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j-eryewrites · 3 months

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The Great Game (II)

Part 20 of The Arbitrary Lives of the Occupants of 221 B Baker Street

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SERIES MASTER LIST | MAIN MASTER LIST

Word Count: 5.7k

Author's Note: Agh! Finally. It has been so long since I have been able to write for Sherlock, John, and Y/N. Man, am I glad to be back? The chapter is not as long as I hoped it would be, but I am proud of it nonetheless. I hope I haven't made you all wait too long for this chapter.

Warnings: Crime scenes, gore, mentions of violence, canon typical violence, Sherlock is Sherlock (Let me know if I missed anything)

There was something weird. Greg couldn’t grasp it as he sat across Sherlock, John, and Y/N. John was fine if Greg excluded the serial bomber/killer case that they had on their hands. No, John wasn’t the problem. It was Y/N and Sherlock.

Greg’s eyes narrowed on the two of them. Sherlock bore his ever-expressionless face, but Greg was a cop, which meant he could read people, even if it weren’t up to Sherlock’s standard. It was the eyes that gave the consulting detective away as they subtly glanced over at Y/N. Greg stifled a snicker. Sherlock, no matter how hard he tried, could never be subtle. The man’s nature was to be bold and straightforward, something that became even more apparent in areas outside his expertise, such as love.

“She lives in Cornwall,” Lestrade began upon realizing he’d been staring at them for a few minutes. “Two men broke in wearing masks, forced her to drive to the car park, and decked her out in enough explosives to take down a house. Told her to phone you. She had to read out from this pager.” Greg placed the small pager on the desk in front of them.

Sherlock immediately snatched it away like an overzealous toddler. “And if she deviated by one word, the sniper would set her off,” Sherlock finished.

“Or if you hadn't solved the case,” John added. He crossed his arms and looked down. The lines marking John’s face began to deepen just as they did during his time in the war.

“Oh… Elegant!” Sherlock smirked.

Greg, Y/N, and John collectively raised their brows. “Elegant?” Y/N questioned. Sherlock didn’t answer her.

“But what was the point? Why would anyone do this?” Lestrade asked, sensing something more behind Sherlock’s words.

“Oh, I can't be the only person in the world who gets bored,” Sherlock said, and an unwavering worry filled Y/N’s eyes.

“Sherlock, what do you mean by that?” Y/N wondered.

However, the pink phone buzzed before Sherlock could send her another glance. “You have one new message,” it chimed before beeping four times. The group froze.

“Four pips,” John noted.

“First test passed, it would seem” Sherlock pulled out the phone, and a new image displayed on the screen. “Here's the second.” They all leaned close to get a good look at the pixelated photo. “It's abandoned, wouldn't you say?” Sherlock questioned.

The image displayed was a car. Blood covered the seats and stained the inner lining of the vehicle. From the image alone, they all knew there was a murder. It was another puzzle Sherlock would need to solve.

“I'll see if it's been reported,” Lestrade said before turning his laptop to scan the incident reports filed by the station.

A new noise entered the fray as Greg clacked away at the keyboard. It was a knock on the door. The air soured as John, Sherlock, and Y/N looked to her, who stood there, Donovan.

Distaste marked her face as she scowled at Sherlock. She raised a phone. “Freak, it's for you.”

Y/n tensed upon hearing those words. No matter how often she came to Sherlock’s defense, that name always floated around. It was inescapable. She hated how a brilliant mind like his was hated and feared. Watching Sherlock calmly retrieve the phone from Donovan’s hand made Y/N’s heart clench. She knew he wasn’t okay with the name that haunted him. Maybe one day, she’d be able to get them to stop. Maybe Y/N could make Sherlock no longer hurt. She’d save him.

“Hello?” Sherlock lifted the phone to his ear.

A hesitant breath echoed over the phone. It was as if whoever was on the other end was terrified of breathing incorrectly. “It's okay that you've gone to the police,” the voice spoke. It was a young man based on intonation and pitch.

“Who is this?” Sherlock questioned. His phone gripped the phone tighter. “Is this you again?”

The voice ignored Sherlock’s questions and continued reading the message the true villain had written. “But don't rely on them. Clever you, guessing about Carl Powers. I never liked him.” The sound of traffic blared through the phone, and Sherlock’s breath hitched. The voice was somewhere crowded. “Carl laughed at me and her, so I stopped him laughing.”

Sherlock’s ears perked up. The killer had slipped up. A small smile crept onto his face, and his blue eyes peered over at Y/N, who was watching him. “Her?” Sherlock repeated. The voice over the phone was silent. An answer was not coming, so instead, Sherlock changed his approach. “And you've stolen another voice, I presume.”

“This is about you and me,” the voice said.

“Who are you? What's that noise?”

“The sounds of life, Sherlock. But don't worry…I can soon fix that,” The voice shuddered as a sob broke through. “You solved my last puzzle in nine hours. This time, you have eight.”

Withdrawing the phone from his ear, Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Whatever this criminal would throw at him, he’d solve it. He’d do anything to keep everyone safe.

“Okay… Great. We've found it!” Lestrade beamed. John and Y/N sat up, eager to hear what was in store. “The car was hired yesterday morning by Ian Monkford. Banker of some kind, City boy. Paid in cash. He told his wife he was going on a business trip but never arrived.”

Sherlock nodded his head. There was a momentary pause and a consensus agreement. All at once, Greg, Y/N, John, and Sherlock turned to leave the station and head to the crime scene. Sherlock led the way, and John and Lestrade trailed close behind. Y/N’s pace was slower than the others, and as she attempted to catch up to them, a head of dark curly hair stopped her.

Donovan held out her hand to Y/N’s chest, stopping her movement. She looked Y/N up and down before opening her mouth to speak. “You're still hanging around him.”

Y/N’s jaw clenched. “Yeah, well…”

“Opposites attract, I suppose,” Donovan interrupted.

Y/N’s eyes widened, and before her silence could turn into a confession, she exclaimed, “Sherlock and I aren’t–”

Donovan couldn't care less as she spoke over Y/N once more. “You should get yourself a hobby – stamps, maybe. Cosmetics. Safer.”

Scoffing, Y/N brushed Donovan’s hand away. “If anyone needs to get a hobby, it’s you. After all, you like sticking your nose into people’s business and marriages.” Y/N didn’t stay to see Donovan’s stunned face. After all, the woman wasn’t worth it.

_____

A deep sigh escaped Lestrade's mouth as he placed his hands on his hips, watching Sherlock dive his head into the abandoned car. "Before you ask," Lestrade began watching as Sherlock's mouth instinctively closed. "Yes, it's Monkford's blood. The DNA checks out."

John and Y/N frowned as they peered into the car. Policemen and women were hard at work scouring the crime scene for anything that could be evidence. Forgotten buildings between destruction and construction made it hard to determine what was part of the crime and what was just there. The noise of everything around them was deafening, drowning out the puzzle pieces of the crime scene. Blood was everywhere in the vehicle, and…

"No body," Sherlock stated, placing a small slip of paper into his pocket. Y/N's eyes narrowed as the sheet of white disappeared into his coat. She couldn't help but smile softly at herself.

"Not yet," Donovan corrected as they walked past, dropping off a new bag of potential evidence.

"Get a sample sent to the lab," Sherlock instructed before moving on to his next target: the distraught woman standing at the edge of the crime scene. "Mrs Monkford?" Sherlock asked.

The woman looked up at Sherlock, tears in her eyes and trails of mascara running down her face. "Yes." She looked Sherlock up and down, raising her head to meet his gaze. "Sorry, but I've already spoken with two policemen," Mrs. Monkford explained.

"No," John corrected. "We're not from the police, we're…" His eyes glanced over to Y/N, who gave him an uncertain shrug. They were from the police, but not the police. They solved crimes and cases, but it was more of a personal business consultation.

Suddenly, a sharp sniffle escaped Sherlock's mouth. With stunned faces, John and Y/N whirled around to see Sherlock's eyes pink and tears rolling out. The shock soon faded to reveal confusion. What the hell was Sherlock doing? It was the collective thought between the two friends.

"Sherlock Holmes," he tearfully introduced. "A very old friend of your husband's. We, um…we grew up together."

Y/N was the first to catch on to Sherlock's bluff. She had to admit it was compelling. Each pause and somber glance at Mrs. Monkford seemed to grow in sincerity.

"I'm sorry, who?" Mrs. Monkford took Sherlock's hand and shook it. "I don't think he ever mentioned you."

"Oh," Sherlock said, "he must have done. This is… this is horrible, isn't it?" He looked to John and Y/N, who did not waste time nodding solemnly to Sherlock's act. "I mean, I just can't believe it. I only saw him the other day. Same old Ian – not a care in the world."

The saddened look in Mrs. Monkford's eyes hardened upon hearing Sherlock's words. "Sorry, but my husband has been depressed for months." She stood up straighter to get a better look at Sherlock. "Who are you?" She asked once again.

If Y/N weren't looking, she wouldn't caught the slight smirk that flashed across Sherlock's face. Soon, the sadness in Sherlock's voice was replaced by his calculated nature. "Really strange that he hired a car. Why would he do that? It's a bit suspicious, isn't it?"

Shaking her head, Mrs. Monkford refuted Sherlock's question. "No, it isn't. He forgot to renew the tax on the car, that's all."

Instantly, the mask was back on and amped up the act a hundred times stronger. "Oh, well, that was Ian! That was Ian all over!" Sherlock exclaimed, earning looks from the policemen and women working the crime scene.

"No, it wasn't," Mrs. Monkford snapped.

"Wasn't it?" Any trace of deception was gone. Sherlock was back. "Interesting," he muttered before turning on the ball of his foot out of the crime scene.

Y/N and John darted after Sherlock; their lungs heaved when they reached him. John silently cursed Sherlock's long legs. "Why did you lie to her?" John wondered.

"People don't like telling you things," Sherlock explained smugly, "but they love to contradict you. Past tense, did you notice?"

"Sorry, what?" Y/N asked, trying to match her pace to Sherlock's.

"I referred to her husband in the past tense," Sherlock noted. "She joined in. Bit premature – they've only just found the car."

"You think she murdered her husband?" John questioned, quickly glancing over his shoulder at Mrs. Monkford, whose figure kept growing smaller and smaller with each step he took.

"Definitely not," Sherlock stated. "That's not a mistake a murderer would make."

"I see," John nodded. Y/N peeked out in front of Sherlock's body to look at John and raised her brows, asking for a clue. In response, he shrugged and shook his head, " Never mind, no, I don't. What am I seeing?"

"Where are we going now?" Y/N interjected as Sherlock led them to a cab waiting on the side of the road. Hoping in, he patted the seat next to him.

"Janus Cars," Y/N and John trickled into the leather seats. Once the doors closed, Sherlock pulled out the tiny card he had collected from the rental car. "Just found this in the glove compartment." He passed it over to John and Y/N, who took turns observing the paper. JANUS CARS was in all caps in the center of the business card.

"A bit bold for my taste," Y/N muttered, earning a few smiles from her companions.

______

It was a typical car garage. Mechanics scribbled on their clipboards as they diagnosed the issue with the cars in the shop. Y/N stood at the office window, watching them work so as not to acknowledge the overzealous man sitting behind the desk.

She had glanced at the man in his freshly pressed suit, sharp tan lines, and overly gelled hair. Working with Sherlock had its ups and downs, and one such down was running into men like Mr. Ewert, who believed they deserved the world just for existing.

"Can't see how I can help you, gentlemen," Mr. Ewert said. Y/N cleared her throat and continued to look out the window with a careful ear listening in. "And lady."

"Mr. Monkford hired the car from you yesterday," John read from Lestrade's notes.

Ewert nodded and slumped back into his office chair. His hands came to rest on top of the walnut-colored desk. "Yeah. Lovely motor," Ewert said. "Mazda RX-8. Wouldn't mind one of them myself!"

He flashed a smile and glanced around the room, looking for validation for the comment about the car.

Sherlock allowed the urge to roll his eyes to overcome him. He glanced over to Y/N. His eyes dissected every part of her as his heart pounded in her chest. Quickly shaking his head, he tore his focus off Y/N and onto the car, visible through the window. "Is that one?" He asked.

"No," Ewert shook his head. "They're all Jags." He peered at Sherlock and chuckled, "Yeah, I can see you're not a car man, eh?"

Sherlock frowned, unsure of what Ewert was insinuating. "But, er, surely you can afford one – a Mazda, I mean?"

Ewert sank even deeper into his chair and grinned. "Yeah, it's a fair point. But you know how it is." He looked to John, who sat in front of him. "It's like working in a sweetshop. Once you start picking at the licorice allsorts, when does it all stop, eh?"

"But you didn't know Mr. Monkford?" John asked, ignoring Ewert's attempts at relation.

"No," Ewert shook his head. "He was just a client. Came in here and hired one of my cars. No idea what happened to him. Poor sod!"

At this, Y/N peered over her shoulder and frowned. Her eyes caught sight of Sherlock's, who honed in on hers. His blue eyes flickered with the same realization. They had only come asking about Mr. Monkford and the car he hired—nothing about anything happening to the man.

"Nice holiday, Mr. Ewert?" Sherlock inquired, sending Y/N a brief smile before returning to his questioning subject.

"Eh?" Ewert frowned.

"You've been away, haven't you?" Sherlock clarified.

"Oh, the-the…" Ewert's relaxed expression faltered under Sherlock's harsh gaze. "No, it's, er, sunbeds, I'm afraid, yeah. Too busy to get away. My wife would love it, though – a bit of sun."

"Have you got any change for the cigarette machine?" Sherlock blurted.

"What?" Ewert asked.

"Well," Sherlock sighed. "I noticed one on the way in and I haven't got any change." He took out a bill and showed it to Ewert.

Y/N bit her lip, hiding her frown. Her and Mrs. Hudson's mission was to get Sherlock to stop. Mrs Hudson stated that Sherlock needed to pay her for all the damages in his flat, but Y/N knew it was because she genuinely cared. They both did, and with each day, Y/N cared more and more. Maybe she cared too much for her own good.

"I'm gasping," Sherlock pleaded.

Pulling out his wallet and flicking through the colorful bills, Ewert shook his head. "Um, well…No, sorry."

"Oh well," Sherlock said before strolling to the door. "Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Ewert. You've been very helpful." Noticing John and Y/N still stood in their places, Sherlock called out to them. "Come on, John and Y/N."

John hurriedly shut his book full of notes and pocketed them before pulling out his wallet. Meanwhile, Y/N pulled her attention away from the cars. It was honestly like watching some paint dry.

John opened the wallet and pulled out some change. "I-I've got change if you still want to, uh…" he motioned to the cigarette machine before catching sight of Y/N's eyes. Ashamed, he looked down and hid his wallet away.

"Nicotine patches," Sherlock proudly announced. "Remember? I'm doing well."

"I told you to cut back on those, Sherlock," Y/N hissed. She'd swore she'd gotten everything out of the flat the other day. However, Sherlock's elusiveness always got the best of her.

"I need them to think," Sherlock defended.

"Well, that doesn’t sound very healthy to me," she retorted. Sherlock huffed and peered down at the woman.

Sensing a brewing argument, John stepped in and took charge. "So what was that all about?"

"I needed to look inside his wallet," Sherlock stated.

"Why?" John wondered.

"Cause he's a liar/Mr. Ewert's a liar." Y/N and Sherlock said at the same time.

Sherlock gazed down at Y/N in awe. A proud smile adorned his face as he hopped in the cab awaiting them. As John and Y/N made their way into the car, they found their path stopped by Sherlock.

"What are you doing?" John asked as he was pushed out of the cab and onto the curb with Y/N.

"Going to the lab," Sherlock announced. John and Y/N frowned. "I need silence."

"He means he doesn't want us going with him."

"An astute observation, Y/N." Sherlock sat back in the seat. "We need beans and milk."

With that, the cab door closed, and Sherlock was gone. Y/N groaned into her hand as John cursed, hailing another cab.

It was a couple of moments before another cab came around, and the two of them scrambled inside. Once the door was closed and on their way back to Baker Street, Y/n turned to John.

"Tea at mine?"

John nodded. "How's Bjørn? Haven't seen him for a while."

"He's good." Y/N chuckled. I'm starting to think Bjørn's in the right with his dislike of Sherlock.

John snickered, "the animals always know."

"That they do."

A wave of giggles filled the back seat of the cab. Y/N smiled. She was glad she had a friend in John. It was safe to say John felt the same way.

______

The lab was quiet—just as Sherlock liked it—had. It was too quiet now. His thoughts thundered and screamed at him—thoughts of Y/N, the cases, who M may be, and most of all, thoughts of Y/N.

The shoes that started this all were found in her flat. It was a message not just about the shoes but also about her. M knew. M knew Sherlock held sentiment towards her. That Sherlock loved her. Sherlock shook his head. Sherlock had to protect her from M, and so to protect her, he'd make himself stop loving her. He had to, even if he knew it was an impossible task. Sherlock had to make himself stop, even if he knew he never could. He loved her. So, deciding the next best thing was to make her stop caring for him. Sherlock was good at that; that task itself was not impossible; just figuring out how was the next step.

While his mind configured a plan, Sherlock narrowed his eyes and peered into the telescope before him. He pulled back and frowned. Just then, the pink phone on the countertop beside him rang.

"Hello?" Sherlock answered.

"The clue's in the name," the voice announced. "Janus Cars."

Sherlock furrowed his brows. "Why would you be giving me a clue?"

"Why does anyone do anything?" The voice spoke. "Because I'm bored. We were made for each other, Sherlock." The man reading the message sobbed.

"Then talk to me in your own voice," Sherlock demanded.

"Patience," the man said, and the call ended. Sherlock sighed and glanced around the room. It was empty except for him, and he grew to hate the loneliness he felt. He missed Y/N and John's presence. He missed his friends. He missed her. Groaning, Sherlock began to realize how difficult his plan would be, and for the first time in his life, he was not sure he had the strength to see it through. But for now, a case needed to be solved. Solving the case was the best way to keep those he loved safe until he could figure something else out.

_______

"How much blood was on that seat, would you say?" Sherlock asked Lestrade.

"How much? About a pint," Lestrade replied, shoving his hands in his coat to conceal his shivers. The garage where the police had stored the car from the scene only seemed to amplify the freezing temperatures outside. It appeared that even John and Y/N were inflicted by the cold. All except Sherlock. Lestrade peered at Sherlock and the coat he wore. Now that he thought of it, Lestrade wondered if he'd ever seen Sherlock shiver. Maybe he needed to ask Sherlock where he purchased his coat.

"Not 'about," Sherlock corrected. "Exactly a pint. That was their first mistake. The blood's definitely Ian Monkford's, but it's been frozen."

"Frozen?" Greg repeated.

"There are clear signs," Sherlock noted, and Y/N sighed, recalling the frozen and boiling blood experiment Sherlock had conducted in his flat not too long ago. "I think Ian Monkford gave a pint of his blood some time ago, and that's what they spread on the seats."

"Who did?" John wondered.

"Janus Cars," Sherlock answered, murmuring under his breath, "The clue's in the name."

"The god with two faces," Y/N blurted, missing Sherlock's proud smile. "Sorry, I was really interested in mythology as a kid. "

"Exactly," Sherlock beamed.

"Mmm," John hummed, looking at how Sherlock gazed at Y/N. Upon hearing John's gaze, Sherlock tore his eyes away and strolled to the car.

"They provide a very special service," Sherlock began. "If you've got any kind of a problem – money troubles, bad marriage, whatever – Janus Cars will help you disappear. Ian Monkford was up to his eyes in some kind of trouble – financial, at a guess; he's a banker. Couldn't see a way out. But if he were to vanish if the car he hired was found abandoned with his blood all over the driver's seat…"

"So where is he?" John asked.

"Colombia," Sherlock replied.

"Colombia?!" Lestrade gasped with his eyes growing wide. Dealing with police affairs in London was hard enough as it was, but to add a case involving another country? He certainly was not paid enough for that.

"Mr. Ewert of Janus Cars had a twenty thousand Colombian peso note in his wallet…" Sherlock glanced at John and Y/N, hoping they'd connect.

"That's why you asked for change," Y/N said.

Sherlock nodded. "…Quite a bit of change, too. He told us he hadn't been abroad recently, but when I asked him about the cars, I could see his tan line clearly. No one wears a shirt on a sunbed. That, plus his arm."

"His arm?" Lestrade asked, confused by all the inside knowledge shared between John, Y/N, and Sherlock.

"Kept scratching it," Sherlock explained. "Obviously irritating him and bleeding."

John opened his mouth to say something when Sherlock cut him off, anticipating his question. "Why? Because he'd recently had a booster jab. Hep-B, probably. It is difficult to tell at that distance. Conclusion: he'd just returned from settling Ian Monkford into his new life in Columbia. Mrs Monkford cashes in the life insurance, and she splits it with Janus Cars."

"M-Mrs Monkford?" John questioned.

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Oh yes. She's in on it, too." Lestrade felt his head growing dizzy from all the back-and-forth. The calling of his name snapped him out of the daze. Looking to who called him, Lestrade found Sherlock, who was ready to relay his next instruction.

"Now go and arrest them, Inspector. That's what you do best. We need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved. I am on fire!" Sherlock's cheer and a particular pink phone ringing echoed throughout the garage.

Sherlock answered, placing the phone on speaker. Lestrade, John, and Y/N grew silent as they listened. "He says you can come and fetch me. Help. Help me, please."

______

It wasn't until they had stopped at Speedy's to recuperate that Y/N realized her exhaustion. Her head hung heavy as it rested against the table. Once full of eggs, toast, and some sausage, her plate was now licked clean. John was in a similar state. However, he chose to lean back in the chair rather than collapse on the table. Sherlock, however, sat tall. His spine was as straight as a needle, and his blue eyes were observed in his companion's sluggish behavior.

"Feeling better?" Sherlock uttered.

"Mmm," John groaned. "You realize we've hardly stopped for breath since this thing started? Has it occurred to you…?"

"Probably," Sherlock answered.

John shook his head as Y/N tilted hers to look up at him and Sherlock. "No, " John continued. "Has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope, breaking into Y/N’s flat, the dead kid's shoes – it's all meant for you."

At the mention of all the cases, the shoes, the break-in. The group grew quiet. Y/N gulped and suddenly wished she hadn't stuffed her face with food a few minutes prior.

"…Yes, I know." Sherlock was the first to break the silence.

"Is it him, then? Moriarty?" John asked.

Y/N's ears perked up. There was something about that name—Moriarty. Yes, it was part of the case. "M" equaled Moriarty, but that didn't interest her. Something long and forgotten called to her via the name. Although a part of her desired to understand, another feared what would happen if it was discovered.

"Perhaps," Sherlock muttered. The pink phone on the table buzzed before chiming three times. The three of them peered at the photo that appeared on the screen. While Sherlock's face was confused, John and Y/N's eyes widened with recognition. The bleached blonde hair in a choppy bob, well-defined side part, dark purple eye shadow, red lips, and big, bold, shiny earrings could only be one person.

"That could be anybody," Sherlock grumbled.

"Well, it could be, yeah." John shrugged. "Lucky for you, Y/N and I have too much time on our hands."

"How d'you mean?" Sherlock asked, glancing between the two of them.

"Lucky for you, Mrs. Hudson, Y/N, and I watch far too much telly," John clarified. Turning over his shoulder, John pointed to the television in the cafe's corner.

The woman from the photo appeared on the screen. She said With a bright, cheery smile, "Thank you, Tyra! Doesn't she look lovely, everybody, now?"

Suddenly, the pink phone rang, pulling the group's attention away from the telly.

"Anyway, speaking of silk purses and sows' ears…," the television continued.

"Hello?" Sherlock answered.

"This one… is a bit… defective. Sorry. She's blind," the voice cracked. Y/N's eyes widened, and she quickly covered her mouth to silence any leaking noise. "This is… a funny one. I'll give you… twelve hours."

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock asked.

"I like… to watch you… dance," the woman gasped, and the phone call ended.

Y/N paled as she looked at Sherlock. She always called it 'dancing' when Sherlock solved his cases. That's the only way she could explain it to others. With each puzzle, the fear in Y/N's stomach pooled. Yes, this was for Sherlock, but she began questioning her role in it all. Not everything could be a coincidence: her flat, the familiarity of Moriarty, now the dancing. It all leads to her being a target, too.

The telly seemed to deafen Y/N's anxious thoughts,"…continuing into the sudden death of the popular TV personality, Connie Prince. Miss Prince, famous for her make-over programs, was found dead two days ago by her brother in the house they shared in Hampstead…"

As they watched the television, Y/N made a silent prayer. A prayer that they'd solve these cases, catch whoever Moriarty was, and, most of all, have everyone make it out in the end. Peering over at Sherlock, she prayed that he'd solve it in time and, if her worst fears were confirmed, save her.

______

Y/N only needed one glance at the body before she was confident she was going to be sick. She'd seen bodies before. It was all a part of the job, but after the dancing men case, seeing the dead only made things harder. Y/N blamed it on her empathy. She cared too much about people. It didn't matter if they were people she knew, watched on the television, or just everyday folks whom she passed by on the street. People were people, and no one deserved to die in a manner like this. No one deserved to be killed.

"Connie Prince," Lestrade stated as he looked down at the body on the slab. Sherlock circled around the table, scanning every aspect of the deceased woman. "Fifty-four. She had one of those make-over shows on the telly. Did you see it?"

"No," Sherlock shook his head as Y/N and John nodded.

Lestrade took note of John and Y/N's reaction and turned to the conversation with them, allowing Sherlock the space to work his magic. "Very popular. She was going places," Lestrade said.

Before John could concur, Sherlock interjected, "Not anymore."

An uncomfortable silence fell over the group, and Y/N felt the contents of her stomach stir. She swore there was a bathroom somewhere down the hall.

"So," Sherlock continued, unaffected by the silence he created. "Dead two days. According to one of her staff, Raoul de Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden. Nasty wound," he noted, looking at the cut along the palm of her hand. "Tetanus bacteria enters the bloodstream. Good night, Vienna."

"I suppose," John murmured.

Sherlock stopped prowling around the body and frowned. "Something's wrong with this picture," he said.

"Eh?" Lestrade raised a brow.

"Can't be as simple as it seems," Sherlock explained. "Otherwise, the bomber wouldn't be directing us towards it. Something's wrong. John?"

"Mmm?" John hummed, looking away from the body.

"The cut on her hand: it's deep; would have bled a lot, right?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded, "Yeah." Then he began to walk around the body just as Sherlock had, hoping to uncover the fault in the picture. However, no matter how much he scrunched his face, he could find anything.

"But the wound's clean – very clean and fresh. How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?" Sherlock questioned.

"Eight, ten days," John answered. Immediately, his eyes widened. "The cut was made later."

"After she was dead?" Greg asked in clarification, stepping to the body to look at the cut.

"Must have been. The only question is," Sherlock wondered, "how did the tetanus enter the dead woman's system?" Sherlock whirled around to John and Y/N. "You two want to help, right?"

"Of course," John replied. Y/N nodded, trying to keep her food down.

"Connie Prince's background – family history, everything. Give me data," Sherlock instructed.

"Right," John said, making haste to leave the room. He flashed Y/N a look of concern as the two of them left the room, who whispered she was fine.

"There's something else that we haven't thought of," said Lestrade once Y/N and John were gone.

"Is there?" Sherlock pondered.

"Yes. Why is he doing this," Lestrade began, "the bomber? If this woman's death was suspicious, why point it out?"

"Good Samaritan," Sherlock jokingly stated.

"…who press-gangs suicide bombers?" questioned Lestrade.

Sherlock frowned. "Bad Samaritan."

"I'm – I'm serious, Sherlock." Lestrade pulled Sherlock to face him, staring him deep in the eye. "Listen, I'm cutting you slack here; I'm trusting you, and so is John and Y/N – but out there somewhere, some poor bastard's covered in Semtex and is just waiting for you to solve the puzzle. So just tell me - what are we dealing with?"

"Something new," Sherlock said with an unconscious smile growing on his face. "Come with me, Gary."

"Where are we going?" Greg asked as Sherlock hastily left the room without answering him. "…and it's Greg."

It was not long before Greg discovered their destination, 221 B Baker Street. However, he was still unsure why Sherlock had him come along. His dark eyes watched as Sherlock paced and twirled around the room, muttering to himself. Sometimes, Lestrade questioned whether or not this was all a show. Sherlock seemed to enjoy impressing an audience, not that Greg doubted Sherlock's abilities. The consulting detective was a genius; that knowledge was a certainty. It was the performance, the pauses, eye rolls, and smirks as he deducted each crime scene. It was almost as if Sherlock was excessively enjoying this all.

"Connection, connection, connection," Sherlock mumbled. "There must be a connection. Carl Powers was killed twenty years ago. The bomber knew him; admitted that he knew him." Lestrade nodded, trying to follow along." The bomber's iPhone was in stationery from the Czech Republic. First hostage from Cornwall; the second from London; the third from Yorkshire, judging by her accent." Sherlock stopped and looked at his makeshift mural on the living room wall with pictures of evidence from each puzzle. "What's he doing – working his way round the world? Showing off?"

"Sound like someone I know," Lestrade wanted to say, but the pink phone rang before he could.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" the old woman repeated to Sherlock. "Joining the… dots. Three hours. Boom… boom," she sobbed before the phone was cut off.

Sherlock lowered the phone. The game had begun long ago, and now it was nearing its end. He could feel it deep within him and was determined to win.

_____

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