The Empty House - Part One

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Doctor. Doctor. Any walk is down to the road. What they're essentially saying is their likelihood. On now, on walking is love. Oh God. But not more, not zero. Oh my God John, I'm so sorry to hear about what happened. I hope you're doing okay. I'm sending lots of love and positive thoughts. But I also think this does serve as a reminder. To stay out of our own clippings once, I urge you to leave. The window is empty. It's just a matter of time. So, sir. No. So, for today. Hey. Welcome to the empty house. This case, adventure, I mean, is three parts. It contains, well, this part contains swearing and violence. Everything else is in the description. Okay. I will see you in part two. Bye. I see you. I see the man in the mirror. You are the reason for this. I can hardly look at you, yet I must. If it isn't the man in the mirror, it is the wax figure in my lounge. It is the pictures on the walls of this flat. Pictures with the friend that you nearly killed. John mistook your hubris for confidence. You mistook it for certainty. And now look. He fights for his life and you for your sanity. In your bathroom. Alone, but for your reflection. Not quite alone. Our spider listens. Well, listen closely, Mr. Spider. Here comes the rain to wash you out. My name is Dr. John Watson. Once of the British Army Northumberland Fusilia Regiment. Now, a true crime podcast that based in central London. I don't have much experience in criminology. So this is mostly a record of how I met possibly the most brilliant and bizarre person I have ever and will ever know. Join me as I document the adventures of Sherlock Holmes. The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment The Fusilia Regiment Is that conditioner? Of course. Ooh, coconut. Delightful, isn't it? Right, so this is John's floor. Tilt the camera. I can just see hallway hospital lighting. Sorry, sorry. Is that better? Yeah. Uh-huh. Okay, and then just through here. Oh, sorry. On the phone! The stupid phones! The fools! Apologies, Mr. Sigerson. And recording. Doing sneaky, peeky, pervert videos. What? You are a peeky pervert! No, no, I'm not. It's my wife. It's a video call, Mr. Sigerson. All right? How are you today? I want his bed. He stole my bed. He stole my bed! Who stole your bed, Mr. Sigerson? John? You talking about John? Yes, the John man stole it! Okay. I want to take it back! I will take it back! Ah, you are. And Mr. Sigerson, this is my wife, Nadia. I am. Your husband is the sneaky, peeky pervert. He watches me sleep. Yes, he does that to me too. I do not want... Right, we are done with this. All right? Goodbye, Mr. Sigerson. It's not a goodbye. It's a bad bye. A very bad bye! God! Who's your friend? Christ, I like this. This is what happens with daily visits. You get to know all the John's neighbours, like Mr. Sigerson there. Right, here we go. In here. Oh, there he is. There he is. He smells a coconut in here. It's John's hair. Oh, hey, Marianna. Nadia, congrats on the baby. Oh, that's so exciting for you guys. Thank you. Thanks. Yeah, we're very excited. Just wish that the most excitable one was not in a coma. Yeah. Yeah. Uh, that's John's bullet. I put it in a jar for him. So sweet. He'll like it when he wakes up, I'm sure. Oh, yeah. Look how crumpled up it is, whacking into his sternum. Small as well. You're no match for it, mate. Rock solid sternum. No match for your chest. Hey, pal. You okay, Marianna? I'm okay. I bought myself some chunky new boots I liked to cheer me up. Oh, very nice. It's okay to not be okay, isn't it, Mark? Yeah, of course. I mean, you look knackered. Mark? What? She does? No, I know. You can't say that. What? What do you mean? Mark. Nadia, all I'm doing is I'm pointing out that she needs to go home. Home doesn't feel like home. So... I know, Marianna, and I'm sorry. I just... You're putting yourself through enormous stress. And that's completely normal, all right? But it's not okay to not rest. To not recover from a whole day of that worry. Do you know what I mean? Yeah. Yeah, you're right. Got any other insults, Mark? Jesus, right. I'm going to come and meet you for lunch, all right? You could do with another meal. What do you mean, another meal? Because you're pregnant. Yes, I know I am. And I'm very emotional because of these stupid hormones. And John's been shot, and I keep being sick, and my way smells really bad. I mean, like, really, really bad. I just want some monster munch. Can you please bring me some monster munch? Of course I can. Of course I can, all right? I think the machine does flaming hearts. Oh, wow. I really do look bad. Hello there, mirror Mariana. Not looking your best, girl. Oh, no, no, no. Oh, your eyes are all puffy and red. Maybe you should stop crying, Mariana. Me so, I should help. Hey. Hey, John. I'm gonna, um, I'm gonna go and probably have a night at home. But you won't be alone, okay? I've got a laptop open right next to you. It's Sherlock Uncote Discord. I put it on a podcast chatter channel, so your friends are right here. Sherlock will visit again. I know he will. He's just... This is all a lot. As you can see by my creepy, puffy eyes. Yeah. He's... He's regulating in his own way. Okay. Bye, John. Sleep well? I mean, you've been asleep for a week, but... Yeah. You know what I mean. We miss you. A lot. Ugh. Geez, that hair smells fantastic. Damn it. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Sherlock, are you okay? Please, please. No, no, no, no, no, no. Please, no, no, no, no, no, no. I know, no, I'm washing your emergency. My friend... My friend has fallen down an entire flight of stairs. He's face down on the ground by the front door. Oh, it's likely... It's likely drug related. Can you feel for a pulse? Wait. Can you feel for a pulse, please? Okay, okay. I... I don't... Feel one. He's got no pulse. He's got no... Ears. What? It just came off. It... Sherlock! Is... is everything okay? Do I need... Yes. Sorry, I... I couldn't feel a pulse because the body is made of wax. I'm... I'm so sorry. I understand. Are you serious? I'm supposed to be calming down, Sherlock. Sherlock, what exactly... Whoa, whoa, I can't see anything. God, turn a light on. Shh. What the hell are you? Smart lamp? Do not turn on the stupid smart lamp. You can do it from your phone. I know that. Get down, Mariana. What? Get down! On the floor. Why? Because when the rabbit feels the wisp of displaced air in the skies above, it knows the hawk is descending. The ground where he was birthed with his brethren, where he nestled in winter. That is where he seeks protection. And that is where the great sight of the hawk has become blind. Am I the bunny rabbit? Yes, you're the bunny rabbit. Okay. Okay, and who is the hawk? The hawk is Sebastian Moran. Oh. Okay. Are you a bunny as well? Shh. Okay, okay. Is Mr. Moran in the flat with us now? No. That would be ridiculous. No. Yeah, it's just... this kind of feels ridiculous. Does it, Mariana? Does it indeed? Like the hyena that mocks? Wait, am I a dumb rabbit or a hyena? Can you please be quiet? Nobody is in here apart from you and me. Yes, but there's no need to shout. There's every need to shout. What are you doing here? We have no clients. I worked my butt off and borrowed some favors and contracted out to other investigators to make sure we can be there for John. And instead, you are making forts and crushing all the curtains and talking about bunny rabbits and hawks? It's not a fort. It's a disguised command center that has a visual on the target. You are sat in a pile of cushions. What are you talking about? Camden House. Okay. What's Camden House? You should know. Mrs. Hudson. It... Wait, you mean the house across the street? 242 Baker Street? Indeed. Otherwise known as Camden House. It's empty. So what? The empty house... I feel... as a visitor. Yeah. Sometimes estate agents show people around empty houses, Sherlock. It helps them become full houses. Come into the command center. Seriously? Come. Crawl. Oh, God, this room is disgusting. Oh, God, you need a housekeeper. To keep this place clean, stop you from building cushion forts. Not a fort. A command center. Come in. Ah, thank you. Oh, it's actually pretty nice in here. I know. Crisp. No, thank you. It all occurred to me while glancing at myself in the mirror. My opposite. But fated to follow my every move. No matter how fast he tracks, he can never surpass. Yeah, that's how mirrors work. We cannot move behind Moran any longer. We must move in front. You want to predict his next move? I already know it. Are you serious? Everything is reflected. Don't you see? No. Even this very building, this very floor, as if a pane of glass sits right in the street and we stare back at ourselves. And then it fluttered before me with majesty, a dazzle of color and feather, the harbinger of spring has awoken the goldfinch. The bird's nest across the street, yeah? It is a cavity nester. Just a hole in the masonry that would have held a pipe long ago. Not now. That hole bored right into the facade of Camden House. Two to one Baker Street's opposite number. Look now. I have positioned us in such a way where we can see right into the empty house. Yet our hawk cannot appear into our burrow. We're below the window. You have a bear's gop or something. Because all I can see is our wall. Mirrors, Mariana. Mirrors. I have placed one next to the kitchen door. Uh-huh. Take the binoculars, point them at the mirror. Yeah. What do you see? Yeah, I can see right inside the empty house. Three windows in your vision, correct? Correct. The bottom one and the two that are level with us at two to one B. Uh-huh. You'll notice the bottom one. You had complaints about cleanliness or lack of it, but look at that dust. Ah, yeah, that's a lot of dust. They won't sell it in that condition, will they? Not in this economy. I like the trees on the roof terrace. You guys should do that. What? You guys never use it. We have a roof terrace. For a master detective, you are pretty bad at listening. You have never mentioned it? It's literally one of the first things I ever said to you when we spoke on the phone before we met. Can we figure this empty house thing out, please? Fine. Look at the top two windows. One is a bathroom, one is the bedroom. Mm-hmm. Bathroom. Tell me the state of the ceiling light shade. Uh... Dusty. Web... Webstoo. Dusty and webs. Same as downstairs. Uh, yeah, yeah, correct. Now, you see the nest of the goldfinch. The hole in the brick? Yeah. It sits right next to the window that looks directly into this flat. Yeah. What can you tell me about the ceiling light shade? Not dusty. Not dusty. No. Interesting. Interesting? Somewhat. Indicative? Absolutely. Indicative of what? These light shades, as stylish as the installer may have thought they were, dangle a little too low, even for Georgian ceilings. It's lowest point as you can correlate with the height of the doorframe to the bathroom that is currently standard. Mm-hmm. Come on, you know your building regulations. How high should a standard internal door in the UK be? 1,981 mm. Exactly. And the previous resident, it would appear, liked the symmetry of the dangling lights ending at the uniformed heights of the doors, which leaves a distance of 1,981 mm from the bottom of the light shade to the floor. 1,981 mm 6 foot 6. So it would appear, Mariana, that somebody inadvertently disturbed the dust and webs that clung to that light shade. Somebody taller than 6 foot 6. Somebody that could be... 6 foot 7. 6 foot 7. Ha! Moran. He wishes to eliminate me, but his attention has been taken elsewhere. Do you know where? We begin in the dark tunnel where we found John. Oh, great. All to feel better the next day. But when it comes to sleep, most people never question the thing that probably matters most, the mattress they sleep on. 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The Scotland Yard investigation is still two crimes behind. They try as they might to understand Morson and Williams and Moran's role at the bank and what happened to the money and where he ran to upon release. Oh, and that's a bad idea? Because isn't that kind of how we do things? It's not a bad idea, no. But it's not a particularly good one either, especially when a man is proven to be lethal. This is where we found him. Yes. A real little gunshot residue from what I can see with my phone light. How come? I'm afraid it is because our burly Dr. Watson isn't tough enough to crush bullets after all. He knows Dunford is going to tell him he is, right? Yes, but the bullet is bespoke. Moran is an exceptional marksman. He shot John dead centre in the chest in a tunnel with almost no light. He can't carry a rifle around London, but an improvised weapon strapped to himself nimble, light-collapsible. A man with such accuracy does not require his bullets to be packed with destructive force. Let's see here. Oh, please, please tell me you see footprints. Yes, you see a brogue, I'd say. Size 15. Certainly not John's footprints, but we already know he shot John and turned back on himself eastward. See? Here. And here. Come. The police cleared these towns. Yes. And why would Moran hide down here? Moran is not a man to hide. The web has been swiped that we tried our best and we will strike again. But for now, while threads are scattered to the wind, the network must spin itself a new it cannot hide. It must work. It must fight. It must continue its business or the vacuum opens and the power gap is filled. So what? You want to stop investigating behind and start investigating ahead? That's exactly what I intend to do. And what does John's secret tunnel under London do for us? Exactly. Well here, we arrive at a fork in the tunnel. Oh, so? No. Look. Oh, like an actual real one. So these lead to Victoria or Houston? Correct. Southbound or northbound and Moran has done a rather good job of complicating our decision. He has? He has. On the floor here. You need my light too? Yes. All the light I can get, please. Footprints are gone. No. More interesting than that. They change. They change? See? Here? Oh, yeah. That's a Wellington boot. That's definitely a Wellington boot. Exactly. But why change from a brogue to a welly? Well, they will tell us. What? Other prints. You can see somebody else's? Sure look. Whose footprints? Nobody's footprints. What? You just said... Poor prints. Or hand prints as they're sometimes called. Poor prints. Excuse me? Here we go, little fellow. What do we think of that? Oh, Graham. What is he doing here? He is helping me understand what I saw when we came down to this tunnel once before. You saw what? Mice? I saw the indication of mice. Mouse droppings. Do mouse droppings help us? Ew. Oh, is Graham eating them? Don't be ridiculous. Graham isn't eating the mouse droppings. Graham, don't eat the mouse droppings. He's still kind of eating them. Graham, face that way. There we go. When I crouched in this tunnel by John's side for that time, I collected dust, dirt, and something else upon my knees. Something that interested Graham enormously when I finally got home after days at the hospital. Okay, what was it? Urine of a mouse in Easteress. Now, the taste to me was the same as regular mouse urine. No, no, no, no. But to Graham, he got rather excited. His penile bone became turgid. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, please stop. So there is a mouse or mice down here in Eustras. Meaning what? She's like, in heat. Exactly that. She, like most mice, will be near food. She will be near water. And that is where Moran may be. Why? Because of the Wellington boot, Marianna. Ah, Graham has chosen. The Victoria tunnel. The Victoria tunnel. Onward. Let's go find ourselves a lady mouse. You here? Yeah, I do. What is that? I'd say the pipe of a storm drain. The heavy rains have been and will be of great service. Keep walking. Graham has led us in the right direction. How do you know that? Because prints are visible again once more. The Wellington tracks? Our network of foes had secured the three houses. The houses served primarily as their infill and exfil points. For their victims, stepping into a grand house unsuspectingly, rather than being forced down a hole in the street would have proved very effective. If, of course, John had not busted their entire operation after just a week or two of their relocation. The Garadeb houses are pristine. Empty, yes, but clean, slick, desirable. Like I explained, we can do what the police are doing, which is examined where Moran has been. But it is only in a bone-dry tunnel and a spick-and-span house. Combined with his footwear, when you get an indication of his future movements. Are you listening? Yes, I was just... I was just listening to the water running. Moran's footprints, as we have noted, they shaped it from light corporate brogue to Wellington boot. It could be an accomplice. Could it not? Possible, but... the stride. See here, two and a half feet apart. That's a big stride. Big man. Identical to that of our footprints next to where we found John. Size 15 brogue, size 15 Wellington boot, two and a half foot stride, two and a half foot stride. And no mud. Exactly. No mud. We're anticipating his next steps, literally. And so was he. His boots were clean. Then... what about? What are you doing? What about when he has to wade across the basin of a storm drain to get to his desired location? Oh my god. The rain began the day before John was shot. Been on and off since. This thing has been in full flow. There you are, Graham. Your girlfriends are over there. Their hormones may have subsided somewhat, I'm afraid. You took a little too long. For the waste, the rain has swept it down here. Indeed. Graham, do not even think about eating what they're eating. Come on little fellow, back in the pocket. Where are we going? We do as John would do. Which is what? Get our hands far in particular, our shoes dirty. Yeah, sure. In honour of John, I'll do it. Of course I have new boots for this. Over the basin we go. Thread carefully. It's cold. Oh boy, the water is cold. This is just rain, right? Absolutely. Sewer is much deeper. Farewell, mail, whale, tidal. We move on. To where? Surely, you remember the adventure of the dancing men. Oh yeah, yeah, yeah. Sure, sure I do. Well, do you hear much traffic noise apart? All I hear is rushing water. Traffic noise dulled some time ago. Because we are under Hyde Park, we'll cross this basin and there'll be a culvert for the westboard. That will take us into the park itself and here. And we will see where, ah, a footprint. Where Mr. Moran went. But we know that already, don't we? Where did he go? Home, Mariana. He went home. Number one Hyde Park. The apartment block where the police first got him. His home. Who knew demons get hell sick? Well put, Mariana. The hawk circles back to his nest. The Met said Mawson and Williams owned most of the apartments on that top floor. And one was Moran's. Hard to believe he strolled in through the front door. Let me see now. Oh, took the binoculars with you. Good call. It wasn't a trip home. No. It was a job. A job? What do you mean? Top floor. Top floor. Fourth window from the left. Uh huh, okay. Um... Okay, one, two, three. Oh, oh. Shit. Is that... Is that what I think it is? All over the window. Blood. Lots and lots of blood. Oh, oh. Oh, oh. Oh, oh. Oh, oh. Oh, oh. Oh, oh. Oh, oh. Oh, oh. Oh, oh. Oh, oh. Oh, oh. Oh, oh. Oh, oh. Oh, oh.