A/N:

One-shot dedicated to I'm Nova for her prompt to write a Sherlock story based on an inanimate object's point of view. Had several options to choose from, here's one I chose. Loosely inspired by events from Doyle's original canon The Adventure of the Three Garridebs.

From the POV of… well, you will quickly figure it out. If this object were to have a name, what might one name this item so closely wrapped up (literally) in the adventures of Sherlock Holmes?

~221b~

Around and around and around. The water bubbles floated past my gaze in a circular rhythm and attempted to sooth my frazzled knitted blue fibres.

As I spun round, the dizzying view through the clear portal of the washing machine matched my tumultuous thoughts that swirled with the events of the day. Just a few short hours before; life had been flowing in its usual fast-paced, staccato bursts of detecting patterns. Episodes of frantic activity between periods of amazing stupor during which I would hang limply on my peg near the front door of flat 221B. During those times, while Sherlock was sprawled out on the sofa in an apparent comatose state, I would recalibrate my fibres and reshuffle my folds in preparation for the next exhilarating chase. I loved the feel of the wind's fingers tickling my fringed edges and was always mesmerized by the dazzling array of London lights in the fog when my detective sprinted after another of 'the criminal classes'.

Typically, my detective's colleague, flatmate, blogger, what-have-you, would be trailing close on my tails. His legs were a bit shorter than Sherlock's but he had a commendable fortitude that allowed him to stay within close range of the two of us. I admit that I was a wee bit smug with my superior vantage point. I had the best views, wrapped around Sherlock's ivory neck. Whether it was examining the body of the victim first, or poking around in an abandoned building searching for the perpetrator, my snuggled location high up on Sherlock's shoulders under his dark curls was definitely better than anything John and my friend, his Sig Sauer handgun, might aspire. I couldn't help the smirk that slid onto my face when Sig grumbled, "why do I even bother? Another criminal chase and I'm the last to arrive on the scene." John had dashed valiantly after his swift-footed flatmate but somehow detoured and by the time John with and his pistol had arrived, Sherlock already had the criminal subdued and trussed up. Seems he might have fallen out of the window a few times too. Sherlock maintains he 'lost count'; according to my calculations though, the man fell nine times onto Mrs Hudson's bins.

Of course, being the first to arrive on the scene left one without backup at times. My detective has a bad habit of neglecting to call for back up. Once we entered a Chinese pottery expert's flat, Soo Lin Yao. She wasn't there but someone else was. I was hand-wrangled and forced to choke my detective by the intruder! I have never felt so helpless in all my woven life. With all my knitted heart I wished I could have strangled the black lotus acrobat until his head fell off after he forced me to throttle Sherlock. I still have nightmares. PTSD… posttraumatic strangling dreams.

But today something far worse has occurred. I don't know how to begin to describe the atrocity of it all. The horror! Every tiny blue thread in my being is repelled at the memory of it.

Everything seemed routine at the beginning. How could Sherlock ever blame himself for not anticipating the danger? No one could have known. If I could release myself from this watery whirlpool, I would swathe soft comforting folds of myself around him, a healing bandage for his broken heart. I'd envelope his neck and absorb the salty tears that stain his anxious face right now. "Not your fault," I'd whisper into his ear.

Then I'd somehow manage to float on the air currents and wing my way over to the evil Evans and cinch my lengths around his villainous neck until his face matched my own blue hue. Even that could not atone for what he's done to John Watson and my detective!

~221b~

It all began when the client, a Mr Nathan Garrideb, a benign, white-haired hermit of a professor with an odd passion for taxidermy and fossils, arrived at our flat.

"If you can help me find this third person to complete the Garrideb trio, then, Mr Holmes, I can finally be rich enough to complete my collection of rare South African butterflies and even possibly add the a Tasmanian Devil to my display." Mr Garrideb flashed the printed advertisement and peered hopefully up at the detective. His tufts of white hair and beady eyes behind thick spectacles blinked in anticipation of our assistance. It was a rather queer family name and apparently one that had now become valuable to possess.

"And how did you stumble upon this rather esoteric advertisement online?" Sherlock's sharp eyes assessed the stooped and aging professor. The man's eccentric and rather lonely existence made it unlikely that he'd simply found it while browsing the web. He was the type to be so absorbed in his research that articles relating to anything outside his anatomical subjects would go unnoticed.

"An American lawyer, another Garrideb, happened to find me," the professor explained. "Knocked on my door and told me that if we could find just one more Garrideb, we'd all be rich." He smiled involuntarily at the idea of adding to his peculiar collection of anatomical fossils. "Please, Mr Holmes, if you can help us locate this last member of the Garrideb family I'm sure we could figure an acceptable reimbursement for your efforts."

Mr Nathan Garrideb was almost childish in his anticipations. From my inconspicuous perch by the door, I perceived that Sherlock was not as convinced about the legitimacy of the whole Garrideb business. Curiously though, the detective went along with the elderly professor's request and even urged him, quite persuasively, to catch the next available train out of London to the countryside where a Mr Howard Garrideb was rumoured to reside.

"You must certainly check this out. You can't afford to miss the opportunity of a lifetime, as you say," my detective uttered with unexpected enthusiasm. In fact, so enthusiastic was he in rushing the poor professor out the door to catch the next train that I nearly ended up wrapped round the professor's neck instead of his own wrapper. I breathed a sigh of relief when Sherlock realised his mistake and replaced me back on my rightful peg. "Off you go to Aston, then. We'll do a little digging around on this end, don't you worry, Mr Garrideb," the strangely eager detective hustled the professor out the door with a cheery wave. The professor looked a bit like he'd been blown over by a hurricane as he reoriented himself at the kerb and shuffled round a couple turns until he figured out which direction to turn for the station.

"Coming?" Sherlock turned to John, with a gleam in his eye and twitch of his eyebrow that I recognised.

Without answering, John grabbed his jacket and slipped Sig in his pocket. "Ready."

The strands of my woven weave took on that familiar static tingling of anticipation as the detective called out, "the game is on!" I winked out of the corner of my tassel at John's pistol nestled in the dark recesses of his pocket. Being out in the open air, privy to the rushing scenes of the chase, was so much better.

We were headed for old Mr Nathan Garrideb's quarters. That much I knew. But why? What did Sherlock hope to find in the man's creepy collection of dead animals and fossils? Why was it so imperative that the old inhabitant go away to Ashton for a day? What did the name, Garrideb, have to do with the case? My fluffy head was full of questions. I never anticipated the events that happened next.

To be continued in chapter 2 ...