The Red-Headed Clique

by acrylic.sunsets

When a red-headed client brings Sherlock a case of a missing woman and a disappearing pub, the puzzle appears odd but harmless. As bodies, intrigue, and a dark London underbelly become intertwined with the case, however, Sherlock and John find themselves trapped in a game with a shadowy foe that might just be one step ahead. Adaptation of the "Red-Headed League." AU post S3E2.

1. Prologue: The Shadow

Prologue: The Shadow

The electropop music bounced around the club, insulating the dancers from all sounds of the outside world. The circling strobe lights sent the walls into a tailspin, a confusing cacophony of gradients and flares.

Her heel broke and she swore, hand pressed against the stone wall. The corridor leading to the bathroom didn't have the flashing lights, but the music still throbbed painfully, so loud that she couldn't even hear her own voice.

She looked over her shoulder and saw a shadow standing at the entrance of the corridor. She swore again, kicking off her heels, and started a brisk walk away from it. She passed the bathroom door without hesitating and continued to the end of the hallway; blood rushed like a storm in her ears, a sudden assault of faintness, and she sent another glance behind her before pushing through the back door of the club.

She was in an alleyway. She stilled for a moment, closing her eyes in relief as the music ebbed away. The wet cobblestones under her feet brought her back, and she started to move, tentatively, carefully, forward. The music momentarily blared before again disappearing; the back door had opened and closed. She turned. The same shadow stood at the door, silent, waiting.

She looked to her left, saw the flashing but welcoming lights of the street onto which the alley ran. For a hopeful moment, she considered dashing toward it, begging for help from the first stranger she fell into, begging for salvation from the shadow.

But then she sank to the ground, leaning herself against the brick wall, and pressed a hand deep into her side. She was so tired.

The shadow came closer, its own shadow falling onto her bare feet. She pulled back her hand from her ribs for a second, her fingers sticky with her own blood. The wound was too deep, she knew, and she had lost too much blood.

Again, she looked longingly toward the glint of the street, that figurative oasis, then forced herself to look away, at the cobblestone, at her feet. Finally, she looked up at the shadow.

"You know, don't you?" she whispered. The shadow gave her no answer, just stared back at her.

She raised her hand to her head, threading her fingers through her auburn hair. Then she pulled, sliding the wig off and into her lap. The shadow bent down, leaning toward her until its face came into focus.

Their eyes held each other, and she felt her grip on her side weaken. And then the face was sliding back out-of-focus, along with the rest of the world, and her last sensation was her fingers tightening around a strand of hair as the wig was yanked from her hand.