Jack is Back

It was a Thursday when it began. Rain poured down on Baker Street and I was worried. The nightmares continued for Sherlock. They started when we came back from Baskerville Hall. We all assumed that Stapleton was dead. Sherlock—however--thought otherwise.
That night he had encountered the hound closer than any of us there. Police Chief Lestrade and I shot the beast before it could pin Sherlock down. Sherlock looked as if he had seen a ghost; the hound would have frightened anyone. A huge mastiff with black eyes in the dark, cold winter night on the moor--was the dog of Satan himself.
After we killed the beast we went for Stapleton. We ran across the moor in the dark of the night with only a beam of light from Lestrade’s flashlight to guide us. Within a few minutes of running we had reached Stapleton’s house. I kicked down the door of the house and Sherlock, still as white as a sheet, led the way in. There was nobody inside, but there was a half-eaten dinner of chicken and rice and a soda on the table. Also BBC was on the TV giving the 11 o’clock weather report. The soda that was on the table was tipped over and spilled. Lestrade called from the back of the house. Sherlock and I came running to his voice fearing that he was in danger. We rushed through the book-crowded hall ways of Stapleton’s house until we saw Lestrade standing at the back door of the house looking out onto the moor. He pointed through the doorway and in the distance you could see a beam of light and the silhouette of a man running through Grimpen Mire. We had no hope to chase him through the mire. If we ran through the Mire at night we had a very high chance of getting swallowed up by a patch of quicksand. Even if it was daylight we wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the quicksand and solid ground without the help of a guide.
The next morning we got ourselves a guide who led us through the Mire. We came upon an abandoned warehouse where there was evidence that a giant hound had stayed there. We also found a boot near one of the more disguised quicksand pits. This proved to be enough evidence for Lestrade and me to think that Stapleton was dead. Sherlock, however, argued that the boot wasn’t enough evidence and that Stapleton was still alive.
We left Baskerville hall a few days later and returned to our apartment. That was when the nightmares began.
*****
The nightmares started last week. They occurred daily now with them usually coming at about 6-7 in the morning. Today’s nightmare came earlier around 5, thus arousing my suspicions. When I came to wake him he was sweating profusely and yelling. I ran up to him and shook him awake, and his eyes flew open. He sat up immediately and our eyes locked. He got settled and laid back down. “Are you ok?” I asked.
He covered his face with his hands and nodded a yes. Then he startled me by jumping out of bed rubbing his eyes and announcing “I’m taking a shower.”
“Ok, I am heading to the grocery store do you need anything?”
He thought for a moment then sputtered off a list.
“A board, paper--make sure the board is one of those cork ones that I can put pins in—string—multi-colored—and paper, lots of copy paper.”
He grabbed the newspaper out of my hand and put it underneath his arm and walked briskly into the bathroom with a quick slam of the door.
Well that didn’t last long I thought. I never asked him what his nightmares were about. They were unspeakable.
I walked out of the room, grabbed my coat off of the coat hanger, and then walked out the door. I turned around and dug the keys out of my pocket so that I could unlock the door. I took two steps at a time down the stairs. When I got to the bottom I said good morning to the landlady who was tending her flowers.
I spied a taxi through the pre-rush hour crowd and ran through the crowd to make sure that one was mine. I brushed past a tall gentleman with a beard and a ball cap on and jumped into the taxi.
The taxi driver turned around and asked
“Where you headed?”
“To the market place six blocks down.”
“The one on 22nd and 131st?”
“That’s the one,” I replied.
I looked in the rear-view mirror of the cab and saw the man that I had bumped into earlier get into the car behind me. I disregarded this and the taxi driver, who introduced himself as Fred, pulled out of his parking space and headed to our destination. The car behind us pulled out as well and headed in the same direction as us, but I brushed this off as well because at the second light he turned off the road and onto a side street.
I started to make small talk with the cab driver and soon learned where he was from, how many kids he had, and how proud he was of his kids. I then noticed something unusual. A car—the same car from before—was there every time we crossed an intersection. It was driving down the street parallel to mine.
“Fred!”
“Yes?”
“Pull Over—now!”
“Ok!”
He slammed on the brakes and a medley of tires skidding on the asphalt, horns blaring, obscene gestures, and cursing followed. But through the storm Fred managed to squeeze his taxi into a small parking space on the side of the road. I paid him and got out of the car. I looked around and knew exactly where I was. I was at--London Mall.
I walked into the mall and stepped into the first shop I saw. It happened to be a shop aimed towards tourists that sold postcards, so I looked through the racks while keeping a lookout for my tail. I was about to calm down thinking that I had lost him when I saw him run into the mall. He looked straight at the shop and I put my head down. Luckily, he didn’t see me. He then walked past my store and into the men’s department store a few doors down. I walked out of my store and followed him inside the men’s store. I kept my distance so he wouldn’t spot me, but kept a watchful eye out for him.
He headed toward the circular racks that held assorted men’s blazers that were on sale. I followed him until--I couldn’t see him anymore. I started freaking out but tried not to draw attention.
I walked to the place where I saw him last. I thought for a second, then parted the clothes in the rack hoping to find him in the middle.
Instead I found nothing. I was about to leave the store when I felt the cold, hard muzzle of a gun against my side.
A thick Austrian accented voice spoke into my ear, “If you want to live you will obey every word I tell you.”
Suddenly a cocky arrogance surged within me, “And if I don’t?”
“I’m afraid that is not an option.”
He hit me in the head with the butt of his gun and I slumped to the floor.