• W H I S P E R S • I N • T H E • D A R K • [p]

[Picasso]

Locke joined Matthew in their walking. It was obvious now - the route they were taking was clearly the route to Toby's house. Locke had been there many times, although it wasn't a welcoming place in his opinion. Sniffing the cool, bitter air, Locke nodded and tutted at his own idiocy. Of course, they could see Toby's house looming in the distance now. Toby was probably still asleep, as Matthew had told him. It contrasted greatly to Locke's own lack of sleep. Sleeping was dull.

Turning to look at Matthew, he saw a wistful look on his face. Wistful meant longing. He was hoping for something to happen. Locke wondered what that could be. Frowning, he looked down at Watson, who was snuffling about in his hand. Watson seemed unfazed by Matthew's change in demeanour. Briefly rolling his eyes, Locke dug his free hand into his pocket to warm it up.

"That's odd. I've never seen that car pulled up outside Toby's house before." Locke commented, narrowing his eyes.

"It could be anyone's," Watson reminded him, "I doubt it has any relevance. Perhaps a family member?" Locke tutted. There was something not quite right with this picture, and Locke couldn't place it. Sniffing the air, he approached the house a little slower now, drinking in the vision he had before him. What was going on?

"The top right window. Toby's room. It's open." Locke noted carefully, "It's in the middle of winter and the window is wide open. Not only that, but we are well aware Toby's circulation isn't that great. His hands are always cold, so he rarely ever feels the heat. Yet now, the window's open. Why's that?" Locke babbled. There was something very wrong.

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