There Is A Mystery About This
Sherlock Holmes sat up and blinked in surprise. Why on earth was he on the floor? He looked around. He was in the basement laboratory, right where he should be. He frowned. Something had happened, but what? He couldn’t quite recall. He seemed to remember hearing voices though. Someone telling someone else they shouldn’t have done something and them replying that he was better off. “Hello?” he called, pulling his feet under him. He grimaced at the sudden fierce pain in his back. He couldn’t quite reach. No doubt from lying on the floor for however long. Holmes looked around. This was his lab, no question, but it was different. It was clean. No, not just clean…immaculate! The light glared off the sparkling floor and Holmes squinted as he rose, a bit unsteadily, to his feet. He stared at the equipment on the bench. The beakers and test tubes glinted as if they’d just been taken from the box. And his notebooks were all shelved neatly, instead of tumbled around in their usual haphazard fashion. “Is anyone there?” Who had cleaned everything so thoroughly? And why? He could see nothing that looked as if it might be a clue as he prowled around the basement. The door to the storage room was ajar and he inspected it closely but found nothing. Terribly puzzled, Holmes made his way upstairs to the kitchen. If anything, it was cleaner than the basement. Dishes spotless, everything dusted and all the boxes in the cupboards arranged according to size. Holmes hurried through to the lounge. All the furniture looked brand new. Even the stain on the carpet was gone. Sitting room, same thing. All of the furniture could have just been delivered. His violin was still there, thank goodness. Polished to within an inch of its life, but still there. Holmes touched it, oddly grateful to see something familiar. He sharpened his ears but he could hear nothing but the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. Upstairs now. Bathroom clean enough to do surgery in. Checking all the doors, Holmes found all the beds neatly made and the windows so clean they were surely a danger to birds. He dreaded checking his own room but knew he couldn’t put it off. Taking a deep breath, he threw open the door. A low cry escaped him. His room was tidy! All his papers, all his books, all his clippings were gone. He ran to the closet and threw open the door. Stacks of boxes, neatly labeled in a hand he didn’t recognise filled the large space. His epee was hung neatly on a hook on the back wall. His lockbox was still on the shelf, and he scrabbled in his pocket for the key. All was as it should be, save his Webley had been freshly cleaned and oiled to judge by the smell. Holmes re-locked the box and put it back. All this time and he hadn’t heard or seen anything or anyone. He looked out the window to the garden. All the plants seemed to be where they should be, but they were all nicely trimmed and shaped. No sign of the TARDIS. “What is going on?” Holmes muttered angrily. He almost ran downstairs and, not finding his cape in its usual spot (thrown over the back of the sofa) he yanked open the hall closet. There is was, hanging tidily on a hook. His cap rested on the shelf above. He snatched them both and flung them on as he rushed out the door.
His neighbourhood was usually quiet, but Holmes could see no one. No people and no cars. Scowling ferociously, he hurried toward the high street. Still nothing. There wasn’t as much as a candy wrapper or a cigarette butt to be seen anywhere along the sidewalk. And still no people!! This was Margate! He knew it was. And his house was still the same house, though he could scarcely recognise it. He hurried along the street anxiously. Where was he? He noticed a pub ahead. He squinted but couldn’t quite make out the name as the sun glinted off the sign. It seemed different from the rest of the city he’d seen. It looked…inhabited. Like there were people there. Thank God! He opened the heavy door and almost ran inside.