The Riddle of a Ritual
Author's Note: The first of several one-shots. They're stand alone, but in order from when they met to current. I have several already planned with more on the way. Enjoy!
The skies of London were abnormally clear that fall afternoon. There was barely a cloud in the sky. Strange for the time of year. Despite the sunlight a cold wind blew through the crowded streets filled with people huddled in coats, scarves and hats. Some people were shopping. Others were seeing relatives. A few quickly charged from a morning job to an afternoon job. It was a possibility that several of them were pickpockets weaving among the various populous looking for some easy cash. He could see it all. He could deduce flashes of stories from the people below him.
His reflection in his window mirrored his pale skin, blue eyes and curly dark brown hair. The expression he wore was also telling, more telling than he normally allowed. But, he supposed, there were only three expressions he ever really showed the world; delightful, childlike, glee, emotionless apathy, and the desperate pout of severe boredom. The final was what adorned his features at that moment. In fact, the expression had been on his face for the past three weeks. There was absolutely nothing to do.
Sherlock Holmes was bored. It had been three weeks since a particularly intriguing case came to light and the absence of crimes to solve left him bereft of productive activities. At least, productive, Sherlock-worthy, activities that would expand his mind and keep him from cracking. John seemed perfectly content with the way his life was, of course. Sherlock found himself jealous at times of the perfectly mundane life John led with his intriguing girlfriends and his interesting dating life.
"Sherlock!" his flat mate called from the kitchen.
He blinked and answered without even turning his head, "What is it?"
"There's a human brain in the refrigerator covered in ketchup!"
Sherlock smirked. He couldn't help it. Sometimes, the best way to temporarily relieve his boredom was to conduct gruesome experiments for the mere purpose of annoying Watson and Mrs. Hudson.
"Yes! Of course there is! Why wouldn't there be?"
John walked into the living room with a slightly annoyed look on his face and phone in hand. Sherlock glanced at the thing for a second before leaning back in his chair and gazing up at the ceiling. Now that this bit of entertainment passed, he was bored again.
"Finished talking to Mary? Or was it your sister?" Sherlock asked.
John looked smug about something and an alarmingly evil smile crawled across his face. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
"Wrong, it was my aunt," John said and Sherlock was intrigued by the man's badly concealed glee.
What, exactly, was so funny about getting a call from his aunt? Sherlock knew Watson had aunts, three to be exact. Two of them he actually met, but the third didn't live in the country, choosing a life in the States as a better way to pass her time.
"Which one?" he asked.
"The one from America. She asked if I would like to take a holiday. She also told me to bring you," John explained.
Sherlock blinked. Strange, why would this aunt ask to meet him?
"Why?" he asked incredulously.
John shrugged, "Beets me, to be quite frank, you're the type of person she generally doesn't like."
Now he was just a little offended. Sherlock sat up straight and pushed down the long sleeves of his shirt.
"You mean to tell me that she doesn't like ingenious men who can read the world around them like an open book?" he asked.
John blinked, looked down at his cell, and looked back at him. Sherlock, as smart as a man he was, took that gesture as an affirmative to his statement and not as a disagreement to his incredibly biased deduction of himself.
"Yeah, nailed it there," John replied and Sherlock willfully ignored the blatant sarcasm, "Anyway, whether you want to come or not doesn't matter. I'm going. She's already reserved a flight for me, so if you don't come I'll just take Mary."
Sherlock pursed his lips and let out a long drawn out sigh through his nose. He had a choice to make here. He could either stay in London and be continuously bored, or he could go with John to America and find some sort of new entertainment.
"Which state?" Sherlock asked.
"Oh, Texas, the Dallas/Fort Worth area if you want to be precise. I think they live in the Lakewood area," Watson replied.
Dallas equaled busy city. Which meant that there would be things to do. Which meant that he at least wouldn't be overly bored.
"What does your aunt do?" Sherlock asked.
"She's a doctor. Neurologist, actually. She's the reason why I became a doctor myself, actually," replied John.
"Married?"
"Husband and then there's my cousin who's currently attending university."
John had a cousin and an uncle-in-law living in America. Interesting.
"The husband a native?" he asked.
"To Texas? Yes."
"And the cousin? Man or woman?"
He smiled as John rolled his eyes and replied, "She's a woman, Sherlock, are you coming or not?"
Sherlock waved his hands, "Yes, yes, might as well. I'm bored anyway. If I'm bored here or there it shouldn't make too much of a difference. Maybe I can pick your aunt's mind on the wonderful subject that is the human brain, yes?"
John pinched the bridge of his nose, "Good God that conversation will last for hours!"
Watson then turned around and walked up to his room. Sherlock, feeling the need to have the last word, leaned over in his seat.
"Anything else I should know?"
"We leave in two days!"
Sherlock had never really been on plane before. Now he understood why. Planes were boring. All he did was sit strapped in his seat while waiting for a twelve hour flight to end. John amused himself with a book, a newspaper, and his player. Sherlock sighed and shifted in his seat. Really, how wasn't there anything to amuse himself with on a plane?
His sharp blue eyes scanned the crowd as the seeds of a plan formed in his mind. He could… of course! It would keep him occupied for at least an hour. He stood up and made as if to head to the toilet, glancing at each passenger he could along the way. Life stories told in small pinpricks. A careless hair there, a strange scar on a wrist, two day old clothes, a young man who looked older than he actually was, and a sickly looking man near the back of the plane. So many stories and so much time! This should be positively exciting!
He started at the back and leaned over a young German woman going to New York City for her honeymoon with a man of the same country who was about six years older than her.
"Hello, I am Sherlock Holmes, a deductionist from London, England and I was wondering if I could speak to you about an affair your new husband's been having? After all, when getting married, it's probably best that you enter the first month of your new life together knowing everything about each other, yes?" he asked.
At least he asked this time.
John was interrupted from his reading by an irritated flight attendant. He looked up at her, momentarily taking in her meticulously tied up blond hair and barely wrinkled clothing. He smiled.
"Yes miss?"
"Your friend is aggravating the other passengers, could you, quite possibly, reign him in?" she asked.
John sighed and ran a hand over his face. Not again! Apparently he underestimated the power of his friend's boredom.
"I am so sorry, it won't happen again," John promised as he stood up and glanced around for Sherlock.
He was at the back of the plane pointing at several different passengers while gleefully picking out their flaws, past experiences, and sinful indulgences. At least the kids weren't bored. In fact, if John had anything to say about the situation, the kids were immensely entertained by the show Holmes was putting on for his amusement. John made his way over to him and grabbed Sherlock's outstretched arm, bringing it back down to his side.
"What the bloody hell are you doing?" Watson asked in a hiss.
"Passing the time. I am bored you know. Anyway, I am receiving quite a number of requests!" he waved and John glanced at the group of teenagers giggling a few rows in front of them.
John shook his head and hissed back, "You are aggravating the passengers, Sherlock! Leave them alone and occupy yourself with something else! Read a book for God's sake but don't go deducting people who don't want to be deducted!"
With that he forcibly dragged Sherlock back to their seats. He couldn't wait to get to Dallas.
He wasn't entirely surprised that Sherlock hadn't guessed the reason behind his aunt specifically asking for him to bring the man along. Sherlock was known for being vain, arrogant, and having a head bigger than the world itself. He wouldn't think for a moment that there actually was someone who could match him, that someone being his little cousin, Brianna, the one currently at university. John smiled as he thought about the inevitable meeting. If he knew anything about his cousin, she'd probably ignore Sherlock, something he knew for certain would get on his friend's nerves.
Then of course there was his aunt and uncle. Aunt Elaine Davis was an odd sort from the rest of her family. For one, she never particularly liked England, said people depended too much on other people besides themselves to get things done. There had been several jabs at parliament, Scotland Yard, and the system in general. So, she graduated high school at the top of her class and left for America as soon as she was able to become a neurologist. While she was still Dr. Watson, she left medical school and didn't marry until she was in her late thirties. Her husband was a Texas Ranger eight years away from retirement in his late forties. Ranger Mark Davis was a man of few words, but sharp wit who met Dr. Elaine Watson in a coffee shop coincidently on the day she left both keys and purse in her car. He paid for her coffee and broke into her car to get the keys out. After that Ranger Davis frequented that particular coffee house and bought her coffee whenever she came in. From that time on, sparks flew and they were married within the following year.
Knowing them personally and always keeping tabs on whatever the Davis family was up to made John come to the conclusion that Sherlock was about to come to the shock of his life. Aunt Elaine was brainy in such a forthright manner that her presence in the room alone would overpower Sherlock's. Uncle Mark was neither phased nor surprised by most things in life and he doubted that Sherlock's deductions would make him so much as blink. Then, of course, there was Brianna who made it a point in life to render anything arrogant or conceited as ridiculous and play it off as a good joke for a brief moment before leaving it be a second later.
"What exactly are you smiling about? Surely it hasn't anything to do with Milton?" Sherlock asked curiously.
"Just a funny thought," John replied vaguely.
He ignored Sherlock as he continued to press for an answer, content to continue reading.
Sherlock was glad to finally be out of the plane and in the terminal. There were more people there, for one, and he had the freedom to move around amusing himself while his and John's bags came out with the luggage. After that bit of entertainment, they stood by one of the pillars used to brace the building and waited. Sherlock amused himself by analyzing the people walking by them and muttering what they were currently up to under his breath. John laughed a bit, which meant that he had forgiven him of what happened on the plane, so he was prompted to continue.
"Gay, but married to a woman from Florida."
His eyes flickered to another person, "CIA agent."
Then another, blond woman, "Actress disguising herself to divert the press. Probably meeting a secret boyfriend, or girlfriend depending."
A child, "That child is being abused by his single mother, might want to alert the Dallas Police Department."
And he did, taking a picture before making a phone call and later sending one of the detectives, a Detective Rachel Gibbs, the photo of that child and his frowning mother. Watson merely shook his head and continued watching for his aunt, the person who was apparently going to pick them up.
Ah, another, "Family of four. Quite boring. They're actually happy."
"Nothing wrong with that, being actually happy," Watson replied.
Sherlock grunted and continued scanning the crowd for a more interesting persona. He found one in the form of a greying blond haired woman with hazel eyes and a light complexion.
"There, Watson, a woman somewhere in her late fifties early sixties-."
"Sixty-one," John supplied.
"Yes, interestingly accurate guess. Her pale complexion indicates that her job is indoors. Hands, gloveless, but rubbed raw indicating constant washing probably means she washes her hands a lot. Probably a doctor of some sort-."
"Neurosurgeon," Watson supplied.
"Probably. Wears her hair up in a messy bun, but keeps her appearance clean denoting the fact that while she doesn't particularly care about her appearance she does believe in looking presentable meaning her job is long, full of careful structure and control, a definite thing if one is a neurologist, to which she will not always dress to impress. There is a simple diamond ring on her left ring finger, so she is most certainly married. I would say about a little over twenty years, so she married quite late in life probably due to her work and – she's heading towards us meaning that she's your aunt, isn't she?" Sherlock asked.
John just looked amused. The woman, the Doctor Elaine Davis, smiled at them as she approached and pulled John into a hug.
"Hello John, it's been years since you've been here!" she greeted.
John returned the hug while Sherlock was hoping that she didn't try to hug him.
"Yep! Forgot how warm it is in the fall here," he replied.
She laughed as she pulled away, "Tell me about it! You should hear what my daughter says to me every time I complain about it."
"Something along the lines of, 'There had better be a good reason for us to move north you crazy ice woman'?" John asked.
Dr. Davis laughed, "Oh don't remind me! We vacationed up in Washington, that's the state Mr. Holmes, and apparently she turns into a snarky little know-it-all when she's cold! And yet, she'll get to the ski resort, find a snowboard and manage to learn faster than I did! Granted, I had the upper hand in ice skating. Poor dear's all legs on the ice, apparently."
John laughed and then indicated towards him. Sherlock, having watched the entire exchange, was silent while trying to deduce something of their relationship. He had met John's other two aunts, the elders, the boring old ladies who knitted sweaters and kept eleven cats. Granted, he had to admit that the aunt with the cottage built to accommodate the numerous cats was quite impressive. Still, Watson hadn't been as particularly fond of them as he was of this one. What made this one so different?
He met her eyes and saw the brilliance twinkling in them. Sherlock reached out and grasped her already held out hand and shook it twice, testing her grip. Heart beat steady, breathing calm, grip firm, and hands surprising soft given the state they were in. She probably rubbed on some lotion before getting out of her car. Hmm… speaking of which.
"Well, as you already rightly guessed, I'm Sherlock Holmes. I must ask, do you have a problem with dry skin?" he asked.
John groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, a typical Watson reaction. Dr. Elaine Davis, however, did not give a typical Watson reaction. In fact, she just threw back her head and let out a hearty laugh.
"You sound like the dermatologists I work with! Yes, I have a skin problem! Noticed the lotion, did you? Made from aloe extract and cucumbers. Does wonders for me. My daughter steels some from me during the winter thinking I won't actually notice," she informed him.
"Ah. I've also noticed that, while you have endeavored to keep yourself looking young, without the use of plastic surgery a feat that deserves some congratulations, you have allowed your hair to grey. This tells me that, while you take care of yourself, you are in no way vain about your appearance. Commendable, if I do say so myself. I see you walk with confidence alone in a busy place, not looking around fearing that anything could happen to you. Part of that, I can bet, probably has a lot to do with the gun concealed under your shirt, though I get the feeling just from your handshake that you could, had you needed to, fend off your opponent yourself. This is something, I believe, taught to you by your husband?" he deduced.
She raised an eyebrow and looked quite amused at his deductions. She drew away from him momentarily and raised her shirt exposing a holster for three different packs of pepper spray and a package of smoke bombs.
"Bit off there Mister Holmes, but close enough. They don't allow guns in the airport, so I kept mine in the car. Speaking of which, this way you two!" and with that she sped off towards the exit.
John patted this shoulder, "I definitely cannot wait until you meet the rest of them."
Sherlock blinked and followed after the woman and Watson feeling slightly put out. He wasn't normally wrong.
Sherlock was bored during the drive. It had been raining and the traffic in Dallas was practically unmanageable. Really, how many bridges, turns, corners, and forks could one city put in a road? The roadways weren't logical in the least. He complained about this to Watson and his aunt and Dr. Davis told him that what they were dealing with at the moment could be considered tame. Seeing as it was eight o'clock in the evening, Sherlock wasn't too surprised. As they moved away from the downtown sector the self-proclaimed Great Deductionist had to make one concession. The skyline was beautiful. It wasn't a skyline that was mashed together into one sprawling city, but a modest skyline, most likely planned at the time the city was putting together building contracts.
"Brilliant skyline, isn't it John?" Dr. Davis asked her nephew.
"Always felt that way Aunt Elaine," John replied with a smile.
"Yes, if I do say so myself, there is a systematic beauty to the buildings. It is quite… impressive," Sherlock remarked.
"Well, I'm glad our city managed to impress you one way or another Mister Holmes. I heard from a reliable source that you are a hard man to impress," she said.
"How's Mark getting on?" John asked in order to change the subject.
"He's fine. The Rangers still call him in as a consultant. Bless them, they can't seem to regain their footing. The new kid's not green around the ears, by any means, but he always admired your uncle and loves to pick his brain on particularly difficult cases," she informed them.
Sherlock took that bit of information about Former Ranger Davis and filed it away in a compartment he mentally constructed to organize his thoughts. That was a bit of telling information about the uncle. Retired but still in touch with the Rangers Division. It was a good thing to know.
"How is Brianna? She hasn't been about much on the internet and the woman treats texting and calling people like it's some sort of infectious disease, so I don't always hear from her," John inquired.
"Well, she's working on a few papers and spending time in the city. Been throwing herself in dangerous situations if you ask me, but she never does. It's that professor of hers. She got it into her head that gallivanting all over the place looking for trouble is a good idea! Of course, her father thinks it's the greatest thing ever, something I will never understand," she shook her head and left it at that.
Were they being purposefully cryptic around him? He could deduce enough from the aunt's words that Miss Davis wrote, probably had a Humanities major, though which one he wasn't sure. Granted, he suddenly considered, if she were in one of the sciences she most likely wrote several papers to gain her master's degree. Then there was the danger aspect of the whole situation. Maybe a law student perhaps? No, they didn't do dangerous things, not in the way Dr. Davis was talking about. Criminal Justice? Hoping to get into the police force? That could definitely be a possibility and Sherlock wasn't about to discount.
The car ride had become interesting as Sherlock worked through what he knew of Miss Brianna Davis. He listened for more small inserts of information over what this cousin of John's did, but it seemed like the aunt and Watson worked in sync with each other's though process because the two steered as far away from her subject as they possibly could. It was because of him, Sherlock knew. They were trying to stump him as much as possible before he met her just to see if he could deduce her. Why he didn't know. He was certain that he could. She was a Watson after all.
He was interrupted from his thought process when the car pulled into a long driveway up to a large, two story house. He smiled. Watson and the aunt had challenged him and he couldn't wait to meet that challenge and succeed. It should be fun for about two minutes.
The house, he briefly observed, was modest despite its location in a wealthy neighborhood. The yard was well kept and he was quite certain he saw a black and white border collie in the back yard. He wondered, vaguely, who chose that particular breed of dog and why. He glanced behind him to get a better look at the car Dr. Davis drove. Toyota Corolla. He looked at the two other cars lined in the driveway. Toyota Camry and a Toyota Tacoma. Apparently the family relied on Toyotas. The Camry looked a lot older than the other two did, though, suggesting that it was most likely inherited. The cousin, he guessed, most likely owned it.
"Bri buy herself a new car?" Watson asked.
"Yes, she decided to go for a two-thousand one Camry. I tried to convince her to take out a loan for a newer one, but you know how she is. She hates having to pay people back for anything," the aunt explained.
Another thing he learned about her. She wasn't someone who liked being in debt to anyone. As they walked passed her apparently newly purchased car Sherlock glanced inside. It was clean-ish at that present time, but he had a feeling that the interior of the vehicle tended to collapse in an organized mess a good portion of the time. He smiled. Another thing he knew about her.
The house, itself, was neat and homely, but evidently lived in. Apparently the Davis family held to the belief that homes should look clean, but not so clean that it looked like one of those incredibly unrealistic homes from TV-shows or commercials. There were pictures on the walls depicting the inhabitants of the home, the relatives, and three different dogs the family owned in their lifetime as well as a single black cat. He looked away from the walls momentarily to find that same black cat lounging on the leather sofa gazing at him with disinterest. He rolled his eyes and turned back to one, seemingly recent, family picture. The uncle was well-built, he concluded, and had a head of completely grey hair (something he saw was constant in the other pictures). He looked like smiling was a chore for him, but there was a shadow of one on his face, mostly depicted in the shining green eyes. Mark Davis, Sherlock decided, seemed to be a tolerable man to be acquainted with.
His gaze flickered to the image of Brianna Davis momentarily, but the hostess moved them along into the kitchen where Sherlock found Former Ranger Mark Davis frying something on the stove. Stir fry? And rice, Sherlock noticed. Apparently the way of the family involved at least both parents cooking meals.
Ranger Davis glanced over his shoulder at them and inclined his head.
"Evenin' to yeh, John, Mister Holmes, both y'all go and have a seat at the table and this here'll be done shortly," his words were slow, drawn out, and to the point.
Sherlock liked people who got to the point. It meant that there would be more information available to him and less dillydallying. As he sat Sherlock inspected the uncle more closely. The picture barely showed the scars, probably due to the lighting, but in the dim brightness of the kitchen he could make out a few white jagged wounds, a bunch of skin that depicted an old bullet wound on his arm and rough tanned skin telling him that the man had been out in the sun one too many times. His entire body moved with a purpose, perfectly synchronized with each muscle, something that could only be drilled into a man and not inherited, not completely at least.
"Tell me, Ranger Davis, which American military division were you in before becoming a Ranger?" Sherlock asked feeling more curious than he would admit.
Had this man, he wondered, been John's inspiration for entering the military? He aunt had certainly sparked the man's interest in medicine, so if the trend stayed in this side of the family he wouldn't be surprised.
"Figured ye'd notice. I was in the United State Special Forces Unit during the late sixties and early seventies. Stayed for seven years and left to come and relax and do a bit of state work. Nothin' overly tedious, really, just enough to keep thing's interestin'. Pays off though, the work. Families happy, thugs in prison, streets clean and murderers locked away; makes the job worthwhile," he replied.
"The Ranger work, but not the military?" Sherlock asked suddenly fascinated.
He couldn't help but not be. This was one of those men who had an entire life story hidden behind redacted and classified files. He doubted Dr. Davis actually knew everything he had done.
He didn't answer at first. Sherlock knew it wasn't because the man was a slow thinker, but because he was carefully planning what he was going to say next. It wouldn't be a lie. It would be the exact truth, what Ranger Davis thought he, Sherlock, needed to know. The man slid the fried meat into a dish already full of vegetables and picked up the rice and main dish.
As he brought them to the table Sherlock saw the power behind the man's movements and knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that this man could snap both him and John like twigs without really breaking a sweat. Knowing that he wouldn't, not without a very good reason, brought some foreign level of comfort. He forgot how unsettling some seasoned veterans could be.
"I think both had satisfying outcomes even if some ol' biddies didn't," the uncle finally supplied.
It was telling enough.
"Sherlock is in full deduction-mode, Uncle Mark, don't mind him too much," John piped up.
"I don't. He's not threatin' and there ain't much he can say I don't already know," Uncle Mark replied.
He was probably right about that. Sherlock had been deducing people long enough to know that some people, especially older people, were comfortable enough with their lives to not to be phased by whatever he had to reveal. In any case, Sherlock was also sensitive enough to know that there were some things that happened in war best not brought up. He let that matter slide.
"Brianna! Dinner's done!" Dr. Davis called.
"One minute!" a higher toned voice called back.
That was interesting, Sherlock thought, her voice was higher than both her father's and mother's.
"Busy?" Watson asked.
His aunt shrugged, "She's been in her room all day working on something or another. What I don't quite know. She hadn't said anything about it last night."
John laughed, "Sounds familiar."
Sherlock did not miss the glance his flat mate sent his way, nor did he miss the fond smile Ranger Davis allowed to flicker across his face. He heard a loud 'yes' a few moments later and quick footsteps thudding from the upstairs rooms.
"Here's the little firestorm," Ranger Davis muttered as he spooned some rice onto his plate.
Sherlock blinked as the small little bronze whirlwind stormed into the kitchen with a bag slung I've her shoulders and a think vanilla envelope clenched in her hands. He scanned her subtly, checking for marks of past and current occurrences to clue him in on her daily life. Her hands were the first he noticed. They were partially stained with blue and black ink and also had the soft rounded calluses of someone who typed. Obviously she was a writer of some sort. Her eyes were teal, a color that didn't normally run in the Watson heritage and obviously came from her father's side. They were reading something, office work possibly. It was intense, whatever the subject was. Her hair was pulled back into a messy bun that couldn't capture all if her long, bronze tresses so the excess spilled from the back of her head down the side of her neck. She was in a hurry. What she was in a hurry for, he didn't know. Surely an office of some sort? The way she dressed indicated such at least.
"Bri!" John called out and confirmed Sherlock's suspicions.
She looked up and smiled, "Hey! It's been a while! How are you?"
"Oh, I'm fine. What about you?"
"Busy. I'm on the final stretch for my masters and my little hobby gets trying sometimes. It's been a pretty bad fall," she replied.
Her eyes locked with Sherlock's and those darker eyebrows raised. It took him a moment to realize that she was sizing him up.
"Sherlock Holmes, I presume?" She asked.
"That obvious?"
"It's the pressure in the room. I can tell when an enormously big ego enters the house," she replied.
He smirked and responded accordingly, "And I can normally tell when a writer enters the room."
She blinked and then glanced at John, "He doesn't know, does her?"
"Didn't tell him a thing. I wanted to see if he could deduce you first," John replied.
Sherlock blinked but kept his face neutral. Had he actually deduced wrong?
"I'm an archeologist," she said pointedly.
"Or going to be assuming that you have yet to acquire your masters," he shot back and winced at how defensive he sounded.
She smirked, "Bit touché aren't ya, Mister Holmes?"
She closed the envelope in her hand and walked up to John, giving him an affectionate peck on the cheek.
"Catch up later! Gotta run! Two bodies were hanging from a twenty foot building in the downtown area and I just figured out who did it! Can't keep the police waiting!"
She was about to storm back out of the kitchen when her mother intervened.
"Hold it! Food, get, now!" she snapped.
Miss Brianna Davis blinked looked at the lidded container her mother held out to her full of rice and an assortment of fried vegetables and beef. She smiled. Sherlock was a bit put off by that. She smiled too much for his liking.
"Yes ma'am," she reached out and took the parcel.
And with that she was off.
Sherlock processed that bit of information quickly and blinked. She was an archeologist in training and yet she was meeting the Dallas PD in the downtown sector where two bodies hung from a building. He turned to Watson who was looking very pleased with himself.
"She's a detective?" Sherlock asked.
"I think she prefers active consultant," John replied with no little amount of smugness.
Sherlock sat heavily in one of the Davis' leather chairs. He had just been challenged and he knew it. He smiled as he spooned a serving of his own food into the plate in front of him. Challenge accepted.
Brianna knew that the officers in the precinct could tell that she was in a good mood after walking through the first few halls. It was a good day, though. She figured out who a psychotic murderer was and, on top of all of that, she managed to stump her cousin's incredibly inflated roommate. It was, in her opinion, a very good day.
"Detective Gibbs!" she hailed as she entered one room where three detectives gathered around a board.
"Bit quick, don't ya think, Davis?" the oldest women in the room said.
Detective Rachel Gibbs glanced over her broad shoulder at her and raised an eyebrow at her shadow. Brianna waved the vanilla folder in the air and took a seat on one side of Gibb's desk. She opened her dinner and reached for one of the plastic forks held in a cup that the detective kept at all times for work-in meals and began eating her slightly cooled food while she explained.
"Well, I figured it out. It was mostly due to a process of elimination, sifting through the phone, email, and photographic/video records again, but the answer came to me. If you look at this time stamp," she whipped out one of the photographs taken from a security camera at the office where the two victims were hung, "you will notice that it says seven pm. The man, Jensen Ford, is dragging a large, overstuffed suitcase behind him and, in my opinion, looking incredibly suspicious. Now, I got to thinking, who takes a suitcase into a giant office building that is this large? Of course, I've seen other people tote suitcases behind them into the building, probably helps hold all sorts of things they need for presentations and such. Well, with this in mind I began to wonder something about what Jensen Ford does, so I did a bit of a background check after having the files e-mailed to me by the CEO's secretary. Guess what I found out? Mr. Ford isn't just part of the IT department, he IS the IT department. This man is the IT for the IT! So, after hanging two bodies off a twenty-story building just how easy do you think it was for him to just pop back into the security room, hack into the system, and change the time stamp? Takes about fifteen minutes because I was certainly able to do it to my own house's security system. With that in mind, it was also easy to switch it back once we looked at everything. Another fifteen minutes, actually," with that she ended her explanation.
Detective Gibbs tapped the inside of her elbow while she thought about this. After a moment, she nodded and sidled over to her desk to take out a bunch of paperwork she needed to get done.
"Good work, Davis, we'll go back to the building tomorrow. Let Ford think he's out of the blue for a moment, but assign a few officers to shadow him just the same. Actually," she looked up at the two detectives under her with a pointed glint in her brown eyes, "Diaz! Lombardi! Watch Ford for the night!"
"Yes boss!" they said before grabbing their gear and heading out of the precinct.
Brianna took another bite of stir-fry and waited for another order from Gibbs, silently counting down to the moment. The head detective did not disappoint.
"You are going to help me fill out paperwork for the warrant request we'll be sending in tomorrow after we view the tapes."
"Yes ma'am!" Brianna replied after she swallowed and held her hand out for a blank sheet of paper she could use to jot down everything Gibbs was going to need to look for.
While she worked she thought about her encounter with the man her cousin roomed with: Sherlock Holmes. It had been a meeting she looked forward to the most, to pick his mind and see him in action as he attempted to deduce them. He had been looking forward to attempting to deduce her, she could tell. He loved a good challenge and she provided him with a good one.
The world's only consulting detective! She had laughed at the phrase when John had first written about it. Brianna had wondered, and later found out that he did, if John had a silent moment of humor when he was confronted with the phrase as well. Mr. Holmes, she decided, needed to get out of his mind more often and think outside of the box. He thought that just because he could deduce answers meant that he could rarely ever be wrong. That was the first impression she ever had of the man after reading her cousin's first post on his blog. Sherlock Holmes was smart, she'd give him that, but was he wise? Did he rely on anything else other than his intellectual mind to solve crimes? Did he know people, understand how they work, the different paths of thought and the reasons behind sentiment? Did he understand the beauty of the human mind despite how evil it could truly be?
She had encouraged her mother to invite him to their home for a reason and this was part of it. There was something about the man she always thought was missing and now she knew. He didn't have understanding. It was all a huge graph for him with numbers and charts. A logical mind. Well, a logical mind with little to no reason.
A smile flickered its way across her face as she finished her list. It was going to be a very interesting two months.
While Miss Brianna Davis solved her case and amused herself with different ways she could further confuse Sherlock Holmes, Dr John Watson was having a bit of a quiet laugh while his flat mate paced the upstairs sitting room with an agitated air. John, being slightly smarter than Sherlock gave him credit for, took the guest bedroom on the ground floor while his friend took the one on the top floor. He had wondered, ever since the first time he met Sherlock, whether or not Brianna could outsmart him. She had always been smart herself, but a lot more good humored. She liked people, found them fascinating in a genuine way. She learned from trial and error, not wanting to give every human experience up to reasoning and logic.
Brianna wasn't like Sherlock in the least. Busywork, while entertaining in on itself, wasn't her entire life. She made room for other things. An abstract mind such as hers was kept busy in a way that kept her human. She hadn't just felt the need for emotions, but embraced them and learned to emphasize with people around her.
It was, he later on decided, why she was so good at detective work. Her natural inclination was archaeology. Facts that could change, could mold and shape through more understanding, and bring light to things that humanity once forgot. That was her passion, her life, and she loved to talk about it. It just didn't rule her life. She wouldn't let it. Brianna had better things to do than be completely tied down by work.
"Really Sherlock, why don't you just relax for five minutes? Getting my cousin wrong shouldn't be the end of the world," John said in an attempt to comfort his friend.
Sherlock waved his hand in disgust, "She doesn't even look like an archaeologist! And a detective! Her? I'd as soon as be a village fool than allow some inconsequential slip of a girl be a detective."
"Right, so you're just going to pace the room until you figure her out?" John asked.
This didn't even phase Sherlock as he replied, "There has to be some sort of catch! She's smart, I'll give her that much, but there is absolutely no conceivable way for her to have closed as many cases as I have in three years. I've seen her type. She's an emotional girl who allows emotions into her work. She has friends, enemies, dated three men in the past, keeps a dog, has a room full of sentimental things and yet she can not only stump me but solve the mystery that is the human sociopath! There must be something about her that I'm missing!"
John was really enjoying this one immensely. Was there anyone who could have gotten under Sherlock's skin as much as his cousin could? There probably were others, he concluded, but Brianna just happened to be there at the present time.
"If it helps, she specializes in mythology and culture of modern and ancient civilizations," John offered, taking pity on his friend.
Sherlock paused in his pacing as the wheels in his head ran on overdrive. John wished he had thought to make pop-corn. Really, this was better than cable!
"It would… bring things into perspective," Sherlock muttered while pondering the idea.
There was a thirty minute silence as Sherlock deduced his recent findings and John pulled out an old newspaper to read. There were few times when one could actually hear Sherlock think and this was one of those moments. His friend's mind was screaming its way down the interstate and searching for the correct exit.
Suddenly, Sherlock Holmes let out a laugh and turned to John, catching his eye, with a devious smile plastered on his face. John knew that look. It usually meant trouble and that someone, namely a certain bronze haired young woman, was about to become very much annoyed. He felt sorry for her.
"She is challenging me, John," Sherlock said as if everything suddenly made sense.
Took him a while to figure that one out, John thought.
Brianna was a woman who loved a challenge. It was evident in both her career and choice of hobby. Sherlock Holmes had been something new, a person who she followed outside of her cousin's blog for the fun of it. He rarely missed anything and if he had, she phoned John to let him know. She doubted that Sherlock knew about that and she wondered how long it with take him to figure it out.
After a week of sticking around and few cases to keep her occupied (Dallas didn't have a murder a week like most normal cities), Brianna allowed Sherlock some time to deduce her… or at least make the attempt. She had caught him attempting to break into her phone and computer once, but he had little success. The man wasn't into fantasy or science fiction, so he wouldn't know who her favorite character was. Well, he would if he actually bothered to get to know her as a person instead of a social experiment, but she had a feeling that the former was never going to happen.
He was annoying, though. The man apparently enjoyed unconventional science experiments a little too much and Dr. Davis had allowed him access to the hospital's labs and resources just to keep his experiments out of the house. Unfortunately, that didn't mean the experiments were always out of the house especially considering the fact that she, herself, was one of his little experiments. Since she was the main specimen, she was always on the receiving end of whatever he had in store for her.
By the end of the first week Brianna decided that the man was getting a bit too enthusiastic about her.
She came to this decision after an interesting call she received from Detective Gibbs about a ritualistic murder at Dallas Baptist University, not her school but quite near enough to the campus for her to head over to her late afternoon class after taking a look at the body.
The most aggravating and distracting thing about the whole business was that Sherlock Holmes had actually followed her to the crime scene and, by extension, her cousin John. Detectives Renaldo Diaz and Jason Lombardi had been with her going over crime scene photos before Brianna took a look at the body when the arrogant bastard waltzed up to them. Sherlock was impressive in his black suit and blue shirt with no tie demanding to see the body in that increasingly annoying bass voice of his and Detectives Diaz and Lombardi didn't quite know what to do with him.
Brianna did.
"Holmes, you don't have clearance. Shoo!" she had snapped, irritated by the interruption.
John's frequent apologies and urges for his flatmate to leave the area fell on deaf ears as the two squared off. Little did she know, Diaz and Lombardi were watching them with peeked interest and growing amusement.
"I'm afraid I can't do that, Miss Davis, on account of boredom," Holmes replied and met her gaze head on.
"Then go find something else to do and leave," she snapped, crossing her arms.
He mirrored her! The asshole actually mirrored her! And then he smirked at her causing Brianna's temper to strain a little more.
"But, I have found something to do. You were stumped looking at the photos of a ritualistic murder taken place on the floor of a classroom that has been empty for the entire year so far. Seeing as how the harvest festivals for all sorts of pagan religions are approaching rapidly there are many different overlapping rites that could converge onto one sacrificial ceremony. In which case, wouldn't two minds be better than one?" he asked.
Brianna had narrowed her eyes at that and replied, "You're right. Two minds would be better than one in this case if said extra mind actually knew what he was talking about."
She really should have known he would meet the challenge, but Brianna had been too distracted by the case at the time to realize the opening she had given him until he weaseled his way onto her case. Holmes had grinned a grin that could only be described as sadistic.
"You are dealing with a cult, probably an attempt to resurrect ancient pagan practices from both the Middle Eastern religions and the rites practiced in ancient Britain. The symbols depict the mix of both, and possibly the recent additions put in place by certain Satanic covens. If I am correct, further investigation of a personal nature will reveal the certain gods and goddesses they worship, though considering the inclusion of the reversed pentagram I am certain that we could easily assume which group our little murderers come from. Shall I go on?" he asked.
Brianna was glancing at the photograph of the entire crime scene in her hands and scowled. She had already figured that much out earlier which meant that the two of them were on the same page.
"I already knew that. Try again," she said finally wanting him to get something wrong so she could send him pouting like usual.
Sadly, this wasn't going to be the case because Holmes seemed to know one or two things about rituals. He pointed to one area in the photo.
"Thirteen artifacts represented in different areas of the pointed star. Four of them have blood on them. This tells us that, before today, for other women have been murdered. Why do I say women? Because this is a ritual that welcomes the coming of the winter and the promise of spring. Better yet, they're heralding the return of spring to the dark pits of Hades, indicating their worship of the dark and its eventual rule over light. If I am not mistaken all women are proved virgins. Would need to be considering the type of ritual this is. Now, whether or not they performed some convoluted version of the Great Rite remains to be seen, but I believe you and I could find that out upon further investigation. Oh, and I feel like it is my duty to point out that, due to the placement of the body along the silly little star, they are most likely corrupting some sort of purity the now deceased woman had which is the point of the ritual. Shall I continue?" Holmes asked with a smirk.
Unfortunately, Detective Gibbs had heard all of that and felt it necessary to clue Holmes in on the case, "Yeah, with Davis at the crime scene. Who the hell are you anyway?"
"Sherlock Holmes, Detective. The world's only Consulting Detective, particularly associated with Scotland Yard," he introduced.
Gibbs didn't look too impressed, but she nodded all the same.
"Let him in. Davis, I want the two of you to give me something to look up on the first round then go do research afterwards on all of the little symbols. Hopefully, we can get a clue on the type of ritual they're trying to accomplish and head off any more attempts before they happen," she instructed.
Brianna didn't argue. Whatever Detective Gibbs said normally went without such nonsense. She hadn't missed the looks of amusement plastered on Diaz and Lombardi's faces either.
"How do you know that they're attempting to tarnish the supposed purity of the sacrifices?" she asked grudgingly.
She honestly didn't know how he figured that one out. Holmes didn't answer until they were standing over the body and pointed at the wounds on the woman's arms and legs. Brianna noticed the symbols and nodded before turning her attention to the dress. What had looked like a bunched up skirt turned out to actually be frills of what had once been some sexy nightgown. Between the breasts was a gaping wound.
Her brow furrowed at the sight.
"That isn't a knife wound, more like a lance or cultured stake," she observed.
Holmes carefully stepped over the remaining ritual items and knelt down for a closer look. Brianna and John followed, inspecting the wound carefully before meeting each other's eyes. The wound hadn't looked like it was immediate either. Something about the way the hole was formed seemed off.
"Metal stake," Holmes muttered and took out a magnifying glass for a closer look, "driven into the body slowly. Probably with each mark against the skin made."
"No sign of struggle," Brianna supplied quickly to make sure she got a word in before he did, "drugged you think?"
"Undoubtedly. I can't see anyone enjoying this sort of torture," Holmes replied.
"Really? Because she certainly seemed to," John interjected.
They looked up at him sharply and jointly asked, "What?"
Brianna watched her cousin roll his eyes and glance pointedly at the woman's face. When they followed his gaze Brianna saw what he meant. The vacant expression frozen in the eyes. The way her jaw hung open like she died from laughter, excitement, or pleasure.
"Well, we can definitely say she was drugged, with what I don't know," Brianna said after swallowing a bit of bile that rose in her throat.
"The remaining captive women were watching this. They were chained. None were drugged. Their captors total thirteen in number. The same amount of sacrifices. Probably symbolic in their religious fantasy…" he trailed off and seemed to have been counting the scuff marks a footprints made in the dusty floor. He frowned.
"They only have twelve women with five already dead. They need one more," he muttered.
Brianna followed his gaze, silently going over his conclusion. He was right. There were thirteen artifacts and only signs of twelve captives. She bit her bottom lip as she mentally searched through her extensive reservoir of information about occult practices. She came up with nothing. Most cults would have had all sacrifices gathered by then.
She sighed in frustration, "This isn't a normal ritual. Most of the ones involving this many sacrifices involve a mass murder in one or two sittings. I am not familiar with this."
"It's localized to their personal practices then," Holmes concluded.
She shook her head, "No, we're just missing something. Besides, not every sacrifice involves actually killing someone. If I can figure out what they're trying to do I might be able to figure out their motive. They've killed five, they're going to probably shoot for seven but…"
Brianna's eyes focused in on the symbols on the floor. She whispered the ones she knew denoting each compartment. Death. Descent. Purity. Corruption. Invasion. Blood. Power. Promise. Lucifer. Fang. Moon. Dark. Light. Life. Rise. Dies. Falls. Ascends. Defiled. Final.
"Hey Diaz!" she called, "Take extra pictures of the body in the pentagram before you move it. Make sure you include the symbols and the star!"
Detective Renaldo Diaz gave her a thumbs up before finishing up his section of the crime scene. Brianna pulled Holmes and John away from the pentagram and backed them towards the edge of the crime scene. Gibbs was giving her an appraising look.
"You saw something in the symbols on the floor didn't you?" she asked.
Brianna nodded, "It's a jumble of gibberish to me right now. I see the words they represent, but not the message. I need closer study."
Holmes was nodding, "The pattern of the artifact placement around the pentagram in relation to the pattern of the ritualistic symbols could give us a clue concerning what they are trying to accomplish."
She nodded, still puzzling over why there were only twelve captured women and not thirteen. There were thirteen artifacts, thirteen members of the cult, yet there weren't enough women. Diaz approached them with the extra pictures and handed them to her.
"Need anything else, Davis?" he asked.
Brianna shook her head, "Not at the moment. We'll come by the morgue once Sky's done with the autopsy."
"We'll let you know," Detective Gibbs said.
"I'll fax the files of what we find on our end over to you when as we get them," Detective Lombardi said from where he was searching the room for the murder weapon.
"Oh brilliant! We'll be in touch!" Holmes said in a voice so uncharacteristically cheerful that Brianna almost wanted to punch him.
"And Davis! I want Holmes and Watson at the precinct with you once you've found something! The three of you are working this case jointly!" Gibbs ordered with the authority of a queen.
Really, Brianna thought, the woman could rule the world.
This brought her to the end of the day sifting through the pictures of the runes and jotting them down on a piece of notebook paper along with their recorded meanings. Once the words were down, she drew a pentagram and began to reconstruct the runic placements. John was inspecting the state of the body along with the placement of the symbolic scratches on the arms and legs while Holmes took his time looking through the photos of footprints, scuff marks, artifacts, faxed over information, and placement of certain candles. The internet was open to him, providing a vast log of information he could delve into for answers.
Brianna had to grudgingly admit to the fact that the man was more efficient multitasking than she was.
She looked down at the result of the placement of the runes. Still no sense. Frowning, she moved to draw another pentagram and wrote in the rough translations.
"You know, I really don't understand how any sort of drug could be powerful enough to induce pleasure during this much pain," John muttered while glancing at the stab wound which had been slowly inflicted on the body.
"LSD," Brianna suggested off the top of her head.
"No, too obvious," Holmes muttered.
She blinked down at the new pentagram she drew and stared. She cursed and leaned back in her chair with on hand covering her forehead.
"I officially hate this case!" she announced in a loud voice to the entire room.
"Why?" John asked.
"Because they've meshed five different rituals into one. All satanic and all don't make sense," she replied.
Holmes held out his hand, "Give."
Brianna stared at him before sending John an incredulous look. Her cousin shrugged.
"Well?" Holmes asked impatiently.
Brianna crossed her arms and tapped her foot. She watched as Holmes rolled his eyes and turned to look at her. The exasperation expression on his face would have been funny had Brianna not already been driven to the brink of losing her patience by the man.
"What?" he asked.
"You realize I'm not a dog, right? I don't just respond to commands," she said in a voice that could cut steel.
"Your point?" he asked.
Brianna pursed her lips, took the notebook papers with both pentagram drawings on them and slammed them down on the coffee table he sat at. She didn't stop there, though. She grabbed the papers with the ritual artifacts on them, snatched up the faxed over files, and stormed off to her room to continue her research alone.
Sherlock glanced at John, confused and a little put out. He hadn't thought he said or did anything wrong this time. John, though, was shaking his head.
"Bad?" Sherlock asked.
"Sherlock, the whole day was a huge build-up of bad. I know you're trying to meet her challenge and all, Sherlock, but was barging into her case uninvited really necessary?" his colleague asked.
Sherlock shrugged and glanced back at his laptop. He frowned.
"She took the artifacts. I was just starting to identify them," he muttered.
He didn't miss the snort John let out from his side of the upstairs living room.
"Brianna doesn't need the internet. This case is centered around something she knows about. It's why they call her when needed. She solves odd cases," he explained.
"I know that," Sherlock said waving the information away as useless, "Look, I can't properly deduce her if she's gone all the time. I know about what she does, certainly, but her mind itself doesn't flow in a logical pattern. There have been multiple occasions where I have believed to have deduced her next move and she proves me wrong. I can't properly finish my deductions unless I work with her."
John sighed, "Sherlock, Bri isn't some sort of science experiment born for your amusement alone. She's a living, breathing, person with thoughts and feelings who just so happened to have made you look like a blithering idiot on certain accounts. Intellectually, I'm sure you're superior. Whether or not you're wiser than her is another thing entirely."
He rolled his eyes and muttered, "There you go with the wisdom thing again."
John was about to answer when Brianna exited her room, her face as white as a sheet. Sherlock kept his face impassive though he, himself, felt a bit concerned. Her phone was clenched in her right hand, knuckles white.
"Bri, what's wrong?" John asked.
Wordlessly, she held out her phone. John took it and glanced down at it.
"What is it?" Sherlock asked.
John swallowed and read, "Tick tock goes the clock, four of five is done. Tick tock cue the count, the time for five is come. Little light, shining bright, you will dim in gloom. Little light, invasion night, the clock will strike your doom. It's an unknown number Sherlock."
Sherlock didn't reply, he was too busy watching Brianna. Was she afraid? No, not anymore. She looked… something. He wasn't quite sure.
"I have… an idea about who sent it," she said.
Sherlock didn't understand how, but John seemed to. He sat back and handed her phone back to her.
"Which one?" he asked.
"The abusive one," she replied in a calm tone.
Suddenly her demeanor clicked. She wasn't white because she was afraid. She was white because she was beyond angry.
"I thought you said he went to prison?" John asked with barely concealed outrage.
She shook her head, "Got out a few months ago…" she seemed to be thinking for a second before rushing back into her room.
Sherlock listened to the quick taps of her fingers against the keyboard of her laptop. The way her fingers seemed to slam on the keys revealed that she was barely in control. Ready to pounce. Ready to kill. He had been right, electing to work with her had been a wise decision in regards to attempting to deduce her. She walked out of her room with a smirk on her lips. There was nothing playful about her expression. She was hunting. Poised. Ready to swoop in for the kill.
Suddenly Sherlock found himself pitying the bloke who had attempted to abuse her. Well, almost pitying. He couldn't abide by such foolish and shortsighted attempts at physical and mental control. All dull and so unnecessary. Rather disgusting too; especially in regards to anyone attempting to hurt his Brianna.
His thought process slammed to an abrupt halt. When did she become his anything?
He was about to decide to delete that particular thought when the lady, herself, spoke, "He's still as moronic as always. The little idiot was posting hints about what he's been doing on Facebook."
A mongoose, Sherlock decided, she reminded him of a mongoose. She was a cute, cuddly, friendly, seemingly harmless creature until threatened. Then, she attacked with a vengeance severing the heads of snakes all around. He almost grinned. Now things were getting exciting. He was learning more about her character from her reaction to an abusive boyfriend than anything else in the past week.
"You'd think he'd be a bit smarter about it," John remarked.
"I'm calling Gibbs and giving her the tip without actually telling her about the threat. Then, we're going to see if we can trap him!" Miss Davis said.
Sherlock's brows furrowed. Here was where her emotions were going to get the better of her.
"I don't think so," John said.
Personally Sherlock agreed with Watson. Miss Davis was a small little thing who was probably more bark than bite in the physical department. She'd probably get herself killed.
"I wasn't asking for permission, John," Brianna said smugly, "in any case I would really like to see you try and stop me."
"Your parents," John reminded.
Miss Davis didn't seem fazed. In fact, she looked more amused than anything else.
"If the Dallas PD thinks I'm good enough to go on undercover assignments with their homicide division then what makes you think mom and dad will disapprove?" she asked.
"Emotional idiocy could lead to mistakes. That is why sending you in is a bad idea," Sherlock said.
She didn't miss a beat, "I wasn't asking, Holmes, I was telling. Anyway, I'm going to bed. I've got lots to do tomorrow!" She turned to leave, but stopped suddenly and turned to face them again, "Oh, before I forget, I'm heading into school tomorrow for an assignment with Professor Moruni, so go ahead and go to the precinct without me. I'll meet you there in a few hours."
She headed into her room and then walked out again with a pile of work to set down beside him and John.
"Identified the artifacts, just so you know. Thought you might want to present them to Gibbs when you get in. Night!" and with that the door to her room shut and she was gone.
John simply shrugged and reached for one of the papers with the handwritten identified notes on the artifacts. He frowned.
"They're all virgin goddesses from different religions," he observed after surfing through them for a moment.
Sherlock was partially paying attention. The rest of his mind was focused on the little riddle geared towards his own personal living riddle.
The clock and cue the count. Obviously denoting that Brianna Davis' time as a free and living woman was coming to an end in their minds. Four of five and the time of five… he didn't know what that bit was about. Little light. Obviously referring to Miss Davis and could be attributed to a number of her attributes least of which could easily be a reference to her hair. Dimming and doom. Didn't necessarily mean she was going to die. The ritual didn't seem to be completely about killing. Thirteen sacrifices. What were these women sacrificing other than their lives unwillingly? What was the point?
Shaking his head Sherlock belatedly glanced down at the pentagram Brianna had diagramed out with the translations of the runes. He blinked.
Of course!
"Watson, may I see the picture of the artifacts and the list of their attributed goddesses?" Sherlock asked.
Startled from whatever he was looking at, Watson handed him the items inquired after and Sherlock began adding to Brianna's star. Once he finished he reviewed his handiwork.
The pieces of the puzzle clicked together and Sherlock knew that Miss Brianna Davis had already figured it out.
"Watson, I find that I must follow up on an interesting tangent concerning the case. Would you mind going to the department alone?" Sherlock asked.
Watson looked slightly annoyed, but gave his consent anyway.
Brianna made a point of waking up earlier than everyone else. She made certain that a diamond cross necklace her father bought for her sixteenth birthday was fastened around her neck. Precaution to wear a white shirt with her jeans along with her red sweater was another measure she took. After much prep work, Brianna left her house, forgoing breakfast, with every intention of eating at the Starbucks near Dallas Baptist University. It was his hangout after all. From the information Diaz had sent her Brianna had been pleasantly surprised to note that the team identified the rest of the missing women. They all came from around the school in some way or another.
Starbucks loomed in front of her and Brianna slipped into the coffee shop away from the crowds of students making for their respective schools in the area. College students and high school students alike filled the line and Brianna fell into step behind them waiting for them to move forward. She didn't have to wait long for her intended target. He came right to her, as was planned.
"It's been a while, Bri," came the deep voice of the one man who made Brianna's blood boil.
She plastered a very fake smile on her face and turned to face her ex-boyfriend, Michael Pierce, who loomed over her small, slim, frame with his bulky muscular exterior. When asked by her cousin how she would describe her ex, her mind always jumped to a picture of Gaston from Beauty and the Beast. To her, the character was the man and the comparison did not create a flattering image.
"Yes, it has, imagine my surprise when you decided to text me last night. I hadn't known you were allowed to keep your phone," she remarked dryly.
He chuckled in a seemingly good natured way. She knew better. The last time he laughed in that tone, she ended up with thrown against the wall of his apartment. Which was fine, in her opinion, because she had kneed him in the groin, broke his arm and collapsed his wind pipe in retaliation. Really, what sort of idiot attempted to attack a Ranger's daughter?
"Ah, yes, the perfect revenge the others say. Too bad I won't be able to keep you around, though I dare say that the first and last time will be immensely satisfying," he said offhandedly.
It was like they were talking about the weather and not his plans to rape then murder her. She didn't know whether or not to laugh or punch him in the face.
"Who's the ringleader? Obviously not you," she replied with a sneer.
"Devon Reese. You met him the week before we broke up," he stated.
He was way too calm, which meant that he hadn't come to her alone and that he was expecting back-up should she resist. They had planned something, probably a way to corner her and force her to go with them.
"So, this is revenge?" she asked as the line moved and she was about to place her order.
"Partly, besides the fact that you are the best candidate," he replied.
"To represent the Virgin Mary? I'm not Catholic. I don't worship her," Brianna said.
"No, you don't. None of these women worshiped the deities they represented. We chose them based on their attributes and you, being who and what you are, birth the seeds for our destruction. Therefore, you must be adequately taken care of," he replied.
And this psychopath needed to be adequately killed, dismembered, and buried in the backwoods of east Texas in her personal opinion.
"You know, you people are definitely giving religious fanaticism a whole new meaning," she quipped.
She ordered coffee and moved to one of the empty tables to wait for Michael Pierce. Someone, a lone, black haired man wearing a goofy looking hat and trench coat sat down at the table across from hers. Michael sidled up to her five minutes later with his coffee in hand.
"We like to think of it as the path to enlightenment. Lucifer will rise, Brianna, and you're going to help me get there," he said.
"Or what?" she asked without even batting an eye.
He shrugged, "Or, I will kill the remaining six girls… well, I'll give the order to. I might not be the supreme one in charge, but I do hold authority of the thirteen."
"You're the leader's lackey. Where are the girls?" she asked.
He leaned forward and grabbed her wrist, stopping her from moving back. Brianna refused to flinch.
"On the roof," he muttered, "and in the alley. Knives over their hearts, ready to be killed should you decline. Then we'll take you anyway." He smiled, "In more ways than one."
She rolled her eyes, "You lot are so not original! Is sex the only thing you have on your minds?"
"No, we want the power as well," he replied, "Now, what is your answer? What will my little archeologist do?"
Brianna was too busy holding his gaze to notice that the man at the table next to theirs had gotten up and approached them.
"Excuse me? Is this yours?" asked a deep baritone voice.
Brianna had to force her facial features to stay as neutral as they possibly could. Michael sighed in exasperation.
"I didn't drop anything," he said irately.
"No, I think you did. Quite certain of it actually," came the deep voiced reply.
Michael turned to reply, but any response he had seemed to die when he got a good look at who was standing over him. Sherlock Holmes. Brianna sighed. Really did the man actually follow her everywhere?
"Sherlock, I had this completely under control," she said acidly.
"Yes, but I happen to be better at it as Detective Gibbs' team have already been dispatched with a squadron of officers apprehending the rest of your little coven-mates. Have I gotten that right?" he glanced at Brianna who nodded, "Oh good! You are probably wondering how I knew she would come here to meet you. Honestly, it was obvious once all things were put in place. The text, though, is what ultimately gave you away as well as your past in dabbling with the darker natures of the occult. Then there was the ritual itself. You lot never bothered to clean up after yourselves and, well, once Miss Davis had identified the artifacts your coven so idiotically left behind putting the pieces together was not all that difficult. Here, of course, is where Miss Davis was several steps ahead of myself and leaps and bounds ahead of you. Her plan, though, was quite faulty. She felt the need to gather information herself, placing herself in harm's way and allowing you to take her into your layer where she will be at your mercy. You could have easily drugged her, and would have anyway considering the nature of your ritual and its need for pleasure during inflictions of immense pain, but instead you decided to lure her into your nest and make sure she had nothing on her person that could give her away. You dated her long enough to know that she was not an idiot and would have made certain that she could stay in contact with you. The phone stuffed down her left boot would have been found and promptly removed as also would most of her clothes, something you I believe were looking forward to."
Brianna was rendered speechless. Sherlock actually beat her for that particular moment. Despite her ire at being interrupted she grudgingly admitted to being slightly impressed and properly chastised. Holmes was right, much to her annoyance, she should have opted for back-up.
Michael tensed and Brianna's had slipped into her already open purse. Her ex-boyfriend stood and loomed over the significantly slimmer Sherlock two inches shorter than him. Brianna blinked at the show of height. She hadn't thought Sherlock was as tall as he actually was. When did this happen?
"You think you're so clever, don't you?" Michael asked dangerously.
Holmes smirked, "I am clever, cleverer than everyone in this room, though I have to admit that Miss Davis has risen to challenge that and has so far proved my equal in many ways. Considering this, what exactly does that make you?"
Michael moved and Brianna was out of her chair, black handgun drawn out and pointed at the man.
"Don't even think about Pierce," she said dangerously.
He blinked at her before raising his hands to eye level and backing into his seat. She followed him while stepping away and around the table. People in the coffee shot muttered amongst themselves and watched the transaction with phones out and video recordings on. Detective Gibbs entered the store and sidled over to where Brianna and Holmes were standing over Pierce.
"Good job Davis, put the gun away. We won't be needing it here," she said.
Brianna lowered the gun while Lombardi, who came in behind their boss, jerked Michael out of his chair, turned him around and cuffed both hands behind his back.
Clicking the safety back on and removing the bullet cartridge, Brianna replaced her gun back into her purse with the ghost of a smirk on her face. She and Holmes followed her out of Starbucks. Her cousin, John, was with the MEs looking over the six girls still alive and very much traumatized.
"I'll admit Holmes, you're better than I thought. Smarter than I am, I'll give you that. Good at making points too, especially where my logic evidently lacked," she said.
He chuckled and replied, "No method is perfect, Miss Davis, and I will admit that yours is quite effective."
Brianna didn't know whether or not to thank him for the compliment or not. She decided on not and that it was best to change the subject.
"So, I'm assuming you only weaseled your way onto this case because you wanted to further deduct me? What have you discovered so far?" she asked.
He glanced over at her from where he was standing before launching into another monologue, "You are young, twenty-two years old, native born to Dallas, Texas. You are an only child. Resourceful, slightly spoiled, and used to working alone. You have a passion for history and traveling, hence the career choice as an archeologist. Your mind does not think logically in minute detail, but sees the entire picture, taking everything in before searching out intricate details that are important as a plot device. You see the world as a story, people as characters, and time as an ally. You are not too vain in your appearance, much like your mother, and work to keep yourself looking neat. You are brave, as seen today by your decision to go into dangerous situations alone, but not entirely foolish as you planned for some but not all complications. You also don't like debts and you are extremely competitive. I have also discovered, after today's ordeal, that you are a virgin."
She smiled, "Is that it?"
"There's more?" he asked.
She laughed and turned to look at him. Sherlock mirrored her with an eyebrow raised. He was confused, she could tell.
"What's my favorite color?" she asked.
"Blue," he answered automatically.
She shook her head, "Wrong! What's my favorite animal?"
"Dog," he replied.
"Wrong! What's my favorite subject to study concerning history?"
His brows furrowed in thought before answering, "I don't know."
The fact that he admitted that much was astonishing, but she smiled anyway.
"Don't worry, you have two months to figure it out," she said cheekily.
He rolled his eyes, "I look forward to it."
She laughed and walked away to talk to her cousin who was currently giving her the evil eye.
When she was far enough away from him, Sherlock allowed a pleased smile to emerge.
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