you'll not feel the drowning (Sherlock/Marble Hornets x-over, gen, horror, R)
Title: you'll not feel the drowning
Fandom: BBC Sherlock/Marble Hornets crossover
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson (from Sherlock); Jay, Alex Kralie, and Tim (from Marble Hornets); no pairings
Rating: R for language, violence and generally scary creepypasta themes.
Word count: ~8650.
Warning: Slenderman, aka horror/thriller themes. Included is a lot of speculation on Marble Hornets, as well as spoilers for Seasons 2 and 3. Set between 2x02 Hound of the Baskervilles and 2x03 The Reichenbach Fall for Sherlock, and just before Entry #26 for MH (the season 1 finale).
Notes: A fill for two similar prompts at sherlockbbc-fic: Sherlock goes up against the Slenderman here, and the more detailed request for Marble Hornets/Sherlock trans-Atlantic crossover. Title from the Decemberists's album The Crane Wife.
Summary: Sherlock gets an unusual case tip via his website; not a week later, he's in America, surrounded by film students who are convinced of supernatural intervention in their lives. "Sherlock," John starts. The look in Wilkerson's eye, the dead, focused fury, it strikes Sherlock as a familiar darkness. He wants to know. "I'm bored," he warns John.
I know you'll probably never see this, Mr. Holmes, but I need your help. I've read your book and think you're the only one who can help me figure out what's happening to me. I'm CONSTANTLY losing time every time I get sick, sometimes weeks at a time, and often find myself miles from where I started without any idea or clue to how I got there. I think I've hurt people while in this state. A consulting detective is exactly what I need and whatever help you could offer I would appreciate. I'll pay what I can for your services, because you can't cost more than the useless PI I hired a year ago. I live in Michigan, so I hope that's not a dealbreaker. Attached is some surveillance from my apartment to show you what I'm dealing with. Let me know: tim.wilkerson@gmail.com. - Tim [attached: 12009.avi][attached: 012009.avi]
"Hmm." Sherlock taps his lip with a finger and keeps the e-mail open on his screen.
"We already have a case," John says from behind his laptop.
"We had a case. Now you're blogging about said case and I'm bored," Sherlock corrects him. "Read this." He removes John's laptop from under his fingertips and replaces it with his own. "What do you think?"
John looks as though he's about to protest the switch, but he reads the paragraph anyway. "My best guess? He's a paranoid."
"A paranoid who pays private investigators and consulting detectives to surveil him? I doubt it." He double-clicks on the video file just as John opens his mouth to presumably warn him against it. "No need to worry, John, I've virus protection you wouldn't believe."
The video opens in VLC Player after Sherlock clicks through the virus scan. A young man with longish hair and sideburns is smoking a cigarette while browsing aimlessly on his laptop. The video stutters and the bottom of the screen tears just about when Wilkerson starts coughing, and the audio distorts, becoming staticky. The coughing abruptly turns into what is clearly a seizure, then he goes still.
Two minutes pass with Wilkerson apparently unconscious on the floor. "Seizure disorder," John starts, quietly. "Along with losing time, that could mean -- " He cuts himself off as, on the video, Wilkerson climbs to his feet, stiffly. He approaches the camera, his eyes heavily-lidded and dark circles clear beneath them, and cocks his head to the side as though amused and fascinated at the effort put into surveillance. Then he reaches for something near the door and leaves the room.
"Next," Sherlock says, to the silence, and double-clicks on it.
The camera is pointed at the other side of Wilkerson's door. The door opens, a masked figure recognisable as Wilkerson appears on the threshold, then the video shorts out again and he vanishes. The tape stops.
"Photoshop," John says instantly.
"Obviously," Sherlock allows. "And it looks to be epilepsy with dissociative episodes, which would explain the lost time." He frowns. "The question is then, what is he trying to achieve while in the fugue state?"
John sends along a weary look. "And this is a case because..."
Sherlock returns the look. "He believes he's capable of hurting people while experiencing a fugue, and is apparently deluded enough to back up his concern with strangely edited video."
"So pass him on to local law enforcement to be sectioned," John figures.
"If local law enforcement hasn't noticed Wilkerson fumbling around in a fugue state, dangerous or not, then they're not worth their pay, which is no real news." Sherlock pauses. "I'll examine the video to see how the disappearing man trick was faked, you pull his medical history and criminal background and we'll see if our masked man is a case after all."
"Sherlock," John starts.
The look in Wilkerson's eye, the dead, focused fury, it strikes Sherlock as a familiar darkness. He wants to know. "I'm bored," he warns John.
That, at least, convinces him, and Sherlock is rather literally left to his own devices. Good.
Timothy Joseph Wilkerson, born 29 November 1987 in Detroit, Michigan. Raised by his single mother, Janet Wilkerson. No indication of a father on the birth certificate or any documentation thereafter. Medical history of schizophrenia, epilepsy, memory loss, and bronchitis. No criminal record.
After listening to three hours of Sherlock grousing about how there must be some artifacts of Wilkerson tampering with the video, somewhere, John tries to convince him to send the files to 'an expert in that sort of thing' as though he himself can't tell a forgery when he sees one.
"If you can't prove it's been tampered with, let someone else do it," John points out.
"I can prove it. This is obviously faked," Sherlock retorts, with a sharp gesture towards the offending video on top of the other windows on his laptop screen.
John nods. "Only makes sense. Of course, you may not have the same software as an expert in the field," he adds quickly, "would have. So..."
Reluctantly, he goes searching through his Mind Palace for a name, and one comes up. Jonson, one of the techs with the Met. If he must. He retreats and tunes back into John and everything else outside his head. "Done," he says, opening an e-mail.
John comes to peer over his shoulder. "You're using the Met's resources for a case that might not even be a case."
"They use me for cases that aren't cases all the time," Sherlock answers as he types a to-the-point e-mail to Jonson.
"A case that's private, not public, also in America, and -- there's no indication Wilkerson will be able to pay you for the job, based on his work history -- "
Sherlock looks over at John and hits send. "I'm aware that a man who can't hold a job for longer than three months won't be able to pay me. Why is that a concern?"
John exhales, as though he's dealing with some great concern, and shrugs. "I... suppose it isn't. But why this case over all the other crackpots you've dismissed?"
Sherlock lets his gaze rake over the flat, then he shrugs, delicately. "It's simple. It's... something new."
"I don't understand it," Jonson confesses to them over speakerphone a few days later. "This is raw footage. This hasn't been doctored or tailored in any way. The boy just disappears. If this is a forgery it's a damned good one, I'll tell you that."
"Useless," Sherlock says in answer, and reaches for John's mobile to hang up on him. John tries to stop him, but is too late. "I told you I knew what I was doing."
John looks skeptical. "Then you admit that he vanished into thin air after stepping through that doorway."
"Of course not."
An e-mail pings into his inbox. Sherlock instantly turns to his laptop and checks it, while John decides to talk: "It's only a matter of time before Lestrade brings us a case, Sherlock. Or before you find one yourself. There's really no need to get -- "
He cuts John off with an urgent gesture. "Another message from Wilkerson."
Mr. Holmes,
I don't know what to do. I don't know what any of this means. But things are starting up again and I don't know what's going to happen. Let me know if you can take on my case.
205-555-1025.
- Tim [attached: pictures.zip]
"Growing more desperate," Sherlock notes, and opens the zip file after a virus scan deems it safe. A folder full of image files is revealed, one that he immediately extracts and opens.
The first: an image of Wilkerson with dried blood on his forehead and in his hair. The second: an image of the pale, dark-eyed mask, also with dried blood along the inside. The third, fourth, and fifth: a series of images with timestamps about three weeks apart of an odometer with notable increases in the mileage, the last captioned in Microsoft Paint with I don't remember taking any trips that far. Where did I go? The last: an image of a box marked with an oval with an x through it. This appeared in my closet. I can't open it, the caption states.
011-1-205-555-1025 is a bastard to type into his mobile, but Sherlock is intent on answering him now. Try harder to open the box. SH
"Have you got international texting?" John is ridiculous enough to ask. Sherlock just scoffs.
Not budging. TW, the American number replies.
Webcam. Now. I'll e-mail you. SH
"Now? Really? Webcam?" is what John has to say, but it makes perfect sense to Sherlock. Everything is set up and it occurs to Sherlock that John's complaint may be about the state of the flat, which he doubts a young man this troubled will judge them on too harshly. He dismisses the unspoken possible concern and waits for Wilkerson to pop up on Skype.
And there he is. Within seconds the transatlantic problem has been solved.
"Uh, yeah, hi," Wilkerson says. He's clearly showered within the last hour, and has bandages underneath his hairline. Interesting.
"Yes, hello," Sherlock says, a shade impatiently. "If you'd be so good as to -- "
"Sherlock," John says urgently, but it goes plainly unnoted.
"The box, yeah." Wilkerson picks it up and shows it, with its lock, to the webcam. "I don't even know if I should look in here, after..." He trails off.
"You will," Sherlock says, to the point. "Prise it open if you have to. Get a bolt-cutter. I won't come to the States until you do."
It puts Wilkerson on edge. Good, Sherlock thinks. "I don't have a bolt-cutter."
"Then find the key," John says from behind Sherlock. Sherlock looks back, surprised. "Well, it has to be somewhere nearby. Otherwise the box would be useless to you there at home."
Wilkerson is staring at the symbol on the box. "Okay," he says, slowly.
"Where would you put the key?" John prompts before Sherlock can argue.
"Where would he put the key?" Sherlock corrects.
Wilkerson looks to be disconnecting from reality already, but he pats his jeans pockets and stares in horror when he finds a key in one of them. "He wanted me to -- "
"Open it," Sherlock says, as patiently as he can manage.
John puts a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I don't think -- " he starts.
"You aren't. Try the key," Sherlock instructs Wilkerson, who fits the key into the lock and turns it. It neatly drops the lock to the side, and Wilkerson is looking at the box as though it's going to explode. "Well. Go on. Show us the contents."
"Oh god," Wilkerson is saying into his hands now, "oh god," over and over again, but he reaches into the box and pulls out sheets of paper covered in bizarre, juvenile-looking drawings of tall stick figures with xed-out ovals for faces, and block letters of messages: SEES ME ALWAYS. NEVER SAFE. RUN. RUN RUN RUN. OPERATOR LEAVE ME ALONE. Then Wilkerson finally lets the papers fall to the desktop and reaches for an inhaler before a lung-rattling cough interrupts Sherlock's thoughts with a start.
"Bronchitis again?" Sherlock asks mildly.
"Sherlock." John is warning now. "Come on."
"Always," Wilkerson jokes grimly, and takes a hit from the inhaler. He breathes for a few moments, then clears his throat once, and again.
Sherlock isn't about to let go of this lead. He's almost got the madman cornered in his delusion. "You're seeing a psychiatrist now."
"If once a month is -- " he coughs -- "seeing -- "
"Try your pills," Sherlock says.
"Mister Holmes," Wilkerson starts, between coughs, "please just tell me -- "
"Try the pills," Sherlock repeats.
Wilkerson reaches for something off-screen and downs at least two pills, one yellow capsule, another white tablet, with a gulp from a water bottle. There's silence as he recovers and Sherlock waits, then he says, "Will you take my case?"
"Yes," Sherlock says, directly. "Expect us within the week." He disconnects.
John is gobsmacked. "You -- that convinced you?"
"We'll need to go to the States to get his psychiatric records -- "
" -- but there's no way we can get the legal rights to -- "
"I didn't intend on asking legally. God, John, don't you see?" Sherlock thrusts his hands into the air. "It's ritualized. He believes he's being controlled by somebody. All we have to do is discover whom, and -- "
John shakes his head. "And this still doesn't explain the video."
"It's a cult, John," Sherlock retorts. "Based around this suited figure, masks to worship him, et cetera. The States has always been slow to deal with things like this -- your Branch Davidians, your Jonestowns -- we may have found an escapee."
"That's more likely than this one nutter trying to get attention," John says slowly, like an idiot.
"He's genuinely afraid of something. He didn't relish the moment or try to bring more attention to himself and his case, he wanted away from it. He has from the start. Those aren't the acts of a man trying to perpetrate a hoax." Most likely. "If he's been hurting people in that state, what if there are others -- "
"So let's try and find your cult," John interrupts, wearily.
Sherlock very nearly cracks a smile, and opens Google.
Operator turns up a number of pages on C++ coding, whereas Operator cult turns out press for a pulp sci-fi novel. Operator man has the first useful result, on The Slender Man Wikia.
The whole wretched thing nearly lures his attention away from the psychiatric records, which have turned out to be far too easy to procure. Someone called ahead for them.
Best to see how it plays out, then.
The Operator is the assumed proper name for the Slender Man in the Marble Hornets universe. This tall, strange figure is the primary antagonist for the cast and crew of the student film Marble Hornets. This being is somehow connected to the strange symbol known as the Operator Symbol.
"And on this website..." John is barely awake and it's only 7:15. Honestly.
"The Operator is linked to this Slenderman," Sherlock explains. "It's one version of this supposed cryptid, as documented on this Youtube channel." He switches tabs to the Marble Hornets Youtube channel. "There are others, but this one fits Wilkerson's story best." He clicks on a related link and opens a video marked Entry #15.
John stares as a few minutes of the video play out, long enough to see the handheld camera pointed directly at a familiar face. "... That's Wilkerson."
"This was taped without Wilkerson's knowledge by the supposed new director of the student film Marble Hornets, who goes by the name Jay. At first I thought this was the alleged private investigator that Wilkerson spoke of, but based on the previous 14 'entries' in this video blog, the student film is a ruse this Jay is using to investigate 'the Operator' and the disappearance of his friend and the film's original director Alex Kralie." Sherlock exhales, more exasperated than he might admit at the lengths some take to find attention. "It's a web series."
"So Wilkerson's an actor," John figures.
Sherlock doesn't answer him. "There are whole communities based around examining the alleged supernatural events involving the Slenderman or Operator, including one based solely around discussion of the Marble Hornets web series." He opens Marble Hornets Wikia, and the page marked "Tim" loads.
John is awake now, focused. "It's him. And the mask," he says, astonished, "and here it describes his illness, to a T -- as 'slendersickness' -- are they having us on?"
"Or Wilkerson's lost complete touch with reality." He sits back. "Which I find more likely. I've downloaded the entries, we're going to watch them on the way to the States. We're ending this fraud."
"But -- it's just a harmless student horror film," John says.
"Wilkerson's episodes are in the system. They're real," Sherlock points out. "These filmmakers are causing or taking advantage of this man's delusions. Either way, they're standing by and documenting it to convince the world, or at least this sad, dark corner of the internet, that this Operator exists."
"Causing -- " John looks a bit sick at the idea. Good, it's finally sunk in. "Then we ought to find Kralie and his friend and put an end to this."
Sherlock nods, as this was obvious. "It's time to pack," he tells John, with nothing short of savage cheer. "Our flight leaves in ten hours."
Slender Man generally appears (in modern times) as a tall man in a black or grey suit, red or black tie, and white shirt, with no eyes, mouth, or clearly defined facial features. It has no hair, and generally has normal-looking bare hands. Slenderman typically is depicted in imagery and literature as between 6 and 15 feet tall, depending on the situation, and in video as around 6-7 feet tall. Because of its inexact nature, and differences between series, no one has yet determined what it is.
Sherlock and John are instantly dismissive of what passes for "video evidence" to these amateur student film hacks, or at least John agrees that the faceless figure from the videos is nothing but a trumped-up special effect. The most interesting thing in the series, Sherlock thinks, is not the characters: Alex Kralie, the increasingly paranoid victim of the Operator and director of Marble Hornets, is difficult to root for, and Jay, the narrator and protagonist, is brave to the point of idiocy in the face of danger. Even Tim's motives are inexplicable, mask or no. It's the Youtube account that continues to post replies to Jay's entries, ToTheArk, that captures Sherlock's attention.
"Spectrographs, though," Sherlock is saying to John on the plane. "Morse code. Riddles and masks. We need to find out who owns these Youtube accounts, because if ToTheArk truly is Wilkerson, or another madman in this Slenderman set, attempting to interact with the events of Marble Hornets, it's more evidence the people behind the cameras are encouraging dangerously unstable individuals -- "
"But ToTheArk -- " John can't believe he's saying this, and Sherlock sympathizes. "The second account contributes to the story of the first. Gives them hints to act on. It must be involved with the writers of the series, or..."
"Or Wilkerson's madness has a method to it," Sherlock says crisply, realising.
John shakes his head. "This is mad, you know. Absolutely insane."
Sherlock gives John his best bemused look. "I've contacted the Twitter account," he says. "Youtube next, and -- "
"Please turn off all electronic devices -- " the stewardess begins.
Impatiently, Sherlock shuts off his laptop and his phone. "And then we confront the masterminds," he says wearily to John, and sits back to wait with annoyance for the plane to land.
It's half an hour after Wilkerson agreed to be there and he's not answering his texts. John is clearly thinking the worst. Sherlock still thinks he may be on his way. Let us know when you manage to get here. SH, he sends.
His mobile pings to let him know he has an e-mail, and he quickly opens it. A direct message from Twitter user MarbleHornets: Dear Mr. Holmes, Thank you for your offer to help with the search for Alex, I didn't realize I had celebrity viewers on my channel. Let me know when you're in the area so we can talk further. 205-555-1785. Thanks, Jay
Sherlock raises his eyebrows, then texts Wilkerson again: Finished waiting. Leaving. SH, then another to Jay: Detroit Hilton Hotel, 7:30 pm tonight, the lobby. Can you make it? SH
John is incredulous when he returns from the loo. "You're honestly going to abandon Wilkerson -- "
"For a chance to speak to the man behind all this? Yes, John, I am."
See you there. J, the American number answers.
In many ways, Jay doesn't disappoint. Not only is he there at 7:25 in the lobby, but he's brandishing a camera in the most surreptitious way possible, which is to say not very. Sherlock doesn't look twice at John before walking ahead into the lobby from their observation point near the lifts, and John follows without missing a beat.
Jay turns at hearing their footsteps and is visibly relieved to recognize Sherlock, at least. "Mister Holmes -- and Doctor Watson, I assume?" He sticks his free hand out, and John shakes it. Sherlock remains bemused, and Jay hesitates to extend the gesture to him.
"Jay," Sherlock says, amiably enough, and takes Jay's hand to shake it. "We haven't been properly introduced."
"It's, uh, it's Jay. Jay Miller." He clears his throat, and the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches upwards as his focus sweeps over him for a moment --
Taking expectorate drugs for a cough, specifically guaifenesin. There's no mistaking the scent coming from Jay, not by anyone aware of their senses. Bronchitis, or a cough that continually recurs. It fits the story, at least. Clothes are worn, washed on a weekly basis or more often, shoes equally worn with broken shoelaces. A handful of changes of clothes in his suitcase, then, and a single pair of shoes. Living on the road. Dark circles under the eyes and an unfocused gaze. Insomnia.
A young filmmaker, dogged by a nightmarish figure, whose only hope of fending off the predator is to document every second of his investigation, and the insomnia and illness that accompanies it. Yes, the young man does have an attention to detail.
"We should talk," Sherlock says smoothly. "Have you had dinner, or..."
"I'm not hungry. Do you have a room here? We should speak in private," Jay says. Tensed and paranoid, as though awaiting attack at any time, but the drop in his voice and tilt of his shoulders say he's resigned to his fate -- or too exhausted to care until the moment comes. The act is nearly perfect. Sherlock won't stop watching for a fault in it.
"Of course," John answers him, when Sherlock doesn't, and asks some inane questions about how long a trip it was to Detroit as they walk to the lift.
As soon as the lift door shuts before them, Jay speaks, more confidently than before. "I, uh. I have something to show you." He puts the camera in Sherlock's face, possibly by accident, but the awkward investigator is a grating enough role when the case is a fraud. The camera only makes it worse. "If you're going to help me."
"If we believe you," John says by way of correction, and Jay grimaces behind the camera.
"Yeah. If you believe me."
"And why should we believe you?" Sherlock interrupts.
The lift pings and the doors open gently, but not one of their party moves. "Because Alex -- because, Seth and Brian and everyone else, they're gone," Jay says, his camera hand wavering as he searches for words. "And I couldn't make this up if I tried."
"Not necessarily true," Sherlock says. "You're a film student. You're perfectly capable of -- "
Jay lowers the camera. "You think I'm faking this?"
"We should go," John points out, catching the lift doors before they shut again. "Discuss this somewhere more, ah, private?"
They walk in tense silence to the room, and after two tries, John gets the door open. He takes a seat on the first bed, and Jay paces back to the second bed and settles there with his camera and bag. Sherlock looks directly at Jay and the camera. "Will you speak frankly with the camera off?"
Jay looks back at him instantly. "I can't turn it off," he says, as though it's an unshakable truth.
"I'm not an expert but I'm sure there's a power button somewhere," Sherlock says blandly. "Can I take that as an admission you aren't speaking frankly now?"
John looks as though he's tempted to punch Sherlock if he doesn't stop talking. "Is it really useful to badger -- "
"I'm speaking fricking frankly," Jay fires back, speaking over John, "and you think I want to live like this? You think I'd pretend that one of my friends is being -- is probably dead -- "
Sherlock interrupts him, archly. "That nearly everyone you knew from the film Marble Hornets is mysteriously incapacitated by a preternatural being known as -- "
"No. No no no," Jay says, lowering the camera with shaking hands, "no, that's -- just fucking don't."
"Turn the camera off," Sherlock snaps.
"Sherlock," John starts.
Jay is gripping his camera as though it's a lifeline. Terror. Oh, he's good. "If that's what it'll take to convince you, Mister Holmes."
Sherlock simply nods, and Jay turns the camera off, replacing it in its bag. It's as though he's stripped down to nothing in front of them, vulnerable, without a lens in the way. "Prove it to me."
"If you won't believe the entries," Jay says, his voice low and uncertain, "I don't know what to tell you."
Sherlock nearly smiles. "Tell me about him."
"Alex?"
"The Operator."
Jay reacts to the request as though Sherlock's thrown a disembodied head into his lap. He says nothing of interest, just swears and denies and looks as though no one else had seen such unnatural horrors. Sherlock repeats the name a number of times just to see if Jay will slip and break character, but Jay finally storms into the loo and runs some water, some coughing audible above the stream.
John turns to him. "Look what you've done," he says, with a gesture to the closed washroom door. "You've broken him."
"Apparently not, he hasn't broken character yet," Sherlock says mildly.
"You -- he's not in character, you lunatic," John protests.
"I'm the lunatic, John? This man is trying to convince us that a seven-foot tall phantom in formalwear is stalking him and his friends from film school."
John seems to have forgotten that, so the reminder comes off as something of a rebuke. Sherlock shrugs. "I'm going to have a smoke," he says in nothing short of cheer.
John mouths helplessly for a moment before saying, "You were quitting -- "
"And now I'm in America." He goes to open the door and is halted by Jay's abrupt exit from the bathroom. Good, he didn't need a break anyway. "All right?" he asks offhand.
Jay stalks past Sherlock and goes to the camera on the bed. "He's real," he says, and flips the camera open. "And Alex is missing. Everything on my channel is real." He presses his face into his free hand. "Why did you think it was..."
"Because it's impossible," John says.
"Why would I pretend it was real if it wasn't?" Jay argues.
"Because your horror story is so much more terrifying if it implies madmen like Tim Wilkerson are wandering around the real world at the beck and call of phantoms and cryptids like the Operator," Sherlock says blithely.
"You think -- " Jay sets the camera in his lap and looks at Sherlock, his gaze darker than ever. "What do you know about Tim?"
"We know that he's the only real thing about this operation," John says, and Sherlock glances up at him in pleased surprise. "Everyone else is... there are no missing people, Jay. No bodies, no MISPER alerts, just a cast of talented actors with photoshop skills. And Tim, and his illness."
"Tim is." Jay looks wan. "Tim is gone."
"You spoke to him six months ago. He was fine," Sherlock says crisply.
"A lot can happen in six months." Jay clears his throat again. "Tim, he's..."
"He's gallivanting around wearing a mask," Sherlock completes. "He believes he's being stalked by the Operator. And you've only encouraged these delusions with your videos."
"He's the masked man who keeps attacking you," John tries to explain.
Jay is nothing short of stricken, if his face can be trusted. "I know. I've known. I just wished -- " He breaks off. "I promise. This is real. I would never, what were you saying? I'd never hurt Tim, I'd never hurt anybody."
Sherlock is unmoved, simply. "You're asking us to believe a fantastic story."
Jay nods miserably, and removes the tape to replace it with another. "Come here. Watch this, both of you."
Alex: "Where did you find that?"
Amy: "It was in the closet. There was a tape already in it, but when I tried to watch it, it was messed up or something. I don't know."
Alex: "Um, that's probably just my old camera from college. I probably stuck it back in there when we moved. I was just gonna sell it."
Amy: "But I thought we didn't have a camera."
Alex: "It, doesn't matter. We're gonna sell it. Just, please put it back. Stop recording."
Amy: "Fine, I'm not recording anymore."
Alex: "I can still see the light."
Amy: "Are you okay, Alex?" Video tearing occurs.
Alex: "I'm fine. Just put it back. Please."
Amy: "You're in a really odd mood right now. Fine."
Amy begins to turn around. The Operator is standing in the doorway only a few feet from the camera.
The tape came in a parcel, and the parcel has a return address. "I was on my way there when you texted me," Jay explains as they pile their luggage into his car, "had to detour, like I mentioned. I hope he's still there, but we need your help more than anything."
"And this is the first contact you've had with him since he gave you the tapes," John confirms.
"Yes," Jay says. They're getting on his nerves. "Is the interrogation going to go on the whole way there? Because you might run out of questions. It's a couple of hours."
"We need to talk about Tim." Sherlock opens the back door and sits behind the driver's seat, and sends Jay a look that clearly says Well? to prompt him and John to get into the car.
Sherlock's mobile goes off. It's a call, of all things, from Mycroft, of all people. He ignores it.
"Who is it?" John asks, as they climb into the car and get going.
"Just Mycroft," Sherlock says, dismissive.
"What if it's a case?" Thankfully, John seems to realize quickly his mistake. "Of course. Who needs a case from Mycroft -- look, what if it's an emergency?"
"Then he'll text," Sherlock says patiently, and looks up at the rearview mirror, where he meets Jay's gaze, for the moment that Jay allows it; it's only a half-second before he breaks eye contact and goes about turning onto the interstate.
His mobile buzzes. Do answer, the text says.
I don't take calls. Particularly from you. SH
"Please tell me you aren't being short-sighted and petty because it's Mycroft on the other end," John says, then turns to Jay to explain. "It's his older brother."
"I get it. Family sucks," Jay says mildly.
"On the other hand, his family is incredibly well-connected and gives him information he might need," John says, in that pointed way he thinks is somehow subtle or clever.
Sherlock's gaze flicks up, then back to his mobile when Mycroft replies. If you insist, I'll forego the niceities and simply send this along. I would advise watching this at your earliest convenience. It may change your mind. A video attachment pings onto his mobile, and his eyebrows raise.
It's almost as if John heard his interest peaked. "What? What did he say?"
Sherlock opens the video file without answering him.
It's a mere fifty seconds of closed-circuit television of Baker Street. At first nothing major appears to be amiss -- a mugger stalking his prey, two young ladies entering the cafe, and rain begins to fall. And then out of nowhere, where there was nothing, a tall pale figure in dark clothes, at least six feet tall, appears in front of 221B. The door slowly opens without any provocation or aid from the tall man, and his gliding ascent into the building stutters the video, the bottom of the screen tearing, and then the camera goes black.
The video stops. Sherlock isn't ready for it to be over. He isn't ready to accept what he has just seen. Immediately he responds to Mycroft. This is childish, even for you. SH
"Sherlock?" John asks, uncertainty cracking his voice.
The timestamp is dated four days earlier, the date of their Skype conversation with Wilkerson.
But it can't be.
Sullen and shellshocked, Sherlock shoves the mobile in John's face and waits for him to watch and draw his own conclusions.
"Is there any chance either of you are going to tell me what's going on?" Jay asks, as John watches the short clip. Sherlock can see him blanch, and his hand twitch, in the side mirror.
His mobile buzzes again, and John wordlessly hands it back to him. This 'case' is nothing new to us, Sherlock. But no good has befallen those who took it on. Be careful. He is a merciless thing.
An e-mail pings into his inbox, and another, and another. All from Mycroft, all with files attached.
A stray thought crosses his mind, then: it's real.
His jaw sets, and he opens his laptop to open the files and view them properly, plainly ignoring everyone else in the car. They drive, silently heading down the nearly empty interstate, as Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, does his best to read what case files his meddling but occasionally useful brother Mycroft has made available to him without drawing any conclusions from such places as fear or even concern.
Notes from INTERPOL Secretary-General Raymond Kendall's private diary, dated 01-08-1990: The last of the purge is complete. We could not have buried the evidence deeper. I cannot help but think that man was not meant to know certain things. All branches have been informed of new protocol with regards to the creature. Still, I feel as though we have not done enough. Could something so incomprehensible and complex be so easily contained? God save us, I can only hope.
"Let me get this straight," Jay says. His fingers are drumming on the steering wheel in a syncopy. "You have video from the fucking British government of him at your apartment building, all this -- serious sounding paperwork from all these cops and INTERPOL, for God's sake, and you still don't believe me?"
"I don't believe anything," Sherlock retorts. "I acknowledge things. I know them. Belief is subjective."
Jay whips around in indignation. "Are you serious?"
"Eyes. Road. Please," John suggests, helpfully giving the wheel a push as they edge into the right lane.
"We're nearly there." Jay glances at the rearview mirror to catch a glimpse of Sherlock. He's still angry, but is too tired, and too frightened, to care. It almost feels like a victory to Sherlock, but he won't press any further. "Are we at least agreed that I keep the camera on?"
Sherlock nods curtly. "And you don't do anything with the tape until I'm finished with this case."
Jay tenses. "That's not going to happen."
"Why not?" John interrupts, before Sherlock can speak.
"Because I need to upload the entries, in case the tapes get stolen or fucked up. It's a standing record of everything I've seen -- of everything Alex and I have been through," Jay adds. "So even if, whatever, freaking INTERPOL says I'm not supposed to be doing what I'm doing, I'm doing what's right."
"What are you doing, then?" John prompts.
"What are you, my shrink?" Jay fires back.
"It's a fair question. I don't see your motivation in pursuing this case beyond finding Alex Kralie," Sherlock says plainly. "It's become more than that, hasn't it? All this Youtube and Twitter, advertising your situation, bringing others into it. The mystery, the puzzle, the danger. Every step you take makes the path more twisted and strange, and yet you keep on, and you want your audience with you."
"Have you not been paying attention, I can't quit, and I can't exactly go to the cops, can I?" Jay's hands grip the steering wheel, white-knuckled. "Because -- what do you say? This guy I worked on a student film with three years ago is being stalked by something out of a Japanese horror flick? I need help -- hell, Tim and Alex, they need help, they need me, because I'm the only one who gives a damn enough to look into it. But my apartment building burned down and Tim tried to warn me, and damn if I'm going to stand by and let some creepy asshole in a suit kill me and my friends."
There's a long stretch of silence that goes along with an equally long and lonely stretch of road traveled, then Sherlock speaks. "You can upload your entries, but the raw footage goes directly onto my hard drive."
"Done," Jay says crisply, then looks askance at John. "You know, you guys can start taking this seriously any time you want. He showed up at your door. And he doesn't show up unless he wants to make a point."
Sherlock doesn't answer that. "And what do you know about him?"
"I know that he ruined my life. And Alex's. And Tim's. That's all I need to know."
Sherlock just sighs. Sentiment. But part of him understands, after all he and John have been through, with Moriarty on their trail, part of him sympathizes, despite himself. It's growing harder -- near impossible -- to be skeptical in the face of so much evidence, and such earnest fear and determination by young Jay Miller.
The address on the parcel leads them to a house that has been thoroughly abandoned, graffitied, and abused by squatters and storms alike. Jay brandishes the camera as he looks into one of the few rooms, and leaves Sherlock and John alone for a moment.
"It's all right to believe it, you know," John says, scratching the back of his neck and doing his best to look as though he's just casually sharing an opinion.
"I know," Sherlock says, a shade impatiently. What else is he supposed to think in the face of such overwhelming evidence? There's no other conclusion to draw. "Although, if this is an elaborate plot to take me on holiday, John -- "
"Yes. I wanted to take you on holiday. To Michigan," John adds, straight-faced. "That's. Absolutely the tourist spot I'd choose. Not to mention the fake case. Nothing more fun than watching you work."
They exchange a look of faint amusement and camaraderie, then Jay reappears. "Nothing," he declares, openly frustrated. "He's nowhere."
"Give him some time, he may show up," John suggests.
Jay turns on a dime to confront John with the camera. "What's the point? We're probably too late, I should have just come straight here -- "
"Take it down a notch, Jay."
Sherlock turns around instantly and there he is, in the doorway of the house: Alex Kralie. Jay whips the camera around and is silent and still until Alex adds, "What's with the Scooby gang thing?" He eyes John and Sherlock. "Or should I say Lord Peter Wimsey?"
"We haven't got a dog," Jay says, then puts the camera in John's hands and goes straight to Alex for a very manly half-embrace. "What's up, man?" he murmurs.
"I'm not dead," Alex answers; he's distracted by finally noticing that Sherlock is taking mental notes on him, and is looking right back at him. "I don't know why you brought more people into this."
"I think you'll find we're capable of dealing with this kind of situation," John says.
"Really?" Alex is more than a little condescending. "So you deal with this kind of situation a lot."
Jay speaks up as he adjusts something on his camera. "Alex, they're going to help us figure out what's going on."
"I'm pretty sure we know what's going on already," Alex says, bitingly sarcastic.
"Then tell us everything you know," Sherlock answers, and gives a venomous half-smile in response to Kralie's sharp look.
"Look. I'm Dr. John Watson," John cuts in, and sticks his hand out for Alex to shake, the offer finally accepted after Kralie looks away from Sherlock. "And this is Sherlock Holmes."
"Consulting detective," Sherlock says, or really, enunciates.
"There's no such thing as a consulting detective," Alex says, unmoved.
"They know about Tim," Jay interrupts, stepping between them, and stops Alex. "You -- you know about Tim, right?"
Alex looks from Sherlock to Jay and the camera and says simply, "Yeah, I know about Tim."
John clears his throat. "Let's go somewhere more comfortable and have a conversation."
"I don't think so," Alex says immediately. "I'm fine right here."
Sherlock nonverbally dismisses Alex to keep him honest and less tense, but keeps an eye on him. "We were hired by Tim to figure out where he's been going when he's entered fugue state," he says. "You two would likely be the best to ask for an answer on that."
"You think we know what he's doing?" Jay asks. "I have no idea, he just shows up and attacks me -- "
"He's out of his fucking mind," Alex interrupts, archly. "That thing, it's gotten to him. I think he's working for it."
"That doesn't make any sense," Jay points out.
"Why not? How else can he pull all that shit off?" Alex retorts.
"Like disappearing into thin air?" John prompts.
"And getting through locked doors," Alex adds. "Look at that mask he wears. He's lost it. He's someone else now. I told you -- I said on those tapes -- everyone is gone."
"He contacted us not a week ago," Sherlock says blithely. "He's not entirely as gone as you seem to think."
Alex shrugs at them, broadly. "Look," he says, "Scotland Yard, really appreciate the thought, but you can't help us. This is way beyond guns and tea time."
John scoffs. "We're not going home until Tim is back to himself. All due respect."
Sherlock nods to confirm John's comment to a startled Jay, then whirls on Alex, unabashed. "I want all of your tapes," he says, and looks to Jay as well. "All of them."
"No way," Alex says instantly.
"Have something to hide?" Sherlock fires back.
Jay's camera is on Alex then, and he goes silent for a moment at the attention. "Fine," he says at last. "Lead the way to your place, I need coffee."
"What use is all this?" Sherlock complains aloud to John, prodding the offending document open on his laptop indignantly. "Half of the information here is redacted, and -- "
"Mngh," John says, and turns over in his hotel bed to look at Sherlock, hunched over his laptop in the dark hotel room. "It's 4 AM. And we're trying to sleep."
"This doesn't really seem the time to sleep," Sherlock says.
"This is exactly the time. This is literally the time you are supposed to sleep," John tries to explain.
Sherlock ignores him, because he doesn't have a good answer, not one he's willing to share, even with John. Not here, not now, not when their client is gone and their ad hoc clients are so clearly without a clue as how to proceed. He may not be able to sleep, but sleep has never been very important to him anyway.
"Here's Detroit police files on Wilkerson's escape from the mental hospital as a child... as much good as it'll do us... interesting."
John makes a sound that defies transliteration and turns away from the light of the laptop screen.
Schizophrenic minor detained in Rosswood Park and returned to CMH after escape. Claimed to be chased by man in suit from the hospital, over six feet tall. Could not offer any identifying traits such as facial features, hair color, or race. No evidence of foul play.
He makes a mental note and keeps on reading, and when at last his compatriots in the mystery are awake, he declares, "We're going to Rosswood Park."
"No," Jay says, blearily rubbing his eyes.
"Yes," Alex says, firm as anything, and something about the way his expression doesn't change at all makes Sherlock glance to John, who nods.
Rosswood Park supposedly isn't that far out from Detroit, only about forty minutes' drive, and as they tromp through the dirt and leaves and broken sticks of the park, Sherlock recognizes the feel not just of the hunt but of the hunting ground. Absurd as it is, if it is all true, they are in the palm of the Operator's hand as they walk together down the forest path.
"Why are we here?" Jay asks, breaking the silence among the four of them.
"To find Tim," John says, at the same time Alex says, "To investigate."
"Investigate what?" Sherlock asks mildly.
"What this thing is," Alex says, impatient. "What it wants. Maybe if we give it what it wants, it'll go away."
"If we find it, Tim'll find us," Jay says, with some confidence. "Don't know what we'll do if we find either of them, though -- "
"Did you hear that?" John interrupts, gaze whipping back behind them.
"Shit," Jay swears, and backs up behind John. "I saw him. I think. I think it's him."
"Him?" John echoes, glancing round.
"Tim -- TIM!" Jay shouts. "Come out!"
Alex yanks Jay back. "What are you doing?" he demands. "What if he's working for -- "
"He saved my life," Jay retorts, and pulls out of Alex's grasp. "Tim!"
There's a sound of crunching leaves behind them and suddenly Alex is on the ground with a masked Tim on top of him, a knife flashing in his hand. John acts immediately to try to pull him off of Alex -- the knife falls to the ground and Sherlock seizes it before Tim can get his hands on it again -- but John is seriously struggling with an apparently remarkably strong Tim, who grabs Alex's head and slams it against the ground once and again.
"Tim!" Jay is shouting, then Tim throws John off and jumps to his feet. It takes a few steps only for Sherlock to get behind Tim and put the knife to his neck, but masked Tim is not to be reasoned with or even threatened -- he struggles out of Sherlock's grip and the knife grazes his forehead.
Sherlock stumbles back into John, who is reaching for his gun, but Jay scrambles forward and grabs Tim by the coat, then pulls at the mask.
"NO," Tim practically screams behind the mask, and nearly falls back but catches himself.
"Stop this!" Jay shouts at Tim, and grabs his arm again to pull him close. "It's Jay! And Alex! From Marble Hornets! We're trying to help you!"
There's a split second where Jay stops shouting, Alex is groaning on the ground, and Sherlock nods to John as he reaches for his gun, then Tim bolts. John fires off a shot, but Tim disappears into the woods.
"What the hell was that?" Alex complains openly, and tries and fails to sit up.
"'He needs to die,'" Jay says, blankly staring after Tim.
"What?"
"That's what Tim just said. 'He needs to die.'"
Alex thankfully doesn't need any sort of medical care, but losing Tim just as they found him has proven to be particularly bad for the morale of those assembled. "I told you he was dangerous. I told you we shouldn't have looked for him," Alex keeps saying, pressing the ice pack to the back of his head as they recoup in the hotel room.
"I'm ordering room service," Jay says, ignoring Alex.
"I'm talking to you, Jay," Alex says pointedly.
"I hadn't noticed."
"I can't believe you're siding with the crazy person who's trying to kill me," Alex grumbles.
Sherlock finds this a good a point as any to enter the conversation. "Why is he trying to kill you?"
Alex stares at Sherlock, obviously annoyed. "Because he's insane?"
"I'm not siding with Tim. I'm just worried," Jay tells Alex as he paces past him to the telephone.
"Worry about the fact that the homicidal maniac wants to kill me, maybe," Alex suggests, bitingly sarcastic.
"He has to have a motive, even if it's insane," Sherlock says. "Have you done something to wrong him? Or the Operator?"
Jay flinches at the name even as he dials room service, but Alex remains unmoved. "You've seen my whole story. You want to go over it again? Ask Jay for the tapes."
"I doubt that very much," Sherlock says, because it's all falling together in his head, as it does. "Where's Amy?"
That stops Alex. "What?"
"Your girlfriend. The one in the video in the parcel you sent to Jay."
John turns to Sherlock. "He hasn't mentioned her yet, has he?"
"Not once," Sherlock confirms.
"She's gone," Alex says, his jaw tensed, tone bitter. "I tried. But I failed."
"You seem so certain," Sherlock says.
Alex glares at Sherlock. "Why do I get the feeling you're trying to blame me for all this?"
"Because he is." Jay seems to have given up on room service. "I don't get it, Mister Holmes, I'm sorry. We're both being hunted by the same -- all three of us are being hunted by this thing."
"Tim seems to think Alex is the enemy and I'm inclined to agree," Sherlock says offhand. "How did you get away from the Operator if Amy didn't?"
Jay then looks at Alex, abject horror setting in. "You..."
Alex looks back at him, irritated. "You really believe this crap?"
"How did you get away?" Jay repeats. "How do you always get away?"
Then something unexplainable happens in the room, the way the light twists and shifts and seems to be sucked out of the room, and there it is, there he is, standing there tall and looming and Sherlock Holmes has never felt true terror, not while facing the Hound or Moriarty himself, no, not until this moment. It doesn't move so much as the world moves around it to bring it closer, and John fires off one shot, then another, but they don't land as the Slenderman just vanishes away from the blows, and Sherlock wields the knife --
Alex is gone and Jay is standing in the middle of the room, practically yelping, "No, no no no no no," then the creature descends on John, and Sherlock leaps to his defense before he can think twice
Sherlock Holmes knows what a hangover is. This is not a hangover, but it is very close to one, and he resents its existence within his skull, as he has been very well-behaved recently, at least when it comes to drugs and alcohol. The sunlight pours through the window of 221B, because someone stupid, likely John, felt the necessity of sight was more important than the necessity of not having a pounding headache.
"You need to make tea," he says to John, who ambles past where he’s curled up on the couch, but he doesn't seem to be doing very well, either.
"I need to finish my blog post," John replies, effectively denying him his tea for the moment.
Sherlock shuts his eyes tightly.
He needs a case. But for now, nicotine patches, tea, and bad television programmes will do to keep him occupied. Strangely, it feels as though he's forgotten something, but the mind can be mad that way, especially when not given the proper exercise.
"Hand me my mobile, would you?" he asks John, who complies, and he sends off a text to Lestrade: Nothing at all? SH
Then he sees the American numbers in his mobile.
"John," he says urgently.
"What?" John asks, barely patient.
"What day is it?"
John opens his mouth, closes it, and screws up his face. "Tuesday. Must be."
"It can’t be," Sherlock says shortly, pinching the bridge of his nose as he thinks. The mobile goes off in his hand.
Keep your trousers on, I’m coming over, Lestrade’s text says, and another follows: 3 dead bodies while you’ve been away after all.
Away. America. But three dead bodies... Moriarty. "We have a case," he says simply to John, and pushes himself up off of the couch.
"So we’re not talking about... all right," John concedes, and Sherlock shuts the bedroom door on him as he sheds the night’s clothes and the suspicions edging around his conscious mind.
Trifles. There are murderers to find, and mysteries to solve.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock/Marble Hornets crossover
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson (from Sherlock); Jay, Alex Kralie, and Tim (from Marble Hornets); no pairings
Rating: R for language, violence and generally scary creepypasta themes.
Word count: ~8650.
Warning: Slenderman, aka horror/thriller themes. Included is a lot of speculation on Marble Hornets, as well as spoilers for Seasons 2 and 3. Set between 2x02 Hound of the Baskervilles and 2x03 The Reichenbach Fall for Sherlock, and just before Entry #26 for MH (the season 1 finale).
Notes: A fill for two similar prompts at sherlockbbc-fic: Sherlock goes up against the Slenderman here, and the more detailed request for Marble Hornets/Sherlock trans-Atlantic crossover. Title from the Decemberists's album The Crane Wife.
Summary: Sherlock gets an unusual case tip via his website; not a week later, he's in America, surrounded by film students who are convinced of supernatural intervention in their lives. "Sherlock," John starts. The look in Wilkerson's eye, the dead, focused fury, it strikes Sherlock as a familiar darkness. He wants to know. "I'm bored," he warns John.
I know you'll probably never see this, Mr. Holmes, but I need your help. I've read your book and think you're the only one who can help me figure out what's happening to me. I'm CONSTANTLY losing time every time I get sick, sometimes weeks at a time, and often find myself miles from where I started without any idea or clue to how I got there. I think I've hurt people while in this state. A consulting detective is exactly what I need and whatever help you could offer I would appreciate. I'll pay what I can for your services, because you can't cost more than the useless PI I hired a year ago. I live in Michigan, so I hope that's not a dealbreaker. Attached is some surveillance from my apartment to show you what I'm dealing with. Let me know: tim.wilkerson@gmail.com. - Tim [attached: 12009.avi][attached: 012009.avi]
"Hmm." Sherlock taps his lip with a finger and keeps the e-mail open on his screen.
"We already have a case," John says from behind his laptop.
"We had a case. Now you're blogging about said case and I'm bored," Sherlock corrects him. "Read this." He removes John's laptop from under his fingertips and replaces it with his own. "What do you think?"
John looks as though he's about to protest the switch, but he reads the paragraph anyway. "My best guess? He's a paranoid."
"A paranoid who pays private investigators and consulting detectives to surveil him? I doubt it." He double-clicks on the video file just as John opens his mouth to presumably warn him against it. "No need to worry, John, I've virus protection you wouldn't believe."
The video opens in VLC Player after Sherlock clicks through the virus scan. A young man with longish hair and sideburns is smoking a cigarette while browsing aimlessly on his laptop. The video stutters and the bottom of the screen tears just about when Wilkerson starts coughing, and the audio distorts, becoming staticky. The coughing abruptly turns into what is clearly a seizure, then he goes still.
Two minutes pass with Wilkerson apparently unconscious on the floor. "Seizure disorder," John starts, quietly. "Along with losing time, that could mean -- " He cuts himself off as, on the video, Wilkerson climbs to his feet, stiffly. He approaches the camera, his eyes heavily-lidded and dark circles clear beneath them, and cocks his head to the side as though amused and fascinated at the effort put into surveillance. Then he reaches for something near the door and leaves the room.
"Next," Sherlock says, to the silence, and double-clicks on it.
The camera is pointed at the other side of Wilkerson's door. The door opens, a masked figure recognisable as Wilkerson appears on the threshold, then the video shorts out again and he vanishes. The tape stops.
"Photoshop," John says instantly.
"Obviously," Sherlock allows. "And it looks to be epilepsy with dissociative episodes, which would explain the lost time." He frowns. "The question is then, what is he trying to achieve while in the fugue state?"
John sends along a weary look. "And this is a case because..."
Sherlock returns the look. "He believes he's capable of hurting people while experiencing a fugue, and is apparently deluded enough to back up his concern with strangely edited video."
"So pass him on to local law enforcement to be sectioned," John figures.
"If local law enforcement hasn't noticed Wilkerson fumbling around in a fugue state, dangerous or not, then they're not worth their pay, which is no real news." Sherlock pauses. "I'll examine the video to see how the disappearing man trick was faked, you pull his medical history and criminal background and we'll see if our masked man is a case after all."
"Sherlock," John starts.
The look in Wilkerson's eye, the dead, focused fury, it strikes Sherlock as a familiar darkness. He wants to know. "I'm bored," he warns John.
That, at least, convinces him, and Sherlock is rather literally left to his own devices. Good.
Timothy Joseph Wilkerson, born 29 November 1987 in Detroit, Michigan. Raised by his single mother, Janet Wilkerson. No indication of a father on the birth certificate or any documentation thereafter. Medical history of schizophrenia, epilepsy, memory loss, and bronchitis. No criminal record.
After listening to three hours of Sherlock grousing about how there must be some artifacts of Wilkerson tampering with the video, somewhere, John tries to convince him to send the files to 'an expert in that sort of thing' as though he himself can't tell a forgery when he sees one.
"If you can't prove it's been tampered with, let someone else do it," John points out.
"I can prove it. This is obviously faked," Sherlock retorts, with a sharp gesture towards the offending video on top of the other windows on his laptop screen.
John nods. "Only makes sense. Of course, you may not have the same software as an expert in the field," he adds quickly, "would have. So..."
Reluctantly, he goes searching through his Mind Palace for a name, and one comes up. Jonson, one of the techs with the Met. If he must. He retreats and tunes back into John and everything else outside his head. "Done," he says, opening an e-mail.
John comes to peer over his shoulder. "You're using the Met's resources for a case that might not even be a case."
"They use me for cases that aren't cases all the time," Sherlock answers as he types a to-the-point e-mail to Jonson.
"A case that's private, not public, also in America, and -- there's no indication Wilkerson will be able to pay you for the job, based on his work history -- "
Sherlock looks over at John and hits send. "I'm aware that a man who can't hold a job for longer than three months won't be able to pay me. Why is that a concern?"
John exhales, as though he's dealing with some great concern, and shrugs. "I... suppose it isn't. But why this case over all the other crackpots you've dismissed?"
Sherlock lets his gaze rake over the flat, then he shrugs, delicately. "It's simple. It's... something new."
"I don't understand it," Jonson confesses to them over speakerphone a few days later. "This is raw footage. This hasn't been doctored or tailored in any way. The boy just disappears. If this is a forgery it's a damned good one, I'll tell you that."
"Useless," Sherlock says in answer, and reaches for John's mobile to hang up on him. John tries to stop him, but is too late. "I told you I knew what I was doing."
John looks skeptical. "Then you admit that he vanished into thin air after stepping through that doorway."
"Of course not."
An e-mail pings into his inbox. Sherlock instantly turns to his laptop and checks it, while John decides to talk: "It's only a matter of time before Lestrade brings us a case, Sherlock. Or before you find one yourself. There's really no need to get -- "
He cuts John off with an urgent gesture. "Another message from Wilkerson."
Mr. Holmes,
I don't know what to do. I don't know what any of this means. But things are starting up again and I don't know what's going to happen. Let me know if you can take on my case.
205-555-1025.
- Tim [attached: pictures.zip]
"Growing more desperate," Sherlock notes, and opens the zip file after a virus scan deems it safe. A folder full of image files is revealed, one that he immediately extracts and opens.
The first: an image of Wilkerson with dried blood on his forehead and in his hair. The second: an image of the pale, dark-eyed mask, also with dried blood along the inside. The third, fourth, and fifth: a series of images with timestamps about three weeks apart of an odometer with notable increases in the mileage, the last captioned in Microsoft Paint with I don't remember taking any trips that far. Where did I go? The last: an image of a box marked with an oval with an x through it. This appeared in my closet. I can't open it, the caption states.
011-1-205-555-1025 is a bastard to type into his mobile, but Sherlock is intent on answering him now. Try harder to open the box. SH
"Have you got international texting?" John is ridiculous enough to ask. Sherlock just scoffs.
Not budging. TW, the American number replies.
Webcam. Now. I'll e-mail you. SH
"Now? Really? Webcam?" is what John has to say, but it makes perfect sense to Sherlock. Everything is set up and it occurs to Sherlock that John's complaint may be about the state of the flat, which he doubts a young man this troubled will judge them on too harshly. He dismisses the unspoken possible concern and waits for Wilkerson to pop up on Skype.
And there he is. Within seconds the transatlantic problem has been solved.
"Uh, yeah, hi," Wilkerson says. He's clearly showered within the last hour, and has bandages underneath his hairline. Interesting.
"Yes, hello," Sherlock says, a shade impatiently. "If you'd be so good as to -- "
"Sherlock," John says urgently, but it goes plainly unnoted.
"The box, yeah." Wilkerson picks it up and shows it, with its lock, to the webcam. "I don't even know if I should look in here, after..." He trails off.
"You will," Sherlock says, to the point. "Prise it open if you have to. Get a bolt-cutter. I won't come to the States until you do."
It puts Wilkerson on edge. Good, Sherlock thinks. "I don't have a bolt-cutter."
"Then find the key," John says from behind Sherlock. Sherlock looks back, surprised. "Well, it has to be somewhere nearby. Otherwise the box would be useless to you there at home."
Wilkerson is staring at the symbol on the box. "Okay," he says, slowly.
"Where would you put the key?" John prompts before Sherlock can argue.
"Where would he put the key?" Sherlock corrects.
Wilkerson looks to be disconnecting from reality already, but he pats his jeans pockets and stares in horror when he finds a key in one of them. "He wanted me to -- "
"Open it," Sherlock says, as patiently as he can manage.
John puts a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I don't think -- " he starts.
"You aren't. Try the key," Sherlock instructs Wilkerson, who fits the key into the lock and turns it. It neatly drops the lock to the side, and Wilkerson is looking at the box as though it's going to explode. "Well. Go on. Show us the contents."
"Oh god," Wilkerson is saying into his hands now, "oh god," over and over again, but he reaches into the box and pulls out sheets of paper covered in bizarre, juvenile-looking drawings of tall stick figures with xed-out ovals for faces, and block letters of messages: SEES ME ALWAYS. NEVER SAFE. RUN. RUN RUN RUN. OPERATOR LEAVE ME ALONE. Then Wilkerson finally lets the papers fall to the desktop and reaches for an inhaler before a lung-rattling cough interrupts Sherlock's thoughts with a start.
"Bronchitis again?" Sherlock asks mildly.
"Sherlock." John is warning now. "Come on."
"Always," Wilkerson jokes grimly, and takes a hit from the inhaler. He breathes for a few moments, then clears his throat once, and again.
Sherlock isn't about to let go of this lead. He's almost got the madman cornered in his delusion. "You're seeing a psychiatrist now."
"If once a month is -- " he coughs -- "seeing -- "
"Try your pills," Sherlock says.
"Mister Holmes," Wilkerson starts, between coughs, "please just tell me -- "
"Try the pills," Sherlock repeats.
Wilkerson reaches for something off-screen and downs at least two pills, one yellow capsule, another white tablet, with a gulp from a water bottle. There's silence as he recovers and Sherlock waits, then he says, "Will you take my case?"
"Yes," Sherlock says, directly. "Expect us within the week." He disconnects.
John is gobsmacked. "You -- that convinced you?"
"We'll need to go to the States to get his psychiatric records -- "
" -- but there's no way we can get the legal rights to -- "
"I didn't intend on asking legally. God, John, don't you see?" Sherlock thrusts his hands into the air. "It's ritualized. He believes he's being controlled by somebody. All we have to do is discover whom, and -- "
John shakes his head. "And this still doesn't explain the video."
"It's a cult, John," Sherlock retorts. "Based around this suited figure, masks to worship him, et cetera. The States has always been slow to deal with things like this -- your Branch Davidians, your Jonestowns -- we may have found an escapee."
"That's more likely than this one nutter trying to get attention," John says slowly, like an idiot.
"He's genuinely afraid of something. He didn't relish the moment or try to bring more attention to himself and his case, he wanted away from it. He has from the start. Those aren't the acts of a man trying to perpetrate a hoax." Most likely. "If he's been hurting people in that state, what if there are others -- "
"So let's try and find your cult," John interrupts, wearily.
Sherlock very nearly cracks a smile, and opens Google.
Operator turns up a number of pages on C++ coding, whereas Operator cult turns out press for a pulp sci-fi novel. Operator man has the first useful result, on The Slender Man Wikia.
The whole wretched thing nearly lures his attention away from the psychiatric records, which have turned out to be far too easy to procure. Someone called ahead for them.
Best to see how it plays out, then.
The Operator is the assumed proper name for the Slender Man in the Marble Hornets universe. This tall, strange figure is the primary antagonist for the cast and crew of the student film Marble Hornets. This being is somehow connected to the strange symbol known as the Operator Symbol.
"And on this website..." John is barely awake and it's only 7:15. Honestly.
"The Operator is linked to this Slenderman," Sherlock explains. "It's one version of this supposed cryptid, as documented on this Youtube channel." He switches tabs to the Marble Hornets Youtube channel. "There are others, but this one fits Wilkerson's story best." He clicks on a related link and opens a video marked Entry #15.
John stares as a few minutes of the video play out, long enough to see the handheld camera pointed directly at a familiar face. "... That's Wilkerson."
"This was taped without Wilkerson's knowledge by the supposed new director of the student film Marble Hornets, who goes by the name Jay. At first I thought this was the alleged private investigator that Wilkerson spoke of, but based on the previous 14 'entries' in this video blog, the student film is a ruse this Jay is using to investigate 'the Operator' and the disappearance of his friend and the film's original director Alex Kralie." Sherlock exhales, more exasperated than he might admit at the lengths some take to find attention. "It's a web series."
"So Wilkerson's an actor," John figures.
Sherlock doesn't answer him. "There are whole communities based around examining the alleged supernatural events involving the Slenderman or Operator, including one based solely around discussion of the Marble Hornets web series." He opens Marble Hornets Wikia, and the page marked "Tim" loads.
John is awake now, focused. "It's him. And the mask," he says, astonished, "and here it describes his illness, to a T -- as 'slendersickness' -- are they having us on?"
"Or Wilkerson's lost complete touch with reality." He sits back. "Which I find more likely. I've downloaded the entries, we're going to watch them on the way to the States. We're ending this fraud."
"But -- it's just a harmless student horror film," John says.
"Wilkerson's episodes are in the system. They're real," Sherlock points out. "These filmmakers are causing or taking advantage of this man's delusions. Either way, they're standing by and documenting it to convince the world, or at least this sad, dark corner of the internet, that this Operator exists."
"Causing -- " John looks a bit sick at the idea. Good, it's finally sunk in. "Then we ought to find Kralie and his friend and put an end to this."
Sherlock nods, as this was obvious. "It's time to pack," he tells John, with nothing short of savage cheer. "Our flight leaves in ten hours."
Slender Man generally appears (in modern times) as a tall man in a black or grey suit, red or black tie, and white shirt, with no eyes, mouth, or clearly defined facial features. It has no hair, and generally has normal-looking bare hands. Slenderman typically is depicted in imagery and literature as between 6 and 15 feet tall, depending on the situation, and in video as around 6-7 feet tall. Because of its inexact nature, and differences between series, no one has yet determined what it is.
Sherlock and John are instantly dismissive of what passes for "video evidence" to these amateur student film hacks, or at least John agrees that the faceless figure from the videos is nothing but a trumped-up special effect. The most interesting thing in the series, Sherlock thinks, is not the characters: Alex Kralie, the increasingly paranoid victim of the Operator and director of Marble Hornets, is difficult to root for, and Jay, the narrator and protagonist, is brave to the point of idiocy in the face of danger. Even Tim's motives are inexplicable, mask or no. It's the Youtube account that continues to post replies to Jay's entries, ToTheArk, that captures Sherlock's attention.
"Spectrographs, though," Sherlock is saying to John on the plane. "Morse code. Riddles and masks. We need to find out who owns these Youtube accounts, because if ToTheArk truly is Wilkerson, or another madman in this Slenderman set, attempting to interact with the events of Marble Hornets, it's more evidence the people behind the cameras are encouraging dangerously unstable individuals -- "
"But ToTheArk -- " John can't believe he's saying this, and Sherlock sympathizes. "The second account contributes to the story of the first. Gives them hints to act on. It must be involved with the writers of the series, or..."
"Or Wilkerson's madness has a method to it," Sherlock says crisply, realising.
John shakes his head. "This is mad, you know. Absolutely insane."
Sherlock gives John his best bemused look. "I've contacted the Twitter account," he says. "Youtube next, and -- "
"Please turn off all electronic devices -- " the stewardess begins.
Impatiently, Sherlock shuts off his laptop and his phone. "And then we confront the masterminds," he says wearily to John, and sits back to wait with annoyance for the plane to land.
It's half an hour after Wilkerson agreed to be there and he's not answering his texts. John is clearly thinking the worst. Sherlock still thinks he may be on his way. Let us know when you manage to get here. SH, he sends.
His mobile pings to let him know he has an e-mail, and he quickly opens it. A direct message from Twitter user MarbleHornets: Dear Mr. Holmes, Thank you for your offer to help with the search for Alex, I didn't realize I had celebrity viewers on my channel. Let me know when you're in the area so we can talk further. 205-555-1785. Thanks, Jay
Sherlock raises his eyebrows, then texts Wilkerson again: Finished waiting. Leaving. SH, then another to Jay: Detroit Hilton Hotel, 7:30 pm tonight, the lobby. Can you make it? SH
John is incredulous when he returns from the loo. "You're honestly going to abandon Wilkerson -- "
"For a chance to speak to the man behind all this? Yes, John, I am."
See you there. J, the American number answers.
In many ways, Jay doesn't disappoint. Not only is he there at 7:25 in the lobby, but he's brandishing a camera in the most surreptitious way possible, which is to say not very. Sherlock doesn't look twice at John before walking ahead into the lobby from their observation point near the lifts, and John follows without missing a beat.
Jay turns at hearing their footsteps and is visibly relieved to recognize Sherlock, at least. "Mister Holmes -- and Doctor Watson, I assume?" He sticks his free hand out, and John shakes it. Sherlock remains bemused, and Jay hesitates to extend the gesture to him.
"Jay," Sherlock says, amiably enough, and takes Jay's hand to shake it. "We haven't been properly introduced."
"It's, uh, it's Jay. Jay Miller." He clears his throat, and the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches upwards as his focus sweeps over him for a moment --
Taking expectorate drugs for a cough, specifically guaifenesin. There's no mistaking the scent coming from Jay, not by anyone aware of their senses. Bronchitis, or a cough that continually recurs. It fits the story, at least. Clothes are worn, washed on a weekly basis or more often, shoes equally worn with broken shoelaces. A handful of changes of clothes in his suitcase, then, and a single pair of shoes. Living on the road. Dark circles under the eyes and an unfocused gaze. Insomnia.
A young filmmaker, dogged by a nightmarish figure, whose only hope of fending off the predator is to document every second of his investigation, and the insomnia and illness that accompanies it. Yes, the young man does have an attention to detail.
"We should talk," Sherlock says smoothly. "Have you had dinner, or..."
"I'm not hungry. Do you have a room here? We should speak in private," Jay says. Tensed and paranoid, as though awaiting attack at any time, but the drop in his voice and tilt of his shoulders say he's resigned to his fate -- or too exhausted to care until the moment comes. The act is nearly perfect. Sherlock won't stop watching for a fault in it.
"Of course," John answers him, when Sherlock doesn't, and asks some inane questions about how long a trip it was to Detroit as they walk to the lift.
As soon as the lift door shuts before them, Jay speaks, more confidently than before. "I, uh. I have something to show you." He puts the camera in Sherlock's face, possibly by accident, but the awkward investigator is a grating enough role when the case is a fraud. The camera only makes it worse. "If you're going to help me."
"If we believe you," John says by way of correction, and Jay grimaces behind the camera.
"Yeah. If you believe me."
"And why should we believe you?" Sherlock interrupts.
The lift pings and the doors open gently, but not one of their party moves. "Because Alex -- because, Seth and Brian and everyone else, they're gone," Jay says, his camera hand wavering as he searches for words. "And I couldn't make this up if I tried."
"Not necessarily true," Sherlock says. "You're a film student. You're perfectly capable of -- "
Jay lowers the camera. "You think I'm faking this?"
"We should go," John points out, catching the lift doors before they shut again. "Discuss this somewhere more, ah, private?"
They walk in tense silence to the room, and after two tries, John gets the door open. He takes a seat on the first bed, and Jay paces back to the second bed and settles there with his camera and bag. Sherlock looks directly at Jay and the camera. "Will you speak frankly with the camera off?"
Jay looks back at him instantly. "I can't turn it off," he says, as though it's an unshakable truth.
"I'm not an expert but I'm sure there's a power button somewhere," Sherlock says blandly. "Can I take that as an admission you aren't speaking frankly now?"
John looks as though he's tempted to punch Sherlock if he doesn't stop talking. "Is it really useful to badger -- "
"I'm speaking fricking frankly," Jay fires back, speaking over John, "and you think I want to live like this? You think I'd pretend that one of my friends is being -- is probably dead -- "
Sherlock interrupts him, archly. "That nearly everyone you knew from the film Marble Hornets is mysteriously incapacitated by a preternatural being known as -- "
"No. No no no," Jay says, lowering the camera with shaking hands, "no, that's -- just fucking don't."
"Turn the camera off," Sherlock snaps.
"Sherlock," John starts.
Jay is gripping his camera as though it's a lifeline. Terror. Oh, he's good. "If that's what it'll take to convince you, Mister Holmes."
Sherlock simply nods, and Jay turns the camera off, replacing it in its bag. It's as though he's stripped down to nothing in front of them, vulnerable, without a lens in the way. "Prove it to me."
"If you won't believe the entries," Jay says, his voice low and uncertain, "I don't know what to tell you."
Sherlock nearly smiles. "Tell me about him."
"Alex?"
"The Operator."
Jay reacts to the request as though Sherlock's thrown a disembodied head into his lap. He says nothing of interest, just swears and denies and looks as though no one else had seen such unnatural horrors. Sherlock repeats the name a number of times just to see if Jay will slip and break character, but Jay finally storms into the loo and runs some water, some coughing audible above the stream.
John turns to him. "Look what you've done," he says, with a gesture to the closed washroom door. "You've broken him."
"Apparently not, he hasn't broken character yet," Sherlock says mildly.
"You -- he's not in character, you lunatic," John protests.
"I'm the lunatic, John? This man is trying to convince us that a seven-foot tall phantom in formalwear is stalking him and his friends from film school."
John seems to have forgotten that, so the reminder comes off as something of a rebuke. Sherlock shrugs. "I'm going to have a smoke," he says in nothing short of cheer.
John mouths helplessly for a moment before saying, "You were quitting -- "
"And now I'm in America." He goes to open the door and is halted by Jay's abrupt exit from the bathroom. Good, he didn't need a break anyway. "All right?" he asks offhand.
Jay stalks past Sherlock and goes to the camera on the bed. "He's real," he says, and flips the camera open. "And Alex is missing. Everything on my channel is real." He presses his face into his free hand. "Why did you think it was..."
"Because it's impossible," John says.
"Why would I pretend it was real if it wasn't?" Jay argues.
"Because your horror story is so much more terrifying if it implies madmen like Tim Wilkerson are wandering around the real world at the beck and call of phantoms and cryptids like the Operator," Sherlock says blithely.
"You think -- " Jay sets the camera in his lap and looks at Sherlock, his gaze darker than ever. "What do you know about Tim?"
"We know that he's the only real thing about this operation," John says, and Sherlock glances up at him in pleased surprise. "Everyone else is... there are no missing people, Jay. No bodies, no MISPER alerts, just a cast of talented actors with photoshop skills. And Tim, and his illness."
"Tim is." Jay looks wan. "Tim is gone."
"You spoke to him six months ago. He was fine," Sherlock says crisply.
"A lot can happen in six months." Jay clears his throat again. "Tim, he's..."
"He's gallivanting around wearing a mask," Sherlock completes. "He believes he's being stalked by the Operator. And you've only encouraged these delusions with your videos."
"He's the masked man who keeps attacking you," John tries to explain.
Jay is nothing short of stricken, if his face can be trusted. "I know. I've known. I just wished -- " He breaks off. "I promise. This is real. I would never, what were you saying? I'd never hurt Tim, I'd never hurt anybody."
Sherlock is unmoved, simply. "You're asking us to believe a fantastic story."
Jay nods miserably, and removes the tape to replace it with another. "Come here. Watch this, both of you."
Alex: "Where did you find that?"
Amy: "It was in the closet. There was a tape already in it, but when I tried to watch it, it was messed up or something. I don't know."
Alex: "Um, that's probably just my old camera from college. I probably stuck it back in there when we moved. I was just gonna sell it."
Amy: "But I thought we didn't have a camera."
Alex: "It, doesn't matter. We're gonna sell it. Just, please put it back. Stop recording."
Amy: "Fine, I'm not recording anymore."
Alex: "I can still see the light."
Amy: "Are you okay, Alex?" Video tearing occurs.
Alex: "I'm fine. Just put it back. Please."
Amy: "You're in a really odd mood right now. Fine."
Amy begins to turn around. The Operator is standing in the doorway only a few feet from the camera.
The tape came in a parcel, and the parcel has a return address. "I was on my way there when you texted me," Jay explains as they pile their luggage into his car, "had to detour, like I mentioned. I hope he's still there, but we need your help more than anything."
"And this is the first contact you've had with him since he gave you the tapes," John confirms.
"Yes," Jay says. They're getting on his nerves. "Is the interrogation going to go on the whole way there? Because you might run out of questions. It's a couple of hours."
"We need to talk about Tim." Sherlock opens the back door and sits behind the driver's seat, and sends Jay a look that clearly says Well? to prompt him and John to get into the car.
Sherlock's mobile goes off. It's a call, of all things, from Mycroft, of all people. He ignores it.
"Who is it?" John asks, as they climb into the car and get going.
"Just Mycroft," Sherlock says, dismissive.
"What if it's a case?" Thankfully, John seems to realize quickly his mistake. "Of course. Who needs a case from Mycroft -- look, what if it's an emergency?"
"Then he'll text," Sherlock says patiently, and looks up at the rearview mirror, where he meets Jay's gaze, for the moment that Jay allows it; it's only a half-second before he breaks eye contact and goes about turning onto the interstate.
His mobile buzzes. Do answer, the text says.
I don't take calls. Particularly from you. SH
"Please tell me you aren't being short-sighted and petty because it's Mycroft on the other end," John says, then turns to Jay to explain. "It's his older brother."
"I get it. Family sucks," Jay says mildly.
"On the other hand, his family is incredibly well-connected and gives him information he might need," John says, in that pointed way he thinks is somehow subtle or clever.
Sherlock's gaze flicks up, then back to his mobile when Mycroft replies. If you insist, I'll forego the niceities and simply send this along. I would advise watching this at your earliest convenience. It may change your mind. A video attachment pings onto his mobile, and his eyebrows raise.
It's almost as if John heard his interest peaked. "What? What did he say?"
Sherlock opens the video file without answering him.
It's a mere fifty seconds of closed-circuit television of Baker Street. At first nothing major appears to be amiss -- a mugger stalking his prey, two young ladies entering the cafe, and rain begins to fall. And then out of nowhere, where there was nothing, a tall pale figure in dark clothes, at least six feet tall, appears in front of 221B. The door slowly opens without any provocation or aid from the tall man, and his gliding ascent into the building stutters the video, the bottom of the screen tearing, and then the camera goes black.
The video stops. Sherlock isn't ready for it to be over. He isn't ready to accept what he has just seen. Immediately he responds to Mycroft. This is childish, even for you. SH
"Sherlock?" John asks, uncertainty cracking his voice.
The timestamp is dated four days earlier, the date of their Skype conversation with Wilkerson.
But it can't be.
Sullen and shellshocked, Sherlock shoves the mobile in John's face and waits for him to watch and draw his own conclusions.
"Is there any chance either of you are going to tell me what's going on?" Jay asks, as John watches the short clip. Sherlock can see him blanch, and his hand twitch, in the side mirror.
His mobile buzzes again, and John wordlessly hands it back to him. This 'case' is nothing new to us, Sherlock. But no good has befallen those who took it on. Be careful. He is a merciless thing.
An e-mail pings into his inbox, and another, and another. All from Mycroft, all with files attached.
A stray thought crosses his mind, then: it's real.
His jaw sets, and he opens his laptop to open the files and view them properly, plainly ignoring everyone else in the car. They drive, silently heading down the nearly empty interstate, as Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, does his best to read what case files his meddling but occasionally useful brother Mycroft has made available to him without drawing any conclusions from such places as fear or even concern.
Notes from INTERPOL Secretary-General Raymond Kendall's private diary, dated 01-08-1990: The last of the purge is complete. We could not have buried the evidence deeper. I cannot help but think that man was not meant to know certain things. All branches have been informed of new protocol with regards to the creature. Still, I feel as though we have not done enough. Could something so incomprehensible and complex be so easily contained? God save us, I can only hope.
"Let me get this straight," Jay says. His fingers are drumming on the steering wheel in a syncopy. "You have video from the fucking British government of him at your apartment building, all this -- serious sounding paperwork from all these cops and INTERPOL, for God's sake, and you still don't believe me?"
"I don't believe anything," Sherlock retorts. "I acknowledge things. I know them. Belief is subjective."
Jay whips around in indignation. "Are you serious?"
"Eyes. Road. Please," John suggests, helpfully giving the wheel a push as they edge into the right lane.
"We're nearly there." Jay glances at the rearview mirror to catch a glimpse of Sherlock. He's still angry, but is too tired, and too frightened, to care. It almost feels like a victory to Sherlock, but he won't press any further. "Are we at least agreed that I keep the camera on?"
Sherlock nods curtly. "And you don't do anything with the tape until I'm finished with this case."
Jay tenses. "That's not going to happen."
"Why not?" John interrupts, before Sherlock can speak.
"Because I need to upload the entries, in case the tapes get stolen or fucked up. It's a standing record of everything I've seen -- of everything Alex and I have been through," Jay adds. "So even if, whatever, freaking INTERPOL says I'm not supposed to be doing what I'm doing, I'm doing what's right."
"What are you doing, then?" John prompts.
"What are you, my shrink?" Jay fires back.
"It's a fair question. I don't see your motivation in pursuing this case beyond finding Alex Kralie," Sherlock says plainly. "It's become more than that, hasn't it? All this Youtube and Twitter, advertising your situation, bringing others into it. The mystery, the puzzle, the danger. Every step you take makes the path more twisted and strange, and yet you keep on, and you want your audience with you."
"Have you not been paying attention, I can't quit, and I can't exactly go to the cops, can I?" Jay's hands grip the steering wheel, white-knuckled. "Because -- what do you say? This guy I worked on a student film with three years ago is being stalked by something out of a Japanese horror flick? I need help -- hell, Tim and Alex, they need help, they need me, because I'm the only one who gives a damn enough to look into it. But my apartment building burned down and Tim tried to warn me, and damn if I'm going to stand by and let some creepy asshole in a suit kill me and my friends."
There's a long stretch of silence that goes along with an equally long and lonely stretch of road traveled, then Sherlock speaks. "You can upload your entries, but the raw footage goes directly onto my hard drive."
"Done," Jay says crisply, then looks askance at John. "You know, you guys can start taking this seriously any time you want. He showed up at your door. And he doesn't show up unless he wants to make a point."
Sherlock doesn't answer that. "And what do you know about him?"
"I know that he ruined my life. And Alex's. And Tim's. That's all I need to know."
Sherlock just sighs. Sentiment. But part of him understands, after all he and John have been through, with Moriarty on their trail, part of him sympathizes, despite himself. It's growing harder -- near impossible -- to be skeptical in the face of so much evidence, and such earnest fear and determination by young Jay Miller.
The address on the parcel leads them to a house that has been thoroughly abandoned, graffitied, and abused by squatters and storms alike. Jay brandishes the camera as he looks into one of the few rooms, and leaves Sherlock and John alone for a moment.
"It's all right to believe it, you know," John says, scratching the back of his neck and doing his best to look as though he's just casually sharing an opinion.
"I know," Sherlock says, a shade impatiently. What else is he supposed to think in the face of such overwhelming evidence? There's no other conclusion to draw. "Although, if this is an elaborate plot to take me on holiday, John -- "
"Yes. I wanted to take you on holiday. To Michigan," John adds, straight-faced. "That's. Absolutely the tourist spot I'd choose. Not to mention the fake case. Nothing more fun than watching you work."
They exchange a look of faint amusement and camaraderie, then Jay reappears. "Nothing," he declares, openly frustrated. "He's nowhere."
"Give him some time, he may show up," John suggests.
Jay turns on a dime to confront John with the camera. "What's the point? We're probably too late, I should have just come straight here -- "
"Take it down a notch, Jay."
Sherlock turns around instantly and there he is, in the doorway of the house: Alex Kralie. Jay whips the camera around and is silent and still until Alex adds, "What's with the Scooby gang thing?" He eyes John and Sherlock. "Or should I say Lord Peter Wimsey?"
"We haven't got a dog," Jay says, then puts the camera in John's hands and goes straight to Alex for a very manly half-embrace. "What's up, man?" he murmurs.
"I'm not dead," Alex answers; he's distracted by finally noticing that Sherlock is taking mental notes on him, and is looking right back at him. "I don't know why you brought more people into this."
"I think you'll find we're capable of dealing with this kind of situation," John says.
"Really?" Alex is more than a little condescending. "So you deal with this kind of situation a lot."
Jay speaks up as he adjusts something on his camera. "Alex, they're going to help us figure out what's going on."
"I'm pretty sure we know what's going on already," Alex says, bitingly sarcastic.
"Then tell us everything you know," Sherlock answers, and gives a venomous half-smile in response to Kralie's sharp look.
"Look. I'm Dr. John Watson," John cuts in, and sticks his hand out for Alex to shake, the offer finally accepted after Kralie looks away from Sherlock. "And this is Sherlock Holmes."
"Consulting detective," Sherlock says, or really, enunciates.
"There's no such thing as a consulting detective," Alex says, unmoved.
"They know about Tim," Jay interrupts, stepping between them, and stops Alex. "You -- you know about Tim, right?"
Alex looks from Sherlock to Jay and the camera and says simply, "Yeah, I know about Tim."
John clears his throat. "Let's go somewhere more comfortable and have a conversation."
"I don't think so," Alex says immediately. "I'm fine right here."
Sherlock nonverbally dismisses Alex to keep him honest and less tense, but keeps an eye on him. "We were hired by Tim to figure out where he's been going when he's entered fugue state," he says. "You two would likely be the best to ask for an answer on that."
"You think we know what he's doing?" Jay asks. "I have no idea, he just shows up and attacks me -- "
"He's out of his fucking mind," Alex interrupts, archly. "That thing, it's gotten to him. I think he's working for it."
"That doesn't make any sense," Jay points out.
"Why not? How else can he pull all that shit off?" Alex retorts.
"Like disappearing into thin air?" John prompts.
"And getting through locked doors," Alex adds. "Look at that mask he wears. He's lost it. He's someone else now. I told you -- I said on those tapes -- everyone is gone."
"He contacted us not a week ago," Sherlock says blithely. "He's not entirely as gone as you seem to think."
Alex shrugs at them, broadly. "Look," he says, "Scotland Yard, really appreciate the thought, but you can't help us. This is way beyond guns and tea time."
John scoffs. "We're not going home until Tim is back to himself. All due respect."
Sherlock nods to confirm John's comment to a startled Jay, then whirls on Alex, unabashed. "I want all of your tapes," he says, and looks to Jay as well. "All of them."
"No way," Alex says instantly.
"Have something to hide?" Sherlock fires back.
Jay's camera is on Alex then, and he goes silent for a moment at the attention. "Fine," he says at last. "Lead the way to your place, I need coffee."
"What use is all this?" Sherlock complains aloud to John, prodding the offending document open on his laptop indignantly. "Half of the information here is redacted, and -- "
"Mngh," John says, and turns over in his hotel bed to look at Sherlock, hunched over his laptop in the dark hotel room. "It's 4 AM. And we're trying to sleep."
"This doesn't really seem the time to sleep," Sherlock says.
"This is exactly the time. This is literally the time you are supposed to sleep," John tries to explain.
Sherlock ignores him, because he doesn't have a good answer, not one he's willing to share, even with John. Not here, not now, not when their client is gone and their ad hoc clients are so clearly without a clue as how to proceed. He may not be able to sleep, but sleep has never been very important to him anyway.
"Here's Detroit police files on Wilkerson's escape from the mental hospital as a child... as much good as it'll do us... interesting."
John makes a sound that defies transliteration and turns away from the light of the laptop screen.
Schizophrenic minor detained in Rosswood Park and returned to CMH after escape. Claimed to be chased by man in suit from the hospital, over six feet tall. Could not offer any identifying traits such as facial features, hair color, or race. No evidence of foul play.
He makes a mental note and keeps on reading, and when at last his compatriots in the mystery are awake, he declares, "We're going to Rosswood Park."
"No," Jay says, blearily rubbing his eyes.
"Yes," Alex says, firm as anything, and something about the way his expression doesn't change at all makes Sherlock glance to John, who nods.
Rosswood Park supposedly isn't that far out from Detroit, only about forty minutes' drive, and as they tromp through the dirt and leaves and broken sticks of the park, Sherlock recognizes the feel not just of the hunt but of the hunting ground. Absurd as it is, if it is all true, they are in the palm of the Operator's hand as they walk together down the forest path.
"Why are we here?" Jay asks, breaking the silence among the four of them.
"To find Tim," John says, at the same time Alex says, "To investigate."
"Investigate what?" Sherlock asks mildly.
"What this thing is," Alex says, impatient. "What it wants. Maybe if we give it what it wants, it'll go away."
"If we find it, Tim'll find us," Jay says, with some confidence. "Don't know what we'll do if we find either of them, though -- "
"Did you hear that?" John interrupts, gaze whipping back behind them.
"Shit," Jay swears, and backs up behind John. "I saw him. I think. I think it's him."
"Him?" John echoes, glancing round.
"Tim -- TIM!" Jay shouts. "Come out!"
Alex yanks Jay back. "What are you doing?" he demands. "What if he's working for -- "
"He saved my life," Jay retorts, and pulls out of Alex's grasp. "Tim!"
There's a sound of crunching leaves behind them and suddenly Alex is on the ground with a masked Tim on top of him, a knife flashing in his hand. John acts immediately to try to pull him off of Alex -- the knife falls to the ground and Sherlock seizes it before Tim can get his hands on it again -- but John is seriously struggling with an apparently remarkably strong Tim, who grabs Alex's head and slams it against the ground once and again.
"Tim!" Jay is shouting, then Tim throws John off and jumps to his feet. It takes a few steps only for Sherlock to get behind Tim and put the knife to his neck, but masked Tim is not to be reasoned with or even threatened -- he struggles out of Sherlock's grip and the knife grazes his forehead.
Sherlock stumbles back into John, who is reaching for his gun, but Jay scrambles forward and grabs Tim by the coat, then pulls at the mask.
"NO," Tim practically screams behind the mask, and nearly falls back but catches himself.
"Stop this!" Jay shouts at Tim, and grabs his arm again to pull him close. "It's Jay! And Alex! From Marble Hornets! We're trying to help you!"
There's a split second where Jay stops shouting, Alex is groaning on the ground, and Sherlock nods to John as he reaches for his gun, then Tim bolts. John fires off a shot, but Tim disappears into the woods.
"What the hell was that?" Alex complains openly, and tries and fails to sit up.
"'He needs to die,'" Jay says, blankly staring after Tim.
"What?"
"That's what Tim just said. 'He needs to die.'"
Alex thankfully doesn't need any sort of medical care, but losing Tim just as they found him has proven to be particularly bad for the morale of those assembled. "I told you he was dangerous. I told you we shouldn't have looked for him," Alex keeps saying, pressing the ice pack to the back of his head as they recoup in the hotel room.
"I'm ordering room service," Jay says, ignoring Alex.
"I'm talking to you, Jay," Alex says pointedly.
"I hadn't noticed."
"I can't believe you're siding with the crazy person who's trying to kill me," Alex grumbles.
Sherlock finds this a good a point as any to enter the conversation. "Why is he trying to kill you?"
Alex stares at Sherlock, obviously annoyed. "Because he's insane?"
"I'm not siding with Tim. I'm just worried," Jay tells Alex as he paces past him to the telephone.
"Worry about the fact that the homicidal maniac wants to kill me, maybe," Alex suggests, bitingly sarcastic.
"He has to have a motive, even if it's insane," Sherlock says. "Have you done something to wrong him? Or the Operator?"
Jay flinches at the name even as he dials room service, but Alex remains unmoved. "You've seen my whole story. You want to go over it again? Ask Jay for the tapes."
"I doubt that very much," Sherlock says, because it's all falling together in his head, as it does. "Where's Amy?"
That stops Alex. "What?"
"Your girlfriend. The one in the video in the parcel you sent to Jay."
John turns to Sherlock. "He hasn't mentioned her yet, has he?"
"Not once," Sherlock confirms.
"She's gone," Alex says, his jaw tensed, tone bitter. "I tried. But I failed."
"You seem so certain," Sherlock says.
Alex glares at Sherlock. "Why do I get the feeling you're trying to blame me for all this?"
"Because he is." Jay seems to have given up on room service. "I don't get it, Mister Holmes, I'm sorry. We're both being hunted by the same -- all three of us are being hunted by this thing."
"Tim seems to think Alex is the enemy and I'm inclined to agree," Sherlock says offhand. "How did you get away from the Operator if Amy didn't?"
Jay then looks at Alex, abject horror setting in. "You..."
Alex looks back at him, irritated. "You really believe this crap?"
"How did you get away?" Jay repeats. "How do you always get away?"
Then something unexplainable happens in the room, the way the light twists and shifts and seems to be sucked out of the room, and there it is, there he is, standing there tall and looming and Sherlock Holmes has never felt true terror, not while facing the Hound or Moriarty himself, no, not until this moment. It doesn't move so much as the world moves around it to bring it closer, and John fires off one shot, then another, but they don't land as the Slenderman just vanishes away from the blows, and Sherlock wields the knife --
Alex is gone and Jay is standing in the middle of the room, practically yelping, "No, no no no no no," then the creature descends on John, and Sherlock leaps to his defense before he can think twice
Sherlock Holmes knows what a hangover is. This is not a hangover, but it is very close to one, and he resents its existence within his skull, as he has been very well-behaved recently, at least when it comes to drugs and alcohol. The sunlight pours through the window of 221B, because someone stupid, likely John, felt the necessity of sight was more important than the necessity of not having a pounding headache.
"You need to make tea," he says to John, who ambles past where he’s curled up on the couch, but he doesn't seem to be doing very well, either.
"I need to finish my blog post," John replies, effectively denying him his tea for the moment.
Sherlock shuts his eyes tightly.
He needs a case. But for now, nicotine patches, tea, and bad television programmes will do to keep him occupied. Strangely, it feels as though he's forgotten something, but the mind can be mad that way, especially when not given the proper exercise.
"Hand me my mobile, would you?" he asks John, who complies, and he sends off a text to Lestrade: Nothing at all? SH
Then he sees the American numbers in his mobile.
"John," he says urgently.
"What?" John asks, barely patient.
"What day is it?"
John opens his mouth, closes it, and screws up his face. "Tuesday. Must be."
"It can’t be," Sherlock says shortly, pinching the bridge of his nose as he thinks. The mobile goes off in his hand.
Keep your trousers on, I’m coming over, Lestrade’s text says, and another follows: 3 dead bodies while you’ve been away after all.
Away. America. But three dead bodies... Moriarty. "We have a case," he says simply to John, and pushes himself up off of the couch.
"So we’re not talking about... all right," John concedes, and Sherlock shuts the bedroom door on him as he sheds the night’s clothes and the suspicions edging around his conscious mind.
Trifles. There are murderers to find, and mysteries to solve.