Chapter 1

The room was dull but warm. Tim's face hurt. He sat, his vision starting to come into focus. He examined his surroundings. Green wallpaper could be seen behind the shelving against the walls; it was rotten and peeling. The shelves were full of boxes. He turned his head, his vision now reaching its regular focus (which still wasn't perfect, as he'd woken without his glasses). His fishing rod was next to him. Fishing, he remembered; he had been fishing. He tried to move his arms, but they were stuck. He looked down, and could see that they were tied to the arms of the chair.

Noises. There were noises on the other side of the door to his right. He tried to shout out, but some kind of tape was over his mouth. He turned to look at the door, hearing the footsteps getting closer. The door opened.

"Ah! Yes! I, uh... I see you've finally woken. The rag was meant to stay on your face. Clearly you're a, erm, restless sleeper." The man chuckled to himself. Tim looked down and spotted the rag next to him. "That's OK." The man chuckled again. "I was going to, erm, wake you up soon anyway. It's almost time." Tim tried to talk, wanting to ask the man what it was almost time for. The man walked over to the shelves and took hold of a large box. He put it on the floor, with the same care you would see from a mother placing her newborn in a cot. The man opened the box and looked up at Tim, smiling, as he removed its contents. Tim wasn't sure what he was looking at. It looked like a fish tank – the kind you would find in your daughter's bedroom (My daughter! I need to get back to my daughter!) – but it wasn't filled with water. The fluid inside the tank was not clear. It was red. "This," the man started, with a smile on his face, "is somebody you, er, don't yet know. But don't worry, you will do soon. He was a fisher, just like, er, you. Soon you will ascend and be a fi-fisher of light, just as he now is." The man walked over to another shelf and took down a box. Tim suddenly realised who the man was. But why is he doing this? The man opened the box and pulled out another fish tank, except this one was empty. With it still in his right hand, he then pulled out a thin piping and walked over to Tim. Tim started flailing in the chair, but his torso was also tied up. The chair was screwed to the floor, which was the only reason it was still upright. "Don't, er, worry Tim. You will soon be with your new friend here." The man said, looking back at the other fish tank. "Now, just relax." He put the empty fish tank down next to the chair and grabbed Tim's hand, turning it palm up. The man looked at the needle on the end of the piping. He then held the needle close to one of the veins on Tim's wrist, but Tim was moving his arm too much for the man to put it in. In frustration, the man threw the needle to the floor and picked up the rag. Tim tried to turn his face away, as the man held the rag against his nose. It was no use; he felt himself drift away.

...

"All I'm saying is, next time, you clean the sink." John added, before turning to the window of the taxi and gazing out at the London streets – the beautifully busy streets – as they were passing by, lit up in the darkness of the night-time.

"I don't understand all the fuss you're making, it was just a little blood." Sherlock responded. "I mean it's not like you haven't seen enough in your lifetime, is it?" John tried to restrain himself.

"Sherlock, firstly, it wasn't a little bit of blood; it was a whole bloody human's worth! Secondly, for all I know, the person could have had aids or chlamydia or God knows what else." He turned his face away again.

"He didn't have aids – or chlamydia." Sherlock replied. "... He had rabies." John's head spun back around. He stared at Sherlock.

"Rabies? Rabies?! Well... That's just bloody great Sherlock! Rabies!" He calmed himself before continuing. "If I start foaming at the mouth, promise to take me out back and shoot me."

"Did you not wash your hands afterwards?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes of course I bloody did, Sherlock!"

"So what's the problem?"

"What's the prob – what's the problem?!" John composed himself. "The problem, Sherlock, is that even after washing my hands, I'm... Look, I'm still going to be paranoid about it for the rest of the day." He checked his watch. "If it was something minor I could just put it out of my mind, but rabies? Rabies?! I could have washed my hands twenty times and I'd still be paranoid about it." Sherlock thought for a second.

"So, what your saying is that you're irrationally worried, and I'm to blame." John tried to hold back another outburst. He let out a quick breath through his nose.

"Yes. Yes that's exactly right, Sherlock. Exactly right."

They arrived at the scene. Sherlock got out as John paid the cabbie. Greg Lestrade was already waiting for them.

"You took your time." Greg said.

"So did you. I believe this is the second body you've found like this." Sherlock responded, as John walked over.

"Hey." John said, being the first one to actually say hello.

"Hey." Lestrade responded, then turned back to Sherlock. "Yes, this is the second one. Who told –"

" – No-one." Sherlock cut him off. "When you called me, you sounded apprehensive, but – "

"Yeah, I'm always apprehensive when it comes to getting you involved." Greg added.

"Except this time you'd moved away from the crime scene."

"What do you mean?" John asked. Lestrade crossed his arms. He knew what was coming, but wanted to hear how Sherlock had figured it out. Sherlock turned to John.

"When Gabriel here – "

"Greg." Lestrade corrected him. John smirked. "Wait... Gabriel? Right, now you're just doing it on purpose." Sherlock grinned, then continued.

"When Greg here called, everything – the hustle and bustle of the crime scene – was just background noise. He'd walked away, didn't want everyone knowing what he was doing. Whenever he usually calls from a scene, he doesn't go to such an effort for some peace and quiet, which means?" Sherlock looked at John, wanting his deduction.

"Which means... he was doing something he shouldn't be doing?" John hadn't wanted it to sound like a question.

"Exactly. That, added to the fact that when I arrived Sergeant Donovan rolled her eyes (in a way that suggested it was a bad thing we were here), I'd say you were trying to solve these ones on your own." Lestrade was just about to admit it, but pulled out at the last second.

"Ah, but..." He started. "She's never liked you, so why couldn't she have just rolled her eyes because she never likes you being here?" He stood with a smile on his face, looking quite proud of himself.

"Yes, but then she looked at you with those angry eyes, not me." Greg dropped his smile, wondering why he kept trying to win like this. "Add that to the fact she now has the crime scene investigators packing away their equipment, tells me she didn't know I was coming, which means you hadn't told her." Lestrade turned to see Sergeant Donovan standing around as everybody else was moving their equipment. "Don't ever try to solve one of these on your own, Greg, you're not nearly smart enough." Sherlock added, while walking straight past him. John and Lestrade followed; they were both used to it.

"What the hell is this?" John asked as they walked to the corpse.

"Yeah, it's certainly an interesting one, isn't it?" Lestrade answered. "We found the first one in exactly the same state: both under lampposts; both with not a drop of blood in 'em."

The man's body, pale yet peaceful, was knelt down beneath a lamppost. His arms were outstretched and raised, as if lifting praise to the light that shone down on him. Sherlock took a closer look. The arms were held up by a wire. There was a section of fishing rod, its ends tied to the man's elbows, keeping the arms outstretched. His head was tilted back, looking up to the sky.

"What do you think, Sherlock?" John asked, crouching down next to him. Sherlock moved his gaze around the body.

"His name's Tim Hyde." Lestrade started. "38 years old; accountant; wife told us he'd gone fishing and then never came back."

"How long ago was that?" John asked.

"That was about a week ago." Lestrade answered. "Which is the same amount of time the first one had been missing for." Sherlock stood up. "Right then, what you got for me?" Lestrade asked.

"Arms are held up by fishing wire: tied onto one wrist, thrown up over the lamppost, then tied to the other wrist. Look at the fishing hook on the end of the line; it looks rusted, old, so probably not the victim's. The killer must have had an old one lying around, which suggests he or she is probably a fisherman too, or at least used to be. Now, look at the right wrist. There's a small puncture mark into the vein, meaning the killer inserted a needle and drained the blood, but there was no struggle when it was put in (Only one hole; multiple holes would mean multiple tries.). This suggests he was drugged when it was done. Looking at his face, we can see sores all around his mouth and nose; that comes from exposure to chloroform, so yes, definitely drugged." Sherlock stood back. "No cuts or bruises on the rest of the body, suggests the killer wasn't violent, so probably not motivated by hate or anger. Hair has been combed after the attack, suggests the killer cared about his victims."

"How do you know it was after the attack?" Lestrade asked.

"Have you ever seen a murdered body with hair this neat?" Sherlock answered. Lestrade felt a little stupid (It was a feeling he was used to.). Sherlock continued. "The killer takes care of his victims and then leaves them in this pose; that suggests somebody religious. Look at this, it screams religious imagery. Probably a Judeo-Christian religion, due to the symbolism: looking up to the light with open arms, in worship. Could possibly be narrowed down to Christian if fishermen are part of the symbolism. When did the first victim go missing?"

"While out fishing." Lestrade answered.

"'Follow Me, and I will make you fishers of men.'" Sherlock quoted to himself.

"So we're looking for what? A priest?" Lestrade asked.

"Maybe," Sherlock answered, "but could be a sheep instead of a shepherd. Most likely somebody who recently left the church." Sherlock turned to Lestrade and John. "I don't imagine this person would have stayed in the church. Religious murderers often leave the church, thinking they know better than the rest of the community."

"So we're looking for the black sheep of the family?" John asked.

"Exactly." Sherlock grinned. The game was on.

...

The three of them were walking down the street, leaving the coffee kiosk and heading back to the crime scene. Lestrade had wanted a coffee (it had been a long day for him) and John had grabbed one as well, more out of companionship than an actual desire for caffeine. Sherlock hadn't wanted any, but went regardless. As they talked, somebody was walking towards them. It was somebody they didn't know; somebody with a camera.

"Excuse me." The woman asked. She was in her twenties and had curly brown hair. Her friends were stood behind her. John knew what was coming. "Are you Sherlock Holmes? The famous detective?" Sherlock looked fed up, but John knew he loved every minute of it.

"Yes. Yes I am." The woman's face lit up, as did her friend's.

"Could I get a picture with you?" The woman asked. Sherlock smiled, trying to keep the muscles around his eyes relaxed so the smile wouldn't seem genuine.

"Yes, of course." Sherlock answered, and the woman let out an excited squeal. Lestrade tried to suppress a laugh. The woman's friend pulled out her phone, and the woman threw her arms around Sherlock.

"Smile." Her friend said. This time, Sherlock's smile wasn't genuine. He stood there with a fake smile on his face and his arms by his side. The women didn't seem to notice.

"Thank you." They all said, almost in unison. John was smirking as they left.

"What are you smiling about?" Sherlock asked. John couldn't help a huge grin breaking out.

"Why couldn't you just hug the girl, Sherl?" He laughed.

"Oh shut up." Sherlock snapped back.

"What's this about?" Lestrade asked.

"Nothing." Sherlock snapped, then walked off. The two of them followed him, while John explained.

"He hates hugging people. Never does it."

"Really? Well that sounds about right." Lestrade said, before realising something. "Wait a minute," they all stopped. "he hugged me once."

"Really?" John asked.

"I'm sure that's not the case." Sherlock responded, wanting the conversation to end.

"Wait, you absolutely did. When you came back from your time away, when you were pretending to be dead, we hugged."

"Did you?" John asked.

"No." Sherlock responded.

"No, we did. In that car park –"

"Wait wait wait wait wait." John interrupted. "Who hugged who?" Lestrade thought for a second.

"Well, I hugged him, but –"

"And did he hug you back?" John asked. Lestrade's eyes widened.

"No. No he didn't." Lestrade looked to Sherlock, who starting walking again.

"Told you." John added, smiling to himself. They both followed Sherlock.

"You heartless human being." Lestrade started.

"I don't like hugs, OK? Never have." Sherlock snapped. "I just don't feel comfortable with hugs." He stopped and turned to them. "There's body warmth and... squishy bits – and it makes me sick." They carried on walking. "I want to see the first victim's body tomorrow morning."

"Don't change the subject." John said, before Lestrade could respond. "... It's just a little cuddle."

"Shut up John." Sherlock said, speeding up.

"You can practise on me if you –"

"John, shut up!" Sherlock hailed a passing cab and opened the door. "You can get the next one."