Enola Holmes HIDDEN IRIS'

4 - My life is my own

Kindrea's POV:

Tristan Strot.
"What are you playing at?" I whispered to no one, I had been pacing back and forth all night, well the few hours that remained of it at least, after going to Limehouse Lane it had been three in the morning by the time I got back to my hotel room, and every second after I had read his calling card I have been questioning every piece of evidence.
I paced in front of the crime boards, this case was never to just take Enola, Tristan is sending me a message, hidden within the stupid little postcard like taunt, 'I know your secrets.'
Nothing is by mistake, everything is a message from him, I need more information, I need to know what Sherlock has on this case.
It is no longer just a kidnapping, it's a message in an unopenable bottle.
"What are you playing at?" I practically yell at the boards.
Light taps came from the door, "What do you want, Tewkes?" I called through the wood, thinking it was the only person who knew where I was staying, my eyes pinned to the green string connecting to different locations on the board. The green is the only reliable color now.
"Tewkes?" I hear from the other side of the door.
Lord have mercy!
I quickly pulled a few things from the boards, not allowing the man outside that door to see where I was heading with my investigation, stepping up to the wood that divided us. I pulled it open, "What?" I asked in an annoyed tone.
Sherlock stood on the other side, a box in hand, "Good morning," Sherlock greeted, silence consumed the thick tension around us, my frustrated and tired expression letting him know I wasn't in the mood for any more games. "Did you sleep?" He asked.
I left the door open, heading back inside only to stand in the spot I had been pacing for the last three hours. "No," I answered, "What do you want?" I questioned, picking up a random piece of string and connecting it to somewhere unimportant to mislead Sherlock.
The male set his box down on the sitting room table, taking a spot beside me looking over my work, "You're at a deadend," he concluded, one look at my board was enough to know that I 'had no idea what to do next'.
I sighed, shaking my head, "Do you really think I would let you know my next move, Sherlock?" A mischievous smile grazed my lips.
The male beside me chuckled, "No, you wouldn't," he answered for himself, "But judging by the slips of paper and clues you hid in the newspaper on the table-" asshole, "-And the worn carpet from where you have been pacing for hours-" smartass, "-You know something but can't connect it to your facts," Sherlock looked down to his left, taking in my unreadable stance, "Am I wrong?" He smiled cockily.
I shrugged, "Depends, how often are you wrong?" I smiled, tiling my head in his direction to give him a knowing look.
"Rarely," he replied quietly, "I'll show you mine if you show me yours?" He smirked.
Rolling my eyes with a scoff I turned to his box, "You first," I gestured to the box.
We both headed to the couches, sitting on opposite sides, "I have connected the calling cards to a case in Scotland, one of my friends detective Arne Wilson has been following a man named Tristan Strot," I gasped, a surprised look crossing my face.
Sherlock paused, looking up to me with a curious eyebrow raised, "You have friends?" I lifted my hand to my mouth, mock shock coating my features.
Rolling his eyes with an unimpressed look plastered across his face he continued, "He was happy enough to send me the files on, Tristan," he finished, pulling out four bulky files.
I wanted to laugh, Arne was not the detective in this case, I was, it's how Arne and I worked, he would give me cases he couldn't solve. At least this saves me from asking for the files myself.
"Just letting you know, Holmes," I grabbed the man's attention away from the files that he has no doubt already read, "I have already read those files, well, I have written those files so I can tell you they won't be of much help," I smirked, leaning back in my seat to emphasize how 'unbothered' the files made me.
I needed them, I needed to connect his past to my present.
Sherlock sighed, "I knew Arne couldn't have been this thorough," he smiled lightly, placing the files back on the table, his blue eyes connecting with mine, "So..." Sherlock placed his elbows on his knees, "I have shown you mine..." he glanced towards my crime boards.
I chuckled, "Actually," I picked up the files, waving them towards myself, "You have shown me mine," I stood placing the files on the desk under my boards.
"'Nothing is an accident,'" Sherlock started reading my words from the files by memory, "'Every little detail matters to Strot,'" Sherlock stood, following my path to my boards, he stood to my right, pulling another one of Tristan Strot's calling cards from his pocket, "I'll show you mine if you show me yours," he stated this time.
I groaned, retrieving the things I pulled off the boards to hide from Sherlock, placing them back into their places before pulling the green string from one lead to the next, "There, look all you want," I waved my hand dramatically towards the boards. Sherlock handed me the calling card, he studied my boards again while I sat back on the couches to analyze the writing, "This was his first card in this case?" I asked, Sherlock humming in agreement. Idiot, I smirked, looking back to Sherlock to make sure he wasn't looking at me.
One thing I didn't add into the files was the hidden messages in the first cards in a case, Tristan left them for me to basically throw me off the case and lead me too far down the trail to understand what they meant.
I took out the slip of paper, 'Good Luck' typical, "Any idea where the paper and envelope was made?" I asked to distract him from my true intentions with the paper.
"No, you already knew that," Sherlock scoffed, his eyes trained on the boards.
I sighed in disappointment, standing from the couch and heading to the windows, "I thought maybe the great, Sherlock Holmes would have different luck," I said, smiling as I lifted the slip of paper to the sunlight, the light coming through the thinner parts of the paper, revealing the hidden message, 'MRTS, WH', this was different, not the typical message he would send, usually it would be an address or a locker number or...
I lowered the paper, knowing my next move, "Damn it," I sighed, 'disappointed', I returned to Sherlock's side, pinning the slip of paper and envelope to the board.
"We're both at a dead end now," Sherlock assumed.
I nodded, my eyes flickering over the board to mislead him, "I have no idea where he is leading us," I lied.

-

I stepped off of the train back to Scotland, my luggage heavier with my new case materials, walking my way back to my cottage to set up my case.
I quickly scattered the material ready to decipher the hidden messages, 'MRTS, WH', 'Dock 3, 48', I knew there was a missing piece I just needed to find it.
I flicked through papers for about an hour, groaning in frustration when I couldn't find the missing numbers.
"Where are you?" I asked the board, looking over the most recent links.
Retrace, nothing is unimportant. Everything means something.
"Time," I smiled, my eyes locking on the first link of the string, the staged scene, 3:27 am. "I got it," I yelled, jumping with excitement.