[Good afternoon, Snowhellions! Here's Alfie Solomons, back from the dead with a very strange message.]

I don't know what's going on. I don't know why I'm the only one left.

[In a quiet, exhausted voice, Royce can be heard in the background of the feed:]

Solomons is back again. I can't get his attention, he can't see me, I can't interact with him. Death loss. He'll probably--

The rest of Royce's message - "--respond to you the same way, if you try" - will only be audible to those who really listen for it, because Alfie interrupts him, his own voice louder and clearer because he's a little closer to the tablet.]

If anyone gets this message, anyone at all, give a ring. If not--

[There's another pause, longer this time, and Royce takes the opportunity again:]

I'm looking after him. For those who care.

[There's a few more seconds of silence, and then one more line from Alfie.]

Mm, no. I've got nothing to say, if not. I don't want to have this town to myself.

[The feed goes off.]

[OOC: Alfie won't be responding to this post at all ICly, for obvious reasons - he won't be able to see or hear any replies! He'll be able to read any comments/conversations after his death loss wears off, though (unless of course they're filtered away from him).

[Sherlock is exceptional at deducing with all five of his senses, solving cases by only the noise in the nearby street, or the taste of a powder left behind. But he didn't realise just how disorientating it is to lose one of those senses and not have it to rely on. He's already fallen over his own pack twice, bruised his shin on the mortuary drawer, and taken nearly a full fifteen minutes to find the door to the outside.

It's embarrassing, really. He'd do a lot better at this in London where he actually knows the streets to memory, but he's not quite that expert on Norfinbury's geography. It doesn't help that he has no idea of his starting location to even guess at how to get anywhere. A dent to his pride it might be, but even he knows that he can't navigate this on his own, or he risks wandering in circles and getting locked out overnight to die again. But he can't navigate his tablet enough to make it do text to speech, or even make a private call. So in frustration, he's jabbed the screen mostly at random until he thinks he's managed to make something work.

The view is of snow, lots of blurry snow on an angle. Sherlock's voice sounds loud over the image, loud and irritated.]

Could somebody please tell me where the hell I am?