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j-eryewrites · 6 months ago

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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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Feel free to comment and reblog! I love hearing your thoughts.

Comment below if you'd like to be added to the tag list! (or if I forgot you)

Tag list:

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@biggerthancalli13

@themartiansdaughter

@sunsumonner

@silversword7000

@starlightaurorab

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@untoldshortsofthefandoms

@enchantedreader

_____

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strawberrywinter4 · 9 months ago

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Stories of unprecedented events, odd occurrences, the feeling that something isn’t quite right always sends a delightful shiver of suspense down my spine.

Something eerie and momentarily heart stopping makes an appearance through the thick air of a small town. Everyone is on high alert, rumors are spoken amongst hushed voices, authority figures are denying “outlandish” claims.

Portraying stories like this is though commonly used, incredibly exciting. It never fails to leave me at the edge of my seat in anticipation.

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darkfictionjude · 9 months ago

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I Just laughed to myself thinking that, in case the MC solved some supernatural problems, the headlines on the paper would say "The Crazy kid does it again!"

On a similar note, how would the cast react to this kind of publicity? I imagine Sal would die inside and I'm all for It >:)

Headline: “suspected murderer solves crime? Or did someone take the fall?”

Imre: he’s totally not jealous that mc is getting his recognition. Not at all. He’s smiling, look at that pearly smile. It’s totally fine.

Nia: she believes any recognition from the town is as important as winning a prize at a country fair. But it’s refreshing to see mc not be vilified for once

Lorcan: doesn’t give a fuck. Not in an asshole way, in a “I have no opinion on whatever goes on with these town people”

Sally: spoilers but you’re right in that he wouldn’t be happy

Percy: was their a prize you get? If so I helped a lot in the investigation. Actually mc couldn’t have done it without my keen intellect

#fame #crime solving #we wretched creatures

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what-happened-in-skinner · 2 months ago

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View this post on Instagram

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We're officially back!

#spooky podcast #what happened in skinner #mystery podcast #thriller podcast #crime solving #mystery solving #ARG #audio drama #fiction podcast #Instagram

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plainlyraine · 2 years ago

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Now you ah' tellin' me that you can honest tah god tell when a man is lyin'? Well, now, that is pretty unbelievable. You must be quite practiced in sussing out the truth then, yes?

#beniot blanc meeting charlie cale #rian johnson #they exist simultaneously you cannot tell me otherwise #i just want them to interact #charlie cale #beniot blanc #gimme a bi woman and her gay older male role model #battle of the distinct voices #beniot's autistic sensibility and charlie's people reading would be so good to watch twist together #poker face 2023 #knives out #crime solving

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karihighman · 4 months ago

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Hiiii Atlas excited to see you back on ABC (as a cop not an FBI agent this time though) ⬇️

This new series is definitely like if you combined Monk’s crime solving skills with Sharona’s style (examples below) ⬇️

Also both of the main characters consult w/the police now ⬇️

Trailer for High Potential on ABC ⬇️

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A post shared by The Rookie (@therookieabc)

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#high potential #new series #abc network #monk #monk tv show #adrian monk #sharona fleming #similarities #tv style #private consultant #police consulting #crime solving #Instagram

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one-time-i-dreamt · 11 months ago

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I had to solve a murder, but I constantly complained that the whole thing was a big Psych rip off.

#dream #murder #murder tw #death tw #crime solving #psych #rip off

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aventurineswife · 30 days ago

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“The Game Is Afoot!”

Summary: Ratio, a brilliant and self-assured member of the Intelligentsia Guild, teams up with you, his loyal partner, to solve a murder at one of the guild's labs. As the case unfolds, Ratio's sharp intellect and your growing observational skills bring you closer to the truth, but danger lurks as the true culprit is still on the loose.

Tags: @lixhizy, Ratio x Reader, Mystery, Detective/Crime, Sherlock Holmes-Dr. John Watson inspired dynamic, Crime-Solving, Slow Burn, Humor, Suspense.

Warnings: Mentions of murder and violence, Blood/gore (in the context of the crime scene), Mild peril.

The stark halls of the Intelligentsia Guild buzzed with the murmur of scholars. You adjusted the strap of your satchel, following closely behind the Dr. Veritas Ratio as he strode ahead, exuding an air of unshakable confidence. His hair shifted slightly with his brisk movements, the light catching the gold accents of his outfit. You quickened your pace, unwilling to let him leave you behind.

"You know, Doctor," you began, shifting your satchel to the other shoulder, "some of us like a bit of context before running headfirst into a high-stakes mystery."

Ratio stopped abruptly, spinning on his heel to face you. His eyes, ringed with a sharp golden glow, regarded you with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

"Context? Context is for those who cannot deduce the answer from observation alone," he said, tilting his head. His tone was smooth, confident, and just shy of patronizing. "The evidence is all around you, my dear assistant."

"Partner." you corrected, crossing your arms.

Ratio smirked, the corner of his mouth lifting in that infuriatingly charming way he always seemed to manage. "Semantics. Now, focus. What do you observe?"

You sighed, scanning the hallway. Ratio's tests of your observational skills were both enlightening and maddening. The floor had faint scuff marks leading toward the west wing, where the air seemed cooler, the lighting dimmer. A faint hum, almost electrical, emanated from somewhere nearby.

"The west wing," you said finally. "Someone's been moving equipment through here, likely something heavy. The air is colder, suggesting refrigeration or climate-controlled storage. And that hum—"

"—is from a plasma stabilizer recently installed in the lower labs," Ratio finished, a hint of approval in his tone. "Not bad, though I would have preferred you notice the trace amounts of oxidized particles near the vent. It suggests whatever was moved wasn't just heavy; it was old."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't suppress a smile. His backhanded praise was the closest you ever got to a genuine compliment.

"So, what's our mystery this time? Stolen research? Missing scientist?"

Ratio began walking again, his voice sharp and authoritative. "Neither. A murder. A rather sloppy one, if you ask me."

Your breath hitched, and you hurried to catch up. "Murder? Shouldn't the authorities handle that?"

"The authorities lack the necessary... finesse," he said, a slight edge of disdain creeping into his voice. "No, this requires someone with intellect. Someone who can think beyond the pedestrian notions of motive and means."

"And that's you?" you asked, only half-joking.

"Naturally."

When you arrived at the lab, it was in disarray. Broken glass littered the floor, and a figure lay crumpled near a console, their lab coat stained crimson. You swallowed hard, glancing at Ratio, who seemed entirely unfazed.

"How can you be so calm?" you whispered.

"Emotions cloud judgment," he replied, kneeling beside the body. "Now, do be useful and examine the room. Tell me what you see."

You nodded, forcing yourself to focus. The console had been smashed, but only selectively—certain buttons and data ports were targeted. On the table nearby, a vial of viscous green liquid sat untouched, despite the chaos.

"Sabotage," you said aloud. "Someone was after the research. They only smashed the console to make it look random."

Ratio glanced at you, his expression unreadable. "Continue."

You pointed to the vial. "They didn't take the sample, which means they were either interrupted or didn't know what they were looking for."

Ratio's lips curled into a rare, genuine smile. "Excellent. You're learning."

The compliment warmed you, but the moment was fleeting. He turned back to the body, tracing the outline of a faint bruise on the victim's neck. "Strangulation, followed by a staged scene of chaos. Amateur work."

You frowned. "How can you be so sure?"

Ratio stood, brushing off his hands. "Because the real culprit is still here."

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h-s-moonshadow · 3 months ago

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The Mystery of Healing: Story 1 - Part 3 (Conclusion)

Her grandmother watched her for a long moment before she spoke. “Etel, give her the rundown.” Kylantha’s green eyes turned to the man, and she started to look at him with rapt attention. Hanging on to every word as he started to speak. Listening for anything that was out of the ordinary inside of this story.

“Chest with a precious necklace. We had it under lock and key, and the chest itself was screwed into the very wood of the caravan. The locket inside simply went missing. It was there last night when we arrived in town, but this morning when we opened the chest the locket was gone.” Etel looked at Kylantha’s grandmother. “That’s it right?”

“That’s all you told me, and I have asked my questions. But I am curious. Kyl, do you have anything that you want Master Etel to clarify before we go looking for this item?” Her grandmother offered her a gentle smile, gesturing. It gave her permission.

She thought for a long moment, eyes trailing around the room before she nodded and looked at the caravan master. “Sir, did your guards see anything?”

Etel shook his head. “I pulled in them for questioning. None of them saw anything. If your thought process goes to that they are the ones who stole it, toss that out of your heads. They’re loyal men, good friends of mine. I wouldn’t have them as guards if they were not.”

Kylantha nodded to herself. “And the chest, was the bottom cut out? Or was it all as it should be?”

She glanced at her grandmother, who offered an encouraging nod. She was smiling as she watched Kylantha. That kind, warm, grandmotherly smile that Kylantha never felt like she deserved.

“Kinthara, this is not the girl you led me to believe she was!” Etel said with a laugh. “She doesn’t let anything drop does she? As for the question, the bottom was not cut out.”

Kylantha’s grandmother laughed softly, shaking her head. “Everything I told you about her was true Etel. You might have just interpreted it strangely.” She glanced at her granddaughter. “Is there anything else Kyl? Or should we go investigate the scene?”

Where there any other questions? Kylantha paused, she felt like that was a test. To see if she was ready for something. What happened if she said no? Was that a pass? She did not know. She was silent as she thought. It was a question she had to answer it.

“No more questions.” She said after a moment. “Thank you for your time Etel.”

Her grandmother nodded. “Wonderful job Kylantha.” She said after a moment. “Etel, I will be back after we find this for the matter of payment. Okay?”

“I know you’re good for it Kinthara. Take all the time you need in finding it.” He said witha chuckle as he sat down. “We’ll be here all week.”

A few minutes later, Kylantha and her grandmother were at a wagon on the inside of the circle of wagons. It was one that could be set up like a stall. A portable counter to show goods on, with a canopy that could protect them and customers from rain and sun alike.

Another human worked the stand. Probably in her mid-fourties. She wore a practical, but well made outfit. Pants and a shirt, the pants brown, the shirt white. She tossed her long black hair behind her as she saw the two elves approaching and smiled, wrinkles crinkling next to her gray eyes.

“And what can I do for you two!” She asked with a small chuckle, leaning against the wagon, and gesturing to her wares.

“We’re here about the stolen locket,” Kylantha said at the conclusion of the question. Her eyes moving over this womans wares. Hats in various styles and fashions in seemingly every color imaginable lined the wagons poles. Jewlery made of precious stones and pearls lay on the wagon itself. Rings, earrings, and necklaces. It was truely a wonderful sight. The riches that this one wagon contained was something to behold in and of itself.

Kylantha’s grandmother chuckled. “Please excuse my granddaughter straightforwardness. I typically choose to go for a bit of conversation before stating that we’re investigating something but…”

Kylantha felt herself wilt. Shrinking down into her already small frame. She had been asked a question right? So she should answer. Staying silent would have been rude. Her eyes slowly drew towards the ground as she listened to her grandmother speaking. It didn’t sound like words anymore. It was just sounds.

She could never express how this felt when it happened. The feeling of utter failure that consumed her. An all consuming darkness that made it impossible for her to listen. An all consuming silence that made it impossible for her to see. She wanted to sink to her knees, but moving in and of itself felt impossible. She could have been standing up, laying down, or falling through the air and never would have known it.

She felt a pressure on her back and jumped. Glancing around she found herself looking into her grandmothers kind face, into her green eyes. How long had she been like that? Trapped in her own darkness and despair. She could not say. It felt like it had been hours though, maybe it had only been a few seconds.

“Kyl,” Her grandmother asked softly. “Are you okay?”

She did not want to speak. Questions however, demanded answer from her. However much she despised how they made her answer no matter what. They… she could not think about the they. She simply had to follow their rules. “Better now.” She said. The honest truth.

With a nod her grandmother turned back to the woman. “Thank you for the information that you gave us. If it’s okay with you, we’re going to investigate the chest now.”

The human, Kylantha only just realized she had not caught her name, nodded with a smile. “Of course Kinthara. You know that Etel has the key?”

Kinthara laughed softly, as she looked at the woman. “Helen, I don’t need any key.” She looked at Kylantha. “Granddaughter, do you want to pick the lock, or inspect the underside of the wagon?”

Kylantha blinked. “Inspect the underside?” She asked back. “But didn’t Master Etel say that nothing was out fo the ordinary there?”

“He did.” Her grandmother smiled. “But we need to cover all our bases as well, and that means checking the underside of the carriage.”

Kylantha frowned thinking. “I’ll check the underside grandmother, if that’s okay with you?”

Again that warm smile made it Kylantha’s way. One that Kylantha wanted to feel so badly. She wanted it to peirce the cold darkness that was so close to the surface that even when it was scared away, made it so that not even the warmpth of her grandmothers smile could touch her. A terrible feeling and yet it was all that could be felt.

“Of course Kyl.” Her grandmother turned. “Let’s get to solving this mystery!” Her voice was excited, and even though she never walked or spoke like the age she was, she suddenly looked two centuries younger.

With a nod, Kylantha slipped underneath the wagon. She blinked as her eyes, elven in nature, quickly adjusted to the new light setting, allowing her to see details that those not of elven heritage might not be able to without a light source.

“Do you need me to knock where the chest is?” Her grandmothers voice came from above. “To give a feeling of where you should look?”

“Please?” She responded. “Thank you.” Quickly followed as she heard the knock, and lightly placed her hands on the wood above to follow the vibrations to where they were the strongest.

She started to inspect the wood, as she heard the telltale signs of her grandmother starting to pick at the lock of the chest. She gave the lock a minute to withstand the genius of her grandmother. She expected it to be open within fifteen seconds.

During the short time she had, she ran her hand along the planks of wood that made up the floor of the wagon. Hard oak it looked like, wonderfully treated and maintained. The varnish immaculate even here on the underside of the wagon, where it should be at its worst. Indeed she found no signs of cuts or new patches to suggest the bottom had been taken out from the chest.

She ran her fingers over the bolts that held the chest in. The heads of the bolts. She paused.

“Grandmother?” She called. “Somethings off.” The click of the lock followed. Thirty seconds had passed, a well made lock.

“What is- oh.” Her grandmother paused. “What do you see that’s off Kyl?”

“These bolts are on wrong.” She called from underneath the wagon. “They should be the other way right? The nuts should be underneath the wagon, the bolt heads on top?”

There was a three count. “Excellent work grandaughter.” Her mother said with a laugh. “Truely excellent work! Come out please.”

It took a few moments even for Kylantha to slip out from under the wagon. This time her attention focused on the chest she had not really looked at earlier. A dark black wood. She could not be sure if it was naturally that color or stained to look like that yet. Not without a lot of time and more inspection. She had never really gotten the hang of identifying woods.

Her grandmother watched her. “So what does this tell us Kylantha?” She asked after a moment. “Given everything we know?”

Kylantha pursed her lips, and glanced at her grandmother, then at Helen, who had continued to watch the entier situation. She paused after a moment. She knew Helen did she not? No she had never met the woman before, though she did look earily familiar. Especially with that dark hair, those gray eyes, and that slightly upturned nose that did not make her look snobby.

She blinked and refocused. “It means that the box was taken off by someone, and probably the bolts were put in the wrong way.” She said after a moment. “The problem is, in order to take the box off you’d need to have the lid open.”

Her grandmother continued to watch her, as if expecting more. Kylantha shrugged. “I’m not really sure if there’s anything else Grandmother. I’m stumped here.”

Her grandmother smiled. “You’ve done well regardless.” She turned to Helen. “Helen, are there more than one of these chests in the camp?”

The human woman paused, before nodding. “Yes, there’s a wagon full of them. We keep them because they’re decently sturdy, and allow us to transport valuable goods separately from others if we so choose.”

“Do they all use the same key?” Her grandmother was truely smiling now. As if she understood everything that was happening anymore.

Helen nodded. “Yes, all use Master Etel’s. Which he keeps around his neck at all times. It’s not the safest of safe lockboxes, but it’s the best option we have and we haven’t had any other problems with it.”

“Has anyone come around with a splinter? Or requested a sledgehammer?” Kylantha could see the water wheel of thoughts turning inside her grandmothers brain as she desperately tried to follow the train of thought. What could all of that together mean. What did her grandmother see that she could not?

“Not that I-” She froze. “Yes.” She said after a moment. “My son Taylor had a large black splinter-”

“In his finger this morning?” Kylantha asked, interrupting. Causing her grandmother to look at her in surprise. Indeed. Kylantha had surprised herself with the need to ask the question.

“Yes how did you know?” Helen asked, frowning gently.

Kylantha shrugged, she had noticed the family resemblance apparently, but not what it meant. “He and I had a short chat like fifteen minutes ago. He asked me if I wanted to have a longer conversation with him. Maybe at the bakery.”

Her grandmother was looking at her, slightly astounded. “What did you tell him?” She asked, and then frowned. Looking like she disliked herself for even asking the question, but it was too late. The words were out of her mouth, and so Kylantha’s answer was iminante.

“No, and no.” She said curtly. “Though I do not really see why that matters.”

Helen paused. “By the creator I didn’t think he’d actually do it.” She sighed. “He mentioned… that he was going to try to… make a move to court you as we were comming here Kylantha.”

Kylantha froze, then looked at Helen curiously. “But he’s… and I’m… neither of us are adults by any margin… mine far larger than his…”

Her grandmother moved and placed a hand on Kylantha’s shoulder. “Younger humans and Elves… always have a difficult time with that point. Even the older elves sometimes see human adults as children instead of as equals. Do not think less of him for this. Though, indeed. I think we know where our missing locket is.”

They found Taylor at the bakery. Kylantha stayed outside as her grandmother went in and brought him out to herself an Helen. The two woman and one elven girl looking at him with disappointment. It was a long moment before anyone spoke, and when the silence was broken it was by Helen.

“Do you want to admit what happened now? Or Shall we present the evidence?” His mother asked softly.

Taylor paused, then looked at all three of them. “This is about the locket isn’t it.”

Helen raised an eyebrow. “So you are the one who took it? Why? Was it just to impress someone?”

“Not just someone!” Taylor shot back. “Kylantha.” He looked at her. “She notices no one it seems like. I’ve seen how she acts at the festivals that are thrown here. Yes I only get to see her once a year if I’m lucky, I just thought that maybe I’d have a chance.”

Kylantha shrunk back a little. It was her fault that he had stolen it then. It was because of her actions that this locket had gone missing. A pit of dispare opened in her stomach at that. She was the reason why he had done what he had done.

“Kylantha?” Her grandmothers voice ripped her out of her guilt. “Do you have anything to say to Taylor?”

She looked at him. “I’m sorry that I made you do that. You should give the locket back. I’m going to go home.” She looked at her grandmother. “May I? There’s some locks that I can fix today while you shop?”

As her grandmothers green eyes met hers she felt as if she saw something. Inside of her grandmothers green eyes she felt as if she saw true sadness. Even as her grandmother nodded, and Kylantha turned and walked away.

That evening her grandmother returned home to three fixed locks ready for inspection, and a bubbling pot of potato soup. Kylantha had made that first. Had it on the stove for hours at this point, adjusting it whenever she had needed a break from working on the locks.

Yet her grandmother did not find Kylantha tending to the soup, or in the workshop. Instead she found Kylantha in her room. She leaned on the doorframe, as she looked at Kylantha. Who felt those green eyes on her as she looked in a different direction.

A brown cloak hung, the only ornamentation of the small room. It was torn and shredded. As if by claws. Yet it hung there, two silver leaves adored either side of where it would connect with a small chain around where her shoulders were.

“I brought you something.” Her grandmother said softly. “And your soup smells delicious.” Kylantha glanced at her grandmother and nodded. Not registering what had been said to her yet. Not at the moment. Her mind too full of memories of that cloak. Of when she had worn that cloak for the final time.

The bed sank as her grandmother sat down next to her. “You did a good job today. Don’t you think so?”

“No.” Kylantha said softly. “I didn’t think about… whatever you did. I never would have guessed… whatever led to your line of questioning. I still don’t know how he did it.”

“He switched boxes.” Her grandmother replied. “The bolt heads could be pulled down enough they wouldn’t turn when he turned the nut… once the nut was off he pushed the bolts up into the box. And stole the entire box. Moving off to smash it with the locket inside. Then he grabbed another box, and put it on, but was either sloppy or forgetful with which direction the bolts went, and he put them on the wrong way.” She smiled at her granddaughter. “It’s okay that you don’t think like me Kyl… you don’t have to. You’re still young. You did a wonderful job. Think of all you noticed today.”

Kylantha listened to the explanation with a half open ear. Of course that had been how it was done. Why could she not have seen it?

They sat in silence for a moment. “Come downstairs.” Her grandmother said. “Let’s eat dinner together. Your locks were fixed perfectly.”

Kylantha nodded silently, standing and following her grandmother down the stairs on light feet. She froze however when she reached the entrance to the small kitchen. At her place at the table, was a locket.

It was oval in shape, made from gold, with a silver inlay of a moonflower on its cover. A true masterwork of art. It’s chain looked to be made from silver as well, thin and dainty.

She looked at her grandmother who smiled. “It was always for you.” She said softly. “Happy seventy-sixth birthday.”

She was seventy six? This was her birthday? Emotions crashed into her as she walked to the locked to look at it for a long moment. Before walking to her grandmother, pulling her into a tight embrace, and starting to weep.

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nightmaretales · 4 months ago

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Red Riding Hood Page 35

[First] - [Last] -[Next]

#comic #webcomic #artists on tumblr #red riding hood #fairytale #horror #mental health #mental illness #crime solving #schizophrenia #hospital #bid bad wolf #little red riding hood

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j-eryewrites · 2 years ago

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The Blind Banker (III)

Part 12 of the Arbitrary Lives of the Occupants of 221B Baker Street

SERIES MASTER LIST | MAIN MASTER LIST

Previous | Next

Word Count: 7.9k

Warnings: Jealous Sherlock, Descriptions of strangling and breaking and entering, Sherlock is Sherlock, and if you squint some sherlock x reader stuff.

__________

Sherlock dragged Y/N along and practically shoved her onto the bus. All the seats were full, so the two of them were left standing in the aisle. Y/N’s jaw clenched as she harshly breathed in and out. Sherlock’s ever-looming figure stood over her. His hand still held hers. He hadn’t let it go and by the strength of his grip, he wasn’t going to any time soon.

“You’re mad,” Sherlock said.

She turned around to glare at him. “Of course, I’m mad.”

“Why?” His blue eyes peered at her. He did her a favour, so why wasn’t she taking it?

“You left John there, Sherlock. Your friend!” She rolled her eyes. “Every time, I think you're getting better. That you are opening up, then you go and do something like that.”

“I got you out of there,” he hissed into her ear.

“I don’t care. You–we left John behind.” She exclaimed.

“John can take care of himself. Besides, the case is more important.”

She scoffed. “I don’t care if John can take care of himself. Don’t you get it, Sherlock?”

She looked up at him with pleading eyes. He only stared back with not a clue as to why she was mad.

She lowered her gaze. “I’m done for the day. I can’t deal with you anymore.”

The bus came to a halt and their bodies swayed back and forth. Y/N lurched forward and ripped her hand out of Sherlock’s grasp. She pushed her way out of the bus and Sherlock stood there. His eyes followed Y/N as she stepped out onto the street. His growing gold from the missing warmth of her hand. Before Sherlock could chase after her, the bus kicked up and moved on. Sherlock could only watch her as her figure disappeared from view.

_______

Sherlock pinched his nose. He needed to stop thinking about Y/N and her outburst. He was already feeling the beginnings of a migraine which began when she slammed the door shut after she finally returned to 221B. Just thirty minutes after he did. It took everything in him to stop himself from running down to her and apologizing. What for? He still didn’t know, but that wasn’t important. The case was. He removed his hand and examined the photos in front of him. The same hand that held hers. The sound of Y/N walking around in her flat downstairs echoed in his mind.

Stop it, He told himself.

There it is again. The slamming of a door, but it’s not Y/N. Heavy and angry steps proceed up the stairs and get closer and closer to Sherlock.

“You’ve been a while,” Sherlock said. His eyes stuck to the pictures.

Sherlock heard John pace around the room. John’s shoulders are rigid and his fists are clenched. He released them before closing them shut again. John’s face contorted as he strangled the air in front of him, hoping to release some of his pent-up fury.

“Yeah, well, you know how it is. Custody sergeants don’t really like to be hurried, do they?” His voice was tight. “Just formalities: fingerprints, charge sheet; and I’ve gotta be in Magistrates Court on Tuesday.”

“What?” Sherlock absently said. He did not hear a word that had left John’s mouth.

“Me, Sherlock, in court on Tuesday,” John yelled. “They’re givin’ me an ASBO!”

“Good. Fine.” Sherlock hissed back. John’s voice bore the same tone as Y/N’s when she scolded him.

“You wanna tell your little pal he’s welcome to go and own up any time,” said John.

“This symbol: I still can’t place it.” Sherlock brought his finger up to point at one of the images. Then he turned around and walked towards John. The man was shrugging off his jacket until Sherlock lifted it back onto his shoulders.

“No, I need you to go to the police station …” Sherlock stated.

“Oy, oy, oy!” John warned. “Why doesn’t Y/N go?”

“... ask about the journalist.” Sherlock continued.

“Oh, Jesus!” John grumbled. “Why can’t Y/N go, Sherlock?”

“She’s…” Sherlock paused. “Having a moment.”

“She got mad at you, didn’t she?” John asked.

Sherlock’s jaw clenched, “She’s having a moment.” His long arm reached out to grasp his coat from the coat hanger. As he swung it on, he instructed John, “His personal effects will have been impounded. Get hold of his diary or something that will tell us his movements.”

Sherlock started to descend the stairs. John followed him with a smug look on his face. Y/N had gotten mad at Sherlock, and by the way, his friend was acting. She was really pissed.

“Gonna go and see Van Coon’s P.A. If we retrace their steps, somewhere they’ll coincide.” Without another word, Sherlock opened the door to 221B and walked out onto the street. Sherlock did not even bother shutting the door.

John watched the door swing on its hinges. Back and forth, just as his mind was going between his options. He could do as Sherlock has asked, or he could check up on Y/N, letting her know he was alright. John gently closed the door shut. Then he turned around to face the door to Y/N’s flat. He looked up to the ceiling to contemplate the thought swirling around in his head. Raising a hand, he brought it to the door and knocked. The sound rang within the hollow material of the door.

“Y/N? It’s John.”

The sound of the television buzzed off and light footsteps crept closer to the door. With a creak, the door swung open, and John caught sight of Y/N. She stepped back, welcoming him in.

“Sorry about earlier,” she mumbled. “If I had known you weren’t able to run, I’d…”

John stopped her. “Don’t. It wasn’t your fault.”

She sighed. “I know, but I can’t help but feel like I’m a part of it.”

She looked toward the ground where Bjørn stood. He purred happily at the sight of John. The brown cat’s fluffy tail wagged as he stepped closer and closer to John.

“Hello there, Bjørn.” John cooed.

He reached down to pat the cat. Bjørn’s meows grew louder, and John chuckled.

“He must really like that.”

“I just think he likes you,” Y/N said. There was a short silence before Y/N blurted, “...want some chocolate?”

John looked at her wide-eyed. “Where’d that come from?” He laughed.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Chocolate always makes me feel better. Thought you might like some to cheer you up.”

“I'm fine, thanks.” He replied.

She nodded and walked into her kitchen. Y/N pulled open a drawer and picked up a bar of chocolate. She peeled the wrapper and began to bite into it. She closed her eyes and quietly moaned at the taste.

John rolled his eyes and chuckled.

“What?!” She said, “It’s good chocolate.”

“It must be really good if you practically moaned.” He chuckled.

“Oh, shut up,” she said in a teasing manner.

A silence fell over them as John pet Bjørn and Y/N munched away on her chocolate. John’s attention was soon drawn to the window. He saw cars and cabs drive by and he remembered what Sherlock had asked of him. He sighed. John didn’t want to help Sherlock at the moment, but he knew that it was important. However, John knew he didn’t have to do it alone.

“Y/N?” John asked. “Mind coming with me to Scotland Yard?”

She shook her head. “No, John. I told Sherlock that I was done with him for the day.”

“Then you’d like to know, Sherlock won’t be there. Just me, you, and Dimmock.”

Y/N was quiet as she contemplated the offer.

“We can stop at Speedy’s on the way,” John added.

Y/N groaned. “Fine, you got me.”

Then she left the kitchen and walked into her room. Soon she emerged with her coat and shoes in hand. She sat down at one of the counter chairs and slipped on her shoes. She jumped up and threw on her coat.

“Be back Bjørn!” She waved.

John opened the door for her and the two of them set off. As the two of them walked down the sidewalk, John noticed an older woman across the street. She was wearing a black tracksuit and sunglasses. He nudged Y/N’s shoulder and she turned to look. The woman across the street lifted her phone and it seemed as if she was taking a picture of them. Y/N narrowed her eyes, but a truck zoomed by blocking her view. By the time the car had passed her sight, the woman was gone.

“Strange,” Y/N muttered.

John shook his head in agreement.

“Well,” She softly elbowed him. “You promised me Speedy’s.”

John chuckled and nudged her back. The two sparked up a conversation as they strolled to Speedy’s. They took their time meandering along the way. Sherlock could wait, but their growing friendship couldn’t.

____SHERLOCK’s POV_____

I’m back at the bank. It’s notoriously too loud here. How could anyone get any work done? I briskly walked through the rows of desks. Each person behind them repeated the same monotonous actions: The phone rings, they pick it up, they talk, the call ends, and they type away at the computer. As I looked around, I found at least fifteen people who were faking it. Their eyes scanned the same lines over and over, before looking down at their phones.

My eyes catch sight of the woman’s blonde hair. Van Coon’s assistant.

I leaned over her desk. She stared at me.

“How can I help you?” She asked.

“Van Coon’s schedule from the past week,” I replied, flashing a fake smile. Smiling makes people more receptive to doing things for others.

She nodded her head and began to type on her computer. I glanced down at her name tag: Amanda.

“He flew back from Dalian on Friday last week,” she said. “Looks like he had back-to-back meetings with the sales team.”

My eyes narrow. “Can you print me up a copy?”

“Sure,” she said. With a few clicks of a button, the printing machine next to her whirred to life.

“What about the day he died?” I inquired. “Can you tell me where he was?”

Amanda’s eyes narrowed at the screen, and she shook her head. “Sorry. Bit of a gap.”

The printer beeped and Amanda twirled around. She reached for the paper and handed it over to me. It was warm. Just like the papers Y/N printed out for me. I shook away the thoughts. Now was not the time nor the place. To distract my mind from the course it was set on, I examined the calendar in front of me.

The calendar showed no entries for Monday the 22nd. I looked away, frustrated. A gasp escaped Amanda’s voice and peered down at her.

“I have all his receipts,” she realized. “Would you like those printed out as well?”

I nodded my head and waved her on.

_____THIRD_____

Y/N and John took their time as they arrived at Scotland Yard. They finally had the time to catch up without Sherlock’s ever listening and condescending ears. Y/N chattered about Jim and all the dates he had taken her on. John mentioned something to her about wanting to meet him and she said she’d see if she could set something up. She also told John about a new trick she taught Bjørn. John’s eyes widened. He hadn’t realized someone could teach cats tricks like a dog, but then Y/N pulled out a video of Bjørn sitting and rolling around on command.

As they walked through Scotland Yard, John could see the shoulders of officers tensed up. They peered behind the two of them. Afterwards, their shoulders relaxed upon seeing there was no consulting detective following behind. Dimmock was among those people. Dimmock stood up from his desk and moved towards the two of them.

“What’s it now?” Dimmock asked.

“We need the journalist’s diary,” John told him. Dimmock nodded and called one of the officers to bring him the box of Lukis’ things.

The officer quickly retrieved the box and placed it on Dimmock’s desk. With a thwack, the lid was lifted up off the box and placed to the side. Dimmock reached his hands into the box and rummaged around. Y/N and John stood across from him watching as possession after possession was placed outside the box. Still no journal.

“Your friend …,” Dimmock hesitantly said. He looked up at Y/N and John.

John sighed. Whatever he was feeling, he wasn’t alone in the thought. “Listen: whatever you say, I’m behind you one hundred percent.”

Dimmock’s eyes flicked between the two of them. Y/N nodded her head urging him on. “... he’s an arrogant sod,” Dimmock finished.

“Well, that was mild!” John laughed. “People say a lot worse than that.”

“I could say a lot worse than that,” grumbled Y/N. She crossed her arms over her torso.

Dimmock triumphantly cheered as his hand emerged from the box with a brown journal. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? The journalist’s diary?”

John nodded and took the journal from Dimmock’s hand. The pages are thick and well-inked. Page after page filled to the brim with scribbles of the deceased Journalist. Y/N leaned over and pointed toward a page that had been dog tagged. John opened it up and came to find that it was a boarding pass from Da Lian DLC [DaLian Zhoushuizi International Airport] to London LHR [London Heathrow Airport] on Zhuang Airlines.

“Might want to snap a picture, Y/N,” John advised.

She looked down at her pockets and pulled out her phone. There was a flash and a photo had been taken. Y/N placed the phone back into her pocket. She looked back up at John, who flipped through the pages again.

Maybe there was something in here that would be of use to Sherlock, he thought.

____SHERLOCK’s POV______

I had instructed Amanda to lay out Van Coon’s receipts on her desk. I leaned over them taking my time to pay close attention to the date and location on the receipts. Amanda sat next to me. Her leg bobbed up and down in the most annoying manner.

“What kind of a boss was he, Amanda? Appreciative?” I said while I continued to look at the receipts. Amanda’s leg had stopped moving. I smiled.

“Um, no. That’s not a word I’d use. The only things Eddie appreciated had a big price tag,” She replied.

I sighed. The font on the receipts is too small for even my eyes to see clearly. I kneeled down on the floor to allow myself easier access to them. Then I took my leather gloves off. In the corner of my eye, I saw a luxury hand lotion at the back of the desk. My eyes narrowed.

“He bought that for you, didn’t he?” I asked.

Amanda stopped fiddling with a green pin in her hair. She looked at me and her face flushed. I rolled my eyes and continued to shuffle through the receipts. My hands hovered over a particular receipt. I hastily picked it up and held it close. It was a receipt from a licensed taxi. Dated the day he died.

“Look at this one. Got a taxi from home on the day he died. Eighteen pounds fifty,” I said.

Amanda’s eyes pursed in thought. “That would get him to the office,” She noted.

“Not rush hour; check the time. Mid-morning. Eighteen would get him as far as …” I ran through the map of London in my mind.

“The West End. I remember him saying,” Amanda blurted.

“Underground. Printed at one in Piccadilly,” I specified holding out the receipt for her to see.

“So, he got a Tube back to the office. Why would he get a taxi into town and then the Tube back?” She pondered.

I glanced back over the other receipts. “Because he was delivering something heavy. Didn’t want to lug a package up the escalator,” I mentioned.

“Delivering?”

“To somewhere near Piccadilly Station,” I clarified. There was something here in the pile of receipts. My eyes widened and picked up another receipt. “Dropped the package, delivered it, and then stopped on his way. He got peckish.”

I quickly thanked Amanda as I pocketed the two receipts and made my exit from the bank. I hailed a cab and instructed it to take me to the restaurant Van Coon had stopped by. The cab was taking longer than it should have. Rush hour did not start for another…hour, I thought. I took in an impatient breath. My mind decided to take a liberty of its own, showing me, again, the last encounter I had with Y/N. My jaw clenched. Despite being the world’s only consulting detective, I could not find the source of her anger. The anger and the woman it came from remained a mystery in my mind. My eyes narrowed. I’d have to ask John. He’d know.

“Here,” The cab driver said. He turned around in his seat and reached out his hand. I paid him and stepped out onto the street. I pulled out the receipt and examined it one more time.

“So, you bought your lunch from here en route to the station, but where were you headed from? Where did the taxi drop you off...?”

I began to walk around in all different directions. My eyes cast above looking for something, some clue. I feel a thud against my back. I bounce off of the figure who just crashed into me, and I turn around to look at the culprit. It’s John. In his hands, he held the journal I had asked him to get.

“Sherlock?” John said.

I grunted in reply. A swish of fabric behind John caught my attention. Slowly, my eyes peered behind him and saw Y/N. Her eyes casted down, avoiding my gaze.

____THIRD______

“Right. Of course, you’re here.” John mumbled.

Sherlock tore his gaze away from Y/N. “Eddie Van Coon brought a package here the day he died – whatever was hidden inside that case. I’ve managed to piece together a picture using scraps of information …”

“Sherlock …,” John said, looking between Y/N and his friend.

“… credit card bills, receipts. He flew back from China, then he came here,” Sherlock continued.

“Sherlock …,” John warned.

“Somewhere in this street; somewhere near. I don’t know where, but …”

“That shop over there,” pointed out Y/N.

For a moment, Sherlock’s face showed signs of surprise before forcefully turning towards the shop across the street.

“How can you tell?” He pondered.

“Lukis’ diary,” John replied. He lifted up the journal for Sherlock to see. “He was here too. He wrote down the address.”

“Oh,” was all Sherlock could muster.

The three of them stood on the busy street. Passerbys moved around them as if they were a fork in the road. John looked back and forth between his friends. Y/N’s gaze was off in the distance. She still refused to look at Sherlock.

“Y/N,” Sherlock began but he was silenced when she pushed through the crowd to cross the street. John shrugged at Sherlock before following his friend. Sherlock lingered there for a moment before chasing after them.

________

The ever-apparent colour of red. Red as far as the eye could see. Red lanterns above, red decorations in the doors and windows, red doors, and even some red markings on the ground below them. Amongst the red, Sherlock’s eyes could catch glimpses of gold. It shimmered in the sunlight.

The smells of freshly steamed rice and pork buns wafted through the air. Y/N’s stomach began to grumble. She’d have to make a stop to get some. She’d also gladly use the excuse to avoid Sherlock. She was determined for him to come to her this time.

Preferably not by being carried out her front door swung over Sherlock’s shoulders, She thought.

The three of them had reached the stop that was mentioned in Lukis’ journal. The Lucky Cat it was called. Y/N was the first to enter the tourist trap of a shop. The colour red also made an appearance as several shelves were the same vibrant red that could be found along the streets of Chinatown. Besides the apparent colour of red, there were cats. The store was filled to the brim with decorative cats sitting on their hind legs. One of their paws was high in the air swinging up and down. Their smiles made John uneasy. The shopkeeper came out from the back room and smiled at Y/N.

”你好,” Y/N greeted.

The shopkeeper smiled and complimented her Chinese. Sherlock and John both peered over at Y/N as she struck up a friendly conversation with the shopkeeper. Sherlock and John looked at each other, amazed at the hidden ability Y/N had. Y/N waved to the woman and turned back to her friends.

“What?” She asked.

“Nothing,” John replied. He then looked over her shoulder and greeted the shopkeeper himself. “Hello.”

The shopkeeper’s smile faded. “You want a lucky cat?”

“No, thanks. No.” John replied.

“Ten pounds. Ten pounds!” The shopkeeper insisted.

“No,” John replied. He began to profusely shake his hands. Y/N giggled at the interaction. John looked at her with wide eyes. “Mind helping me out Y/N?”

The shopkeeper took one look between John and Y/N. ``I think your wife will like it!” The Shopkeeper winked.

John’s face grew red. “No, thank you,” He replied.

Sherlock tensed behind him. His long finger gripped the clay statue tighter. John quickly turned away from the shopkeeper and picked up the nearest thing he could find. It was a small white tea cup. Y/N had come up next to John. She was still giggling.

John sighed and gave her a side-eye.

“You can’t tell me that wasn’t funny,” She muttered to him. She leaned into him. “Come on hubby,” she teased.

John rolled his eyes. “Screw off, Y/N.”

He picked up another tea cup and turned it around. Underneath was a bright red price tag. On it were the same symbols that were covering their mirror back at home.

John’s eyes widened. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s ear twitched at his name and he placed the statue back where he found it. He approached John, coming up behind Y/N so that her back was against his chest. She tensed at the sudden sensation of Sherlock behind her. Then Sherlock reached over her shoulder to pick up a teacup.

“The label there,” John pointed.

“Yes, I see it,” Sherlock said.

“Exactly the same as the cypher,” John continued. He turned to Y/N and had to take a second glance. Sherlock stood so close, John could swear the two of them had merged into one person. When he finally differentiated the two, John saw that her jaw was squeezed tight and her lips were pressed into a thin line. A shadow fell over her figure. John could practically see the anger seething from her body. Her eyes looked as if they were plotting Sherlock’s murder in great detail.

“Y/N,” John blurted. The woman turned to him. The darkness faded from her eyes as she looked at him.

“What?” Y/N asked. She lifted her foot slightly before bringing it down onto Sherlock’s foot. Her heel grinding into Sherlock’s toes. John caught a wince in his friend’s face before he stepped back from Y/N.

John awkwardly cleared his throat. “What do these symbols mean?” He lifted the cup to her and she peered at them.

She took it from his hands and ran a finger over the price tag. “This is the number 15,” She said. “It’s from the Hangzhou number system.”

Sherlock lifted his head and began to smile. The case was finally starting to come together.

“These days, only street traders use it. Those were numbers written on the wall at the bank and at the library,” Sherlock noted. He walked across the shop to pick up the statue he had been looking at earlier. Flipping it over he looked at the price tag. “Numbers are written in an ancient Chinese dialect.”

“What we thought was the artist’s tag – it’s the number fifteen,” John commented.

Sherlock walked back over to John and Y/N, making sure to stay well without the woman’s comfort zone. “And the blindfold – the horizontal line?” He asked her. “That was a number as well.”

Y/N thought back to the office and her original thoughts. “It’s the number one.” She blurted.

“The Chinese number one,” Sherlock smiled. Y/N looked back down at the ground and his smile fell.

“We’ve found it!” John cheered. His voice got quieter as he noticed the tension between Y/N and Sherlock had not been solved.

Sherlock sighed in defeat before walking out of the store. John waited for Y/N, before walking out after Sherlock. The two of them step outside the door and see the same woman from before. She was still wearing the sunglasses from before. Slowly the woman raised her phone at them. Y/N stepped forward to get a better look but John pulled her back before a passerby knocked into her.

“Careful there, Y/N,” John said.

Y/N thanked him and looked back to where the woman stood. She was gone. Y/N frowned. John looked ahead at Sherlock who was pacing down the street.

“Come on, Y/N.” He tugged at her jacket and the two of them set off after Sherlock.

__________

The three of them were now sitting at the restaurant across from The Lucky Cat. John and Sherlock sat at a table together, and Y/N found an empty table which she took for herself. As far away as she could get from Sherlock, while still being able to see them and the shop.

Sherlock glared at the empty seat between him and John before he yanked a napkin off the table. Pulling out a pen he wrote profusely on the surface. From what John could see, Sherlock was attempting to translate the number system.

“What did you do? I’ve never seen her this furious with you,” John said.

Sherlock scoffed before glancing over his shoulder to look at the woman of the hour.

She sat in her seat and happily ate away at some dumplings. Occasionally, she’d chat with the waiter or a fellow restaurant guest. Most of which were fawning over her ability to commune in Mandarin.

“Sherlock,” John grunted.

“I don’t know!” He yelled. A few of the guests around them turn their heads at Sherlock’s outbreak.

“I don’t know. We were on the bus and she got mad at me for…” Sherlock’s eyes widened as he spoke. “I left you.”

John rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “You just now realized that. Really, Sherlock?!” John began to laugh. It started light, then grew deeper and louder. “World’s only consulting detective and you just now noticed you left me behind?”

Sherlock stared blankly at John until his laughter died down.

“Alright,” John said, regaining his composure. “Two men travel back from China. Both head straight for the Lucky Cat emporium. What did they see?”

“It’s not what they saw; it’s what they both brought back in those suitcases,” Sherlock stated.

“And you don’t mean duty-free,” John noted.

A waitress appeared behind Sherlock, holding a steaming plate of dumplings. She carried it over to Y/N’s table. The woman was surprised and shook her hands. The waitress leaned down and whispered in her ear before pointing over to John. John refocused his gaze. The waitress was pointing at Sherlock. Y/N looked up. Her eyes landed on Sherlock, and then she spoke to the waitress.

It wasn’t long before that same waitress approached John’s table. She placed the plate of dumplings in front of Sherlock.

“She doesn’t want them.” The waitress stated. She shook her head in disappointment and walked off.

John gasped. He looked from the food to Sherlock. Then his eyes moved from Sherlock to Y/N. He laughed. “Good luck, Sherlock. Doubt she’ll forgive you anytime soon.”

Sherlock’s grip on his pen tightened. “You try. I’m sure she’ll talk to you. You’re her husband after all,” he sneered.

John leaned in close to Sherlock. “Are you…jealous?” The great Sherlock Holmes, jealous of John Watson? What a day this was turning out to be.

“Of course not.” Sherlock spat a little too quickly.

John’s eyes narrowed on his friend, looking him up and down. He chuckled lightly to himself. “She’ll forgive you. You just have to show her you mean it.” John replied. “Just don’t throw her over your shoulder again.”

Sherlock nodded his head taking in John’s words. “Enough about Y/N. Think about what Sebastian told us; about Van Coon – about how he stayed afloat in the market.”

“Lost five million …” John began.

“... made it back in a week.” Sherlock finished. “That’s how he made such easy money.”

“He was a smuggler!” John exclaimed.

The dumplings meant for Y/N were no longer steaming. John picks up his fork and sticks it in the golden exterior before plopping it in his mouth.

“A guy like him – it would have been perfect. Businessman...making frequent trips to Asia. And Lukis was the same. A journalist writing about China. Both of them smuggled stuff out, and the Lucky Cat was their drop-off.” Sherlock said.

“But why did they die? I mean, it doesn’t make sense. If they both turn up at the shop and deliver the goods, why would someone threaten them and kill them after the event, after they’d finished the job?” John questioned.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. His eyes pursed in thought as if he was a cat going into stalk mode.

“What if one of them was light-fingered?” He mumbled.

“What d’you mean?” John asked mid-bite.

“Stole something; something from the hoard.”

John nodded his head following Sherlock's gist. “And the killer doesn’t know which of them took it, so he threatens them both. Right.”

Sherlock looked across the street. His gaze flew up and then back down. John watched as his blue eyes subtly darted in Y/N’s direction before returning to the table.

“Remind me ...when was the last time that it rained?” Sherlock asked. Without waiting for John to reply, Sherlock stood up from his seat and excused himself from the restaurant. John sighed. He looked at the dumplings and Sherlock’s retreating figure. He looks at Y/N, who nods in understanding. Dutifully, the two of them leave the restaurant and follow after Sherlock.

______

Y/N sighed as she trudged back over to The Lucky Cat. Sherlock sat crouched over a package in front of someone’s apartment to the right of the store. He was running his hands over the wet plastic surface and the exposed yellow pages.

“Sherlock, what are you doing,” heaved Y/N. “John and I were enjoying a perfectly good dum…”

“It’s been here since Monday,” Sherlock stated, cutting Y/N off.

He straightened up and stared at the woman. “You can go back to your dumplings. John and I have no use for you anymore.”

Y/N scoffed. “Right, 'cause that’s why I couldn’t leave for a date with my boyfriend.”

Sherlock grimaced. “You said you were done with me for the day. So am I.”

“Fine. I’m leaving.” With a turn of her heel, she began to march away. Sherlock rolled his eyes and caught her wrist, pulling her back.

“I thought you said you have no use for me.” She said glaring at his hand wrapped around her wrist.

Y/N looked towards John. “Want to help me out here?”

He just shook his head.

“Alright!” Sherlock was exasperated. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” She urged.

“What?”

“What are you sorry for?”

“I…” Sherlock glanced at John for some help. “I don’t know.”

“Sherlock the great Holmes doesn’t know,” She exclaimed sarcastically. Sherlock just looked at her with pleading eyes. Y/N’s jaw clenched as she looked to the side. “Fine. You still owe me an actual apology, the same goes for John.”

Sherlock reluctantly released her wrist, still scared she’d run the minute he’d let go. When she stood her ground, he smiled to himself before buzzing the doorbell to the apartment they stood at.

Ring. There was no answer. Ring. Sherlock buzzed the bell again. There was no sound. No movement behind the door. Nothing.

“No one’s been in that flat for at least three days,” confidently stated Sherlock.

“Could’ve gone on holiday,” John suggested. That was a normal thing people did, something Sherlock wasn’t particularly fond of.

“D’you leave your windows open when you go on holiday?” Sherlock asked. Y/N shook her head.

Then Sherlock darted to the side and entered an alleyway. He was approaching the back of the building. Trash and litter were scattered all over the street. Most of it was brushed to the sides, making it easier for the three of them to navigate through.

Sherlock came to a halt and looked up. Above him was a silver-tinted metal fire escape. There were small signs of rust in the corners where the steps met the sides of the ladder. Sherlock looked behind him and backed up like a runner preparing for a head start. Then he dashed forward, jumped up, and reached the ladder, successfully yanking it down to the ground. He begins to climb the ladder, leaving John and Y/N behind, still amazed as to how he had the agility to pull off such an act.

John stepped forward to grab onto the ladder as Sherlock stepped inside the apartment. The ladder shot out and sprang back up into place. It now towered over John and Y/N just out of reach.

“Sherlock!” John yelled. He turned to Y/N, “I’m heading to the front, hopefully, this time he’ll let us in.”

Y/N nodded before looking back up at the ladder. She was sure she could reach it, however, she wasn’t as tall as Sherlock, so she’d really have to jump.

“I’m going to see if I can get the ladder back down,” Y/N explained. “If not I’ll meet you at the front.”

John looked at his friend and then at the ladder. “You can try,” He murmured before leaving Y/N in the alley.

Like Sherlock, Y/N looked behind herself. She walked back and stood a few feet farther than where Sherlock began. She took a deep breath and glanced up at the ladder. There was a part of her determined to do anything Sherlock could do, and then there was another part that told her she’d fall flat on the ground. Y/N looked around one last time. If she did fall, at least there wouldn’t be any spectators.

Then, she darted towards the latter, jumping at the last second. Her arms reached their full extent. Her hand came in contact with the bottom step of the ladder. Upon feeling the cold wet surface, she closed her hands and yanked down the ladder with as much force as she could muster.

When the ladder hit the ground with a thud, she cheered aloud and called out to John, but he was too far away to hear her. Y/N shrugged and began to climb up the steps and into the apartment after Sherlock.

_______

Sherlock successfully climbed through the window and plopped down into the kitchen. It was well-kept. Dishes were put away. As Sherlock stepped further into the room, his ears processed a thud, quickly shot his hand out to grasp the falling vase before it hit the floor. After carefully putting it back down, Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. There was a dark spot on the rug exactly where the vase would have fallen. His eyes widened.

“Someone else has been here!” He called out the window. His eyes were still glued to the wet spot on the carpet.

Then, Sherlock trod carefully around the room. His eyes bounced off the walls like a ball, as he muttered to himself. “Somebody else broke into the flat and knocked over the vase just like I did.”

His feet took him into the kitchen, where he found the washing machine. The door hung slightly ajar and was filled to the brim with clothing. Sherlock grabbed an article of clothing before giving it a sniff. He crinkled his nose and plopped the shirt back into the machine.

There was a buzzing from downstairs. The doorbell, Sherlock noted.

“D’you think maybe you could let me in this time?!’ John shouted from outside. His voice sounded muffled through the walls.

Sherlock ignored his friend’s request as he tip-toed around the rest of the room.

Outside the flat, John sighed. He took notice of Y/N’s absence. If she did find a way in, she’d let him in, John thought. However, until then, he’d keep yelling at Sherlock. John lowered his head to the letter slot in the door, creaked open the tiny entrance, and in his loudest voice called out to Sherlock.

“Can you not keep doing this, please?” John pleaded.

Sherlock was now sifting through the fridge. His eyes land on a pint of milk. He took it out, gave it a sniff, and coughed from the pungent smell before slamming it back into the fridge.

“I’m not the first!” He called out to John again.

“What?” Y/N asked.

Sherlock jumped out of his skin. Her voice so quietly sneaked up behind him. He whipped his head around to find her sitting on the window ledge. She was still trying to swing one of her legs into the room. Sherlock sighed in relief.

“Somebody’s been in here before me.” He repeated. He watched as her face squinted in determination, finally entering the apartment. She was out of breath. Her face was red from the exercise. She stepped forward and Sherlock’s eyes darted to the vase. “Watch out for…” It was too late. The vase fell to the floor. “The vase.”

Y/N winced at the noise. “Sorry.” She whispered to him.

“What are you saying?!” John yelled again. The two of them couldn’t hear him.

As Y/N placed the vase back onto the table, Sherlock retrieved a magnifier from his pocket examining a footprint he noticed on the floor. The intruder had left a scuff mark and from the size of it, Sherlock determined it belong to a size eight foot.

Outside on the street, John groaned his head thudded against the door. With the noise of the street, he couldn’t make out anything Sherlock had said. John peaked around the corner of the building and found Y/N to be missing. She was inside, he thought. John, rejuvenated with energy began to push at the doorbell.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

“That’ll be John,” muttered Y/N. She pushed by Sherlock and walked through the beaded curtain. Sherlock followed her.

“Where are the stairs?” She whispered to herself as she walked back through the apartment.

Sherlock had occupied himself with other footprints he had found on the floor. His steps followed closely to where the intruder had stepped.

“Small, but ... athletic,” Sherlock murmured. He passes by a table and sees a framed photo. He straightened up and peered down at the photo.

There were two small children- a young boy and a girl. They sat next to each other, smiles as wide as their small faces would go. Sherlock turned the photo to the light and caught a glimpse of a handprint. It was placed over the young girl in the photo.

“Small, strong hands,” Sherlock noted.

“Sherlock,” Y/N called. “Where are the stairs? I going to go let John inside.”

“Just to the left of the bedroom,” he said. Y/N nodded and left to go and let John inside.

Sherlock glanced around the room one last time. His eyes landed on the open window in which he came through.

“Our acrobat,” Sherlock frowned. “But why didn’t he close the window when he left ...?”

Sherlock stopped. He could hear Y/N’s steps retreating down the stairs. Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, stupid. Stupid. Obvious. He’s still here!” He exclaimed.

In the corner of his eye, he saw a folding screen. It was ornately decorated and had a few stray clothing items hung over it. It stood next to the bed in the bedroom. Sherlock’s eyes never left the screen as he pocketed his magnifying glass and stalked toward the screen. He reached out his right hand bringing it closer and closer to the screen. His fingers met wood and he yanked it back. He pursed his lips at the sight of two stuffed animals. They stared directly into his eyes.

Suddenly, there was a flash of white and Sherlock could no longer breathe. The intruder had collided with a long white scarf around Sherlock’s neck, squeezing it tightly. Sherlock fumbled as he tried to fight his opponent. The two of them backed into the wall.

____

Y/N had found the stairs with ease and was making her way down, step-by-step. She had heard Sherlock mutter something as she walked down but ignored it. John heard her steps down the stairs.

“Any time you want to include me,” John said.

“Coming,” She sang as she reached for the lock.

“Y/N!” John cheered. He heard one lock release.

As Y/N began to unlock the second lock on the door, she heard a thud from above. Then more sounds.

Her eyes widened.

“Sherlock!” Y/N squeaked. She only heard more muffled banging.

“Y/N?” John questioned. “What’s wrong?”

Immediately she ran back up the stairs. John only heard her vacating footsteps and groaned again.

“Perfect. Left again,” John grumbled to himself. He waved his hands in a mocking manner, his voice impersonating Sherlock’s. “No, I’m Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone because no one else can compete with ...”

John stormed to the letterbox and flipped it open. “... my MASSIVE INTELLECT!”

____

Sherlock’s vision was dimming as his lungs fought for air. His hands fell just short of the attacker behind him. His attacker swung him to the side, allowing Sherlock to see a glimpse of Y/N. Her eyes widened at the scene in front of her.

Sherlock couldn’t voice any words, but he tried to tell her to stay back. He couldn’t let her get hurt. He had to protect her. He tried to hit his attacker, but he had no more strength. His eyes went dark, and he fell limp.

The attacker released his hold on the scarf and took a step toward Y/N. Her back hit the wall behind her. Her body sank to the floor. Every inch of her skin trembled. In the distance, there was another buzz of the doorbell. The masked intruder stopped his approach and then darted towards the window. He leapt out and disappeared amongst the rooftops of Chinatown.

Y/N ran to the window and shut it with a slam. She tried to take in a deep breath but failed as soon as she remembered Sherlock. She ran over to Sherlock’s unconscious body and fell beside him. Her hands shook him awake.

“Sherlock!” She cried.

Sherlock’s lungs welcomed the air and his eyes regained focus and that’s when he saw her. Y/N now hovered over him. Her hands held his cheeks. Her lips were slightly parted and shaking. Her eyes held fear in them. She was afraid.

His eyes softened at the sight of her. She’s okay, thought Sherlock. He tried to raise a hand to hold her but his body was too weak. His muscles now remembered what it was like to have a constant flow of oxygen.

John buzzed the doorbell again.

Suddenly, a tightness formed in the back of Sherlock’s throat. He quickly sat up and coughed. He tugged at the scarf from around his neck and cast it to the side. He tried to stand up but a wave of dizziness hit him. His arms clasped onto the nearest thing in order to steady himself. He felt a warmth cover his hand. He looked down and saw that he was holding onto Y/N.

“Sherlock?” Y/N’s voice faltered. “Are you alright?”

He nodded his head. His voice still comes back to him.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock wheezed. He brought a hand to his chest. His blue eyes captured the sight of Y/N once again. “Don’t tell John.”

“But he’s a doctor, you should have him make sure you’re alright,” Y/N argued.

“No. I don’t need John or anyone to worry over me. I’m fine.”

___

Downstairs, John looked at his watch in annoyance. He shook his head and looked around. He very well considered leaving Sherlock and Y/N to their own devices.

A few moments later, the front door swings open. John rolled his eyes in an exasperated expression. He glared at Sherlock.

“The, uh, milk’s gone off and the washing’s starting to smell. Somebody left here in a hurry three days ago,” Sherlock croaked.

John widened his eyes at his friend’s voice. It sounded like he was hit with a bad case of the flu and hung over from a night on the town.

“Somebody?” John asked. He looked at Y/N who appeared behind Sherlock. His eyes made a motion as if he was asking what happened with Sherlock.

Y/N acknowledged John but returned her gaze to Sherlock.

John pursed his lips. Y/N was now looking at Sherlock. John looked closer at the two of them. He noticed how Y/N hovered close behind Sherlock. John concluded that the two of them made up in some way. His brown eyes trailed over Sherlock who was now adjusting the collar of his shirt. There were pink and red markings all over Sherlock’s neck.

“Soo Lin Yao. We have to find her,” Sherlock said. His hoarse voice broke John’s train of thought.

Sherlock looked down at his feet and caught sight of something new. A white envelope.

“But how, exactly?” John questioned.

Sherlock picked up the envelope and turned it around. It read:

___

SOO LIN,

Please ring me and tell me you’re OK.

Andy

NATIONAL ANTIQUITIES MUSEUM

____

Sherlock shoved the envelope in John’s hands. “Maybe we could start with this.” He coughed.

“You’ve gone all croaky. Are you getting a cold?” John wondered.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock muttered.

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what the marks on your neck are telling me,” John mentioned.

Y/N's face went slack and Sherlock’s eyes pinched shut. John shot accusatory Y/N and Sherlock a look.

Y/N blurted, “John, it’s not like that. Sherlock was st…”

“Y/N” Sherlock coughed. “Don’t.”

She lowered her eyes to the ground.

“I’m fine, John,” Sherlock repeated. His voice slowly regained its composure.

John looked between his friends one more time. There was something going on and he was determined to figure it out. John looked down at the envelope in his hands. He’d have to wait for answers, but until then, it appeared to John that the three of them would have to visit the Museum again. This time, John intended to not be left behind and caught red-handed.

____

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