agooseegg

[agooseegg]

So, hello! This is my first time posting anything and I figured I’d spend two weeks writing a 14 page fan fiction about the Sherlock & Co. Podcast, which you all listen to it’s incredible. Anyways I’ll leave you all with this behemoth, and I hope you enjoy, “The Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing”.

The Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing

John and Sherlock kneel over the body of Phoebe Saint, a woman in her late 50s. An hour before, she’d been found by her neighbours dangling from her 4th floor balcony with a rope around her neck. The police would have figured it was suicide, but the neighbours swear they saw a figure move away from her window as they looked up. Now, she lay in an open bodybag on the floor. Sherlock breathes in heavily and sighs before turning his gaze to John.

“Watson,” he says, “tell me how she died.” John gives him a puzzled look, then glances between Sherlock and the body before clearing his throat.

“Well, strangulation. She would’ve asphyxiated from the pressure on her neck, and the force of her jumping down from the balcony would’ve broken the bones as well. Terribly sad, really, to see someone go like this.”

“Yes, Watson. I’d agree with you. If she had committed suicide.”

“What are you on about, mate? Have you taken too much of your unprescribed medicine?”

“No, Watson. Look closer at her. See the details hidden below the obvious. Look between the lines.”

Watson peered closer at the woman, trying to grasp whatever Sherlock was so keen on proving. He could see the bruising on her neck and that scratchy redness of rope burn. Sitting back, he was about to speak when his eyes suddenly darted to the ring finger. Pausing for a moment, he looked closer and saw a very slight indentation on the skin, back by the knuckle in the shape of a band.

“She was married?” He asks, turning back to Sherlock. Sherlock stared at John like a proud parent.

“Yes Watson! She was in fact married.”

“Okay, how does that prove she was murdered? Unfortunately, being married doesn’t always stop people from doing this.”

“The indentation should prove it all, actually. She’d worn a wedding ring for quite some time—a number of years in fact—but due to the fading mark, she has apparently not been wearing it so often. Yet, there are still photos hung around her flat of her and a man in which they are both wearing wedding rings. So why take off your ring?” John paused for a moment to think before chiming in again.

“She was seeing someone else, wasn’t she?” He finally asked.

“Precisely Watson. She’d fallen out of love with her husband, sought out another man, and gotten killed for it. She also has small strands of rope below her fingernails, as well as rope burns on her fingertips.

“She struggled.” John somberly gazes at Mrs. Saint as he says this. Sherlock stands, then walks to one of the framed photos and takes it off the wall. Then, he walks over to one of the police officers at the scene and says, “Your murderer is Mr. Saint. Here's his photo. If the neighbours are correct and he was here as 999 was phoned, then he shouldn’t be too far away. I suspect you’ll find him within the hour.” He turns back around from the now confused-looking officer and walks over to John.

“Come Watson. We’ve finished here.”

“There’s really nothing else we can do?”

“We’ve given the police the name and description of the murderer. I’m not going to go running into the dark chasing a dangerous criminal when he’s going to get himself caught. Now, before you bore holes in that poor woman's face with your eyes, let's head home.”

“Right, yeah mate. Let’s go.”

Back at 221b, John lays in bed staring up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. The night was dreary, as rain hammered down on the city below and wind seemed to rattle every bit of the flat. A thick fog rolled through the streets below, heavy and choking and dark grey. It felt as if the world outside had disappeared into a cloud.

The soft knocking on his door startled him, and a moment later Sherlock walks in, fully dressed.

“Come on Watson! Pack a bag; we haven’t got all day. We’ve got to catch the train,” he says excitedly.

“Uh, why exactly are we doing that mate?”

“Because Watson,” Sherlock pauses for a moment, a grin stretching across his face. “The game is afoot!” He turns and bolts out of John’s room, slamming the door behind him.

John takes a moment to register what actually just happened, then slides out of bed and stretches. Glancing over at his clock, he actually wasn’t the least bit surprised when the time staring back at him read 5:20 in the morning.

“Hey Sherlock!” John yells through his door as he dresses, “Do you mind telling me what we’re getting into, mate?”

“I can tell you on the way, Watson!”

“Yeah, or you could tell me now! Sherlock?”

John finishes getting dressed and throws a pile of clothes into a suitcase, alongside his recording equipment. Swinging his bedroom door open, he sees Sherlock talking on the phone.

“-yes. Mhm. Of course.” Sherlock slides his phone back in his pocket and slides his suitcase over near the front door.

“Who was that?”

“Lestrade.”

“What did she want?”

“Mr. Smith was arrested. A bank camera caught him sulking about trying to catch a bus, and he was picked up shortly after.”

“Lestrade called you for that?”

“No, but I thought you might want to know. We’ve already wasted too much time; I’ll fill you in on the way Watson.”

“What about Archie?”

“I’ve already asked Ms. Hudson if she’d be able to watch him for us. Now come on.”

"Yeah, alright I'm coming mate.”

Hurrying out the front door in the middle of the night with two suitcases (one of which may as well have been a hamper), John and Sherlock sped off in the direction of the subway. The rain had stopped by then, though the air still felt moist, and the pavement was still damp. The fog was present, but not nearly as bad, and the two men soon found themselves descending the Baker Street Station and boarding a train. John sat down exhausted and already sweating.

“You know… mate,” he panted out, “a little… warning… would’ve been nice.” Sherlock took harsh, short breaths, clearly stifling his own exhaustion, but they eventually tapered out to more normal breaths before he released a composed sigh.

“I did say we were in a hurry, didn’t I Watson? Now settle in; we’ve got a bit of a journey ahead of us.” John coughs a little, then clears his throat and breathes a heavy sigh.

“It’s on you if I don’t have any proper clothes.”

"Yes, yes, alright.” The pair sit in silence for a moment as the train rolls into a stop.

“Where are we getting off Sherlock?”

“Paddington.”

“Paddington?”

“Yes. We’re catching a train to Ilfracombe. We’re investigating a series of murders. Lestrade called for me specifically, which by proximity means you as well.”

"Aw, thanks mate, that feels great.”

“You’re welcome, Watson.”

“That was sarcasm.” The train finally breaks from underground and stops at Paddington station. The pair exit swiftly and make their way over to their next train. London rushes by them as the train exits, the early morning lights blending into a

sea of bright yellow-tinted eyes.

John uses the extra time to catch up on his much-needed sleep, while Sherlock examines the landscape as they pass through town after town. After hopping one more train and catching a bus ride, they arrive at their lodging; a house on the beach across from the Chapel of St Nicholas lighthouse. It was bright out now, as it was almost 10 in the morning, and after another short call from Lestrade, Sherlock and John headed to meet with the police and examine the bodies.

“Ilfracombe,” Sherlock suddenly blurts out, “is a seaside town on the north coast of Devon known for its dramatic cliffs, rugged coastline, and historic charm. And there've been four murders in the span of a week. It doesn’t feel right.”

“It’s definitely a strange place for a sudden serial killer to prop up. You wouldn’t think anything is up by looking around. It’s so peaceful here.” Walking along the road towards the police station, they pass by a section alongside the beach, and the waves of the Bristol Channel lap gently up and down the soft sand, scaring off seagulls picking for crabs that scurry along the long stretches of beach. The clouds partially block the sun, but in the cool October air, the slight warmth is greatly appreciated.

“Yes, Watson. I’d have to agree.”

The bodies were all laid out on tables in a row, their belongings on tables next to them. The room was chilly, and John’s arm hair would be standing up even if it was warmer. The pair walk around the tables, giving the bodies a once-over before Sherlock walks over to the first victim and pulls the cover back all the way, revealing a clean-shaven, pale-faced man in a green sweater, brown pants, and black loafers. The sleeves of the sweater were rolled up to his elbows, and the indentation of a wristwatch could be barely seen on his left wrist. Inspecting the table of belongings, Sherlock locates the watch, its hands not moving and no ticking sound coming from within. Next to the watch is the man's wallet, and flipping it open, Sherlock is presented with the ID as well as a crumpled note that falls to the table.

“Ian Harris. This would be the antiques dealer,” he says to John while picking up the note.

“What killed him? I can’t see any wounds on his body.”

“Pufferfish poison.”

“Really? How would he have ingested that?”

“It’d have to be slipped into something he had. Here, the police report says he was found dead at 2:00 pm in his store with two cups of tea on his coffee table. Forensic analysis states the time of death was noon. Whoever was there with him poured the poison in. This is unintelligible; can you read these scribbles?” Sherlock hands John the unfurled note to read. The letters are squiggly blobs, as if the ink was smeared and then dunked in water.

"Blimey, this is really poorly written. I think I see a p there at the front. Could it be a shopping list or something? Maybe it says ‘Peanut butter’.”

“Hmm, good point. I’ll have to come back to this.”

“What about the other victims?”

“Well, each murder is connected in some way. Mr. Harris was murdered with poison that came from a fish. One of the next victims was a fishmonger, Kelvin Baker, and his wife Nina the other. He was found with a gun in his hand and a bullet in his head. She was strangled with a leather belt. Can you guess what the fourth victim's profession was?”

“A leatherworker?”

“Exactly, and not only that, but look at the belt.” Sherlock walks over to the belt that killed Nina and points to a symbol to the left of the buckle.

“What is that? A bull under a tree?” John asks.

“No Watson, well, actually yes, but the important part is that specific symbol. Eric Clarke used this symbol in all of his works.”

“And now he’s dead.”

“Precisely.”

“What does this mean, Sherlock?”

“Whoever is behind this, whoever is going around killing and tying all these victims together, they want to be hunted.”

“They want to? Who would want to be found after doing all this?”

“I suspect it's an art to them. That, or some kind of sick twisted game. Either way, with them still out there, the potential for more murders grows every second.”

“How did Clarke die?”

“A cleaver. Cuts along the throat and knife embedded in the back. The handle had a symbol made of bull horns.”

“So a butcher is the next victim?” Sherlock pauses for a moment, then pulls out his phone.

"Yes, Watson, he certainly was.”

It takes Sherlock and John around 15 minutes to arrive at the butchery. Police were swarming the place, taking pictures at every angle, and they could see a crowd forming inside the meat cooler. Pushing past a few other cops, they come face to face with a man tied to a chair and blood dripping from his mouth. The butcher was still wearing his apron, as well as a jacket over top jeans and thick work boots.

“Oh good, you’re here,” the officer standing next to the chair says as Sherlock crouches and tilts his head to see the face of the victim. He’s tall but skinny, and his shoulders seem to bend forward at an odd angle, like he’s hunching over. His eyes are a dark brown, and his hair is tucked under a police cap.

“Are you Inspector Berkley? I got your text,” he says, still inspecting the mouth of the butcher.

“Yes, that's me. Lestrade’s reached out and told me to allow you to help us catch this nutter. Bloody tragedy this is. I can’t remember anything like this ever happening before. Even in the town's history, it’s just ship disasters. To be honest, this whole week has left me quite knackered. We all feel like we’re chasing some boogeyman. No one’s got a clue who could be behind it; it’s left everyone quite desperate.”

“Who was he?” Sherlock asks.

“William Allen. He was the owner of this shop.”

“What have you been doing to try and keep people safe?” John chimes in.

"Well, we placed a townwide curfew for nine, and we’ve implemented patrols to spread out and report if they see anything suspicious.”

“And they haven't reported anything?” The captain breathes a heavy sigh and turns his attention away from John and back to Sherlock.

“No, we haven’t seen anything. This whole thing is putting my men severely on edge. I'm honestly worried about them freaking out while on patrol. Lots of them are so jumpy nowadays.” John also turns back to Sherlock, still examining the body.

“You alright mate?” John asks him.

“He’s had his teeth pulled out with these forceps.” Sherlock pulls a pair of bloody forceps from an inside pocket of the jacket. “He also has a faint smell of alcohol, the culprit of which could be this small flask.” He sniffs the top a few times before turning back to the captain. “I believe that would be a whisky.”

The police captain leans over slightly to smell the flask as well before standing back up and nodding his head slowly. “Will was... troubled. Had a drinking issue. It doesn’t surprise me he’d keep that on him.”

“And what’s this engraving on the side of the flask?” Sherlock asks Captain Berkley, pointing to the symbol of a shield with a red cross.

“Oh, that’s from The St. George. I’d seen Will there a few times before. He must’ve frequented it more than I thought he did.” Sherlock places the alcohol on the floor and inspects the forceps. They appear brand new, and aside from the blood, they have no other marks or scratches. However, there’s a fine white powdery substance stuck on one of the tips.

“Can you see anything mate? Any clues for who the next target is?” Watson chimes in, leaning over Sherlock and trying to follow his gaze.

“Unfortunately, I believe there may be two,” Sherlock replies, “and if we are wrong, then there will be another body in the morning.”

Sherlock turns and rushes out of the butchery, into the street outside, then down and around the back of the building and stands on the beach, watching the waves and thinking over the details. He pulls out the note that was in Harris’s wallet and stares at the blurred text, trying desperately to find answers in the scrawled note. John follows and slowly walks up next to Sherlock.

“What is it, mate?” He asks as he approaches.

“Just, still trying this out,” Sherlock says, flashing the note to John.

“Okay. I still think it’s a shopping list. Anything you can think of about the case though?” Sherlock pauses, then puts the note back in his pocket and looks over to John.

“Harris died at noon,” he says. “He was found at 2:00, but he died at noon.”

“Yeah, that’s what the report said.”

“What time is it right now, Watson?” John pulls out his phone and checks the time.

“It is... its noon.”

“The Bakers were found at 12:16 in the morning, after the gunshot was heard by neighbours. Clarke was found at 9:20, after regulars noticed his shop still wasn’t open.”

“He died at midnight, didn’t he mate.”

“Yes Watson. I don’t understand. Why connect all these people? What is the point?”

“Besides the murder weapon tying into the next victims, do we have any other clues? I mean, it feels like this time we’ve got two. But how can there be two clues if there’s only supposed to be one killer?”

“I can think of two reasons. One, we’re being forced into a blind 50/50 situation. However, we could have cops protect one of the potential victims.”

“Protect one? Wait a moment, you’re not actually suggesting that we guard the other?”

“I’m not suggesting Watson, and we can ask some officers to come with us. Though I doubt they’d be of any use.”

"Mate this isn’t a bloody James Bond movie! Five people are dead, and we’re on the verge of finding another tonight.”

"Well, would you rather we spread the police to cover both and have one die anyway?”

“I’d rather not be in the path of danger, Sherlock. We already went through that dealing with Abe Slaney. For fucks sake, I got shot in case if you don’t remember! I’d just prefer us to be a bit safer.”

“We had no other option with Slaney. He was already suspicious about coming to the hotel, and he would’ve sneaked out had we not stopped him. In case you don’t remember, I already apologised for that. I’ve said before that I didn’t think he would actually shoot, and when he did, all I could think of was you.” Sherlock breathes in deeply and then sighs exhaustedly. John looks away, slightly warmer than before.

“What’s the other reason?” John asks him.

“What?”

“You said there might be two reasons; there were two clues. What’s the other reason?” Sherlock pauses for a moment, then turns away from John and looks into the sea.

“Misdirection.”

Later that night, the police take Ned Palmer (owner of The St George) and Kristy Palevnos (owner of a private dental clinic) into their custody at the police station for safety. Officers are positioned on surrounding rooftops, some of which have trained sniper rifles. Hidden cameras are placed at the bar and dental practice, as well as the homes of Ned and Kristy. Sherlock and John are once again stuck in the surveillance room, as they have been before. Sherlock bounces his knee excessively, clearly upset at the circumstances.

“It’s gonna be okay mate,” John says, taking his eyes off one of the camera feeds and looking to Sherlock. “They’ll catch whoever’s behind this and put an end to this mess.”

“It’s not a mess, Watson. Everything in this case has been able to link together. It’s all intentional, like a message. I cannot think why someone would do so, nor why we haven’t been able to find anything regarding identity or locations in advance. I feel like a rat constantly chasing a wafting aroma of cheese, only to meet dead ends inside this maze.” Sherlock leans back in his chair, placing his hands over his face, deep in thought. The two officers sitting in front of John were absentmindedly watching the screens, talking to each other casually about lunches. John wrinkles his nose at them and shakes his head.

“I mean, honestly guys, there's only a serial killer on the loose,” he says under his breath. “Can you believe this? We’re trying to find a serial killer, and these two are talking about, 'Oh, I prefer ranch dressing with my salads!’ yadedadedoo. Rubbish.” Sherlock sits up slowly in his chair and removes his hands from his face, placing them in his pocket. A moment later, he pulls the note out once more and strains his eyes to try and see the letters. There, as he holds the note up to a light, lines poke through, casting a shadow of letters on the table below.

However, the letters are not the same blotchy mess as the note, but small, neat shapes that form the phrase “Pda cwia eo wbkkp."

“What the bloody..." John says, trailing off as he continues to examine the note.

“Knife in the back... Watson grab me a pen and paper. Now!” Sherlock is suddenly energised, and as soon as he is given what he needs, he begins to write down different letters. John peers over his shoulder as he writes T, h, e, and g.

“Sherlock what's up mate?” He says worriedly. A moment later, Sherlock stands up and starts pacing around the room. John looks at the phrase that has been written down.

“The game is afoot? Sherlock, what is going on?”

“It was a cypher. You’re talk of salad dressings and how Eric Clarke died. A Caesar Cypher, Watson.” Suddenly, Sherlock feels his phone start to buzz, and taking it out of his pocket reveals a phone call from an unknown number. Not wanting to hesitate, he answers. There’s a moment of silence, as both people on either side of the line just breathe.

“Sherlock Holmes.” The voice was deep and rugged, clearly a man’s.

“Who is this?”

“Iknewnpu. E dwra okiapdejc pk owu. Ykia pk pda hecdpdkqoa.” The phone beeps twice, and as Sherlock lowers it from his head, John can see the screen says “call ended.” Sherlock looks visibly shaken and drops his phone as he looks to John. “You okay mate? What’s going on? Sherlock?” John's questions go unanswered.

As Sherlock stands there, the room slowly becomes static, and black dots float around inside his vision. He knows John is speaking, but everything is muffled, as if he were underwater. His lungs seem to shrink, and every breath draws them tighter, as if he’s suffocating. He looks down at his hands and feels how numb they are. Suddenly, something flashes in his head. Something unimaginable, a feeling so foreign to him that he was now struck with fear. He couldn't believe it. He forgot. He forgot. The man that had nearly ruined his life two years prior. The man that played with him like a toy. His spider, who had cast a web for him to fly into. The one that escaped him. Deep within his mind, he imagines himself suspended in an ocean, thrashing desperately to reach the surface, until a hand plunges into the sea and pulls him upwards.

Suddenly, the numbness in his hands disappears. The static in his vision vanishes, and he hears John asking him if he’s okay. Sherlock blinks twice, then feels the warmth on his cheeks and realises that John is holding his face, his fingers laced behind Sherlock’s head, keeping him upright as he kneels on the floor of the surveillance room. Sherlock gasps loudly, finally being able to breathe in properly. John moves his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders, bracing him as he catches his breath. Sherlock coughs loudly and spits onto the floor before slowing his breathing and swallowing.

“Take your time, mate. You’ve just had a bloody panic attack. Breath. You’re okay. You’re safe.” Sherlock nods slowly, closing his eyes for a second before blinking again. John helps him to his feet, and Sherlock tries to wipe some dirt off his jacket.

“What happened?” John asks again softly.

“I’m afraid this situation just got even worse.

At one in the morning, Sherlock and John run outside the police station. There’s been no movement on any cameras, and none of the lookouts have seen anything suspicious. The pair sprint down the street, towards the harbour and towards the Chapel of St Nicholas.

"Why... are we running to the lighthouse, mate?” John asks as they stop to catch their breaths near a boat.

“The man... over the phone. I’ve heard that voice before. Two years ago, I was in another case with a serial killer, only last time it was in Birmingham. A line of murders, only connected by the murder weapon and next victim. They were carried out by a self-proclaimed rival of mine. His name was James Moriarty. He managed to escape and went completely off the grid until now, when he decided to continue his spree.

As my ‘rival’, he would leave clues specifically intended for me to find and solve. He wanted me to hunt him, luring me deeper and deeper into his maze. The last time I had seen him, he was standing on the other side of a railway track from me. He told me that I had disappointed him and that he hoped I’d be better in the future. That it was too easy to escape my grip. Not catching him was my biggest failure.”

“So why are we going to the lighthouse?”

“‘Iknewnpu. E dwra okiapdejc pk owu. Ykia pk pda hecdpdkqoa.’ That was what he said to me over the phone. When I asked who was there, he responded. It was a caesar cypher. It translates to ‘Moriarty. I have something to say. Come to the lighthouse.’”

“So he’s admitting to everything then?”

“I doubt it will be that simple. Moriarty is no fool. This is likely some kind of trap.”

“And we’re just going to willingly walk into it?”

“Good job Watson; you’ve caught on.” Sherlock flashes a slight smile at John as he continues up the path. The lighthouse is visible now, just on the other side of the hill. Its stone foundation slightly hangs over one edge of the cliff, and John can see stairs curling up to a door. Wind flows gently up from the beach, though in the given circumstances it lends to a more intimidating atmosphere. Dark clouds loom overhead, threatening to spill the water contained inside at any moment. Over the ocean, lightning flashes; the thunder rolling made John jump slightly. At the top of the hill sits the lone chapel, made of pale brick and covered on one side in a thick layer of bright green vines. It looks more like a house, except for the small white dome sticking up from the back half of the roof. The windows are all dark except for the dome, which periodically flashes a bright green light to the ocean beyond. Yellow lights positioned farther down the hill illuminate the ground around the chapel, and John takes a moment to look out on the sea. He can see the wall of rain slowly moving towards the town, falling onto the waves below. He stands there for another moment , watching the storm, before walking over to Sherlock who stands at the front door, his hand hovering over the handle.

“Ready?” he asks, looking back to John. John nods, not questioning the gun Sherlock holds in his other hand.

The door creaks open loudly, echoing into the chapel. It’s pitch black inside, and as John turns his phone torch on, the light bounces not against a wooden or stone floor but against a bright pool of red that smears from the entrance further into the chapel. Sherlock and John look at each other for a moment, contemplating, before Sherlock calls out into the darkness.

“Hello!? Is anyone there? James?” The wind outside presses against the building, air finding small gaps in windows and chilling the inside. The hair on John’s arms and neck rise slowly, and he can feel the bumpiness of his skin under his sweater. It’s small and cramped inside; two spare rooms aside from the main one with only two pews. Sherlock kneels down to look at the red marks.

“It’s blood. Someone was dragged through here with substantial bleeding. Fairly fresh as well, had to have been in the last hour.”

“Which would’ve been midnight,” John says, a grim expression on his face. Pointing his torch to the other end of the room, the pair follow the drag marks until the spot on the floor turns into a puddle, and at the center of the puddle sat a large burlap sack. John grabs onto Sherlock's hand and leans into his arm.

“Sherlock, I really don’t like this mate.”

“I… feel like I need to open it.”

“Are you serious? We need to leave and call the police!”

“I already have Watson, before we came in. I saw the blood pooling at the bottom of the doorframe. They’ll be here in a few minutes. We have to find Moriarty before that happens.”

“Okay. Open it.” John releases Sherlocks hand as he approaches the bag. It sags to one side, and the bottom is the same color as the puddle surrounding it. Sherlock takes the string tying the bag together and slowly pulls it apart, like a bow on a christmas present. He reaches his hand out for the torch, and brings it to the opening of the bag.

“It’s… a sheep's head?”

“A what?”

“There are slices of meat underneath the head. There’s something else too, near the bottom. It's reflecting the light.”

“Can we hurry just a little, mate? I don’t really like standing here in the dark.” John glances around, trying to focus on adjusting his eyes. I am definitely going to need new shoes, he thinks to himself.

“One moment.” Sherlock holds his breath, then reaches his hand inside the bag and grasps a hold of something small and cylindrical. Pulling it up from the sack, Sherlock points the torch at the object as John leans over to get a better look. It was a bullet, 9mm and intact.

“What does it mean mate?” John asks. Sherlock looks intently at the bullet, trying to pry open the wall of the maze and find the exit. Suddenly his eyes shoot to the front door. He quickly puts the torch out.

Through the wind, John can hear the jostle of the door handle, and the creak of the door slowly opening. Every millimeter fills John with more dread, and as a dark shape creeps in, a flash of lightning illuminates the face of the figure.

“Berkley?!” John asks, “Blimey mate, did you have to freak us out like that?” Inspector Berkley flicks his torch on.

“Oh, heh, sorry John. Although I think it’s just you that I spooked. Sherlock looks al…right.” Berkley’s voice trails off as he locks eyes with the bag of meat. “What the hell is that?”

“That,” Sherlock replies, “is a burlap sack with a sheep’s head in it.”

“Okay. Is that supposed to be a message?”

“I’m not sure. It just appears to be a bag of meat.” John glances over at Sherlock with a confused expression, which Sherlock responds with a stern look before looking back at Berkley.

“Well, you called for backup. Was the killer here?”

“No, he wasn’t,” Sherlock says as he stands and starts walking towards the door. He suddenly spins, wheeling his balled up fist into Berkley’s left cheek and causing the inspector to stumble over, dropping his torch and bouncing his head against the wooden floor.

“Jesus christ mate!” John yells as he picks up the torch and points it at Berkley. Sherlock is on top of him a moment later, pressing a gun against his forehead.

“Phone the police Watson! Tell them James Moriarty has been caught!”

The man that had claimed to be Berkley sat outside with his back against the wall of the chapel. The small ledge on the roof protects John and Sherlock from the rain, and they watched as police lights zoomed through the streets of the town, towards the lighthouse. Moriarty was silent, his hands tied behind him with shoestrings that Sherlock stole from John’s shoes. When John looked over at him, he could’ve sworn he saw Moriarty smile.

When the police arrived and placed Moriarty in the back, he turned to Sherlock with a toothy grin and said “I’ll be seeing you then.” Sherlock stared deeply into his face with deep resentment, then shut the door. It was only after John patted him on the back that he noticed his whole body had tensed up, and he relaxed as he sighed.

“How did you know Berkley was actually Moriarty?” John asks.

“It’s annoyingly simple really. The bullet was a 9mm. Cops carry Glock-17s, which fire 9mm. The sheep’s head was the give away.”

“How so?”

“The Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing. I’m dumbfounded at how blatant this whole case has been. And yet at every step I tricked myself into thinking it can’t be as simple as it seems to be.”

“I think you’re being too harsh on yourself mate. Didn’t you say Moriarty was some mastermind? Maybe he wanted to mess with your head. Make you doubt the obvious. You’re also overworked, I can tell you that for certain.”

“It can’t be this easy. I feel so… unfulfilled. He must have something up his sleeve.”

“What could he do mate? He’s in cuffs in police hands, there’s nowhere he could go.”

“He’s gotten away before.”

“He wasn’t arrested before.”

The rain has slowed now, resting into a light sprinkle. John watches Sherlock as the cop cars drive away, staring at how the rain drops hang gently over his eyelashes.

“Well Watson,” Sherlock says turning to John, “how about we get some rest before we leave tomorrow?”

“Are you actually going to sleep or will you find a random beam to hang upside down on?”

“I guess you’ll have to figure that out for yourself.” Sherlock offers a slight smile, which John reflects and grabs his hand.

“Yeah. Let's go mate.”

The End