Each account dealt with some sort of violent event or disappearance, always in conjunction with a visit from the so-called Doctor. By the third day after those women had gone missing, he’d turned up a few dozen firsthand accounts of the Doctor, ranging from blog entries to blurry photos to alien abduction support forums. Sherlock, of course, couldn’t stop thinking about it. There were no possible leads aside from this Doctor character - a vague, tangential story of a man with no reason to be a part of this case. The first forty-eight hours of the case were normal enough - the usual round of questioning victims’ families without the Met’s permission, the utter lack of sleep, me failing to convince Sherlock to eat a damn meal when the trail seemed cold. I know now that we never had any chance. But you know Sherlock - once he gets hold of an idea, he claws at it until it’s in pieces on the floor. We never did find the missing shop owner and her assistant. A moment later, he was dashing down the pavement with his mobile out, tapping away without a word as I hurried to keep up. His eyes were far away, raised toward the cold, clear evening sky. I asked him what that meant for our case, but he did not answer. This is definite article proper noun - not a doctor, the Doctor.” “Yes, John, but you’re a doctor of the indefinite article sort. “So what?” I said - I confess, my mind was already on the takeaway I was planning to have for dinner. “The Doctor,” he enunciated, smiling wolfishly at the passing cars. Sherlock tented his fingers under his chin as we walked back to the main road, his eyes alight with that brilliant deductive glee he gets in the face of a new challenge. Odd fellow with hair going in all directions kept coming around their flat, he said, trying to warn her of something. The owner’s boyfriend said she’d never been the sort to have enemies, but when pressed, he mentioned a strange interaction she’d had recently with a man called the Doctor. They must have been watching their attacker on that screen, waiting for an opportunity to escape.
A small telly in the corner was still on when the Met showed up, tuned to the shop’s CCTV. 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. Very odd - so, right up Sherlock's street, of course. 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. Sherlock began obsessing over this man they call the Doctor during a case we took in Whitechapel. 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'm getting up to pour myself a cup of tea. I still find it strange to write out the date, even though I've had over a year to adjust to our new era. 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. I expect Detective Inspector Lestrade has already been by to question you. By now Sherlock and I will have been missing for about a week, if your workers came on time. This is John Watson - yes, the very same. This isn't easy to explain, but I'll do my best to make you understand.
I also expect you're wondering how your name came to be on a letter so old. I expect you've already sifted through its contents and taken a guess at its approximate age. You're probably wondering how this package came to be hidden in the wall behind your mirror.
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