Tick Tock
By: SneakAttack29

Quick Author's Note: Hello all! This is my first foray into a Sherlock fanfiction, so bear with me and please tell me if I get someone out of character. I'm trying. It's a learning process.

Also, if I screw up on the labratory, scienc-y stuff that's going to be a major part of this story, please also tell me and correct me where applicable. I, myself, research bioterror response, but from a criminological standpoint. I do what I can to get a grasp on the biological side of things, but I may screw up. Also I may screw up on some of the technical aspects. I'm tring to get the information as true as I can.

So this story takes an OC I'm using in a sandbox-y Dragon Age fic (posted on AO3 like this also will be-same username!) that I thought would work really well in the Sherlock-verse. So I did it. This is going to be a back burner story updated when I have time. I'm currently working an internship and a part-time job, so no promises on when I'm going to have time to write. But I will try. This takes place after the conclusion of season 4 of Sherlock, also!

Anyway, I'm gonna let you guys jump right in. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. All rights go to their respective peoples. I only own the OCs that will crop up during this fanfic.

Chapter 1: Secret and Mystery

"A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other."

-Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

The woman blows a huff of air from her lips in frustration, tossing the glossy photograph she'd been looking at face down in the open file before her. Her arms cross over a smart button down, hands ripping thin, wire-frame reading glasses off her face. Flat, almond-shaped eyes peer cautiously up at the greying man leaning against the edge of her desk. They ask, plead, an unspoken question. One she voices anyway. "Greg, what in the bloody hell are you expecting me to be able to find?" Her accent is American, tinged with a British lilt that only comes from years living away from her nation of origin.

The man, Greg, runs a hand through his already-disheveled hair. It's an action clearly done multiple times in recent moments, and the drawn look to his face gives a reliable indication of the amount of stress he finds himself under. It's not too much of a shock, the woman thinks. Working for Scotland Yard can't be in any way relaxing. "God help me, Elisabeth, I don't know. I want your eyes on this. Please."

She frowns, pulling the earpiece of her glasses she'd been chewing on out of her mouth to point it at him. "You have a consultant already. He'd be much better suited for this—why don't you ask him?"

"Because I need your expertise." The woman's eyes narrow, scanning along his haggard face. She finds what she's looking for and raises a brow incredulously.

The glasses are moved to point at the facedown photograph. "You showed me a picture of a figurine on a table, Lestrade, and a standard employee ID photo of a missing engineer. All I'm getting out of it is that your kidnapper likes sculptures and your Missing could stand to wash his face a little more. Hardly gospel words of insight."

Lestrade's grimace twists to look almost pained. "It's more than that. Please, Elisabeth, I'm begging you here." Her dark eyes go comically wide as she begins slowly swirling herself left and right in her office chair. The glasses find their way to rest on her lips again, though instead of beginning to chew on the well-gnawed plastic covering, her face bears the faintest whisper of a grin.

"What's this now? The great Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, begging little ole' me to consult on a case for New Scotland Yard? Never thought this day would come. Are you feverish? You do look a little pale, come to think of it…"

"Oh, for God's sake," he groans, throwing his head back in exasperation that only makes the woman spinning in her chair grin more. Her chuckle is low, albeit forced as she leans forward to flip the photograph over again and rearrange it in the file folder.

Not making eye contact as she shuffles papers back to some semblance of order, she nonchalantly chides, "If you're worried about one of my students barging in and hearing something oh-so-top-secret, don't. I'm on lunch break, technically. But whatever it is you're not telling me, just spit out that you can't instead of trying to string me along by begging. Really, Greg, it's beneath you." He whips his head around to her, staring for a few beats before rolling his eyes. She thinks she hears something muttered along the lines of "not that bloody transparent" before he's uncrossing his arms and turning to face her properly.

"Right, fine. This case is weird. I do need you to consult. But you were…asked for. By name. Wasn't supposed to tell you, so if you could conveniently pretend not to know that information…"

Her brow rises again. "By name? By whom?" A hand curls up from where her elbows are resting on the varnished oak desktop to fold over her mouth. The grim look that passes over Lestrade's face does her nerves no favors, nor her damnable curiosity.

"I can't say, Elisabeth. I'm sorry, but I can't. I've said too much as it is."

"Hmm. Why me? I'm no one…oh." Her eyes brighten a little with realization, puzzle pieces clicking along with the gears in her mind as she leans back again in her chair. "He went missing three hours ago, yeah? Called in shortly after? How many of your people have you had parading through the lab? Have they touched anything?"

His brow furrows. "Only the photographer from forensics and a team to look for prints on the figurine. Everything was photographed as-was before and put back as it was found after. Wait, why'd you say it's a lab? That's not in the report I gave you."

"Figurine's on a shiny, unmarred metal table. Your Dr. Logan Northcott either has a strange choice in workbenches or he's working in a lab. I can practically smell disinfectant through the image."

"Right," Lestrade drawls. "'Only that he likes sculptures and a face that needs washing', my arse." Elisabeth only shrugs.

Flipping the file closed, she stands suddenly and reaches for the coat slung over the coatrack in the corner. It makes her message clear, even as she speaks. "It'd be rude to deny such a candid invitation. Can you give me more details here, or am I going to have to wait?"

"Wait," he grumbles, leading the woman outside her small, monotone office and waiting awkwardly in the narrow hallway for her to lock it up behind her. He glances only briefly at the plaque reading Dr. Elisabeth Kardon—Criminology in stark, blocky lettering. It's a lot like the woman herself—short, sweet, and to the point. "Be easier to explain when we get there. It's not far. Sorry about the cloak and dagger, by the way. Not my idea."

Her brow rises as she stuffs the keys and her glasses into the pocket of her coat. "It's fine. Still don't know how much help I'm really going to be, though."

"Yeah," he sighs, leading the way out of the building. "Believe me, this is better than the alternative."

The last part is grumbled, obviously something she isn't meant to hear. Elisabeth eyes her friend warily, not sure what to make of the situation and a feeling in her gut telling her that perhaps the answer isn't something she wants to know.

Day 1—14:49

"What do you mean 'He's not here'?" a tall, dark-haired man clad in a rather impressive coat questions irritably. The shorter man next to him has his brows to his greying blond hairline, watching the exchange between his companion and the annoyed-looking woman across the thin barrier of police tape as if viewing a tennis match. The woman is holding her ground better than most, though the expression of utter distaste that comes over her features probably contributes to her stalwart hostility a considerable amount.

"I mean that he's not bloody here," she grumbles, crossing her arms firmly over her chest. Behind her mills a team of police officers and forensic workers, though there notably isn't anyone entering or exiting the cordoned-off building curiously situated in the middle of nowhere. It is a fact that the taller man is quick to take note of if the glimmer of amusement entering his pale eyes is anything to go by. "You weren't called in, and Lestrade's not here to give you permission to enter the crime scene."

Her verbal adversary scoffs. "Permission." The word is spat as if containing some corrosive poison. "Please, Sally, you lot need my help, permission or not. The sooner you get that through your thick little skulls, the quicker we can cease this pointless routine."

Her eye twitches. "We can handle this, Freak. We don't need your bloody help."

"Oh, obviously," sneers the man in an instant and well-practiced retaliation, not missing a beat. Within the pockets of his coat, unbeknownst to Sally or his companion, his hands clench into fists. "That's why no one is daring to stand close to the door. I see the Yard's degraded to the point they're not even trying to do their jobs. Yes, you're handling things marvelously."

This incenses her, and her jaw drops in offense; however, a police car pulling up to the scene cuts off whatever else she was going to say. A backwards glance at the vehicle conversely causes the taller man to smirk and the shorter to roll his eyes.

"Ah, impeccable timing," he utters gleefully as the very same Detective Inspector he had been asking after exits the driver's side, but the grin falters when the passenger door cracks open as well. An unfamiliar woman emerging from the car's depths is obviously an addition neither he nor the other two individuals clustered around the police tape are expecting, and his sharp eyes quickly rove across her slight frame in a harsh scrutiny. She's dressed professionally under a classic trench coat that's partially buttoned and tied shut, heels clicking smartly yet awkwardly on uneven pavement, notably lacking any kind of purse or handbag in favor of her coat pockets appearing laden with the bare essentials. Short black hair beginning to show sparkles of silver, strongly Asian in features, stern-faced if not a bit confused. Uncomfortable with the situation but not with Lestrade, so she knows him at least a bit. The man narrows his eyes as the two near, not entirely dismissing her as too boring to be worth his time only because her presence is far left of field. She's honestly rather unremarkable aside from the unknown.

Lestrade mumbles a curse upon seeing him that makes the woman shoot the detective a look of amusement. "Should have figured you'd sniff this one out."

"I daresay you were a bit ambitious to try keeping something so delightfully interesting from me." His flash of a smile is sardonic and sarcastic, causing the out-of-place tag along to snort a laugh. The smile, like his grin moments before, drops quickly, and his eyes fixate on her curiously again. He doesn't comment otherwise. She's plain and almost uniform enough to be a bit more challenging to read, not that he'd ever admit such out loud, and he would rather arm himself with more deductions before tackling the proverbial beast.

The curly-haired woman behind the tape has no such reservation, though he can't help the wrinkle in his nose at the utter lack of eloquence her blunt question carries. "Who's she?" This causes the she in reference to stand straighter, defiant of the strangely accusatory tone. Her nod to those gathered is delivered stiffly yet politely.

"Elisabeth Kardon. Greg invited me. Pleasure to meet you." American is tacked on to the running list of facts the tallest individual has gathered, right alongside the realization that she's been in country for at least ten or so years if the dilution of her accent is anything worthy of note. Mother's side from east Asia with her father's side probably of Jewish descent, maybe Ukrainian from the surname—either that or she was adopted, but he suspects that to be the less likely of the two. Odds are in favor of New England by the heavy concentration of Jewish ancestry in the region, but it's also possible she's from elsewhere in the States. And, perhaps most importantly, she has some skill or knowledge to warrant being brought in on a case instead of him. That's what snags his attention—and hint of ire—the most.

"You have another consultant?" the one in the coat snaps irritably. The other man, essentially ignored at this point, shoots him a warning look. "Sherlock."

It's useless as his glare does not lessen. Elisabeth's lips stretch into a tight smile, dark eyes going hard despite having expected such a reaction immediately upon seeing the rather infamous consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes' reputation far precedes him, as well as that of Dr. John Watson beside him.

"Special case," Lestrade snaps back just as fiercely, motioning for Sally to lift the tape and allow himself and Elisabeth through. Sherlock attempts to follow but is cut off in short order by the Yard detective whirling on him. They make eye contact, wordlessly counting some sort of argument before the older man sighs heavily.

"Oh, for—fine. They're clear, Donovan."

"But I thought…," Donovan trails off, shifting her gaze between her boss and Elisabeth with a hint of suspicion, though of what is unclear. Said boss pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Sergeant." The title is muttered in a tone Sally Donovan knows well, and her face sours as she harshly waves the smug consulting detective and his partner through the tape. Elisabeth, trying to diffuse some of the tension among the group, quirks her lips in an awkward show of greeting. Dr. Watson, at least, returns the gesture.

Her stride quickens to keep up with the taller men hastily making their way towards the building everyone else is avoiding like the plague. "Alright, I'll go ahead and say what everyone's thinking—why are we in the middle of nowhere, what kind of facility is this, and why does it look like you're completely prohibiting access to the entire building? Also, did you get any prints from that figurine in the pictures you showed me? I have a rough idea, but if you could clarify before I go assuming anything, that would be phenomenal."

"You showed her pictures?" Sherlock presses but is, to his chagrin, summarily ignored.

"One at a time, Elisabeth." Lestrade pauses outside the door to speak with the woman properly, and the consulting detective and doctor also pause to listen to the conversation. "We were told to keep access to the building at a minimum, but don't ask me why. When I said this is weird, I meant it."

Dr. Watson states, "This looks military." Sherlock glances at it again and has to agree.

"I'll reiterate Miss Kardon's question: What kind of facility is this?" he tacks on quickly before he can fall too much to the wayside. Lestrade's face somehow becomes even terser if that's possible as he yanks the heavy metal door open on rusted hinges to usher everyone quickly down winding, cinderblock hallways lit with too-bright, sterile fluorescent fixtures. "Military building, far past London outskirts and back from traffic, secure, and you're not letting anyone in. Why? Could be a clearance issue, but that's doubtful—need to let the police in to do their jobs, however dreadful they are at it. Oh, don't look at me like that, I wouldn't be here if it wasn't true. You sent a few people in for only enough barebones information to convince her to tag along, though why you called her in at all is a whole other question entirely. Now, why would you cut off access if it isn't a clearance issue? Answer: There's something in this building you really don't want to get out. Something dangerous."

Shooting him an annoyed look, the older detective does not respond, taking yet another few turns down a deserted corridor. Elisabeth, however, whistles lowly. "I'd heard about what you do, Mr. Holmes, but damn if that's not impressive to see in person." Sherlock turns to look at the woman walking slightly behind himself and John, and his face falls completely blank. Dr. Watson is smirking a little as he reaches to pat her shoulder companionably.

"Careful Miss Kardon, or you'll break him."

"I'll not break," Sherlock is quick to sneer at his assistant. "I'm simply amazed that there's another you running around." Lestrade scoffs, obviously understanding the joke, while the shortest member of their little group is left in a state of befuddlement.

She smiles small, but it's laced purely with confusion. "I-I'm sorry, but it appears I'm missing something?"

John chuckles. "Let's just say that's not the response he normally gets." Elisabeth's mouth opens a moment, but she apparently rethinks whatever she intends to say with a quick shake of her head.

"Never mind, I don't want to know."

"If I might get this back on track," Lestrade cuts in sharply. Before he can continue, however, a phone begins ringing climactically, and Dr. Watson's face turns sheepish as he digs a mobile phone from his jacket, apologizing under his breath.

A glance at the caller ID has his brow furrowing. "Sorry, sorry. It's Mrs. Hudson. She's with—I really ought to take this."

"Oh, dull," mumbles the consulting detective with a roll of his eyes. John shoots him a look. Elisabeth has no other name for it. It's just a look.

"I'll only be a moment. You all go on without me—I'll catch up."

Lestrade nods in understanding before Sherlock can say anything else. "That's fine. Take your time." Her fellow consultant, to Elisabeth's bafflement, appears to slump in an annoyed manner she can only describe as a sulk.

With a reciprocating nod of gratitude, John darts back around the corner the way they came, beginning to press his phone to his ear and brushing past a frazzled looking Sergeant Donovan. Elisabeth catches the twitch of Sherlock's jaw tensing when he sees the woman with the radio clutched in her hand. The bad blood there is rather simmering, she realizes with a raised brow.

"Sir," Donovan says briskly, elaborating on her presence in the out-of-bounds building before anyone can get a chance to ask her. "Chief Superintendent radioed—wants a word." A significant glance is shot to Elisabeth before flicking back to the Yard detective, something the woman notes with a furrowed brow and concerned frown. The sudden chill of unease causes her to fold in on herself with a concealed shiver.

Lestrade cringes, barely noticeable. Donovan begins walking to keep up with the mobile-again group, apparently quite dogged in her message-delivering. "Ah, right. I'll deal with that in a moment." They pass through a set of automatic glass doors and into what Elisabeth notes suspiciously is practically a wall of industrial disinfectant. Also suspicious, she notes the taped up window to the right of the door as they entered. As the glass hisses shut behind them and Lestrade begins to pass out nitrile gloves, a rock of ice begins to settle in the pit of her stomach. Sherlock, contrary to the woman's growing unease, gains a Cheshire grin.

"Ooh, in a spot of trouble, are you?" His pressing is ignored, again to his displeasure.

Donovan frowns, continuing as though uninterrupted. "She said immediately. Didn't sound happy."

"Immediately in a moment, yes." He motions the rest of the way into the linoleum-tiled room. "This is more pressing. I doubt waiting a few more minutes will give her an aneurism. Besides, there's no signal in here. Concrete walls and all that. Now whatever you lot do despite the gloves, do not touch anything." Lestrade's hands slide casually into his pockets after a glare at the consulting detective, a move Elisabeth notes with a frown. Sherlock has already darted off to begin inspecting the figurine on the round metal table in the middle of a room decked out in enough tech to make anyone involved in a scientific field drool. This causes the woman's frown to deepen for an entirely different reason than it manifested. Computers, industrial counters, several different types of equipment that she can't put names to but look extremely expensive—it's spread around the pristine space in a neat and orderly manner. It all reeks of disinfectant. Too much so.

A door in the back leads to another room, though it's difficult to tell what lay beyond from the way it's darkened past the clear Plexiglas. Elisabeth gets a daunting feeling she doesn't need to be told to figure it out if the line of lumpy, shapeless blue suits hanging on pegs next to it are speaking as plainly as she believes. As she stops short of getting any closer to the table, the gears begin whirring.

"Miss Kardon said you looked for prints on this. However, you didn't—"

"Bioengineer," Elisabeth blurts suddenly, cutting the consulting detective off and drawing all eyes to her. She whirls sharply to look at Lestrade now standing off to the side with Donovan. "I was right. The man who was taken, Dr. Northcott. He wasn't just an engineer like you told me. He was a bioengineer."

Sherlock huffs. "So, this is a missing person, then. Just as I thought. What was he working on? Must be dangerous to keep everyone out. This is a military facility to boot—insignia on the glass there proves it…"

He and Elisabeth share a glance. A lot is communicated in that look, but mostly it is an agreement for a temporary alliance to press for the shady answers Lestrade is not providing them. Answers they need. A mutual truce forms between strangers each still uneasy around the other.

Elisabeth grits through her teeth, "Please tell me he wasn't developing a bioweapon?" She already knows the answer. Asking is redundant, but the hope of a different answer than the one she is expecting is more tempting an offer than she'd like to admit.

The Yard detective, to his credit, looks a bit strained. He peers to the Sergeant next to him with apprehension. She looks back with slightly wide eyes. The conversation is beyond her pay grade, they both know it, but he gives in with a sigh.

"We think so."

"You think so?" Sherlock asks incredulously. "That's not a difficult thing to figure out. You lot aren't that daft."

"It's not that simple, Sherlock. This facility doesn't exist. It's a ghost. The victim works at a university lab in bloody Leicester, but his supposed colleagues have never heard of him before. We're working on getting information, but until we know what this lab was working on, we're fumbling in the dark. It's a risk to even be in here, but I'm goddamn desperate."

Elisabeth's jaw drops. "You dragged me out of my office to shove me in a secret government ghost lab that may or may not be housing biological contagions?! Greg! At least tell me that this isn't the hot lab!" She knows it isn't, but angrily putting the detective on the spot eases her nerves a tad bit.

Lestrade waves a hand. "It's not. The lab itself is clean—we did a sweep. It's the samples and whatnot that we're concerned about. Until we know what they were doing here, I'm not letting anyone touch them."

"You mean like you let them touch this setup on the table?" snarks the consulting detective, drawing attention back to himself while simultaneously pointing it dramatically to the figurine. "Someone took something. Whoever left this little message placed the statuette slightly off center but left the rest of the room impeccable. There were two things set here; your perpetrator is too OCD to be so meticulous with the equipment yet be sloppy with the centerpiece of the show. Where's the second object? Would it have anything to do with why you brought Miss Kardon?"

The woman in question chimes in before Lestrade can do it for her. She motions with jerky, sudden movements to the door in the back of the room, glower fixed to her face. "And is there a goddamn reason you didn't sweep the hot lab? Biohazard equipment wouldn't be too hard to get. If this is a military facility, there has to be a coordinator to even let you in, ghost lab or not."

Lestrade's jaw clenches. "No, it was abandoned when we got the call. Anonymous hang-up. Came in yesterday, but no one thought a thing of it. Put it on a back burner until there was time. We're still waiting on equipment before we crack that can of worms." He motions as well to the door to what Elisabeth is now positive is, indeed, the hot lab. Cold labs like the one they find themselves in are typically sterile and typically safe enough. As annoyed as she is at him currently, Elisabeth does trust that the cold lab was swept and given a seal of approval for entry. Otherwise, Lestrade wouldn't have even let them in the building. It's the hot lab that could potentially (Elisabeth would actually argue probably) contain something particularly nasty, whatever project was being worked on.

But still…

"Something forced everyone out, then." She hisses, running a hand through her hair. "A lab like this wouldn't just be abandoned—it's clearly recently cleaned, at least. Which probably means recently used. All this tech, too, wouldn't just be left behind unless they had to leave in a hurry. This is a large facility. It would take more than one bioengineer to staff it, so there had to be other people here. Are you sure the rest of the building is clean? Was it sealed up when you got here? Are there any other projects, any other active labs? An anonymous call is bloody suspicious. How do you know that wasn't a goddamn lure?" The more questions Elisabeth asks, the louder and more furious her voice becomes. If looks could kill, Lestrade would be several feet under and a rather meek pincushion for some surely painful daggers.

The detective opened his mouth to reply. "Ellie—"

"Don't fucking call me that." The glare becomes harsher, and more daggers are proverbially added. "Let me guess, hmm? Building was unsecured and abandoned upon response, then checked once backup and a biohazard crew arrived. No one would be allowed in right now if that was the case given the timeframe—three hours, you said in my office? Barely enough time for a thorough sweep, so obviously nothing major was found. You lied about not having the equipment to check the hot lab—of course you would have had a biohazard crew immediately to make sure the building was even safe for entry and determine whether anything had been released from the building. They could have checked it. Either they did and you're lying about it, or you told them not to. I'm leaning towards the first option, your tells aren't that hard to figure and you practically screamed it when you said that it hadn't been swept. There's no way you would have been able to get away with not having it checked, unless that's what the Chief Superintendent is being so dogged to talk to you about. Though I don't think so. It is a bioweapon. My expertise is in bioterror response, I'm not stupid enough to fail to put that together. You wouldn't have brought me in for anything else. What was in that hot lab you don't want us to know about?"

"Yes, I quite agree." Sherlock looks to her, something akin to developing respect showing on his face. "Astute deductions, Miss Kardon."

"Thank you," she says crisply and quickly, though she notably doesn't take her eyes off a now very uncomfortable-looking Lestrade. "Coming from you, I understand that to be high praise."

After a few moments of silent, droll scrutiny, the Yard detective heaves a bone-weary sigh. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out an evidence bag. Elisabeth can't make out what it contains until it's handed to her hesitantly.

"A piece of paper?"

Greg scrubs his hands down his face, mumbling, "Flip it over." Sherlock by now has moseyed his way to peer over the woman's shoulder. Not a difficult feat from the severe height difference.

Still, the woman does so and almost drops the bag in the process. Printed on the jagged, ripped slip of paper in a bold, capitalized typeset are two sentences. "What the hell?!" Her head shoots up to meet Lestrade's gaze while the consulting detective behind her gains an almost childishly gleeful look at the turn of events this has become.

I DO THIS FOR HER.

SHALL WE PLAY, PROFESSOR KARDON?

"By name, Ellie."

"Don't call me that," she hisses, ire clearly raised and sharp. "This was what you couldn't tell me? This doesn't make any sense!"

Suddenly, Sherlock tilts his head. "Chief Superintendent… Dr. Kardon is your main suspect, is she not?" Elisabeth blanches, and then pales further when Lestrade's expression only becomes grim without a hint of denial. Donovan is whipping her head back and forth between the three other occupants of the lab, jaw slack and eyes wide as the situation takes several turns she obviously was not expecting with information she clearly was not meant to know.

"M-me?" Dr. Kardon sputters. "This doesn't read like an accusation! It's devotion, blind obsession. Taunting, even!"

Sherlock nods, still smirking. "Clearly a stalker."

"Exactly! Greg, you know I'd never—!"

"Of course I bloody know. I was supposed to take you in to the Yard, but I made a different call."

Donovan, finally finding her voice, manages to squeak out, "Sir, it's the Chief Superintendent, you can't just make a different call!"

"Right," Sherlock sneers. "Because you happen to be the epitome of by the book morality, Sergeant." The woman doesn't even send him a look back, either deciding not to dignify the man with one or lost in her own incredulity—which one is difficult to tell.

Elisabeth brings a hand up to her hair, running her fingers through the strands and beginning to pace. A nervous habit, Sherlock thinks, or perhaps a way of expending her clearly building anxiety. Lestrade shoots the agitated woman a pleading look that she doesn't see, lost in her thoughts enough not to care. "Elisabeth, please, if you know anything that might help…"

Dark eyes dart around the room, hand slowing in its raking motions for a beat before sliding down to pinch the bridge of her nose. Breathing out slowly, Sherlock watches the professor's back straighten, resignation and a little indignation behind the motion. The consulting detective could tell Lestrade the moment he laid eyes on her that the woman knows nothing more about the crime than is apparent from the scene. Innocent, as it were. Her confusion is quite genuine. As he said, the woman clearly has a stalker.

"I don't, Greg." Sighing, Elisabeth brushes past Sherlock to the table in the middle of the room, eyeing the frosted glass figure critically. The others join her as she examines without touching. "At least not about why my name would have been left here. This has to mean something, the figure. This is of a saint, I think…" The figure was intricately carved, perhaps six inches in height and situated on a round, glass base. It was of a priest, the form of a child lain at his feet and a scepter topped with a rose in his hand, circle carved 'round his head. He appeared to be blessing the child, hand raised and a bit outstretched, serene look etched onto his face.

Sherlock snorts suddenly. "I believe it is ironically a figure of Saint Valentine." Elisabeth blinks up at him.

"Today is February 14th—you're kidding. That's not coincidental…"

Donovan is deadpan. "Why Saint Valentine? What's so special about him?" Her gloved hand reaches out to snatch up the figure, no doubt to get a better look. However, upon disturbing it, a click startles into place not from the figurine, but from a previously sleeping computer off in the corner of the room. A beat later heralds a whirring noise, and Elisabeth looks up just in time to see one of the indicator strips on one of the air vents change from a gentle flow to gusting.

"Oh god," she whimpers, drawing the others' attention to the object of her fixation.

They all realize the severity of the situation in that moment though for different reasons. Four sets of wide, dumbfounded eyes peer at the now whirring vent in varying states of awe, curiosity, terror, and shock before Elisabeth suddenly, with a surge of adrenaline and recognition, bolts from the table towards the door. Lestrade cries out her name in shock, perhaps thinking she is trying to escape the room though that is not the case. Her eyes lock onto a switch she'd noticed upon entering the lab, a biohazard symbol impressed in stark white against the bright orange-red, and her hand slams against it.

From beyond the now sealed door of glass as emergency lights begin flashing a warning of a released biological contagion, Elisabeth's frantic eyes meet the startled ones of a Dr. John Watson just poised to enter the freshly inaccessible lab.

Several feet away, Sherlock looks at her with Lestrade and Donovan, considering expression upon his face. "This isn't someone trying to lead you on a chase…" It's absently mumbled, but the woman hears it regardless and turns slowly from where she'd been having an impromptu, shock-borne staring contest with the man's partner.

Swallowing, her face falls grimly. A dark-haired head shakes sluggishly from side to side. She inhales a shuddering breath. "No. This…this was a trap." Elisabeth's eyes fix on Lestrade suddenly, becoming harsher than Sherlock would have thought them capable. "I can't believe…"

"W-what are you—?!"

"First rules of dealing with objects in an unknown, suspicious biolaboratory setting: Don't fucking touch anything without proper hazmat precautions and do proper checks of all equipment." Her voice is cold, and Donovan and Lestrade's eyes seem to grow wider, if that's even possible. "Unknowing or not, your oversight just exposed everyone in here to an unknown pathogen and put us all on emergency quarantine. Congratulations, Sergeant." In the crawling, digestive silence that follows, Sherlock can't help but think that the woman took the thought directly out of his mouth.

Eventually, Lestrade succinctly mumbles the one word that sums up their current situation quite aptly.

"…Fuck…"

Final Words: Let me know what you think! I personally don't care much for the pacing, but I rewrote this chapter three times and extensively edited it five, so eventually I ran out of steam and decided to go with the best incarnation.

R&R!
~Sneak