TO BE FOUND : Book One

It's a Hard Life

Another taxi ride, and this time the three of them were heading back to Baker street with the a clue that could two a woman's survival. Or at least they could only hope. Sherlock spoke aloud, John and Victoria listening intently. "Nineteen eighty-nine, a young kid - champion swimmer - came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament; drowned in the pool. Tragic accident." He shows them the screen of his phone, that's displaying a newspapers front page. "You two shouldn't remember it. Why should you?"

John gave a shake of his head, "But you remember."

"Yes." Sherlock brings the phone back toward him, reading over the article, glancing out the windows.

"Something fishy about it?" Victoria rose a brow.

"Nobody thought so. Nobody except me. I was only a kid myself. I read about it in the papers." Sherlock stated.

"Started young, didn't you?" John gave a soft smile.

"Just imagine him in secondary school, he knew my name before I even introduced myself, and what my first class was." Victoria laughed softly, giving Sherlock a nudge.

Sherlock continued to explain, "The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out of it was too late. But there was something wrong; something I couldn't get out of my head."

"What?"

"His shoes. They weren't there. I made a fuss; I tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important. He'd left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes." Sherlock leans forward to pick up the bag that had the trainers inside. "Until now."

Victoria pondered over the story Sherlock had just told, frowning in thought, she looked at the article that was still on  Sherlock's phone, reaching for the phone and taking a look at the newspaper article. She did recall this very well. At this point in time she wasn't yet bound to a certain consulting criminal, someone who also started young. She glanced at the time, then handed him his phone again, she took notice of his eyes that were on her the whole time. Six hours to go, and somewhere a woman was awaiting one of two things her survival or her demise.

-

Now, the trio had returned to 221B, Sherlock had put himself to work immediately, the trainers still nestled away in the back. He had printouts, copies of photos and reports from the Carl Powers case from 1989. In the living room John was pacing back and forth in anticipation, while Victoria was sat on Sherlock's chair with her laptop on her lap.

"Can I help?" John asked. Victoria peered up from her laptop, to see if the detective responded. He didn't.

"I want to help. There's only five hours left." John hears his phone buzz and beep, notifying him that he had received a text. He pulls out the device, reading the message. John looks at Victoria, then to Sherlock, sighing, "It's your brother. He's texting me now. How does he know my number?'

Sherlock was looking into his microscope, muttering thoughtfully, "Must be a root canal."

"Look, he did say 'national importance.'" John put his phone away, walking into the kitchen.

Sherlock snorts, "How quaint."

"What is?"

"You are. Queen and country." Sherlock muttered the words, somewhat distastefully.

"You can't just ignore it." John stated sternly.

"I'm not ignoring it. Putting my best man onto it right now." Sherlock looked away from his microscope, giving Victoria a fond smile.