ONE

the problem

Moriarty had escaped.

Again.

John Watson sighed. This had been the fourth day in a row that he outwitted them – or, rather, outwitted Sherlock. John was the doctor, the soldier. Sherlock's gift of deductive reasoning was beyond him. To be fair, though, he had picked up some tricks. But Sherlock was on a different level, a higher form of brainpower. John had thought that no one could be smarter than him.

Even Moriarty.

But Moriarty had gone, again, and Sherlock was pacing up and down inside the yellow tape that had been set up shortly after the police arrived. He was muttering to himself, clearly trying to puzzle out Moriarty's motives and how he could have gotten away again.

Either that, or he was just showing off for the force.

John grinned, remembering their first case and Sherlock's brilliant deductions. Pink, he had cried, and pink had almost certainly saved the day. Well, technically, John had, but that was beside the point.

"Sherlock," he called, "can we leave now? It's been over forty-five minutes and I reckon you've collected all the mud there is in this area."

"Shut up, John, I'm thinking." He started muttering again. "Some other unknown variable… an accomplice, perhaps? Moriarty dislikes getting his hands dirty… Blunt force trauma though, and no identifying weapon marks… footprints aren't near to victim… doesn't seem like his style…" he trailed off, clearly analyzing the situation.

While Sherlock had been having the time of his life with a murder of the fourth person seemingly unconnected to Moriarty, John was bored. He had examined the victim (woman, late fifties, blondish-gray hair) and determined her cause of death (blunt force trauma to the head, no other wounds, blemishes or scrapes on body). Plus, it was freezing, and he had forgotten to put on his warm jumper that morning.

"Sherlock," he pleaded. "Please? It's cold, and Lestrade will text you if something else turns up."

Lestrade turned and gave him a look that said, he should bloody well hope so, the way he's been acting, all mysterious and annoying.

John gave him a look right back that said, are you kidding? I have to LIVE with him.

They shared a silent grin. In all honesty, though, John wouldn't want to live with everyone else. Sherlock had shown him so much, had saved him from a life of boredom and psychosomatic limps. And though he could be a righteous, insufferable twat at times, he was John's best friend.

"Fine!" Sherlock said. "Let's go."

"Anything you can tell us, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.

"Victim is in her late fifties, traveling alone to see her sister, ambushed, dragged out of her blue car, hit over the head by a blunt object." Sherlock fired quickly.

Lestrade frowned. "That's… not a lot, Sherlock."

The look Sherlock gave him could have frozen boiling water. "Of course it's not a lot to go on. It just doesn't make sense. Victim was dragged out of her car, obviously a blue one, going by the car paint under her nails; must have tried to hold on to the car whilst the dragging occurred, dragged, obviously, even you lot could figure that out, there's a giant mark in the dirt, and mud all over her back. But, no footprints anywhere around the drag print. Moriarty's are approximately 3.5 meters away from the scene of the murder, shifting his weight so as to make a clear impression in the mud; probably intended for me." Here, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"He had a laptop as well, faced it towards the victim, placed on the ground, I'd suspect a new one, Apple, going by the impressions left in the mud. There's absolutely no sign of tracks left by the person who dragged her, not even an attempt to cover up the tracks, so none were left. We know there was a second person because there were two sets of tracks leading here, but the other (female, size seven, approximately 7 stone, 1.7 meters tall) suddenly disappears from Moriarty's side. Eventually reappears next to Moriarty; too close, either there's a romance or some kind of prisoner of his – frankly, I'd go with prisoner, 7 stone is rather thin for a person who's 1.7 meters, perhaps malnourishment? Check into that, Lestrade, female kidnapped, fairly recently, approximately sixteen or seventeen years and with – " Sherlock's eyes dropped to the ground, noticing something he hadn't before: a long brown hair, resting on top of one of Moriarty's footprints. He picked it up and gave it to Lestrade " - long brown hair."

Lestrade took the hair, then asked, "Murder weapon?"

John took it upon himself to answer this one.

"Some kind of blunt instrument. Like, a metal pipe, a club, or even perhaps a boomerang."

"No." Sherlock said. "You're wrong. Victim has no distinct impression on her head of a blunt force instrument, not even something not normally considered a blunt force instrument. This… this is something I have… not seen before. "

Sherlock's voice grew softer, as though he was rather ashamed of this fact.

"It's more like the skull was smashed against something, but what? No traces of metal, wood or rock in the victim's skull, no object in which to bash it against. Somehow, Moriarty's got a new kind of weapon."

"Yeah, but what about…" Sherlock cut Lestrade off with "Well, John, off we go. Tea should be on by now. Text me if anything turns up, Gary."

"It's GREG!" Lestrade shouted irritably.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson walked away from the scene of Alana Cooper's fourth murder in four days, as dictated by Moriarty and accomplished by her mind. It was not likely to be her last.