if you were right, how do I mange to do so?”
Sherlock stood up and glanced around the room. He walked to the table and hit the bell. He hit it a second and third time.
“Are you looking for the nurse? She’s probably home by now.” The observer remarked calmly.
“Or you and the nurse are the same person.”
“I take it that you’re accusing me of these because you don’t belief in ghosts. Well, contact those who came forward. They will tell you what they saw.”
“That they saw the bodies is one thing. That those bodies are ghost is another.”
“And your uncle?’
“Who told you about my uncle?”
Silence
“Dr. Watson, shoot this man in the leg.”
The observer sprang up and I saw Sherlock eyes lit up for a bit.
“Dr Watson, give us the room.” Sherlock requested.
“Dr Watson, I want to tell you a secret and I want you to keep it private.” Sherlock began as we walked out of the hospital.
My ears were itching to hear what occurred in the room. I could only nod.
“The observer, the nurse, the girl, the stalker, the appearances, even my uncle are all the same person. She, Dr. Watson is the future of humanity.”
“She…?”
“As usual, you see but do not observe. Each victim reported green eyes. The nurse had green eyes. Same with the observer, although it only came out when she felt threatened. She is a mutant who poses the ability to transform into anyone.”
“Are you…”
“I have a name for her: Mystique.”
Entry for Twenty-four Hours Story Contest