Sherlock Holmes: A Study in Life

Chapter 8

Hello everyone!

I apologise for the lack of communication on my part but, as I said last time, I've moved house and we don't yet have internet; I have been working hard though and I have some awesome things planned *insert evil cackle here*. Also, THANK YOU for over 60 reads on this story, I'm glad people like it! It feels like I sent my child away to school for the first time and it came home with 64 friends. It's so cool! 

Anyway, I'm at my dad's now and I have internet so here's another couple of chapters to keep you satisfied for the next week or two. Enjoy!

Bart's, as it turned out, was the nickname that Sherlock had given St Bartholomew's hospital. It was a large stone building that looked like it had been built in the Victorian era, it probably had judging by the decay of the limestone bricks that made it up. Greg had since gone home so our quartet was down to a trio. We made our way through the halls, the stereotypical smell of sterile hand soap and general hospital filling the air. I trailed behind the group as they navigated the corridors. They seemed to know where they were going, I, however, did not.

On the second floor we stepped through a set of wooden double doors that had a circular blue disc warning that the room was 'Staff only' and a slit in which sat a tall, slim window. The inside was filled with scientific equipment and smooth white surfaces that shone with a dull shine in the bright light that the long bulbs provided. Sherlock seemed at home as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves so that he didn't ruin any of the evidence that might be found on the trainers that he had put on the work top ready for examination. He settled into his work space quickly and picked up the shoes, analysing the laces carefully and looking at the trainers from all directions. I made my way over to a stool on the opposite side of the bench that he was working on and took a seat. I could tell that he wouldn't be doing much talking so I looked to John who was pacing on the linoleum floor.

"Carry on pacing and you'll leave tracks." I laughed. John looked at me but he seemed to be in no mood for humour so I instead decided to ask him what was wrong.

"Nothing," he replied, "It's just that if we don't solve this in time I get the feeling that something bad is going to happen and from my experience with this kind of thing I'm guessing it will involve someone being killed. I don't want to be responsible for that. Do you know what I mean?" John had ceased his pacing and was now stood by my side leaning on the table, his eyes soft with concern.

"Yeah...I know what you mean." I said, a similar feeling of concern festering in the pit of my stomach make me feel sick.

Half an hour later and it was my turn to begin pacing. I threw occasional glances at Sherlock to make sure he was hard at work and to ensure that he was making progress towards a solution. I knew that John was right. Someone's life was definitely on the line. That's always the case with these maniacs. They have to prove that they have power over everyone else and what better way to show that than to be able to control whether someone lives or dies.

"Sherlock is there anything I can do to help? Please. Anything." I was going out of my mind doing nothing, I needed to feel like I was helping in some way.

"Stay quiet. That will help." he said bluntly

"How? How will it help?"

"It will help me to concentrate." I sighed heavily and made sure that Sherlock heard my discomfort. He looked at me for a moment, rolled his eyes and then continued with his work. That man really needed an attitude check.

"So, who d'you suppose it was?" John asked him cautiously. A text alert rang shrill in the tense air. Sherlock didn't react to the text but replied absently to John