A.N.
Hey everyone. So, I got inspiration yesterday to write a quick one shot. I don't know if it's any good. But please check it out and let know what you think.
Rated T for some swearing (minimal) and some disturbing images (not really that bad, I promise).
Also, I don't actually know street names in London, so if there are any indiscrepancies or inaccuracies, please don't point it out. I realize already that I don't know the geography or the landscape so I apologize in advanced to Londoners for my errors. Hope you don't hold it against me ;(
John gazed blankly at the screen in front of him. His fingers were poised, ready, over the keyboard, but the words were refusing to come. For months he had struggled to find something to write about, to find something in his dully normal life worthy of being shared with the world wide web community and then Sherlock Holmes had come along. Like a breath of fresh air, Sherlock had restored that sense of purpose he had once felt when fighting in the trenches, had returned him to the life of adventure and danger he had sorely missed. For once he had something of interest to share with others, and words were failing him. Who was he kidding? He was a doctor, a soldier, not a talented writer.
With a frustrated grunt, he shut his laptop with a resounding clap that echoed in the silent room. There was no Sherlock to complain to, no Sherlock to quarrel with, and no Sherlock manically whipping his bow against the strings of his violin. There was only silence and the ever-persistent recognition of total aloneness.
For a brief second, he considered going to join Mrs. Hudson in her reality TV viewings, but then promptly remembered that she was out doing groceries. Sarah, then? But she was probably working at the hospital, and would be until late. No, there was no one for him to run to now. He would have to endure the silence, a silence that in retrospect only lasted five more minutes.
"John!"
Sherlock's voice erupted from below as the front door slammed open, announcing the detective's return. John sat up straight, unable to do anything but smile as he recognized the sound of guiltless excitement in Sherlock's voice. He had a case.
The tall, dark haired man appeared in the doorway, adorning his usual knee-length coat. He looked more untidy than usual and as he approached, John could scent something sinister on his person.
"Where have you been?" he asked incredulously, plugging his nose with vigour, to repel the vulgar odour invading the room.
"You don't want to know," Sherlock insisted, a smile curving the edges of his lips. "Now come along. The game is on!"
He rushed out of the room again, leaving no time for John to accept or refuse the opportunity. Was it that obvious that he would blindly follow the detective into anything that even menially resembled an adventure? Apparently. How annoying that he was also completely right.
John hurried after Sherlock, taking the steps two at a time. The detective had already hailed a cab and was waiting impatiently for his good doctor to join him.
Entering the cab, John was hit by an overwhelming odour. It was the name smell that Sherlock had brought into the apartment. Now, in the small confines of the cab, it was unbearable. Sherlock said nothing as he slid in, but John could hardly stand it and as he took his own seat, rolled down the window as far as it would go.
They took off down Baker Street at an unimaginable speed and John had to grip hard on the door to avoid being thrown into Sherlock who did not even look the slightest bit perturbed by the unexpected burst of velocity.
"Where are we going?" John asked once he managed to regain his balance. Their cab was sailing down the empty streets of London. At this hour it wasn't unusual to find the streets vacated, but the cab driver was still taking unwarranted risks in Watson's good opinion.
"Not far now," Sherlock replied absentmindedly as he gazed unseeingly out the window.
"What's happened?" John tried again, hoping to garner more information with this second attempt.
"A murder."
"Murder?"
"Yes, murder," Sherlock repeated, his voice teetering on irritable.
"Sorry," John muttered, wincing at Sherlock's cold snap.
The detective sighed heavily as he turned to face John now. "It's not your fault. It's my brother."
"Mycroft? And what's he done?"
"He needn't do anything."
Understandable. Mycroft's mere presence was enough to set Sherlock into a foul mood. Brotherly rivalry, it wasn't something John could not comprehend. He and Harry had had their fair share of sibling spats in the past.
"But he's tied to this case?"
"Unfortunately." The cabbie took another sharp turn, taking John unawares. He nearly collided into Sherlock, but managed to grip onto his seat before he could cause him any harm. Sherlock was watching him carefully, amused as he righted himself. "You have a terrible sense of balance."
"Thanks," John muttered sarcastically. His cheeks were burning red as he felt the detective's eyes penetrating the back of his skull. There were a myriad of criticisms that John held silent in his mind, the most prominent of them being Sherlock's unrestrained condescending tone when dealing with his 'mental' inferiors, aka, the rest of the world. "So, are you going to tell me what the case is about?"
"And ruin the element of surprise? I think not."
Sherlock's teasing was second on the list of things to dislike. He enjoyed his unlimited sense of control. As long as he held all the power, all was right in the word. Still, John knew better than to complain about the man sitting across from him. Sherlock had, after all, saved his life and Sarah's. He owed him his silence.
"You're pensive."
"I'm curious."
Sherlock nodded. "Not much longer John. In fact, we're here."
Sherlock's words were followed instantaneously by the piercing screech of rubber tires grinding against pavement as the cabbie put pressure down on the breaks. This time, John could not prevent himself from being flung out of his seat as the car came to a jolting halt. He would have collided head on with the seat in front of him, if not for Sherlock whose quick reflexes prompted him to reach for John.
He steadied the doctor with a steady arm, his right hand clinging onto John's coat. "You alright?"
John nodded, slightly shaken. "Yeah, fine. Thanks."
"Not at all. An unconscious doctor would do me no good at all." With that, Sherlock hurried out the cab door. "Don't forget to pay the man," he added as he dashed away.
It took John a few seconds before he was able to remove himself from the cab. He rummaged through his coat pocket to find a few spare quids before paying the man. The old cabbie smiled at him, displaying several missing teeth.
"Thank ya kindly sir."
John sighed. "Can I offer you a piece of advice? Retire." He turned away from the cab before a reply could follow. This cabbie had been almost as bad as the one he had shot the previous month. Almost.
He glanced around as the cab drove off, leaving a fading scent of burning rubber in his wake. They were somewhere along the east coast of the Thames, the sound of water crashing against the land told him as much. But where was Sherlock? He looked behind him and saw now several factories, black puffs of smoke shooting skywards as they were emitted through towering chimney stacks. What were they doing here? And where was Sherlock?
The answer to the second came quicker than the first as the detective in question rushed out of the nearest factor. "John, this is no time for sightseeing. Come quick."
John sighed heavily. As much as he loved the adventure thrills that Sherlock provided, he couldn't help but admit that the detective could really drain the energy out of him. With a silent wish that he had stayed at home, John made his way towards Sherlock as he disappeared back into the factory.
The dilapidated building looked anything but promising. Oh, what he would give to be sitting in the warmth of their flat. There was a sharp chill in the air. He should have worn his other coat, but this one had been the closest and Sherlock had caught him unawares, leaving him without much of a choice. Damn Sherlock and his daring appeal.
"Quit dawdling John. We haven't any time to lose." In the dark interior, it was hard to perceive Sherlock. There was some light penetrating through the broken glass windows, but it was not enough.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the torch he also kept handy. Thank goodness for that. It flicked on easily, illuminating the path before him. The floor was ridiculously dirty, littered with broken pieces of machinery and covered in a thick layer of dust. He wondered how long it had been abandoned, how long it had been deemed a death trap.
"John?"
"Coming." With the light, he managed to spot Sherlock a few feet ahead, crouched over something. A body no doubt. John shivered. He had seen enough carnage and death in the war to last a lifetime. As a doctor, he had become accustomed to working with cadavers, but Afghanistan had destroyed his desensitized nature. Working with Sherlock, he had been forced to inspect several corpses, and every time, it left him with a cold, queasy feeling.
He took a deep breath as he approached Sherlock, prepared for another gruesome murder. But as his light fell upon the shape Sherlock was so carefully examining, he found himself staring not at a corpse, but a skeleton.
"What the hell?"
"Not quite," Sherlock mused as he stood now, "What do you make of it, doctor?"
"What do I make of a skeleton lying in an abandoned factory?"
Sherlock nodded, his eyes gleaming excitedly in the light of John's torch. "A most fascinating case, isn't it?"
"I don't understand…"
Sherlock sighed impatiently as confusion creased John's features. "And what, pray tell, do you find so difficult to understand? This man has been murdered."
"Man..It's a skeleton! It looks like it's been dead for at least a decade." He stared incredulously at Sherlock, but the detective continued to stare at him musingly. "Please tell me this is a joke."
"Yes, April Fool's," Sherlock responded quickly, his facial features never changing as he turned to stare once more at the skeletal figure, "Of course this isn't a joke, John. It's anything but."
Seven hours earlier:
Sherlock was lying on his couch, staring blankly up at the ceiling. He didn't know how long he had been lying there for or what hour of the day it was, though the light pouring in through the open windows did tell him that it was sometime in the early afternoon.
A sigh penetrated his lips as he glanced now to the side. John's laptop lay on the table, open to the newspaper article detailing the discovery of the imperial jade pin. He scowled. Who cared for a hair piece worth a million pounds, when Shan was still out there somewhere, operating in dark alleys? He might have solved the case, but he would not continue it a victory, not until she was brought to justice.
A loud buzzing suddenly pervaded the silence of the room. He tilted his head to the side. His phone was vibrating on the coffee table. He reached out with a hand to grab it, but it was out of reach. Oh well. Whoever it was could leave a message.
The buzzing stopped and Sherlock returned once more to staring at the ceiling. A sharp ring sounded. Someone had left him a voicemail. How predictable. He closed his eyes now, resting in the silence, wishing for a new case to present itself, until he heard footsteps hurrying up the steps.
His eyes flashed open as Mrs. Hudson suddenly appeared at his doorstep. "Ah, Mrs. Hudson, what a pleasant surprise?"
"Sherlock." She smiled as she entered, but faltered as her eyes took in the mess of books and papers covering every inch of the flat. "The state of this place! What am I going to do with you?"
"Absolutely nothing."
Mrs. Hudson did not argue the point. She simply sighed resignedly. "Well, don't let me disturb you. I've just come for the rent."
"On the coffee table."
Mrs. Hudson walked forward, grabbing the envelope. As she did, her eyes fell on Sherlock's phone. "You have a new message dear."
"Do I?" Sherlock sighed. "Pass it here."
Mrs. Hudson glanced incredulously at Sherlock. "I beg your pardon."
"Sorry. Please, pass it here."
Mrs. Hudson paused for a few seconds before snatching it up and placing it into Sherlock's open palm. "You really are something," she mused before hurrying out of the room.
Sherlock paid no heed to her retreating form as he played the voicemail.
"Sherlock. It's Lestrade. I need your help. Come to Scotland Yard as soon as you can. Please."
Lestrade's voice sounded urgent. Sherlock grinned as he sat up. Finally, something to get excited over.
It didn't take him very long to hail a cab. Promising an extra quid for speed, they reached Scotland Yard in expert time.
"Thank ya very kindly, sir." The cabbie was very grateful as Sherlock placed the extra bill in his hands. He grinned, nearly toothless and passed Sherlock his phone number. "If ya need anything else. Don't hesitate to call."
A moment later, Sherlock strode into the main offices. Sally Donovan was standing nearby when he did.
"Freak's here!" she called out as Sherlock hurried past. He grinned at her and she scowled fiercely, "Don't look so pleased."
"But it's always a pleasure, Sally," Sherlock insisted as he continued to make his way to Lestrade's office, the young sergeant hot on his tail.
"Where's your colleague, then?" she questioned him as they walked, emphasizing 'colleague' with her usual sarcastic tone. "Did he finally come to his senses?"
"Fortunately, no," Sherlock replied as he reached his destination. The door was closed. He knocked once and then pushed it open. "You called?"
Lestrade stood as Sherlock entered. "Glad you could make it on such short notice."
"You know I would never pass up the opportunity to solve a case, especially when you sound so desperate."
"Of course not." He glanced past Sherlock. "Where's your partner? What's his name? Doctor Wilson?"
"Watson. Doctor John Watson," Sherlock corrected as Sally scoffed behind him, "He was out when I got your message. Now, what's the big case?"
Lestrade sank back into his seat and indicated for Sherlock to take the other. Sally remained where she was, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.
"Does she have to stay?"
"No, she doesn't," Sally replied for the detective inspector, her voice hardly friendly, "But she will because she wants to. Got a problem with that, freak?"
Sherlock didn't bother to reply as he placed all his attention on Lestrade. "Go ahead."
Lestrade reached for a folder on his desk and passed it to Sherlock. He took it in his hand and glanced at the title. "The Riverside Murders?" he questioned, "I remember that murder." He closed his eyes as he reached deep into his memory, pulling out the relevant information from the cabinets of his mind. "The month of October, 1995, twenty people went missing all along the Thames. The bodies were never found, and the man accused swore his innocence until he died in jail."
"How do you…never mind. I was a young man at that, new to the force. It was one of my first cases as a sergeant. I always thought we had arrested the wrong man, but the courts weren't as sure."
"I always thought you were wrong too," Sherlock spoke up, "And I'm guessing you've now realized that you were."
Lestrade sighed. "Yesterday morning, someone found a skeleton on the east shore of the Thames near London. Our experts identified it as one of the missing victims of this case. Last night, another was found and this morning another."
"You think the original murderer is turning up his old victims for fun?"
"Something like that," Lestrade nodded as Sherlock began to flip through the pages, "They're showing up in reverse order too."
"Only the bones?"
Lestrade nodded again. "No flesh or anything. Just their skeletons, completely intact. And all along the Thames. The second one was found in a deserted warehouse by some teenagers. The other two were out in the open. If we're following the pattern, the other will show up some time tonight somewhere near the others."
"Fascinating." Sherlock closed the folder. He loved the funny cases. Lestrade had pointed that out the last time they had worked together. He loved anything that couldn't be easily explained. Somewhere a murderer was laying his victims out, fifteen years after the deed, which meant he was either trying to tease the police by proving that they killed the wrong man, or he was bored. Sherlock could easily associate himself with the latter. Yes, this was the case for him. "Alright, I'll need to know exactly where our victims were found and who found them."
Lestrade handed him another folder. "Can I trust you to come back to me when you've found something?"
Sherlock took it from him and grinned. "Of course."
"I doubt it," Sally muttered suddenly, "It'll take another drug bust to get him to tell us anything."
"And the insults keep on rolling. You really should have more faith in me, Sally Donovan." Sherlock twisted in his seat to face her, anxious to hear her reply.
"I learnt long ago not to trust you, Sherlock Holmes," she told him, her voice a low whisper. With that she stormed out of the office. Sherlock watched her go quietly. He hated when people brought up the past, especially pasts that included him. He glanced back at Lestrade, neither of them willing to speak.
John rubbed his forehead as Sherlock finished his story. "So this is the fourth victim?"
"Technically it's the seventeenth victim. But it's the fourth skeleton, yes," Sherlock replied, leaving John puzzled for a few seconds. "Seventeenth…oh, right. He's returning them in reverse."
"Exactly. So, if we're right. The bones in front of us once supported the body of a Mr. Harry Redwood."
"Right. And how did you know that it was going to be here?"
Sherlock sighed. "Later." He grabbed his phone from his pocket and passed it to John. "I need you to send Lestrade a text for me."
"Sherlock…"
The detective ignored John's interjection. "These words exactly: Fourth body found. Abandoned factory, east bank of Thames. Frank K Industries. 1910 Brooklyn Ave."
John sighed in resignation as he typed up the message in shorthand. He was getting better at texting, a skill he had developed after countless occasions of being required to do the menial task for Sherlock. "Done."
"You're getting better," Sherlock commented as the doctor passed the phone back to him. He refused it. "I need you to send another."
John groaned, but went to it without a word. "Who to?"
"Mycroft."
John had almost forgotten that Sherlock's brother was somehow tied to this case. "Fourth body found. West coast of the Thames near 2010 Penbrook Road. Hurry."
"John paused in his typing. "You're giving him the wrong information?"
"Are you done?"
"What…no," John stammered, now baffled, "Sorry. Are we supposed to be misleading your brother?"
"Fourth body found. West coast of the Thames near 2010 Penbrook Road. Hurry," Sherlock repeated as he now rushed past John.
Left with no other choice, John finished typing and sent this message too before hurrying after Sherlock. They exited into the twilight silence, Sherlock looking tenser than usual. "Do you have your gun on you?"
John nodded, ashamed to admit that he didn't feel nearly as secure without the weight of his gun in his coat pocket. "Are you going to tell me why you lied to your brother, or why he's even involved in this case?"
"Pass me my phone," Sherlock requested, not answering the question.
John withheld it. "Not until you tell me exactly what's going on."
Sherlock looked surprised by John's refusal, and then slowly a grin crept across his face. "Good for you, John. Fine. I didn't lie to my brother. I wasn't telling me where I found the body. I was telling him where the next body would be. As for why he's involved. It's a longer story and I really need to make the call first."
John paused for a few seconds, but then handed the phone over.
Sherlock quickly dialled a number. "Hello, Jerry? Sherlock, here. Same place. Thanks." He hung up and slid the phone into his pocket. "Alright then."
Five Hours Earlier:
Sherlock hurried out of the cab, requesting that Jerry stay within the vicinity, a request that the cabbie accepted readily as another 5 pound note was placed in his hand. Before him stood a brown stone house. It looked well-kept for its age. Thank goodness. The last house had been in the process of falling apart and had reeked of rotten eggs. He looked at the name on the list. Ms. Fiona Katch had found the most recent skeleton on the west coast of the Thames at 7:08 am on the nose. She was a young woman of 28, according to the police report and was especially hot, according to a smudged note in the margins. This would be fun.
There was no doorbell and so Sherlock resorted to rapping his fist against the cold wooden door. He shivered slightly as a cold wind brushed past. A minute passed without an answer. Sherlock knocked harder the second time, banging his fist with resounding determination. "Hello! Is anyone there? This is the police!" He fingered Lestrade's ID in his coat pocket. It never hurt to pretend.
The sound of someone playing with the lock echoed from behind the door and Sherlock stood back as it opened to reveal a young woman with long ebony hair and dazzling blue eyes. She was dressed in tight fitted jeans and a low-cut shirt which didn't fall past her bellybutton. As her eyes fell on Sherlock, a smile crossed her lips. She looked at him indiscreetly and leaned against the door. "Can I help you?"
Sherlock could not mistake the low purr in her voice. This woman was going to be more trouble than she was worth. He drew out the badge again. "Detective Inspector Lestrade. I have some questions about the skeleton you recovered this morning."
"Please, come in Detective Inspector." She gestured him with a flourish. Sherlock walked in, aware that she was watching him with expert care as she shut the door behind him. "This way."
She led him into her house, her hips swaying enthusiastically. Sherlock averted his eyes, keeping them focused on the house itself. From the looks of photos, she had some sort of significant other in the army. The same man appeared in five or six different pictures, three of them depicting him in his uniform. That meant he was either dead or away on duty. Otherwise there would be no pictures. It also meant that flirting was an empty, 'because I can'. He relaxed a bit more as they entered into her den, until he realized that there was already someone standing there.
"Please tell me I'm hallucinating."
"Not quite." Mycroft remained sitting as Sherlock came in. He did not look surprised to see Sherlock there, in fact, he looked pleasantly amused by the situation, "I was wondering when you would get here."
"You expected me?"
"Of course."
Sherlock glanced at Fiona who was grinning broadly. She took a seat on her long couch, sitting cross-legged beside Mycroft. "Please sit down Detective Inspector."
"Detective Inspector?" Mycroft laughed as Sherlock remained standing, his body wooden and tense, "Since when?"
Sherlock glared at him, wishing him to silence. "What are you doing here, Mycroft?"
"Fiona is an old friend of mine," he replied as he twirled his cane between his long fingers, "She called me over to discuss her discovery."
"Do you two know each other then?" Fiona interjected before Sherlock could snap a reply, "How wonderful."
"Yes, my brother and I are extremely close." The lie passed easily through Mycroft's lips, shattering Sherlock's alias.
"Your brother?" Fiona repeated, looking confused, "So, you're not Detective Inspector Lestrade?"
Sherlock shook his head, "My name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm a consulting detective."
"And do you often impersonate real policemen?"
"When the occasion calls for it."
Silence fell over the three of them for a few minutes, Fiona assessing the situation, Mycroft grinning in all his smug glory and Sherlock feeling as if the world's worse practical joke was being played on him.
"Well, sit down Consulting Detective Holmes. I know Mycroft well enough to feel that I can trust you."
Sherlock took a chair hesitantly. He quietly willed his brother to leave only to find to his great disappointment that his mind control skills were sorely lacking. Mycroft meanwhile was still grinning haughtily, relishing in his brother's discomfort. "So, Ms. Katch…"
"Please, call me Fiona."
"Fiona," Sherlock corrected himself, "Tell me about what happened this morning."
Fiona was quick to reply. "I'm accustomed to going for a walk every day, early in the morning by the Thames. "I usually go around 6:00 and walk forty-five minutes, before walking back."
"So you only found the body on your way back?"
"That's right. I passed by the spot, 1810 Penbrook Road the first time around 6:22 and there was nothing there. When I came back, I reached the same spot and saw the skeleton lying spread eagle on the ground. I would have seen it the first time, so someone must have put it there between 6:22 and I'd say 6:50ish, because I also didn't see anyone putting it down."
Sherlock nodded. "Do you remember seeing anything else?"
"No. The police asked me the same question, but I honestly can't remember seeing anyone nearby which is why I'm certain the body was placed there earlier than 7:00. Look, my brother was one of the people who went missing 15 years ago so if I knew anything else, I would tell you, because all I want is the bastard caught and put behind bars."
Sherlock nodded, taken aback by her vehemence. "Is that why you called Mycroft?"
"She called because she thought I would be able to help the police. She doesn't trust them to do the job because of their screw up last time," Mycroft replied before Fiona could. She nodded in accordance.
"Well, Mycroft, you really don't need to dirty your fingers with this one. I've got it under control."
"Really?"
"Really."
Competitive anger radiated between the two brothers as they glared at each other. Fiona coughed loudly to break through their silent feud. "Look Sherlock, I'm sure you're good at what you do, but your brother as proved on many occasions to be an especially deductive man, so don't take it to heart when I say that I trust he'll be able to solve it quicker than you. He's just very perceptive."
Sherlock's mouth gaped open, lost momentarily for words while Mycroft took a deep, victorious breath. "I don't think you understand…"
"I've already asked Mycroft to keep me up to date with your findings, so don't waste your breath. You're more than welcome to help Mycroft if you want, but don't expect me to pay for it," she said with a tone of finality before standing, "I'll ask you kindly to leave."
Sherlock stood up. He was not accountable to this woman; he should not let this bother him, but he couldn't help it. He was never, ever considered subordinate, inferior, to his brother. Never. "Fine."
"I should be going to," Mycroft quickly spoke up as he too stood. "There's a murderer to be found."
Fiona nodded and led the brothers back to her front porch. "Thank you again, Mycroft. I owe you big time."
"Nonsense, Fiona. And don't forget to say hello to Fred for me. I'm glad to hear that he's doing well."
"As am I," Fiona admitted as she closed the door on them with a quick farewell to the two of them. The second the door was locked behind them, Sherlock turned on Mycroft.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Solving a case for a friend," Mycroft replied as he descended the stairs.
Sherlock was not going to let him go that he easily. He pursued Mycroft as he walked down the street. "She thinks I'm some ordinary other. You could have corrected her."
"Why do you care? You answer to the police, not to her. You don't have to stop because she tells you to. All she wants is that man caught."
"She wants you to do the catching, though."
Mycroft paused. "She just wants to hear the truth from me. Not such a big deal is it, Sherlock. But I forget. You despise the ordinary others as you put it. She thinks you're just another idiot policeman and you take it to heart, because you believe you're so much. She's out of your league, Sherlock, so don't even try."
"That isn't…you know that's not…" Sherlock stammered, infuriated by Mycroft's accusations. He paused to take a deep breath. "Whatever. It doesn't even matter to me. I'll be off now to solve my case while you return to your political doldrums."
"I don't think so. I want in."
"You want in? But you never…"
"I know, but I have a vested interest in this case and for once, I want to be on the forefront."
"No," Sherlock refused him quickly and then began to walk away. He could easily leave his brother in the dust, could easily leave Mycroft behind as long as he didn't have a hold on him. And he didn't.
"I know something about the case that you don't."
Mycroft's voice called after him. He was lying, he had to be. But Sherlock came to a halt anyway. Slowly, he turned. "No, you don't."
"Yes, I do. And I won't tell you and you won't figure it out on your own either unless you let me help you."
Sherlock frown. "Why are you taking such a keen interest in this, Mycroft? Unless…are you trying to impress her? Hoping her boyfriend won't came from the war."
"Fiancé, actually, and of course not." It was Mycroft's turn to act cold and harsh as the accusation was laid down on him. But there was something in his eye, something uncertain. He's hiding something, but the truth is close, within his grasp. And then it hits him, like a ton of bricks.
"Georgia."
Mycroft doesn't say a word; he doesn't have to. There had been a slight tremor in his facial features, a flicker of surprise, so quick that the untrained eye would have missed it. But not he. "Georgia Katch? Her oldest sister? Of course. I can't believe I didn't see it sooner. You and her were great pals when her older brother disappeared weren't you? I see now."
"You see nothing," Mycroft snapped.
"No, dear Mycroft, I see everything so clearly. Word of mouth will get your name mentioned. She'll wonder who found her brother's murderer and she'll hear your name and she'll think of you. Tell me, is she married?"
Mycroft was surly and silent now. He said nothing, keeping his arms crossed angrily across his torso. "Stop with the third degree, Sherlock. Just…let me help."
"Fine." He no longer minded the idea of dealing with Mycroft, not now, when it would be oh so amusing to see him squirm under his interrogation.
Sherlock's story was cut off suddenly as a cab suddenly arrived on the scene, screeching to a halt before them. John stared incredulously at the driver as he recognized him as the same cabbie from before. "What bad luck!"
"What? Oh no, I called him to come get us. He's been driving me all over London today," Sherlock explained as he walked over to the window.
The cabbie stuck his head out, grinning broadly, "Sorry for taking so long, Mr. Holmes.!
"Not at all, Jerry. 2010 Penbrook Road, if you don't mind."
"Of course. And consider this one on the house," he added for good measure.
Sherlock thanked him and then slid in. John followed after him. This time he knew better and clung tightly to his seat as the car sped off.
"So, Mycroft is romantically involved."
"He hopes to be."
John nodded, musing over the thought of Mycroft in love. It did not seem like the type of thing Mycroft would be interested in but who was he to judge. "So, what exactly did Mycroft know about the case?"
Sherlock gazed out his window, "I honestly have no idea. He still hasn't told me, and he won't, because he's afraid I'll skimp on my part of the bargain, which is why…"
"You're having him meet up with us," John finished, understanding the detective's reasoning, surprising even himself, "You think that he'll be more willing to help if he feels as if he's a part of it."
"Precisely," Sherlock conceded, obviously impressed by John's perceptiveness.
John grinned, pleased with himself as he leaned back against the chair of the cab. The car took a sudden turn, but he was not hurled as he had been before. "So, how did you know where to go?"
Two hours earlier:
"Are you going to tell me, or are you not?" Sherlock asked Mycroft angrily. Three hours had passed since Fiona's and still Mycroft was being inexcusably stubborn, refusing to give him the piece of information he supposedly held. Now they stood, dusk falling over them, by the Thames, examining the spot where the first victim had been found. Five hundred feet away from where the last one had been found, there was no evidence that a skeleton had ever lain there. There was no blood or anything, just rocks, rocks and more rocks.
Sherlock sighed heavily as he looked against to his brother who was standing in stony silence near the edge of the river. "Mycroft, we're not children anymore."
"Look who's talking," Mycroft retorted as he glanced back at his younger brother, "You constantly resort to childhood mannerisms when you find yourself in an undesirable situation."
"But you're withholding important information, information that can help me win this case."
Mycroft scoffed. "Information that can help me win this case."
Sherlock grumbled. "Then forget it, the deal's off." Angered by his brother's refusal to help, he strode away, back towards real life. He entered onto a darkened street, never once checking to see if Mycroft was following him. Let the damn fool take his secret to the grave, he would discover the murderer without his help.
It was only by chance then, that Sherlock glanced at the residence to his right. He didn't know why he did, only that it would be the deciding moment. As he glanced at it, his eyes fell upon the address, drawn in by the bright light shining down upon it. 1610. 1610 Penbrook Road.
Sherlock froze as his memory was jolted back to his discussion with Fiona. What had she said? "I passed by the spot, 1810 Penbrook Road."
Light descended, illumination. There was a pattern, Lestrade had been right and he had discovered it.
"It could easily have been a coincidence," John interrupted him.
"True, but it wasn't. Don't you see? He's alternating coast lines and going up by hundreds. Outside, inside, outside, inside. It's obvious, but only once the addresses are added in. The police never considered that. No one would have."
"No one but you," John remarked, still amazed by Sherlock's uncanny ability to deduce, "Still, you got lucky. You had no rock solid evidence. He could have easily been trying to mislead you. Admit it, Sherlock, you guessed."
Sherlock didn't correct him. "Sometimes, you have to have faith."
Faith?" John's amazement was on the brink of incredulity. "All I ever do is place faith in your decision. But you…"
Sherlock glanced at him curiously, tearing his gaze away from the starlit sky. "But I what?"
"You operate on certainties, not what if or what could be. You don't roll the dice of chance."
There was the tiniest hint of a smile curving the corners of Sherlock's lips. "Perhaps, but sometimes you have to know when to take a chance and throw cautions to the wind."
"Well, that's a first."
Silence fell again as the cab continued to speed along, taking sharper turns than before finally pulling to another sudden stop near 2010 Penbrook Road.
"Thank you again Jerry."
"Not at all, Mr. Holmes." The cabbie smiled his usual toothless grin as John and Sherlock exited his car. "Don' hesitate to call if ya need anything else."
Sherlock nodded gratefully and then moved swiftly towards the edge of the river. It was dark with only a single lamppost lending them the light to make their way. John pulled out his torch again as did Sherlock, to better direct them. As they pointed their lights into the distance, another figure was revealed to be standing by the river's running waters.
"I've been waiting."
Mycroft turned to face the doctor and the detective, his face passive. Sherlock didn't say a word and John again felt stuck between the brothers' rivalry. "And you've brought John with you. How are you Doctor Watson?"
"Fine, thank you," John answered curtly, "And yourself?"
Sherlock scoffed from beside him, "Are we really going to waste time on such niceties?"
Mycroft glared at him but did not respond to it. "You texted me to come. I assume you believe that this is where the next murder will take place."
"One hundred percent certain," Sherlock added, "If I'm right. Our murderer will be making their entrance in a few minutes."
"How do you know that?" John and Mycroft questioned at the same time.
Sherlock grinned knowingly. "A story for later. Now, Mycroft, I think it would be wise for you to share that piece of evidence with me."
"First, explain how you know that he'll be here."
"She."
"Pardon?"
"It's a she."
John stared at the two brothers. He didn't know how Sherlock had come to that conclusion. "Are you just guessing now?"
Sherlock shook his head, keeping his eyes glued on his brother. "No. Not in the least."
Mycroft was stiff, unmoving, but John could see the smallest hint of panic in his eyes. "How did you know?"
"You gave it away, Mycroft. It didn't even hit me until I was in the warehouse."
One hour earlier:
Sherlock walked into the dilapidated building. There was the strongest odour in here, a revolting one that made his nose crinkle in disgust. But he couldn't leave. He would have to endure. In through the mouth, out through the mouth. The back of his throat burned as the smell hit it. He almost gagged, but held back. Fantastic. Better make it quick then.
He hurried along the corridor, pointing his torch around to get a better sense of his surroundings as darkness entombed him. Here was the spot where the skeleton had been found. He knelt down, brushing the ground with his gloved finger. He raised it to his nose. Oh, the stench! He reeled backwards. Terrible. This trip had been as pointless as all the others.
Back out in the fresh air, he took a deep breath, relaxing his tense lungs. This case was beginning to cause him more trouble than it was worth. If only Mycroft wouldn't be so stubborn, if only he would give up what he knew. Because he did know something. He wasn't lying. He knew his brother well enough to know as much. And if he was lying…he would have his head on a plate.
Sitting down the cold ground to think, Sherlock puzzled over everything. He knew where the next skeleton would be laid, but he didn't know when. Lestrade kept calling him persistently for information, but he refused to answer. There was nothing for him to tell, no hard evidence. He would need to be there when the next skeleton was placed. But how would he know if it was already there or not.
And Mycroft. Mycroft was Mycroft, annoying, persistent, nosy. He didn't know when to call it quits. And his fascination with this woman…the elder Katch sister. What was that about? Mycroft had never been one to form attachments, never been one to fall in love. So why now? And why her?
Sherlock groaned in frustration as bafflement fell upon him. Normally, Mycroft was not so much a riddle, as he was a buggering presence. He was far less complicated than himself in any case. And even if he was in love, which he found highly improbable, would it really push him so far to prove who the killer was, to be the one to catch him? Or her?
No, it wouldn't. Sherlock sat up straighter. There was something else. Some other reason…something relevant. He said he had a clue…well, what did he know? Whatever it was, it was drawing his interest. If it was some random killer off the street, Mycroft would not be going to such lengths to discover who it was, but if it was someone he knew…someone he had trusted…someone like her…
"The rest came easily," Sherlock concluded, "The two of you had been dating at the time that the murders started. The first victim, had been her brother, and she had broken it off with you because she couldn't cope with his loss and eventually she moved to Dorchester with her uncle, right after the last murder. I should have seen the connection earlier…you did. How did you, by the way?"
Mycroft smiled sadly. "I caught her in the act."
"And you let an innocent man go to jail for it?" John interjected suddenly, amazed by the immorality that the two brothers seemed to share.
Sherlock cast John a silencing glance. "You did love her, then."
Mycroft sank down onto a rock, twirling his cane between his fingers. "Then, yes," he finally admitted after a long pause. He looked almost sad, sitting there in the darkness, lost in memories. "But I was young and foolish," he added in his defense, "I was disillusioned by the concept and I held by tongue."
"What did she promise you?" There was no taunting in the detective's voice as he moved closer to his brother. He squatted down, lowering himself to eye level. John watched in utter bewilderment. He had never seen the brothers so...brotherly before. There was no sign of competitiveness, no hint of disagreement. Sherlock wasn't belittling anyone, wasn't acting superior, and Mycroft was far away from the confident surliness he usually exuded.
Mycroft chuckled sadly, "She promised me forever. But then she left…and I haven't seen her since."
"Then you're doing this out of guilt?" Sherlock's voice revealed a hint of surprise.
Mycroft nodded. "That and revenge." He cleared his throat and then stood quickly. Sherlock followed his lead and the two brothers were left staring at each other in silent. John was almost certain that they were having some silent conversation, but who was he to try and decipher it? And why did he feel so left out?
"So, why did she do it?" he asked now, breaking through their silence.
Mycroft turned, his expression back to the cold, hard frown and sharp, eagle eyes. "Murder people? She didn't."
"What?" Sherlock demanded sharply, staring hard at Mycroft, "Then why the whole cover up."
"She didn't do it, her brother did."
"Her brother?" John repeated.
Mycroft nodded. "He faked his own disappearance and then murdered nineteen other people. No one in his family knew the truth, except for Georgia. One day, when I went to see her, I found her with him. She begged me not to tell and I agreed."
"Fascinating," Sherlock whispered, beginning to pace, his fingers folded neatly beneath his chin, "So, why did Mr. Tim Katch do it? Revenge as well? Psychopath?"
"Revenge. All those who died were either people he hated or people he saw as the enemy," Mycroft replied.
"Then it's the brother whose returning the bodies, not the sister," John pointed out, "Sherlock's wrong."
Sherlock flashed him a quick glare. "I am not mistaken, John. She is the one returning the bodies."
"How could you possibly…"
A grin crossed Sherlock's face. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
Forty-five minutes earlier:
Sherlock was seated in the cab as it sped towards 221B Baker Street. He sorely hoped that John would be there now; it always helped to have someone to talk to and someone with a perfect aim. He flipped open his phone now and glancing at the paper on his lap typed in a number and waited.
It rang once…twice…thrice…on the fourth ring an answering machine came on.
"This is Georgia Katch…I can't come to the phone at the moment. Leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon possible."
Sherlock grimaced as a beep announced his staring time. "Hello Ms. Katch, this is Sherlock Holmes. I don't know if you remember me…perhaps you're more familiar with my brother Mycroft. In any case, I know what you did and what you're doing. Meet me at 2010 Penbrook Road at 8:30 tonight and we can discuss your options. By the way, your message is terribly dull."
It didn't take more than three minutes for Sherlock's phone to begin ringing. He picked it up with a knowing grin. "Hello Ms. Katch."
"Mr. Holmes." The woman's voice on the other line was cold and unfriendly. She did not sound panicked or uneasy. Impressive.
"Calling to confirm our meeting?"
"You have no proof."
"I have my brother."
There was a pause. Her breathing was accelerating, coming in deeper gasps. Then a sigh. "Will he be there?"
"Yes."
The other end went dead suddenly as the dialling tone sounded in his ear. He lowered the phone. She would be there, he had no doubt.
John glanced at his watch. "It's 8:28."
"She'll be here," Sherlock promised as he kept his gaze focused on Mycroft. The man was refusing to talk, just staring vacantly into the distance. "But while, we're waiting, I can't help but wonder why you would you choose to conceal her part in this, Mycroft."
Mycroft said nothing. He stood stonily, hardly moving, save for the rise and fall of his chest as he filled his lungs with life air.
"You're not still hung up on her, are you?" Still no reply. "You didn't want me to know. You wanted to face her yourself, perhaps.
John couldn't help but notice that with every word Sherlock spoke, Mycroft's shoulders continued to tense up. He glanced at his watch again. Less than a minute to go. He looked behind him, but didn't see anyone.
"Sherlock, are you sure she's coming?"
Sherlock nodded, his eyes still resting on the still form of his brother. When there was still no sign of Mycroft reacting, he turned back to face John. As he did his eyes widened. "John!"
The doctor turned around quickly, but not quickly enough as something hard came down on his head, rendering him unconscious.
Sherlock stared in shock as John tumbled to the ground. A woman dressed in jeans and a long black coat stood behind him, brandishing a gun in her hands. Her long blonde hair fell behind her shoulders in tight ringlets and in the light of his torch, her electric blue eyes radiated calm composure and death. She was staring at John's body, making sure he was out and Sherlock took his chance.
He dashed forward, but the rocks under his feet gave him away. She glanced upwards and raising her gun, pulled the trigger.
A bullet whizzed harmlessly past his head. He paused, frozen.
"Consider it a warning, Mr. Holmes. The next one won't miss, I promise you that."
Sherlock said nothing as he stared at her imposing figure, feeling a mixture of admiration and frustration. She was an impressive figure to be sure, not as innocent as she had been 15 years before.
"Ms. Georgia Katch."
The woman smiled, her crimson lips pulling back to reveal pearly white teeth. "You called."
"Georgia."
Her eyes shifted suddenly to where Mycroft stood. He was leaning heavily on his cane, looking close to fainting himself as he took in her dark beauty.
"Mycroft." Her smile faltered as she stared at her old beau. "The times haven't been kind to you."
Mycroft cringed. "I can't say the same for you."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "How touching. Perhaps we can continue this reunion without the use of firearms."
"I don't think so Mr. Holmes." She returned her gaze to him, "You know my secret. I can't have that."
"Maybe we can work something out," Sherlock suggested, grinning now, "Promise us forever and we'll swear to silence."
Georgia chuckled cruelly as she stepped closer to him. "I doubt that'll work." Her gun was now trained on his head. He scowled. She could shoot anywhere else and he wouldn't care, but his brain was his life. Everything else was merely transportation.
"Because I'm not the fool my brother was."
Georgia said nothing as her eyes again fell on Mycroft who was still standing silent, trying hard to hide the hurt gnawing at his insides. "I never said that."
Sherlock took her sudden lapse in attention to lunge for her. She was not as quick this time to recognize his attempt and was knocked off her feet as he banged into her. The gun was thrown out of her hands as they went tumbling to the ground, falling a distance way.
Lying on top of her, Sherlock hesitated to beat her. He wasn't used to dealing with murderous women and a small part of him was finding it difficult to consider hitting her in any way. Georgia took his sense of chivalry to her advantage and slapped him hard across the face before kneeing him.
Sherlock tumbled away as pain shot up his groin. The little…
Georgia meanwhile was racing for the gun. Sherlock took a few deep breaths before finally moving himself, trying to ignore the aching. But he was too late. She grabbed the weapon and pointed it savagely at Sherlock.
She looked far wilder then she had before, her eyes gleaming with anger. "I didn't want it to come to this."
"You're the one who brought the gun," Sherlock said quietly, trying to figure a way out of this. His gaze fell on John who was still lying unconscious on the floor. So much for his loyal companion.
"I never killed anyone Mr. Holmes," she cried defensively, "He was my brother. I loved him. I would have died for him. I can't let you hurt him. Surely you must understand."
"No, I don't," Sherlock replied in a low voice, glancing over at Mycroft. His brother was still standing in the same position, just watching the scene, looking like a deer in headlights. Well, he was completely useless. "Your brother killed people. He deserves to go to prison."
"No," Georgia said firmly, "My brother's sick; prison would kill him."
"That's not my problem. I can't just let him go."
"Then I have to shoot you."
Sherlock laughed softly. "It's funny, Ms. Katch, but your brother would be safe now, away from prying eyes if you had not started to turn up their skeletons."
Georgia frowned, her grip on the gun lessening as Sherlock's words shot through her. "I had to do it. Those families deserved to have closure, just like we deserve to have closure."
"You deserve to be brought to justice. Nineteen people lost their lives. You can't fix that by bringing their skeletons back intact."
"Shut up!" she yelled suddenly, "If you refuse to leave us in peace, then I refuse to leave you alive. You'll take my secret to the grave, Mr. Holmes."
"I'm not the only one who knows. The police are on their way." That was a lie. He wished he had called Lestrade, but he hated replying on the man for help when he was so certain he could deal with it himself, could deal with a woman. But apparently…
"Liar," she whispered knowingly. "They just arrived across the river. There's no one to help you."
"There's me."
Both Sherlock and Georgia now turned their attention to Mycroft. He was no longer standing like a helpless animal without a clue. His right arm was extended, holding a small pistol in Georgia's direction. "Shoot him and you'll die."
"Mycroft?" her voice came disbelievingly, "You wouldn't."
"I can't let you kill him, Georgia."
She said nothing, only smiled sadly, "You would turn us in, after all this time."
Mycroft didn't reply. There was no need for him to, the answer was obvious. Georgia sighed, looking mournful…disappointed. "I never wanted to hurt you."
"Too late for apologies." His voice was cold, hard.
Georgia nodded and then, without warning, tore the gun from Sherlock and pointing it at Mycroft, pulled the trigger.
Sherlock watched in horror as Mycroft was taken unawares. He had no time to react as the bullet penetrated his skin, ripping through his lower abdomen. Blood splattered all around as the gun dropped from his hand and he collapsed on the cold floor, clutching his wound with his hands.
"No!" Sherlock raced forward now, taking Georgia by surprise. He struggled desperately for the gun, but she was stronger than he had expected and fought back hard. Two more shots were fired harmlessly into the air as they both warred for possession of the weapon. The moral discomfort he had felt before was gone and now he did not hesitate to attack her with all the ferocity he possessed. His elbow came up hard, catching her in the chin. He stumbled back, winded and in her moment of weakness, Sherlock managed to grab the gun from her hand.
He pointed it at her, prepared to shoot, but even in this moment, anger boiling through his veins like poison swiftly lowering his rationality, he could not bring himself to kill her. Instead, he swung it viciously at her head.
She fell to the floor as blood began to gush from the opening in her head, a smile on her lips.
Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out the pair of handcuffs he always held handy and quickly bound her hands together, before rushing over to where Mycroft lay.
His heart sank as he crouched down beside his brother. Blood was seeping nonstop from the wound in his stomach. Mycroft's eyes were closed in pain, his breathing harsh and ragged. He was shivering too, whether from the pain or the cold breeze rushing past, he could not tell.
In one swift movement, Sherlock removed his coat and laid it over Mycroft. He hardly noticed the cold, hardly cared for the cold. He felt only regret now, regret and guilt: regret for all the times he had pushed his brother away and guilt for having dragged him here in the first place.
Mycroft's eyes flew open now, his irises wide in agony. "Georgia?" he managed to stammer as he stared up at Sherlock.
"Taken care of," Sherlock promised. He stared hard at his brother, trying to hold back the tears forming in his eyes. The feeling in his own heart, the aching helplessness, the tormented fear of loss, he had never felt before. He despised it, wanted it to go away, but he could not will it gone.
"Glad…you're…okay."
"Shut up," Sherlock said softly, trying to laugh. He couldn't. It struck him suddenly that he should call the ambulance. Stupid. He reached for his phone, dialling quickly, his fingers trembling in the cold. They took his call, promising to be quick, trying to calm him as he yelled at them for being incompetent.
Mycroft was slipping away. Blood was seeping relentlessly. Sherlock ripped off a piece of his shirt and pressed it to the wound, trying to slow the breathing. He glanced over at John, but the doctor was still unconscious. Just when he needed a doctor most.
"Stay with me, Mycroft." Sherlock tried to force him to stay awake as his eyes began to droop. "Don't you dare do this to me!"
"Sorry…" Mycroft managed to mumble, trying to smile, but failing as it fell into a grimace. His eyes closed again, his breathing less and less recognizable.
"No. Come on. Come on. Come on!" Sherlock roared, tears now streaming freely down his cheek as his voice echoed in the silence before dying softly on the wind.
A.N.
So, what do you all think? I know I originally planned it to be a one-shot, but I don't feel comfortable just leaving it where it is. What do you think? Should I write a follow-up question? I hope it didn't become to OOC at the end, but I kind of figured that Sherlock would have some emotional reaction. So please, please, please review to let me know if I should do a follow-up chapter and what you thought of it.
Thanks for reading and the next chapter for Burning Hearts and Dangerous Games shoudl be up really soon.
God Bless,
Faith