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The Prey	By : amandalee Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3756 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: The authors do not claim ownership to Sherlock or any of its characters, and we make no money from writing this.

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Chapter 4

“What do mean, they don’t serve food here?” John exclaimed the next morning, eyes wide with disbelief.

“Exactly what I said,” Sherlock answered. “Apart from Fridays evenings through Sunday, we would have to go shopping…” He paused for a moment, sidetracked by an attempt to remember something. “Did I not mention that earlier?”

“It would have helped before we got there!” John replied. “Where in the world are we supposed to find food, a petrol station?”

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock said, hands up defensively, as though the anger he was receiving was unfair. “I’ve asked around the resort, and they’ve said that yellow store in Paw-Paw has plenty of groceries. And near that, they have a convenience store that makes sandwiches.”

John stared at him, hard. “Sandwiches,” he repeated.

“Well,” Mary interjected, trying to diffuse the already volatile situation, “think of it this way: if we were at the original hotel, we likely would have had to eat from quite a few restaurants. Preparing our own groceries might be less expensive in the long run. And we’d know exactly what was going into our meals.”

John felt deeply embarrassed about the fact that Mary seemed aware of his dire financial situation and thus suggested something that would minimize their expenses. They were on vacation, dam it! Now was not the time to worry about expenses.

"Sad, isn't it, John, when your woman is more sensible than you," Sherlock said with a snort. "What did you expect? We're out on the sticks. You won't find a Michelin star restaurant around here."

"We should have gone to New York..." John muttered sourly. "This is no way to "experience" America."

Sherlock made a face that feigned surprise. "Oh! But I thought you fancied outdoor activities! Wasn't it you who said he wanted to get away from "stuffy old London" for a while? I specifically remember your expressing it that way, using those exact words--"

"I didn't mean West Virginia!" John exclaimed, now rather exasperated. "I never wanted to come out here!"

"But the first "hotel" you booked--"

"It was in Maryland!"

"It was a shithole. And you know it. You chose it simply because it was the cheapest you could find."

Mary, fearing that the argument might soon progress beyond verbal, stepped between the two men. "Sherlock, leave John alone!" she berated the detective. "You don't have to get on his case all the time for not having a trust fund like some others..."

"Speaking of cases, we do have one to solve," Sherlock retorted.

John looked about ready to whine like a child, and he felt like doing so as well. He glanced back at Mary. Why the hell had Sherlock followed them? To deliberately make John miserable?

“Go and do your business,” Mary calmly told him. She leaned in to whisper in his ear. “When you’re finished the interview, I’ll be waiting at the indoor pool.”

John finally managed a smile. As nervous as he had been last night to be intimate with Mary - and as much as he hated the idea of seeing the demographic of this resort flopping about naked in the water - he liked the sound of that. He would likely enjoy it much more after this morning having to humor Sherlock.

“Fine, let’s go.” He was about to walk to the door, but Sherlock stopped him.

“Where do you think you’re going in all of that?” he asked. “We don’t want the other guests to assume we think we’re better than them. Besides, if we look the part, Ms. Ferguson will be more comfortable to share the case.”

John grimaced. “I am not taking my clothes off!”

*

Bobbi Ferguson meanwhile, was waiting for the detective and the doctor at the outdoor pool. As the weather was now warm enough, the pool outside was being used by substantially more people. Not to John’s surprise, most of them did not have particularly healthy body types. Not that John had ever thought of himself as especially prudish in the past, nor had he thought poorly of individuals who were overweight, as he hardly had the right to complain around some people, but suddenly seeing everyone so… exposed… It made him wary. Suddenly the thought of no clothes to separate him from others made him very nervous.

At least we made a compromise, John thought, gathering his bathrobe closer.

Sherlock seemed to have no qualms about walking around naked with just a towel folded over his arm. With slight annoyance, John also noticed that the detective was getting quite a few appreciative glances from the other nudists, women and men alike. Very few of them were even close to Sherlock's age, and John thought, with a sense of satisfaction, that if any of them were looking for a hookup, they'd be wasting their time.

Bobbi Ferguson was a heavyset woman in her late fifties with dyed blonde hair and a thick layer of make up on her face. She was nude, like the other visitors by the pool, but her hands were adorned with various rings and bracelets.

All of them were, Sherlock noted, fake, and had most likely been purchased from the accessory section at a Wal-mart.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm so glad you could make it!" she said and vigorously shook Sherlock's hand. "I've been trying to talk to the police, but they won't listen, and I really...--" She a suddenly interrupted herself and studied John from head to toe. "And who might you be?"

"This is my assistant, John Watson," Sherlock replied. "He'll be joining us for the interview. That's fine with you, I presume?"

"Your assistant... You mean your blogger?"

"Ma'am, I assure you I do much more than write a blog..." John began to explain, but Sherlock broke him off with an almost irritable hand gesture.

"Is there any place where we could talk in private, Ms. Ferguson? You need to tell me everything you know about Sarah's disappearance."

“Well…” she responded, looking around.

“How about that path?” John suggested, gesturing towards the nearby dirt trail. “It looks like it heads into the woods, and that would be—”

“No, no!” the woman blurted, loudly enough to bring the attention of several others around them. “If my suspicions are correct, we shouldn’t go into the woods.”

John lifted an eyebrow, but Sherlock continued to smile politely, though the doctor himself could tell that his partner was only pretending to be amused.

“Perhaps we should try somewhere indoors,” Sherlock offered. “Your residence, perhaps…?”

“Alright,” she waved behind her, towards the camping grounds. “I have a trailer set up there.”

“Lovely,” Sherlock said in false enthusiasm.

“My thoughts exactly,” John muttered as they followed her. He made a point of keeping his eyes to the ground or the sky, anywhere that did not lead to him looking at her retreating nakedness.

“It’s right there,” she said, pointing at a small cluster of trailers beyond the main road, huddled amidst some trees and foliage. “The red one.”

Technically the trailer used to be red. Time and sunlight had faded the paint into a dull pink. John and Sherlock looked around, noting that they had reached the U-turn which navigated cars back to the beginning of the main road. For someone so uncomfortable about being interviewed in the forest, Bobbi had her trailer incredibly close to it.

“Everyone else is out doing their thing,” Bobbi said. “Using the pool, the Nudsino…”

“The what?” John asked.

“A nude casino,” Sherlock explained. “Hence Nudsino.”

Against his will, John's interest was perked. This place had its own casino? He never would have guessed. Perhaps later, if they had nothing going on...

"Don't even think about going," Sherlock hissed at him as they entered Bobbi's mobile "home". "We all know that your habit of gambling plays a large part in your poor finances."

"I wasn't..."

"You were thinking about it. It's no use denying it."

John sighed. "I won't. Promise."

On the inside, the trailer was messy, with clothing haphazardly thrown about, as well as lots of stacked boxes. John was relieved not to see any obvious filth or dirt, but he would not have wanted to sit down on her couch with nothing between his skin and the fabric of the cushions. At least Sherlock had thought to bring his own towel.

"Please take a seat, gentlemen," Bobbi said. "Can I get you anything? Coffee?"

"Do you have tea?" Sherlock asked.

"Uhh... I guess..."

"Earl Grey, hot, milk, and a teaspoon of honey."

Bobbi looked troubled. "I think I've only got Lipton..."

"Then nothing for me, thanks," Sherlock said impatiently. "Now tell us about Sarah."

John closed his mouth, biting back his own response to accept the offer of coffee from their hostess. Sherlock had clearly forgotten that he was there.

Bobbi took a bottle of bottled water from her mini fridge and took a seat opposite them in the armchair. Sherlock elegantly crossed his long legs and leaned forward, resting his chin against the tips of his fingers.

"Sarah was... is... my best friend," she said, embarrassed to have been caught referring to her friend in past tense. "We met in high school and we've been close ever since. When we discovered Avalon a few years ago it felt like we'd finally found a place where we could fully be ourselves..."

"Tell me about her disappearance," Sherlock urged. "Why do you think there's foul play involved?"

"The police say she left voluntarily," Bobbi said, slightly stunned by Sherlock's brusque approach. "But I don't believe that. Rich - that's Sarah's husband - is kind of a dick. He's cheated on her in the past, he drinks, and he has a temper. I don't believe he's ever hit her, but once she told me he pushed her to the floor..." Bobbi caught herself rambling again and cleared her throat.

"So the cops think Sarah's left because of Rich. But I don't buy that. She'd never leave without letting me know where she's going. We've always told each other everything. Something happened to her. I know it!"

“Her belongings are gone?” John inquired. “Her luggage?”

“Well, no. But her car is.”

Sherlock had been silent for the duration of Bobbi’s story, glancing at his surroundings. His behavior was not lost on the woman, especially when he yawned.

“If there’s something else you would rather be doing…” she began, her tone and face growing angry.

“Dick is the ex-husband,” Sherlock said, stopping her tirade. “Drinking, pushing, jaywalking. I’m listening.”

“Then what will you do about this?” she asked impatiently.

“Your photos were taken during your stay in the resort,” Sherlock replied, changing the subject of conversation. He waved in the direction of the screensaver on her nearby laptop. He gave her a sly look. “Taken on the actual grounds. Which is prohibited.”

Bobbi frowned at the statement.

“Granted, there are a few complaints I have with the rules myself, but that’s neither here nor there,” Sherlock continued, standing up and taking a step towards the laptop. “Your friend Sarah looks happy here.”

Bobbi nodded. “Yes, she does. So why would she want to—”

“All in good time,” the detective said. “Her luggage and belongings are still here, as my… intuitive assistant has asked.”

John glared for a second.

“Our next stop is her lodging,” Sherlock concluded. “Another trailer like yours?”

“Yes,” Bobbi said, standing up as well. “But I don’t have a key.”

“Not a problem. This resort doesn’t seem to have security cameras."

Picking the lock on Sarah's trailer took Sherlock less than a minute, and he only had a piece of steel thread at his disposal. If he'd had his usual lock-picking toolkit, John guessed he could have done it in thirty seconds.

Bobbi was starting to look uncomfortable. "I'm not sure we should be doing this..." she murmured, nervously wringing her bejeweled hands.

"Sarah is your best friend, isn't she?" Sherlock commented as the trailer door swung open. "You said yourself that she wouldn't keep any secrets from you. And we're investigating on your behalf, Ms. Ferguson."

Bobbi offered no audible reply to that. Sherlock glanced at the towel slung over his shoulder for a moment, as if contemplating where to put it, and then decided to wrap it around his hips.
The air inside the trailer was stagnant and stuffy, but John assumed it was simply from the amount of time the trailer had been uninhabited. Sarah Cavanaugh had been missing for six days.

"No one's been here since she left," Sherlock declared with his usual confidence.

"How can you tell?" John asked. "Someone else with a key..."

"The marks, John. Observe!" His long-fingered hands grabbed the doctor's head and turned it back toward the door. "The amount of dust present is consistent with the time the trailer has stood empty. Now look down. If anyone had opened this door after Sarah left, there would have been prior marks in the dust, as the door opens inward. Do you see?"

"But what if someone came in through a window...?" John tried, but was met with an eye-roll from Sherlock.

"Let's see what else we can find," the detective ordered.

More photos – again from the Avalon public grounds – decorated the tables and shelves. All of them were of Sarah’s stay in the resort. No photos of the infamous Rich could be found. Though John was careful to exclusively observe and not touch anything, Sherlock was more than comfortable in moving things about, stirring up dust. The doctor’s nose twitched at the sudden irritation.

Bobbi still lingered outside, perhaps out of guilt over breaking into the trailer, perhaps out of respect for her dead friend. Or, John surmised, she had something to do with Sarah’s disappearance.

“I doubt it,” Sherlock suddenly remarked, looking at the way John stared out the window at their client. John glanced back, slightly startled. Sometimes he wondered if his partner really could read his mind.

“I don’t think she has any role in Ms. Cavanaugh’s disappearance. There’s nothing to allude to that just yet, anyway…”

The detective grasped the handle of a small refrigerator, hesitated, and finally opened it. As expected, a smell of mold and spoiled food poured out. Sherlock ignored John’s groan at the stench and knelt down, looking within.

“If she was planning on leaving, she wouldn’t have left so much food behind.”

“Considering the people we’ve seen on this trip so far…” John suggested.

“Notwithstanding,” Sherlock said, annoyed. “She would have taken the food with her, not wasted it.”

He closed the door, much to the relief of his assistant, and moved on. John spied a nearby dresser-drawer and, taking some initiative, opened one of the drawers. Sarah’s clothes were still folded inside. Sherlock joined John’s side and patted the attire, feeling something solid within the folds. He removed a framed photograph of Sarah in a wedding gown, a suited man at her side. The image looked to be at least 20 years old, based on the level of fading color and image quality.

"That much be Rich," John said, more to himself than to Sherlock, but he was rewarded with another eye-roll anyway.

"I believe we can have him ruled out as our culprit," Sherlock stated calmly and returned the photograph to its original place.

"How can you possibly tell that from a photo taken some 20 years ago?"

"Because she's held on to it. Rich's assumed motive for murdering his wife would be to stop her from leaving. Sarah was not going to leave. If you were going to walk out on someone, would you keep their picture?"

John frowned; once again his own deductive abilities had failed him. "Good point," he admitted.

Sherlock crouched to look underneath the bed, his mouth pursed as he straightened himself.

"If Mrs. Cavanaugh had an affair, this bed has not been used for their activities."

John did not even bother asking how Sherlock could see that, but he felt like adding that it really wasn't very helpful in finding their missing person.

“Tell me, Ms. Ferguson,” Sherlock addressed the woman as he and John exited the trailer. “Where was Sarah originally parked?”

The walk to the parking lot was relatively quiet, save for distant bird calls from the trees, as well as a few muttered curses whenever Sherlock stepped on a rock or a branch. Though the resort encouraged nudity, clearly Sherlock had forgotten the necessity of shoes or sandals when wandering outside. Not that John was surprised. The intellect of ten geniuses, and yet all of that collected information often shoved the most obvious details aside.

John remembered once telling Sherlock that he would lose his head were it not screwed on tight enough, only to have Sherlock assure John that heads were not attached to bodies this way.

“This is where she usually parks,” Bobbi said, pointing to a corner of the parking lot. Peculiarly enough, it was still empty despite the length of time the woman had been gone.

“No one’s really been using her spot,” Bobbi remarked. “Like as if maybe they want to leave it open for her… in case she comes back.” She stopped only to begin to weep. Sherlock grimaced at the behavior and only continued looking around for clues, leaving John standing with some amount of discomfort about the situation. He was still nervous about the fact that he was the odd man out in a community of nudists, but he also felt terrible about the way Sherlock was once again ignoring a client’s heartbreak.

“You may as well give them a shoulder to cry on,” Sherlock once said, “you’re a doctor, you’ve got the bedside manner.”

Lifting a very hesitant hand, John patted her doughy, bare shoulder. “We’ll find her,” he said. “There ain’t a case Sherlock hasn’t solved.”

A small ray of hope seemed to pierce through the desolation in Bobbi's eyes. "Is that really true?" she asked tentatively.

"Well, yes," the detective admitted, "but as a fair warning, the answer is not always what the client hopes for."

Bobbi accepted the remark with surprising stoicism. "I understand that," she said. Her voice was not quite steady, even though she made a valiant effort. "But I need to know. Even if Sarah is dead, knowing what happened to her is preferable to staying in the dark."
TBC...
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The Prey