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Sherlock had folded himself into his black chair with his head tilted slightly to the right, resting on the cold leather. His feet were held tightly against the arm and his toes fell into a dark slit between the cushions. He wore his, typical, black suit over a purple shirt with matching black buttons, his tweed coat resting on the chair back.
The early autumn sky was painted an obscure array of warm pinks and oranges, limiting the amount of light that entered the apartment. The poor lighting engulfed the room in a dull, musky glow that illuminated only certain features: the fireplace, the oak table, John’s chair.
Sherlock focused his attention on a single piece of paper, holding it in a trail of light that led from the slightly opened window to the experiment ridden kitchen, dividing the living room in half. As he stared at the words between his thumb and index finger, Sherlock’s eyes squinted a little, his lips slightly parted. As he studied the words, his tongue moved, silently speaking them, bringing them to life. He had been concentrating on the same few hundred words for the past hour, with no movement; he was barely breathing.
“It makes no sense!” Sherlock exploded with both frustration and anger dominating his words. He pulled himself up from the chair in which he was seated and glared towards the pile of photographs and words that had built up around him. He turned his attention back towards the paper in his hand before letting it fall to the floor too, watching as it gracefully fluttered downwards.
He stared at the growing amounts of paper for a while longer before turning and following the faint stream of light to the kitchen and resuming a previous experiment. Sherlock needed a distraction from the case that even he was struggling to solve.
After a few hours, and explosions, John returned home to the vastly outdated London apartment. Sherlock had followed his jingle of keys, click of the latch and thudding of feet until John stepped through the door at the top of the stairs. He glanced into the kitchen, his eyes following Sherlock as he mixed his coloured chemicals together and noting any results. John had seen this experiment practiced hundreds of times; it was used by Sherlock to prove his intelligence to himself, when a case was causing him to doubt it.
John lowered his eyes and stepped further forward, catching the paper mountain as he looked around the familiar room.
“Sherlock?” He started, catching the dark haired man's attention "what's all this?" He questioned, gesturing to the unorganised mess on the floor, was this the difficult case?
"Notes, research, case," Sherlock muttered, turning back to his work. John ran his right hand through the sheets, moving them from under each other. He took one of the hundreds of pieces on his left, holding it up to the light.
"Is this," he started slowly, studying the image in his hand further to be sure, "is this about that man?" He continued, lowering his hand and turning to the other man.
Sherlock glared over at John, who was still holding the photograph in one hand. The facial expression he wore disapproved of his extensive research on this one case. This one had been stifling him on and off for months.
"But John," Sherlock started, arguing with the older man's thoughts, “look, he's everywhere!" He continued, excitably, making his way to the pile of paper, plucking out a few photographs from, clearly, different time periods.
John followed Sherlock as he started to line the different photos up on their dark stained wooden table, as if he was dealing cards. The scene of each photograph was different, as was the location and year, yet in each, the same face appeared but un-aged as the years increased.
Although John had found traces of this case around the apartment, and was curious, he couldn’t let it consume Sherlock, it would drive him insane. He needed something to convince Sherlock Holmes that this was irrelevant, something to trick him, like that was going to happen.
“A coincidence, perhaps? Or Mycroft, to test your intelligence; you know what he’s like,” John suggested, trying to create logical scenarios to sound, at least, slightly believable.
“No, it’s something more than that, it has to be,” Sherlock replied, hissing through gritted teeth as he did so. He had returned to his leather chair, opposite John who was now seated in his own. Sherlock sat with his legs extended onto the burgundy rug, his feet underneath his case research. His fingertips were touching one another as his hands rested in his lap; he was thinking again - John’s ideas weren’t believable enough, of course.
The photographs were still scattered on the table top, the one closest to John was the iconic, black and white, sailor-kissing-nurse photo. The modern man isn’t too noticeable until you know he’s there, and then you can never un-see him. He had dark hair and dark eyes and was always wearing the same clothes. He appears to be aware of the photograph as he distances himself from the scenario to focus his attention on the lens.
After a few further minutes of silence, Sherlock leaped out of his chair and headed for the door.
"Where are you going?" John questioned, turning to look towards the eager detective.
"I need more information, John!" He exclaimed, collecting his dark coat from the chair. As Sherlock dragged the heavy material across the room, another photograph fell from underneath and drifted towards John's feet. The older man picked the sheet from the floor and studied it.
"Sherlock, what's this one? I've, I’ve seen this before," he asked, holding the image in the direction of the detective.
"I think they're all linked," Sherlock muttered, quickly glancing over, as John rose to collect his own coat. He left the photograph on a faded cushion that appeared darker in the disappearing streak of light.
The square photo lay face up, looking into the room. The image revealed an, almost, empty street with just a blue box standing on the corner. The box held a lamp on the top and could only be accessed by two slim doors on one of the four sides. Each wooden surface held two square, white windows that were purely decorative, disallowing anyone from being able to see into the mysterious box. The only identifiable feature was a simple rectangular plaque which sat below the lamp on one of the dimensions that read 'POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX'.