To John, the ride to the clinic seemed to take forever, while simultaneously feeling like it was over too quickly. It was an odd feeling, but John tried to ignore it and attributed it to the apprehension he felt about the conversation he was about to have with Kate.

The cab let John out right in front of the clinic. He paid the driver, and took a deep breath, and a moment to steel his nerves before walking through the door.

Marjorie looked up at the sound of the door opening, and when she saw that John was the person who’d entered, her face quickly shifted from her pleasant ‘How may I help you?’ smile to a look of confusion.

“John,” she began. “You’re not scheduled to be in today. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I just need to talk to Kate. Is she around?”

“Up in her office. She should be able to see you. It’s been pretty quiet today.”

“Thanks,” said John, making an attempt at a smile. He would have to tell her on his way out. Another conversation he wasn’t looking forward to having.

The door to Kate’s office was closed when John arrived. He approached the door and sighed, before raising his hand to rap his knuckles against the door.

“Come in!” Kate called. John opened the door and stepped into the office. Kate was seated behind her desk, reading through a sheaf of paper and simultaneously scribbling on an index card. She looked up as John closed the door behind him. “John,” she began. “What brings you in on your day off?”

“Well,” said John, unsure of how to begin. “Have you got a few minutes? I need to talk to you about something.”

“Sure thing,” she replied. She placed the cap back on her pen and shifted the packet of paper to the side. “Have a seat.” She gestured to a chair across the desk from her. John lowered himself into the chair and folded his hands in his lap.

“First off, I want to apologize for being so scarce recently. I can’t give you all the details, but people are being killed and Sherlock is burning himself out trying to stop it from happening. He needs my help.”

“I know. And it’s not your fault.”

“I… but... I need to go. To give my two weeks’ notice.”

“But why?”

“This killer isn’t showing any signs of stopping, and you deserve to have a doctor on your staff who isn’t calling out every other day to chase a murderer around London and beyond. I hate to leave, but I can't keep going on this way.”

“If your mind’s made up then that’s all, isn’t it? I-- reluctantly, mind you-- accept your resignation. I hate to see you go, though.” Kate said, sadly.

“I hate to have to go,” said John.

“Unfortunately I can’t hold the position indefinitely, but if you ever want to come back, just drop me a line.”

“Of course, of course. I understand, and I will. I’ll also be coming in on the days I’m scheduled these next two weeks.”

“Thanks, John.”

“No, thank you.”

Kate smiled slightly and for a second John thought she was going to say something else. However, she seemed to think better of it. After a few more seconds, the silence began to feel awkward.

“I should go now,” said John. “I’ll be in tomorrow morning.” He got up from the chair, and Kate did the same. She offered him her hand and he took it. They shook hands, and John went on his way.

“Bye John,” Kate said, as John closed the office door behind him.

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock was curled up in his chair, flipping through a packet of papers that John could only assume was the preliminary reports from Molly. A half-empty teacup sat on the end table, and he groped for it with his free hand.

“I’m back,” said John, hanging up his jacket, even though it was likely they’d be heading out again soon.

“How’d it go?” Sherlock asked, refraining from prefacing his reply with, ‘I know.’ John settled himself in his chair, and ran his fingers through his hair.

“About as well as you’d expect,” he replied.

In truth, the conversation he’d had with Kate was quite a bit easier that talking to Marjorie. He’d grown friendly with her in the time he’d been at the clinic. She had gotten a bit teary-eyed when John explained that he was leaving and his reasons for doing so. She’s also given him her address, and he’d promised to keep in touch.

Once John had relayed his conversations with Kate and Marjorie, Sherlock passed him the packet of papers. John quickly read through the reports, and was slightly relieved to discover that Molly had indeed found Dibenzoylmorphine in the dead woman’s bloodstream.

Not that it’s all that much of a comfort , John thought to himself, trying not to remember the sheer volume of blood that had been present at the scene.

“I’ve still no clue about what the numbers mean, or any of this!” said Sherlock, frustration filling his voice as he gestured to the wall of photos and notes.

“Me either, but I know you’ll figure it out,” John replied. “We need to talk to the husband.”

“I know,” Sherlock said with a sigh.

Sherlock spent the entire cab ride to the Harris flat fidgeting and muttering to himself. He calmed down noticeably as John rested a hand on his  bouncing knee, although the muttering continued.

“Shall I break the news to him?” John asked.

“Hmm?” Sherlock replied clearly not paying attention.

The door opened as John’s fist was moving to knock a second time.

“Britt, is that--” Evan began, finding himself facing John and Sherlock instead. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Holmes. I thought you weren’t taking on my case. Any news?”

Sherlock glanced at the floor, and then at John.

“Er, that’s actually what we’re here to talk to you about. Would it be alright if we came in?” asked John.

“You must be Doctor Watson,” said Evan, opening the door wider. “That’d be fine. Come on in.” He stepped aside to allow them to walk past him into the flat. He gestured to the sofa. “Have a seat.” John and Sherlock settled themselves on the sofa, and Evan lowered himself into a nearby armchair.

“Mr. Harris,” John began, resisting a sudden urge to wring his hands. “We found your wife this morning. She-- She had been murdered.”

Before Sherlock could even react, Evan hoisted him off of the sofa by his collar, and punched him straight in the mouth. Sherlock staggered back half a step, and John instinctively placed himself between Evan and Sherlock, his own hand curling into a fist ready to strike back. However, Sherlock grabbed onto John’s arm before he could retaliate.

“John,” Sherlock said quietly, wiping at the trickles of blood issuing from the cut in his lower lip. John slowly opened his hand. Sherlock turned to Evan. “We believe she had been to see her parents, and was abducted from there.”

“So you were right,” Evan began. “Mr. Holmes, I--”

“Only about some of the facts. I should have listened. If I had…” Sherlock’s sentence trailed off at the end. John pursed his lips, and wondered where Sherlock was going with his current train of thought. 

“This isn’t your fault, Mr. Holmes. I know you weren’t the one who did this to her.”

“Mr. Harris, is there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to hurt your wife?” John asked. Evan returned to his armchair.

“She is-- was a primary school teacher. What sort of enemies could someone like that possibly have?” Evan replied. Sherlock sat down on the sofa, and John followed suit, after taking his notepad out of his pocket. He jotted down what had already been said, and contemplated Evan’s question for a moment before speaking again.

“True,” said John. “What about strangers, or anyone who seemed out of place?”

“Actually, yes. About a week or so ago, a man came to our door, saying he was from some courier service. He said he had a parcel for Brittany. I had a bad feeling about him, even though the only view I had of him was obscured by either her or the door,” Evan replied. John caught Sherlock’s eye and knew they were both thinking about how the lawyer’s secretary had told a similar story.

“Did you get a look at him at all?”

“Only a quick glance.”

“From what you could see; what did he look like?”

“He was white, with stringy blond hair,” said Evan. John must have looked surprised. “Why? Is he the one who did this?”

“We don’t know. Did your wife ever open the parcel?”

“Yes, and it upset her very much. It was the most bizarre thing. When my wife’s brother died, we put a decorative stone in our garden in his honor, because gardening was his favorite thing. The stone was stolen a few months ago. Brittany was devastated. She couldn’t fathom why anyone would do such a thing. The stone was in the parcel.”

“That is very strange,” John agreed, scribbling in his note book.

“Why would he do that?” Sherlock murmured.

“Who?” said Evan.

“The killer,” John replied. “Sherlock has a habit of thinking out loud.”

“Oh.”

“Well, Evan, we won’t keep you,” said John, rising from the sofa. “Thank you for your time, and we’re sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks,” Evan replied, shaking John’s hand. He turned to Sherlock. “And I apologize for striking you.” Sherlock nodded and reluctantly took Evan's hand when he offered it.

The next two weeks passed relatively peacefully for John, as if to spite him. No other victims had turned up, and John’s last days at the clinic were generally quiet.

Unfortunately, Sherlock was no closer to a breakthrough in the case, and it was wearing on him. The day after John’s last day at the clinic, Sherlock spent the entirety of the day in his chair, his long legs tucked up underneath him. A stone cold slice of toast sat near him on a plate, buried under a pile of papers. It hadn’t been touched since John had placed it there that morning.

“You know,” said John. “Your brain is eventually going to stop working if you never put food in your stomach.” Sherlock gave no indication that he’d heard John, and continued to study his notes. “You’re stuck with me full time again,” John said, teasingly.

“It is rather unfortunate.”

“Sorry?”

“That you had to leave the clinic.”

John approached Sherlock. Various crime scene photos were scattered on the table in front of him. John noticed that most of them were of Thomas, the lawyer. He wondered why Sherlock was focusing on them rather than the most recent photos. He picked one up from the pile; it was a close-up of the apple that had been sitting on Thomas’ desk.

“What’s the significance of this?” John asked, holding up the photo. Sherlock glanced over at him.

“I have a hypothesis, but it’s fairly far-fetched. I’m still working on it,” said Sherlock.

“Well, what’s the hypothesis?”

“Jim Moriarty.”

“What? But he’s--”

“Dead? I know. But that’s the hypothesis. I need to speak to Lestrade.” Sherlock replied as he reached for the phone.

John sat down in his chair and waited while Sherlock spoke back and forth with Lestrade. His brain was mulling over Sherlock’s hypothesis.

“Lestrade says he’s got a few minutes right now. Are you coming?” Sherlock asked. John was still lost in thought and it took him a moment to reply.

“Of course.”

Lestrade was waiting outside his office when John and Sherlock arrived.

“Have you figured it out?” Lestrade asked, ushering them into his office. They sat down in the chairs in front of Lestrade’s desk.

“Unfortunately, no. But I’ve got a bit of a working hypothesis, although I have a feeling you’re not going to like it,” said Sherlock.

I doubt he likes any of this, John thought to himself. Lestrade simply eyed Sherlock, and John could read a similar sentiment on his face.

“Jim Moriarty,” Sherlock said.

“Jim Mor-- He’s dead, Sherlock. Unlike some people in this room, he didn’t fake his death,” Lestrade replied. Sherlock said nothing for a moment. He knew The Fall was just as tough, if not tougher on him than it had been with John and there still seemed to be nothing that Sherlock could say or do to ease the pain he had caused Lestrade.

“Have you gone and tried to find out whether the mystery deliveryman had been to the other victims’ residences?” asked John.

“Not yet,” said Lestrade. “That was next on the agenda when he called.” He gestured to Sherlock with his chin.

“Oh.”

“Would you care to come along?” The question was directed to Sherlock.

The first stop they made was to see Krista, Agatha’s daughter. The three of them had all piled into the same cab, but no one spoke for the entire duration of the car ride, except for when Lestrade gave the driver the address. John wondered whether he should be the one to talk to her, since he had been the one who’d spoken with her during her stay in the hospital. Lestrade seemed to read John’s mind.

“I think it’d be best if you talked to her, John,” he said.

Krista opened the door wearing an over-sized jumper, and holding a coffee mug in one hand. There were slight dark circles under her eyes, as if she’d been getting some sleep, but not much. A tabby cat wound its way around her ankles, peering curiously at the newcomers.

“Jack, get back inside,” she said to the cat, gesturing to the room behind her with the hand not holding the mug. It took her a few seconds to return her attention to her visitors. “Oh! Mr. Watson,” she said, meeting John’s eye.

“Just John, please,” he replied. “How are you feeling?”

“It’s difficult, but I’m managing.” She looked over her shoulder into the sitting room behind her. “Flat’s a bit messy, but would you like to come in?”

“Please. There’s something I’d like to ask you about.”

She took a step back to allow John, Sherlock, and Lestrade to walk past her into the sitting room. Nothing in the room could have been mistaken for a mess; the closest thing was a messily-folded quilt that had been placed on the back of the sofa. The cat had settled himself on the quilt.

“I’d like you to meet Sherlock Holmes, and Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, from the Yard,” John began, gesturing to each in turn.

“Krista. Krista Bates,” she replied, shaking hands with both of them. “Have a seat, please, and tell me what’s been going on.”

As soon as they were all seated, Krista drew her legs up underneath her, and glanced nervously at John.

“So, have you found the person who killed my mother?”

“Well,” John began, unsure of how much he should say. “We’re looking for someone who we think might be involved.”

“Who is it?” Krista asked, suddenly leaning forward in her chair.

“Did your mother mention receiving anything in the post recently?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. If she had, she didn’t say anything to me. Is it important?”

“Would the landlord know?” Lestrade asked.

“Heavens, no!” Krista replied. “They never got on well. It’s beyond me why she stayed there so long.”

As soon as she’d starting speaking, John pulled out his notepad, and flipped back a few pages to his first conversation with her. He was suddenly reminded of the way Sherlock had posed as Krista’s husband to gain entry to her mother’s flat. Then it occurred to him that he had no idea whether or not she actually had a husband.

“Are you married?” he asked. She eyed him for a few seconds before answering.

“No, I’m not,” said Krista, reaching out to pet the cat as he leapt up onto her lap. For a second, John wondered whether the landlord had known that when he’d let Sherlock into the flat, before realizing that it was doubtful, given Agatha’s relationship with him.

Their next destination was the flat of Megan, the second victim’s friend. She had moved since the murder, and had been kind enough to phone Lestrade to inform him. She opened the door, yawning and rubbing at her eyes, she’d slept in her clothes the previous night. It took her a few seconds to recognize the men at her door. She smiled slightly, saying something about how she wished one of them would have called ahead to let her know they were coming. Lestrade offered apologies, and she led them through the entrance-way into a small but neat sitting room.

“So, what did you need to talk to me about?” Megan asked, looking at Sherlock, John, and Lestrade in turn. “If it were news or some kind of status update, I would have gotten a phone call, or nothing,” she continued. John frowned.

“The current workload of everyone involved leaves little to no room for status updates.” Sherlock said failing to keep the bite out of his tone.

“We’re here because we found someone we think might be connected,” John said, acting as if Sherlock hadn’t spoken.

“A suspect?” Megan asked.

“Possibly. So far we know of two victims he had contact with in the weeks before their deaths,” Lestrade told her. “Had Mallory received any sort of parcels in the post recently?”

“Parcels? Yes. About four days before she died, she got a really small box by courier.”

“Who delivered it?”

“I don’t know. Some guy. He was blond, and a bit creepy,” said Megan, her shrug followed by a visible shudder. John looked over at Sherlock and attempted to catch his eye, but Sherlock was completely focused on Megan.

“What was in the parcel?” Sherlock asked, steepling his fingers and studying Megan over his fingertips.

“I’m not sure,” she replied. “She never told me, and I knew better than to pry. Whatever it was, she was depressed for two days afterwards.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed fractionally as he processed the new information. He needed to know what was in the parcel. He doubted it would shed any light on the situation at hand, but he thought one less mystery-- even a small one-- would be nice.

“Do you happen to know where she put the box after she received it?” Lestrade asked.

Megan didn’t answer for a long moment. She toyed with a loose thread at the edge of her sleeve and avoided Lestrade’s eyes. Sherlock could plainly see how uncomfortable she was with the idea of snooping through her dead friend’s possessions, and possibly discovering something she hadn’t been meant to see but it needed to be done.

“I saw her put it in the bottom drawer of her desk. When I cleaned out her side of the room, I put the stuff from her desk all in one box. I had contemplated throwing the parcel out, because it had upset her so much, but something told me not to. The box is in the back of my closet. Just let me fetch the parcel. I just hope it will be able to help you out in some way,” Megan replied. “Because god knows it didn’t do her any good.”

She got up from the sofa and disappeared into her bedroom for several minutes, during which not a single word was spoken. She returned carrying a box that could easily have fit in the palm of her hand. The three men peered cautiously at it, each separately wondering what it could possibly contain. Megan settled herself back into her chair, placed the box in her lap and simply stared at it.

Another long moment passed, and John reached for the box, but Megan snatched it away before his fingers even touched the cardboard. She carefully worked the flaps open and drew a wadded-up ball of tissue paper out of the box. The paper was creased in such a way that suggested it had been carefully folded at some point.

Sherlock concluded that the paper had been neatly wrapped around its contents when the parcel had been packed, but in her emotionally-compromised state, Mallory had simply stuffed it back into the box. He was distracted from his thoughts by the sound of the paper crinkling.

Inside the tissue paper was a tiny gold pendant on a thin matching chain. It glinted in the light as Megan held it up in front of her, and spun it slowly to examine it.

“Evan?” she whispered.

“What did you say?” Sherlock asked sharply, startling Megan and earning him looks from John and Lestrade.

She passed him the pendant without another word. As he wound the chain through his fingers, Sherlock noticed the curly letters engraved into one side. They spelled ‘EVAN.’ Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, and he turned the pendant over in his hand. Carved into the other side was the image of a cross.

Sherlock held the necklace out to John, dropping it into his outstretched hand.

“Evan?” John asked, after examining the inscription. “Isn’t that the name of--”

“Yes,” said Sherlock. He frowned. He couldn’t fathom how the two of them could be connected, unless they had somehow known each other. The pendant twisted on its chain as Sherlock continued to examine it. “Did Mallory know anybody by the name ‘Evan?’” he asked.

“Not that I know of,” Megan replied. “But that doesn’t mean she didn’t. There were some things in her past that she never wanted to tell me about. I figured they were painful for her.”

It’s unlikely her parents knew anything either, considering the estranged state of their relationship at the time of her death, Sherlock thought to himself.

“I’ve just had an idea,” Megan said, accepting the pendant back from John. “I have Mal’s old diaries that go back to at least her thirteenth birthday. They’re in a box of her things that I brought with me from our old flat.”

“Hmm, it’s likely that if this person were important enough that the pendant affected her as deeply as it seems to, she would have written about it, if she wrote in them regularly,” said John.

“Oh, she did. She was forever scribbling in one notebook or another. If you give me a day or so I can read through them and let you know if I find anything.”

“It would be quicker and more efficient if I did it myself,” said Sherlock. He considered adding ‘and more thorough,’ but decided against it. She pursed her lips and he could see that she wanted to protest.

“I guess you’re right,” she admitted. “Just… promise me you’ll be careful with them, okay?” She drew her legs up underneath her and hugged her knees to her chest. The position and the worried look on her face made her look much younger than she actually was.

Sherlock nodded, and at the same time, resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

After dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, Megan slid out of her chair. She returned a few moments later carrying a small stack of notebooks, and set them down on the coffee table.

“Make sure you give them back, please” she said, reaching up to chew on one of her fingernails. “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment in a bit, so--”

“We won’t take up any more of your time,” said Lestrade, getting up from his chair.

Sherlock and John took their own cab back from Megan’s flat and said goodbye to Lestrade, even though all three of them knew it was very likely that they’d be speaking to each other again soon. John had the stack of notebooks on his lap, and refrained from flipping the top one open. Sherlock had already outlined his plans for sifting through the diaries, and those plans called for him to be the only one to read them. At first, John had protested, saying that it would be quicker for both of them to be reading, but soon gave up when he realized Sherlock had already made up his mind. He needed to do it. He needed to regain control.

Once they were back at Baker Street, Sherlock immediately settled himself in his chair, with the stack of notebooks on an end table next to him and another notebook in his lap. John sat down at the table. There wasn’t too much more for him to write about since his last submission, but it was more appealing to him at that moment than trying to do the crossword.

The first two notebooks consisted of a thirteen-year-old Mallory complaining about school and her father. Sherlock skimmed the next two, finding more of the same. He found the girl’s father and step-brother to be particularly loathsome.

Sherlock had made a few notes, although nothing seemed terribly important at first glance. There was no mention of anyone named Evan thus far. Sherlock looked up from the notebook he was reading and glanced over at John.

“Find anything?” John asked.

“Nothing relevant as of yet,” replied Sherlock, returning his attention to the book. He resumed reading as John got up from his place at the table.

“It might help if you looked at something a little more recent,” John said, glancing over Sherlock’s shoulder to get a look at the date at the top of the page.

“Yes, but it’s more thorough to do it this way. I’ve almost finished with this one, though.”

The next several hours passed in relative silence. Occasionally, Sherlock would mutter to himself or scribble something out on his notebook. John hadn’t spoken in at least forty minutes. His previous inquiry about whether Sherlock was hungry had gone unanswered, and he hadn’t felt the need to ask again. He was mildly surprised when Sherlock finally spoke.

“John, come look at this,” he said, passing a notebook over the coffee table to John, where he’d settled in his chair.

John scanned both sides of the page that the notebook was open to. At first, he couldn’t see what had drawn Sherlock’s attention, so he read through them more carefully. The handwriting was curly and difficult to read, but he managed. Nothing on the pages seemed relevant, even after he’d read them more closely. He was about to ask Sherlock what, exactly, he was looking at, when he saw it.

Scrawled in the margins were three words, and a letter.

I love Evan H.

John stared at the inscription in the margin for a long moment. It couldn’t possibly be the same person as the most recent victim’s husband. Could it? He looked over at Sherlock, his confusion evident on his face.

“It can’t be the same man, can it?” John asked. “I mean, he’s several years older than she was. Not that that really means anything.”

“I’m not sure. I was a bit suspicious about the fact that he came to see me, and not the police, after she’d already been missing for two days,” Sherlock replied.

If he were to be completely honest with himself, the fact that Evan had come to him before the police had only registered as a blip on his ‘suspicious’ radar. It was only in conjunction with Mallory’s parcel that the blip seemed to expand into something more questionable.

“I’ll have to read further to find out,” said Sherlock. He reached out to accept the notebook from John and reached up to massage his temples with his other hand. He was used to pouring over books for hours at a time, but Mallory’s handwriting was very difficult to read. He could feel the beginnings of a headache gnawing at his skull.

In the time Sherlock had been distracted, John had gotten up from his chair.

“How about some tea?” John suggested. Sherlock made an affirmative noise and slowly opened the notebook again.

About an hour later, the teacup on the end table was almost empty, and the throbbing pain in Sherlock’s head had mostly abated. He was nearly asleep in his chair as he flipped the last page of the notebook he was currently reading. He scanned the page with waning interest, until his eyes fell on the inside of the back cover. Written over a dozen times in that same curly handwriting, surrounded by little hearts, were the words;  

Mrs. Evan Holloway

Sherlock slapped the notebook shut, and heaved an exasperated sigh. He’d wasted several hours on a hunch and had nothing to show for it. He felt foolish for entertaining the notion that the two Evans could have possibly been the same person.

“They aren’t the same person,” said Sherlock, noting the concerned look on John’s face.

“No?”

“Unfortunately not. Now we’re back to square one, which, as I’m sure you remember, consisted almost entirely of nothing. I need to phone Lestrade.”

“I can see why you thought there was a connection, though, because--” John began, stopping as he realized Sherlock was stacking the notebooks, deliberately avoiding looking at him while he was on the phone.

“Lestrade?” said Sherlock. “Are you still in? There’s something I need. I’ll be there soon.”

“Do you need me to come with you?” John asked as Sherlock hung up with Lestrade.

“It would probably be best if I went alone,” Sherlock replied. “It shouldn’t take long.”

Once Sherlock hailed a cab, he climbed in and gave the driver the address. As the it pulled away from the curb, Sherlock stared out the window and wondered absently whether Lestrade would be willing to help him.

The cab slowed to a stop. He paid the driver and climbed out onto the pavement. He straightened his coat, and for a second, he could have sworn he saw someone staring at him, out of the corner of his eye.

The person was already in motion by the time he turned around to get a better look. All he saw was a flash of blond hair, and the person was gone, having taken off down the street at a sprint. Sherlock’s first instinct was to give chase, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to catch up. Under ordinary circumstances he wouldn’t have a problem doing so, but the street around him was uncharacteristically crowded.

The building was buzzing with activity, as if to mirror the current state of Sherlock’s mind. Were he to be completely honest with himself, his brain was also uncharacteristically crowded.

Lestrade glanced up as Sherlock entered his office. The surface of his desk was nearly covered in papers, much like the wall of the sitting room back at Baker Street. However, instead of expanding vertically, Lestrade’s clutter had grown horizontally. As Sherlock settled himself in a chair across from Lestrade, the phone on the desk began to ring. Lestrade sifted through several piles of paper before unearthing the phone. He lifted the receiver to his ear and immediately grimaced.

“I told you ‘No comment.’ Don’t phone me again,” he snapped, setting the receiver back in the cradle with a little more force than necessary. He returned his attention to Sherlock, and his face softened visibly.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked.

“As much as can be expected. There’s a tabloid reporter who’s been phoning me because he thinks there’s more to the story than we’re letting on, which, of course, there is, but there are some aspects of the cases that we’re not sharing with the press,” Lestrade explained. “The most recent time, the caller said ‘There could be any number of things you’re keeping to yourselves.’ He put an odd emphasis on the word ‘number,’ and I can’t tell whether it was just a coincidence, or if he somehow knows, or even if he’s connected.” Sherlock frowned.

“The universe is rarely so lazy,’” Sherlock replied.

“You’re right,” Lestrade admitted. “But you’re not here about a persistent tabloid reporter, are you?”

“Unfortunately not. I… I need to see Jim Moriarty’s autopsy report,” Sherlock said, quietly. Lestrade didn’t reply right away, but simply stared at him for several seconds.

“I can’t. And even if I could, what in the hell would you even expect to find in there?”

Answers? Sherlock thought to himself. But, to Lestrade, he said, “I don’t know. Three words I am loath to utter, but it’s true. I’m just looking at anything and everything at this point.”

Three corpses later, Sherlock was still no closer to a culprit, or a solution, than he had been when the first body had been found. He said nothing when Lestrade place a manila folder on the desk in front of him. The tab at the edge of the folder had the words, ‘Moriarty, James’ written on it on neat, block letters. Sherlock found himself feeling relieved that the tab did not read, ‘Brook, Richard.’

Clipped to the inside of the front cover of the folder was the autopsy report. Sherlock spent several long minutes reading it, but everything about the charts looked normal, from the birth and death dates at the top, to the illegible signature at the bottom.

“Listen,” Lestrade began. “You’ve got to give up on this angle. If not for my sake, but your own.”

Sherlock said nothing and began flipping through the rest of the papers in the folder. They appeared to be Lestrade’s notes and various reports concerning the cases in which Moriarty was known to have been involved. It was highly likely that there were a great many more cases in which he was involved. Sherlock shook his head side to side, as if to jar the thoughts from his mind. They retreated, momentarily, but he could still sense them at the edge of his consciousness.

As he’d expected, Sherlock gleaned exactly nothing from the autopsy report or the rest of the papers in the folder. He handed the folder back to Lestrade without a word, offering thanks, as he took his leave.

The paperwork had thoroughly pushed all thoughts of the mystery blond person from Sherlock’s mind, but as he sat in the cab on his way back to Baker Street, his curiosity returned full force. Under ordinary circumstances, the odds were fairly high that the person was anything other than a nondescript pedestrian. However, the circumstances were the furthest thing from ordinary.

“Well? What did Lestrade have to say?” John asked as Sherlock hung up his coat.

“What? Oh, nothing,” Sherlock replied.

“Then why the extra trip over there?”

Sherlock sighed. He might as well share his thoughts with John sooner rather than later. Even though he’d hit a dead end, he still found that bouncing his thoughts off of John had proved to be useful in the past.

“I asked him for a chance to read through Jim Moriarty’s autopsy report,” said Sherlock.

John suppressed the urge to go off on a minor tirade that had suddenly manifested in him. He knew Sherlock’s brain was constantly making leaps that his own often could not, but even so, he still couldn’t fathom where the connection had been made. John pursed his lips.

“Did it help at all?”

“You know full well it didn’t, or else you would have received a jubilant phone call beginning with ‘John, I figured it out!’” Sherlock replied, miming talking on the phone as he did so.

“There’s no need to get pissed with me. I was only curious,” John snapped. Sherlock sank into his chair.

“You might feel like you’re wasting time, but you’re just doing what you think is best at the time.”

Sherlock said nothing, although he appreciated John’s words.

“There’s something else,” Sherlock began. He drew his legs up underneath him, not even bothering to remove his shoes. He gestured to John’s chair, and once John was seated, he explained his not-quite run-in with the blond stranger.

“Weird,” said John. He didn’t say anything else for awhile, and Sherlock could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he connected the dots.

“That’s a contender for the understatement of the decade. Not quite the century, however,” Sherlock replied, with a bit of a smirk.

“Git,” said John, swatting Sherlock playfully on the shoulder as he rose and crossed the sitting room to pick up his notebook.

John didn’t plan on writing up another entry, since no new information had come to light. However, he’d been keeping a private document just for his notes and thoughts, including the information that Lestrade had requested that he not post.

“You really should try to get some rest,” John said. “It’s nearly midnight.”

“What day is it?”

“That’s beside the point.”

Sherlock put the photos he was currently examining into a small stack on the coffee table. His mind was still wide awake, but he could feel his body slowing down.

Transport, he thought to himself, frowning.

"Bed. Now Sherlock!" John demanded and pointed in the direction of Sherlock's room.

“Call from Lestrade,” said John the following morning, placing the phone in Sherlock’s already outstretched hand.

Sherlock had a feeling he knew what Lestrade was calling to tell him. There were really only two options; either they had made headway in identifying the killer, or another body had been found. He pursed his lips and lifted the phone to his ear.

“There’s been another,” Lestrade said, as soon as he picked up the call.
 

A half hour later, John and Sherlock met Lestrade at the address he had provided. The address belonged to a small, neatly-kept bakery. A logo had been painted on the glass storefront. It read, “Georgia’s Café & Bakery.” It seemed to be hand-painted, and depicted an elaborately-decorated cupcake next to a steaming coffee mug, with the shop name above it in white calligraphy-style letters. The same image had been reproduced on the front of the awning above the door.

The body was that of Georgia Walker, the woman who had owned the bakery. Sherlock immediately pointed out that asphyxiation was the cause of death. He accepted a rubber glove from Lestrade, and bent down to examine the body. With his gloved hand, he carefully lifted one of her eyelids.

“Petechiae present in the eyes,” he said.

She had been discovered by one of the women who had worked with her. John sat down with the woman at one of the spindly tables that occupied the main room.

“I’m Sharon,” said the woman, nervously folding her hands in her lap.

“John Watson. Can you tell me what happened?”

“I came in early this morning, because we’ve got a big order that we’ve been working on for awhile, and I found her in the kitchen.”

“Is there anyone you can think of that might have wanted to hurt her?” John asked, pulling his notebook out of his pocket. Sharon stared at him for a few seconds.

“How could you think that?” she whispered.

“Routine question,” said John.

In the kitchen, Sherlock was crouched next to Georgia’s body. A ligature mark was present around her neck, and the number '3' had been carved into the area around her left bicep. Sherlock deduced that the cut had been made with the same serrated blade as the others.

“He’s finally given us something,” Sherlock said as he examined the ligature mark with his magnifier. Lestrade gaped at him.

“What?”

“Ms. Walker was 5’10” tall. This ligature mark slants downwards from the front of her neck to the back. Her assailant strangled her from behind, and he’s shorter than her.”

“So he’s shorter than 5’10”; that’s not much to go on,” said Lestrade.

“It’s more than we had before.”

“That’s true.”

John’s conversation with Sharon was proving to be about as enlightening as Sherlock’s examination of the body. It turns out that the mysterious delivery man had been to see Georgia in the past few days. The parcel remained unopened on her desk, however, because there had been so much work to be done on the big order that she hadn’t had time to open it. Sharon had shown John to the office, at his request, and he spent several moment examining the parcel. It was wrapped in plain brown paper. Obviously, there was no return address. However, there was no recipient’s address noted on it, either. The box itself was cube-shaped and just large enough, John noticed, to hold a human head.

“The man who delivered this parcel,” John began, gesturing to the box. “Did you see him?”

“Yes,” said Sharon. John waited for her to elaborate.

“Can you describe him?”

“Yeah, blond, sort of creepy, and a bit taller than you,” she said, eyeing John. “Not too much, though.”

Sharon’s description fit in with the others he had received, so there was no doubt in John’s mind that it was the same person.

“Why was there a number carved into her, Mr. Watson?”

“I’m not sure.”

For a second he contemplated adding that that was one of any number of details about which they had no idea, but quickly thought better of it.

“Her family’s gonna be devastated.”

“Who’s her next of kin?”

“Her husband, I’d imagine. His name is Kevin. I’ve got his number if you’d like me to--”

“That’s alright,” said John. “It’d be best if we went over and spoke with him in person. Thank you for your help.”

Sharon nodded and produced a handkerchief from one of her pockets, with which she dabbed at her eyes.

Sherlock and Lestrade emerged from the kitchen just as John stood up from the table. He could see that Sherlock was distracted. John didn’t fancy the thought of making the notification on his own. He approached Lestrade.

“Coworker says the husband’s next of kin. What did Sherlock get from the body?” John asked, his voice dropping down to a whisper as he noticed Sharon looking at them from her seat at the table.

“Cause of death was asphyxiation, and the deceased had a number carved into her skin, just like the others. Also, the cut was made by the same knife as the others,” said Lestrade.

“Anything else?”

“Sherlock reckons the killer’s finally given us a scrap of information. From the angle of the ligature mark, he deduced that the person who killed Ms. Walker, and the others, is shorter than 5’10” tall.”

“He’s never left any sort of clues before,” said John, after taking a moment to absorb what Lestrade had told him.

“I know.”

“‘Sort of creepy’ blond delivery man was here in the past few days as well,” John said, making quotation marks with his fingers to accompany the first three words.

John showed Lestrade into Georgia’s office where the parcel still sat unopened on the desk. It was most likely immaterial to their investigation, aside from the man who had delivered it. However, he found himself feeling a bit glad she had never opened it. All the others parcels had contained something distressing to the recipient.

“At least the descriptions have been consistent,” said Lestrade.

“True.”

Sherlock and John accompanied Lestrade to make the notification. None of them spoke for the duration of the car ride, although on several occasions, it seemed like Sherlock was about to say something. John could see faint dark circles under the detective’s eyes and attributed the fact that they weren’t more pronounced to the previous night’s rest.

“Kevin Walker?” Lestrade asked, as soon as the door opened.

“Who wants to know?” was the response he received. Lestrade pulled out his ID badge and held it up. He seemed genuinely surprised to discover that it was still in his pocket.

“We’re here about Georgia,” said Lestrade. “Are you Kevin?”

“I-- Yes. Is she alright?” Kevin asked. Lestrade pursed his lips.

“May we come in?”

Kevin stepped aside to allow Lestrade, John, and Sherlock past him into the foyer. There wasn’t much room for the four of them in the small space, so Kevin led his visitors down a short corridor to a lavishly-furnished sitting room.

“Have a seat, please,” he said, before settling into a well-worn recliner himself. John and Lestrade sat down on the sofa, but Sherlock remained standing.

“Rather attached to our chair, aren’t we?” Sherlock asked.

“Sherlock--” John began.

“What makes you say that?” asked Kevin.

“Well, all the rest of the furnishings in this room are carefully coordinated, right down to the doily on the end table over there, except that chair,” said Sherlock.

“It does have sentimental value, yes, although I don’t see what sort of significance it could possibly bear, especially since your companion has yet to explain why you’re here.”

Sherlock fell silent, immediately chastened. For the half second in which he had made the deduction, he had almost forgotten about why they were there. He lowered himself into an armchair at the other end of the room.

“Apologies,” he said quietly.

Kevin nodded, and then turned his attention to Lestrade.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Georgia was found dead this morning.”

It took a long moment for Lestrade’s words to sink in, but once they did, all the color seemed to drain from Kevin’s face. He clutched at the arms of his recliner as if it was the only thing keeping him grounded. He stared, horrified, at Lestrade for another long moment.

“How?” he whispered eventually.

“Well--” Lestrade began.

“Where? By whom?” Kevin demanded, cutting him off.

“She was found in her shop this morning by a coworker.”

“Who could have done this?”

“Is there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to hurt your wife?” Lestrade asked, deliberately leaving Kevin’s question unanswered.

“No. No one. She never had a cruel word or even a mean look for anyone.”

They left not too long afterwards, as they had no more information available, and Kevin explained that a lot of phone calls needed to be made. Lestrade got in one cab, bound for Scotland Yard, while John and Sherlock hailed another to take them back to Baker Street.

By the time John and Sherlock had arrived back at 221B, a preliminary report from Molly was already waiting for Sherlock on the table in the sitting room. He scooped up the folder and folded himself into his chair to read it, without even removing his coat.

John removed his own jacket and settled himself. He was distracted a few minutes later as he noticed a dark shape moving out of the corner of his eye.

In one swift motion, Sherlock stood up from his chair and slid out of his coat. He then began tacking more photos and bits of note paper to the wall. The collection of notes and photos that had steadily grown as the case progressed nearly covered the mirror as well as the surrounding area that was within arm’s length. Once the new photos and notes had been added to the collage, Sherlock took a long look at the wall. He could feel the level of his frustration rising again. With an exasperated sigh, he sank back into his chair and continued his examination of the packet of papers from Molly.

The phone rang beside Sherlock and he nearly tripped over himself and John's chair to answer it.

“What is it?” he asked, not bothering with a ‘Hello.’ The look from John said it all. He would be receiving end of another lecture about the way he spoke to others on the phone.

“I found Dibenzoylmorphine in her blood, Sherlock. There were no puncture wounds anywhere on the body, so she must have ingested it,” Molly replied rather excitably.

“Just like the old woman,” Sherlock muttered.

“Exactly. And the drug is chemically identical to the one found in the first and second victims’ blood. But--”

“It makes sense for the samples to match, if the same assailant killed all of them.” At that John raised an eyebrow.

“Well, yes, but that’s not why I phoned you.”

“What is it?”

“While they were all dosed with Dibenzoylmorphine, and they were all dosed with the same Dibenzoylmorphine, the chemical makeup doesn’t match any known brand on the market. Sherlock, the only way for that to be possible is..."

Sherlock turned to lock eyes with John as he finished Molly's sentence. "The killer made it himself.”

Sherlock pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it for several seconds. He could still vaguely hear Molly’s voice issuing from the speaker. The action had drawn John’s attention, and he could feel John’s eyes still on him.

“How?” John mouthed.

Sherlock shook his head and pressed the phone back to his ear.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Well, that narrowed their suspect list considerably. Nearly anyone could steal a vial or order it from some shady back alley, but it would take someone with a much more specialized skill set to make it themselves.

“Thank you,” he said and hung up.

John was still staring at him.

“Is she sure?” John asked, surprise apparent in his tone.

Sherlock gave him a look and the phone rang again.

“Lestrade, I’ve--” Sherlock stopped mid-sentence. “What? How? All right. Fine.” Sherlock ended the call and turned to face John.

“What was that about?” John asked.

“There’s been another murder.”

“Already?”

“Yes.” And with that, they both quickly made their way outside to hail a cab that Sherlock always seemed to make appear like one of his magic tricks.

The cab dropped them off only a few streets away from Scotland Yard. The body had been found in an alley. The killer was growing even bolder, striking in broad daylight, and so close to such an important hub of police activity.

“Who’s the victim?” Sherlock asked, as soon as Lestrade approached them on the pavement.

“A refuse collector by the name of Paul Franklin. Had his neck snapped within the past few hours. Body’s still warm,” said Lestrade.

“What about the--” Sherlock began.

“On the right calf.”

Sherlock, John, and Lestrade ducked under the yellow tape that had been strung across the entrance to the alley. Paul Franklin was seated on the ground, slumped against the side of a building. His neck was bent at an unnatural angle, and the number '3' had been carved into his right calf.

After pulling his magnifier from his pocket, Sherlock bent down to examine the wound. It had been made with the same knife as the others. However, he remembered that Georgia, the most recent victim before Paul, had also been marked with the number '3.' He froze. None of the other numbers had been repeated before. He pointed that fact out to John, who quickly wrote it down in his notepad.

“Who found the body?” Sherlock asked.

“I did,” Lestrade replied.

“You?”

Lestrade, avoiding the second question replied. “I’ll go make the notification.”

Lestrade left John and Sherlock while he went to notify the next of kin. Sherlock noted that several more police vehicles than usual had been conveniently parked in front of the entrance to the alley no doubt on Lestrade's orders. Smart.

Sherlock felt for Lestrade. The responsibility of investigating these murders had been the Detective Inspector’s from the beginning, but being the person to discover another body and Sherlock's own obstacles, had without a doubt made things more stressful.

“Why was he here?” Sherlock murmured.

“Lestrade?” asked John. “Well, he was the one who found the body.”

“Don't be dull, John. The victim.”

“Are you certain he was killed here?”

“Yes. It was a little difficult to discern at first, but he was killed in this alley. There are a few small droplets of blood on the ground near the body that aren’t present anywhere else in the area, and it’s unlikely that they would be there had he been killed in a different location.”

“He could have been working--” John began. “But then his truck would have been here, wouldn’t it?”

“Exactly.”

A patch over Paul’s left breast pocket read, “Anthony’s Waste Management.” Sherlock bent down to examine it further.

"We need to find out whether Paul was working today, or on his way to work, or whatever,” Sherlock replied.

Without another word, Sherlock made his way down to the end of the alley to the street and hailed another cab. The address, which he already knew wouldn’t be too long of a ride, thankfully. As much as he needed the information the man could possibly provide, he was also eager to get back to analyzing the information from the last victim’s file before the new one came in.

When they arrived at the address, John paid the cabbie and followed Sherlock to a small doorway that seemed to be wedged between the two businesses on either side of it. Sherlock tried the door and pressed the doorbell when he found it was locked. A man appeared from a side room a few seconds later and unlocked the door.

“Anthony?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes. And you’ve caught me on my lunch hour,” the man explained. “I always lock up when I take my break because there’s no one else to watch the office.” Sherlock said nothing. “It’s so nice of you to come.”

“It’s really not,” Sherlock replied. “I have some bad news.” Anthony frowned.

“Would you like to talk in my office?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

Anthony led the way through the front office area, past several unoccupied desks and an assortment of filing cabinets, into a cramped, but organised office. He sat down in the chair behind his desk, before realizing there was only one seat across from him.

“So sorry,” he said. “Let me get another chair.”

“I’ll stand,” said Sherlock.

“Are you sure? I can just--”

“Really, it’s fine. John?” Sherlock gestured to the chair.

John sat down in the chair and pulled out his notebook and glanced expectantly at Sherlock.

“You said you had bad news?” Anthony asked.

“Yes. Unfortunately one of your employees was found murdered today.”

“What? Who?”

“Paul Franklin,” said Sherlock, and Anthony’s face fell.

“He was a good man.”

“Was he supposed to be working today?”

“Yes, but--”

“Anywhere in the vicinity of Scotland Yard?”

Anthony paused and pulled a binder out of one of his desk drawers. He spent a few seconds flipping through the pages before returning his attention to Sherlock.

“Not today. And he was due to come in--” he glanced at his watch. “--a few hours ago as a matter of fact.”

“Did you phone him when he didn’t come in on time?”

“No. He occasionally had a little trouble coming in to work on time,” said Anthony, reluctantly. “I hate to speak ill of the dead.”

“Then why keep him around?” John asked.

“He was good at his job. Now, who could have done this?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Sherlock replied.

Less than an hour later, they left Anthony’s office and headed back to Baker Street. Once they had returned, Sherlock stripped off his coat and put it aside before immediately returning to his stack of sticky notes. He didn’t really feel the need to wait for the report from Molly.

It was still bothering him that the numbers had never been duplicated before.

Could it have been a copycat? Sherlock thought to himself. He quickly eliminated that possibility, however, because Lestrade was still keeping the bit about the numbers out of the press, and he knew John was omitting it from his newspaper submissions. It also struck him as odd that this murder had happened so soon after the last one.

The killer’s M.O. was all over the place. There was no apparent connection between the victims, who were of different sexes, ages, and races. They had also been killed in different ways, and in different places. If not for the numbers, it was unlikely that any connections could or would have been made between the murders at all.

Sherlock covered his face with his hands as he tried to will his brain to make sense of it all. Unsurprisingly, the attempts proved futile. He slowly uncovered his eyes and returned his attention to the wall of photos and sticky notes. On a whim he stood up and tacked the photos of the numbers in a row. As he had no photos of the most recent victim yet, he substituted a sticky note with the number three drawn on it.

"2 5 1 8 3 3"

Even with the numbers lined up next to each other, no light was shed on the situation.

John got up from where he’d been seated at the table, and crossed the room to examine the photos. Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Then John turned to Sherlock.

“Do you remember--”

“Probably.”

“Let me finish!”

“Fine.”

“Do you remember that case with the Chinese smugglers, and the substitution cipher? What if--” John paused mid-sentence. Sherlock gaped at him.

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered. "You yourself may not be luminous, but you are a conductor of light. Well done, John!" Coming from Sherlock, it was a compliment, not an insult.

And with John’s suggestion, a bit of sense had been made. It wasn’t unheard of for a serial killer to try to communicate with the authorities through cryptic notes.

“I think you might be onto something,” said Sherlock.

“If we could figure out what book is being referred to, we can find out what this bastard’s been trying to tell us.”

There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Hudson entered, carrying a manila folder. John accepted it, and thanked her, as at that moment, Sherlock was staring, transfixed, at one of his bookshelves.

“Just make sure he doesn’t run himself completely ragged,” she whispered, nodding in Sherlock’s direction.

“I’ve been doing my best,” John whispered back.

She nodded, then excused herself and returned to her own flat.

“Mrs. Hudson brought up Molly’s report,” said John, holding the folder out to Sherlock.

Sherlock took the file from John and spent a few minutes reading through the paperwork. As Lestrade had said, his cause of death was a broken neck. Aside from the number carved into the calf, there were no other external wounds on the body. The tox screen had come back clean, as well. There was no need for sedatives for a sneak attack. Sherlock passed the folder back to John and returned to examining his bookshelves.

John also read through Molly’s report. He didn’t fancy writing another long submission when he had barely finished the previous one. He fished his notepad out of his trouser pocket and flipped through it until he found the past page he’d written on.

There really isn’t all that much to write about this time around, he thought to himself. Since Lestrade had been keeping the numbers out of the media, it also meant that the latest development wouldn’t be mentioned in John’s blog either. Although something occurred to him as he studied his notes. Either he or Sherlock would need to ask Lestrade whether the dead man had received any suspicious parcels in the week or so before his death. John picked up the phone and dialed.

“Greg? It’s John,” he began, when Lestrade picked up. “No no, everything is fine. I just had a quick question for you.”

Sherlock paused in his investigation of the bookshelves and looked over at John.

“What’s going on, John?” Lestrade asked.

“When you spoke to the ex-wife, did you ask whether our mystery delivery man had been to see Paul before his death?” said John.

“They weren’t living together, but she did give me his address. I went over there and the landlord opened his mailbox for me. There weren’t any packages in it, but a lot of letters, as if he hadn’t checked the mail in some time. So it’s doubtful,” Lestrade explained.

John hung up with Lestrade a few minutes later, and returned to his notepad, while Sherlock went back to staring intently at his bookshelves.

Occasionally, Sherlock would pull a book off of one of the shelves and flip through it, murmuring to himself. He placed the majority of them back in their spots on the shelves, although a small stack had begun to appear on his chair.

“Would you like me to--” John began.

“No,” said Sherlock, interrupting him.

John shrugged one shoulder and returned to his writing.

Once he’d finished looking through one set of bookshelves, Sherlock moved the pile of books from his chair to the end table. He opened the first one and simultaneously pulled the stack of sticky notes towards him.

The flat was soon filled with the sounds of pages turning and Sherlock talking to himself combined with the sound of John’s writing.

It took Sherlock less than an hour to work through the books he’d selected from the first set of shelves. The numbers were only single digits, so it wasn’t possible for them to refer to page numbers, and specific words on said pages. For the time being, Sherlock was simply reading through the tables of contents, and writing down the first word of each chapter name that corresponded to a number. If a book didn’t have named chapters, he’d closed it and moved on to the next one.

The table in front of him was littered with sticky notes, both crumpled and intact. Most of them bore nonsense phrases; much like Sherlock's ramblings that even John was having trouble keeping up with and understanding despite his best efforts to get Sherlock to stop and think his words through properly and voice it so John could help him without further frustrating him.

 2            5          1           8              3              3

The         An        He        When       If             If

Early       Historic  The    Armada   Was         Was

Forensic   Latent     In     From      Never       Never

Sherlock sighed. He’d thought they’d made some manner of progress. However, he felt just as confused and even more frustrated than before. He stood up and paced from one end of the room to the other, muttering to himself as he went. Every few laps he paused to look at the wall of photos. He stopped pacing after a few minutes, and strode over to the second set of bookshelves. He wasn’t too fond of the idea of proceeding as he had with the books he’d chosen from the first set of shelves. 

As Sherlock stared at the bookshelves, John finished his writing and placed the folder on the stack across the table from him. Sherlock looked over at him, then at the stack of folders, then back to him. It was behavior like this that had John even more glad that he had taken Sherlock's gun and hidden it from him saving the walls and everything on it from a hail of bullets.

Without a word, Sherlock abandoned his bookshelf mission and returned to the wall of photos. He began plucking a few of the sticky notes off of the wall. Then he sat down and spread them out on the table in front of him again.

“John!” he exclaimed a few minutes later.

“What is it?” John replied, startled by Sherlock's rather enthusiastic and sudden outburst.

“Oh this is bloody brilliant, John. Absolutely brilliant!"

“What?” John got up from where he had been seated at the table to stand next to Sherlock.

“The cipher was made up of the victims’ names.” It was there all along. Very well done to whoever was responsible.

On the table in front of him were twelve sticky notes.

2     5     1          8     3     3

G     O     T         Y     O     U

“What does it mean?” John asked.

“It can’t be,” Sherlock murmured. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the line of sticky notes on the table. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears.

John said nothing, and simply settled himself in his chair and waited for Sherlock to elaborate. He knew prodding would get him nowhere. Sherlock would explain when he was good and ready. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like Sherlock’s revelation, even though it seemed likely that said revelation would bring the murders to an end. Then Sherlock and every other person who had been working on the cases could finally rest. He could see the effects that the lack of consistent sleep was having on Sherlock, who was used to operating on less sleep, as well as Lestrade, who was not. He hadn’t seen much of Molly lately, but he was sure the she, too, was exhausted. He could only wonder how the various members of the crime scene unit were being affected.

“I… was grasping at straws when it first came to mind. It wasn’t supposed to lead anywhere,” Sherlock said, as though he were trying to convince himself.

“You having an idea about something didn’t make it happen,” John replied. He had a feeling that Sherlock was about to start blaming himself for whatever conclusion he’d just come to.

“He was supposed to have died on that rooftop, John. But it was him. He was behind all of this.” He spoke slowly, as if he couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of his mouth.

He couldn’t fathom how Jim Moriarty could still be alive.

After Sherlock’s return, he had recounted everything that had happened on the rooftop to John. It hadn’t happened right away. He’d never asked, only let Sherlock explain in his own time, at his own pace. John didn’t let his desire to know what had happened outweigh his knowledge of the fact that Sherlock would need time to heal. So, he waited, and he listened. From Moriarty’s admission that there was no code that could gain him access to anywhere, to the point where he put a pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

You don’t come back from that, John thought to himself. The odds of surviving a point-blank gunshot wound to the head, while not quite astronomical, were by no means in favor of the recipient.

Motion to John’s right distracted him from his thoughts. He stepped aside as Sherlock got up from his chair. He watched as Sherlock picked up the twelve sticky notes from the table and affixed them to the center of the mirror. Then he began to gather the pages from various autopsy reports into neat little piles. John sensed that he was trying to distract himself from his thoughts.

“How about this? Why don’t you have a shower? Try to relax a little bit, then we'll figure out how to proceed. Okay?” John suggested.

“We have to phone Lestrade.”

“If this is Moriarty, then--”

“It is him, John.”

“Let me finish please,” John insisted.

Sherlock said nothing.

“If this is Moriarty, then somehow he’ll know that you’ve figured it out, and he’ll probably wait for you to make a move before he does anything else.”

“It’s possible,” Sherlock admitted. “I will humor you for the time being. Just do not call Lestrade without me.”

Sherlock hauled himself out of his chair and made his way into the bathroom. He closed the bathroom door behind him, but didn’t bother to lock it. Then he turned on the water, shucked off his clothes, and stepped under the spray. He tried to quiet his mind and focus only on the sound of the water. However, it was much more easily said than done. He found it extremely difficult to believe that Moriarty was the one behind the murders, but that was where the evidence had led him. It made sense to him now.

The inconsistencies in the M.O., the lack of connections between the victims; they were all things that Moriarty would have come up with. Even though he had figured out the culprit, he still couldn’t fathom the motivation. In their past dealings, Moriarty had never been one to kill by his own hand. Sherlock thought back to their run-in at the pool where Carl Powers had died.

“Don't be silly,” Moriarty had said. “Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty.”

Why the change?

By the time Sherlock got out of the shower ten minutes later, he did feel noticeably calmer. He had just put his clothes back on when he noticed something red out of the corner of his eye. He turned to face the mirror, and found that the words “GOT YOU”  had been scrawled on the mirror, along with a rudimentary drawing of a clock. Sherlock rushed out of the bathroom to ask John about the writing, only to find the sitting room vacant.

John’s notepad was on the floor, and several of the manila folders had been knocked off the table as well, their contents strewn across the floor near the table. Then the realization of what must have happened hit Sherlock like a freight train.

The message.

Sherlock hurried back into the bathroom. The time on the clock appeared to read eight o’clock. Sherlock glanced at his watch. Six o’clock.

The clock was a deadline, Sherlock quickly realized. It meant he had two hours to find John.

Before what?

No, he wouldn’t let himself think about that. He had to find John and put an end to this once and for all. He thought he’d come out on top after the Fall, outsmarted Moriarty, and survived their little game. But it was looking like Moriarty had done the same thing.

But how? He’d watched Moriarty put the gun in his mouth and pull the trigger.

Sherlock turned his attention back to the mirror. There was no obvious indication of where Moriarty had taken John. At first glance, it seemed like the message on the glass had been written in blood. Upon closer inspection, however, it seemed to be written with some kind of blood-red crayon-like substance. Carefully, Sherlock placed a fingertip against the edge of one of the letters, and brought his fingers up close to his nose.

Lipstick. He realized, after spending a few seconds ransacking different areas of his mind palace.

Sherlock sat down on the closed lid of the toilet, and studied the red smudge on his finger. Moriarty must have assumed that the lipstick itself would serve as a clue.

Irene Adler.

The bright red lipstick was something he associated almost exclusively with the Woman, but he couldn’t see what role she could possibly have in all of this. He was certain that she had essentially gone into hiding after the last time he’d seen and rescued her. And she may have had questionable ethics, but there’s no way he could see her supporting the idea of murdering six innocent people for--

For what, though?

That was the one thing he still couldn’t figure out after pondering it in the shower. Why would Moriarty go to the trouble of murdering six people by his own hand? That had never been his style.

Sherlock shook his head, as if to jar the thoughts from his mind. He knew he didn’t have time to focus on ‘Why?’ He needed to figure out where Moriarty had taken John. He considered phoning Lestrade, but quickly decided against it. It would take too long to explain everything, especially since he needed Lestrade to actually believe him. No, this was something he had to do on his own. 

Again.

He needed to think logically about this. Moriarty must have planned to kidnap John all along. Therefore, he needed to have somewhere quiet and secluded to bring him.

Another dot that Sherlock still wasn’t able to join was Irene Adler. There was no perceptible connection he could find as to what she could possibly have to do with any of it. He was sure there was no way she was even in the country.

That’s it.

With Irene Adler out of the country, it was possible that her old flat was vacant.

Sherlock quickly put on his shoes before snatching up his coat and scarf. He then made his way to John’s bedroom. He crossed the room to John’s bedside table and began rummaging through the drawers. After a few second he located John’s handgun. He slid the magazine out of the gun, and replaced it after making sure it was loaded. If he could get out of this without using it, he would, but he would much rather have it and not need it, than need it and not have it. He debated for a moment how best to carry the gun before simply deciding to tuck it down the back of his trousers.

When suddenly the phone began to ring, he realized it would be Lestrade, he spent a short moment deciding whether or not to answer the call.

“Not now, Lestrade,” said Sherlock, working to keep his voice even.

“But Sherlock, what about the--”

“Later. I’ll explain everything to you later,” Sherlock assured him, before ending the call and rushing out of 221B to hail a cab.

The scenery outside the car seemed to be going by in slow motion. Sherlock knew it wasn’t true, but the fear was playing tricks on him. He tried his best to push the thoughts from his mind, with little to no success.

At what seemed like long last, the cab pulled up outside of Irene Adler’s old address. Sherlock paid the driver and stepped out of the car. An odd feeling materialized in the pit of his stomach and he stared up at the pristine white stone of the building.

Sherlock charged up the front steps and tried the front door. He was both relieved and confused to find that it was unlocked. It had been some time since Irene Adler had called the flat home, and the house had since been stripped of furniture. He moved from the foyer into the sitting room, only to find that it was unoccupied. The area of the wall that had previously been occupied by the safe had been reduced to a jagged hole in the wall. The other rooms on the ground floor were similarly empty, although Sherlock had found a slightly-yellowed newspaper on the floor of the kitchen that was only a few months old. Without bothering to take a look at it, he made his way back into the foyer. He drew John’s gun and headed up the stairs.

At the end of the corridor, he saw John. He was bound to a chair, and gagged. Sherlock hurried down the corridor, into what used to be Irene Adler’s bedroom. He knelt beside John, and set the gun down on the floor.

"John...” Sherlock said, as he removed the gag.

“Sherlock, no!” John shouted.

Just then, the gun was snatched from the floor, and the bedroom door slammed.

“Did you miss me?" taunted an all-too-familiar voice from behind Sherlock.