SHERLOCK I, II, III & IV • #wattys2016

simon's place

Simon swerved into a gravel parking lot and stomped on the break, sending everyone jolting forward. “We’re here, lads.”

The passengers looked out the windows at a huge brown barn. Vines scaled up the sides and trees hovered over it like claws. It was a rather ugly barn, and it made the others question Simon’s sanity. Though it wasn’t shared verbally, they all wanted to believe it was just the armory and not a cottage.

“This is my home,” Simon said, sliding open the large barn door. “It’s not much, but it’s got a loo, a kitchen, and a bedroom. All a man needs, aye?”

“Why do you live way out here?” Charlie asked.

“I thought you’ve been to my house?

“No, this is the first time.”

Sherlock carried John in and immediately went upstairs to the loft where he placed him on the bed. The window upstairs was closed, but when he opened it, a mass of tree branches crowded the view. Sherlock gasped in disgust and pulled the window shut, hiding the rotten view. “How nauseating.”

“Do you like the view?” Simon asked, stepping off the stairs with a cup of something in his hands.

“No.”

“I was being sarcastic. I know its filth, but it’s all I got.”

“How did you get this? Handed down a relative?”

“Yes,” Simon replied, slightly surprised.

“Your grandfather, perhaps? This was once a large estate, but then it was burnt down by a fire. I saw the large patch in the distance, tragic. All he had left was this barn. He handed it down to you because he figured you would be the only person out of all his grandchildren that would put it to use.”

“What makes you think there were other grandchildren?”

Sherlock turned and pointed to a cracked portrait on the wall. “I observed. It’s not science.”

“Yeah, whatever. So, what’s the plan, chief? I got all the gear in the car, all we got to do is roll.”

“What are you drinking?”

“Water.”

“Oh, can I have some?”

“Of course, you can.” Simon stood up and made his way down the stairs.

Sherlock waited until his head disappeared before ducking under the bed and pulling out a shotgun. He assumed there was once since the shells sat on the cupboard opposite of the bed. Grabbing a few shells, he loaded the two barrel shotgun and went over to the top of the stairs. Aiming down at Simon’s back, he cocked the gun. Simon spun around. The sound of clay shattered on the ground and water trickled onto the dark floor.

“What the hell are you doing?” Simon said, his hands in the surrendering position.

Charlie passed by and jumped at the sight of an aimed weapon. “Sherlock?”

“Why are you carrying Andrew Brooklyn’s notepad?”

Stuttering, Simon said, “What do you mean? It was in your back pocket.” Simon looked at Charlie for support. “I didn’t know about this.”

“I gave it to him,” Charlie interrupted, “I pick-pocketed it off Andrew. He attacked me at the shore.”

Moving the gun to Charlie, Sherlock’s brows bent. “Why didn’t you kill Andrew, Charlie?”

Simon snapped his head at Charlie. “Why didn’t you?”

“Oi! Don’t you turn on me, mate!” Charlie defended. “I was lucky to get out with half of my life.”