It is quiet. There are no murders, no new pieces... there are barely any robberies or drugs busts. London is quiet.
Sherlock isn't needed, so Sherlock is bored. When he is bored, he is destructive. To save their home and possibly himself in the process, John tries to get him into more literature.
"Treasure Island?" Sherlock says doubtfully, looking at the cover.
John sighs. His flatmate of all people should know better than to judge a book by its cover. "It's a classic," he insists.
Sherlock isn't impressed. The doctor had said the same thing about A Christmas Carol, but to him it was a waste of time. Ghosts? A changed man overnight? Rubbish. Besides, Ebenezer had been so much more interesting before. "So? People deem the silliest things as classics."
"It wouldn't hurt you to learn some of them," he wasn't going to have a repeat of Sherlock being ignorant about something as simple as the Earth going around the sun. He has made it his mission to teach Sherlock. The very thought is insane, and he is sure that he is insane for trying. "Besides, there are murders," he promises.
Sherlock's eyebrows rise. Murders? Well now, that has his interest. He sits down in a chair, and opens the book. His eyes scan the words, his features remain disinterested, but he turns the pages at a steady pace.
John smiles to himself and opens his computer to write a victorious blog post that he knows will receive nasty comments later on. He smiles as he updates the list to show which books Sherlock's finished and which he still has to read. It's worth it.
"His body turned up last week when the river washed him up," Lestrade explained, leading Sherlock and John through the police tape. "We thought it was suicide."
"What made you change your mind?" John asks, but Sherlock's already spotted it.
He walks to the dead man's bed, and gingerly picks up the puzzle piece with a gloved hand. His keen eyes study it thoroughly. There are no fingerprints, and the drop of blood in the center is clean.
The flat clean too. Far too clean.
He checks the windows, the door, anything that might show signs of someone having broken in. There is nothing. It is as though the man left the piece on his bed on his way to his death. That, however, is not possible.
Or is it?
He has to allow his mind to consider this as well, but with the pieces being found in other places, most notably his regular table, it seems highly unlikely. What is more likely is that the person responsible is toying with him, dangling the pieces as a carrot on a string in front of him just to watch him run.
He smiles. Oh, he would give them something to watch, and something to remember when he won.
"Gang shooting," Lestrade hands the crime photographs to the men sitting across from him. "I wasn't on that case then or you would have been called down to the scene two days ago when she was found."
Sherlock looks down at the picture. She was teenager from the looks of the young woman's face. It wasn't quite adult, but not quite a child. "Sixteen?"
"Seventeen, actually," Lestrade corrects him, and Sherlock curses himself inwardly. He had been so close. "She was found in an alley."
"She was shot in the forehead," John murmurs, a frown turning the corners of his mouth. So young and yet so sucked into the criminal life; it was sad to see.
"Execution style," Sherlock agrees. "She wanted to leave, and that naturally was not acceptable to the rest of them." He reaches forwards and picks up other pictures from the desk. "She didn't go easy; from the markings on her hands, she put up a fight."
He studies her fingernails. They are fake; far too long and sharpened into ridiculous shapes. All are pointed in some way or another. "The ones responsible will no doubt have unusual cuts, I'd suspect on their faces. One certainly around the eye." Black stains one of the nails, and Sherlock is certain it is eyeliner.
Lestrade jots this down.
Sherlock looks up at him. "None of this is particularly hard to figure out. Why was I called in?"
Lestrade takes an evidence bag from beside him. "This was found clenched in her hand."
A single white piece of a puzzle with a blood drop in the center.
Sherlock Holmes is desperate.
Well, not desperate, or so he tells himself. He just wants to win. His mind can find no link in all the cases with the exception of the puzzle piece. A drugs bust, a blood soaked room, a table, a clean flat of an apparent suicide victim, and an execution of a gang member. What could possibly connect them all?
He didn't know, but he had to know and any information was welcome.
John is following him, he is sure of it. This makes him feel more secure as he makes his way to the bridge. Not that he is scared, but he doesn't trust the one he is going to see.
She shows up promptly.
"Have you changed your mind, Sherlock darling?" She asks, getting right to the point the moment she is at his side.
"Neither of us would be here otherwise," he replies coldly, looking ahead rather than at her. "Can you find information about this?" He is sure that she has certain connections, ones he does not wish to know about. Not that she'll tell him even if he were to ask; Wren covers her steps with care.
She smiles. "I can, but I'm sure you know that it won't be for free. I don't work for free, not even for you."
He knew this before he came. "What do you want?"
"You know what I want," her answer is quick.
Sherlock stiffens. "If I were to agree," he makes it clear that he is not agreeing, "where would we meet?"
Wren chuckles femininely. "Think it over, and give me an answer later. I have messengers; they'll give you the details once I have your agreement." Sherlock is motionless, so Wren moves closer. She brushes a curl from his ear. He is leaning against the rail, and is easier for her to reach. She leans in so that her lips are close to his ear. "Don't be too long, Sherlock dear," she whispers. "I may be patient, but you are not. This puzzle will drive you mad."
She is right, and they both know it.
She blows him a kiss from her dark lips before she walks away.