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Summary
When the contractors open the bathroom wall, there's a package wedged between the pipes, addressed to Mrs. Hudson and dated 1888. The letter within reads as follows.
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The thing is, Mrs. Hudson, I placed this package in your wall when the last landlady to remodel this bathroom was putting in the fixtures - in July of 1888.
My God. 1888. I still find it strange to write out the date, even though I've had over a year to adjust to our new era. I'm getting up to pour myself a cup of tea. Why don't you get yourself one as well, before I begin my story? Then it will be like we're just chatting over tea, like we used to. I do miss our afternoon chats. (I even miss the makeover shows. That can be our secret.)
Got your tea? Good. Here goes.
Sherlock began obsessing over this man they call the Doctor during a case we took in Whitechapel. It was a double disappearance, a shop owner and her assistant taken after closing, nothing else missing, all entrances locked tight and the door of the stock room blocked off from the inside. Very odd - so, right up Sherlock's street, of course. The scene painted an unnerving picture: a panicked chase from the front to the perceived safety of the stock room, scarves and purses dropped along the way, crates and furniture shoved haphazardly against the door. A small telly in the corner was still on when the Met showed up, tuned to the shop’s CCTV. They must have been watching their attacker on that screen, waiting for an opportunity to escape. They never got it.
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Within the week, he had the entire front wall of our flat plastered with printouts and blurry photographs of different men that witnesses had identified as the Doctor - and over and over, the image of a blue police box in the background.“It’s like a bogeyman story,” he muttered as his eyes darted across the wall. “The Doctor comes and people die.”
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The man lying beside me with his fingernails digging into my wrist confirmed it. “At least a century,” Sherlock whispered, staring up at the walls to our sides. “Victorian detailing in the stonework, construction less than a decade old. 1870s to 1890s.”We lay there for a long time, listening to the bustle of a very different city beyond those walls. After a while, Sherlock whispered that he was giving up his search for the Doctor. He never let go of my arm.
I checked my mobile for the last time that night as we traded the items of value we had on us for money. It contained a message from an unknown number, reading: “Fixed point in time. Nothing I can do. I’m sorry.”
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I’ve taken to writing fictionalized versions of our more interesting cases. There’s been some interest, and I’m happy to report a few of my stories have even been published! I could kiss my old therapist for suggesting I start blogging.When I told Sherlock the pen name I’d chosen to publish under, he went white as a sheet and then burst out in a laugh so loud I expected the flat to shake. As I stood there staring at him, he grabbed my shirt and leaned into me, dropping his face to my shoulder.
“That name,” he said against my collar. “My mother had the complete collected works of a man by that name in her library. Mycroft and I were named after two of his characters.”
Ice washed down my spine. My knees buckled. Suddenly the two of us were huddled together on the floor, clutching each other’s coats and giggling like it was a crime scene.
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