I suppose I didn't make my obligatory disclaimer in the last chapter, so no, I'm not Moffat publishing the script to season four on the internet. I also am not in any way associated with BBC, Arthur Conan Doyle, or other persons with a legal right to Sherlock Holmes. I can't even claim being British.

Moreover, I should probably clarify, in case it was unclear, that yes, this story does take place in the hole in my chest that is currently season four (yeah... 2016... whoo...). That's why we have season three spoiler-ish stuff - because it happens afterwards.

Finally, I'd like to thank everyone who's read this story so far, and the people I've gotten feedback from. If things seem OOC, please do let me know. I'm going to try and avoid writing from Sherlock's POV where possible, because even Doyle himself didn't do that. I think I will have to inevitably, so don't hate me. Without further ado...


Countdown

MARY WATSON
Monday

Mary woke with a smile on her face, precisely 30 seconds before her alarm buzzed. Leaning over in bed, she woke her bleary-eyed husband with a peck on the cheek and gentle shove. She rolled off the mattress, dug through the pile of clothing on the floor for a clean pair of trousers, and headed for the bathroom.

"Save me some hot water," John mumbled, pulling a pillow across his face.

"Hurry up, and maybe you'll make it in time," his wife teased.

She was in a remarkably good mood, particularly for a Monday morning. It probably had something to do with the fact that Sheryl had slept through the night for the first time all month, and was helped along by the fact that, as she surveyed herself in the mirror, she noted that some of her pregnancy weight gain was at last melting off. John had been right - signing up for karate lessons had been a good idea. Technically, she was already a black belt, but John didn't know that, and the exercise was getting her back into shape.

At 7:05, there was nothing at all out of the ordinary in the "master" bath of the Watson household. There was a lot of white; the standard, utilitarian appliances mingled with white tile (the grout was yellowing slightly, but that too was by no means unusual), and the white walls, though in need of a fresh coat of paint, were precisely the same as they always were. The single sink sat centered in a cheap counter-top. It was altogether the picture of domestic mediocrity.

Mary's pyjama pants hit the floor. These were quickly followed by an overlarge tee-shirt and a zebra-print bra. A moment later, the shower was turned to its highest setting, and within seconds, the small room was beginning to fill with steam. Mrs. Watson murmured a few bars of a song - something by Adele, she was reasonably sure.

When the water turned off at 7:20, and a dripping hand reached for a fluffy towel, the woman peeking her head around the opaque shower curtain observed the bathroom in its entirety for the second time that morning. Everything was precisely as she had left it, except for a single detail. Though she had not heard the door open, and the tiny, frosted window was locked from the inside, there was now pasted to the mirror a pink Post-It note.

Curious, she padded to the sink, stepping lightly on the cold floor. The note could have come from her desk - she was quite sure she had sticky notes that color. On it was written, in a clear hand, a number five. Nothing more. Mary frowned.

"John...?" she called.

She did not receive a reply. Toweling off in a hurry, and momentarily stepping back into her nightclothes, Mary slipped out of the bath and peered around their sleeping quarters. John was gone, but on the bed was another pink note.

SH texted me; gone out. Will shower tonight. I'll get the milk. - JW

Well, that explained her husband's absence at least. Still regarding the note with the five quizzically, Mary set the piece of paper down on the bedside table and dressed herself. It wouldn't be long until a darling baby girl was looking for her breakfast, and in the meantime, the doctor's wife had a new high kick to practice.

JOHN WATSON

John buried his face under his pillow, feeling his phone buzz and in no mood to answer it. The offending cellular device buzzed again, however, and grumpily, John retrieved it.

7:05 a.m.
Break-in at Astley Clarke. Come if convenient. - SH

7:06 a.m.
If inconvenient, come anyway. - SH

The doctor rolled his eyes and dragged himself regretfully out of bed. Why couldn't London's criminal masses be more considerate of his sleep schedule? For that matter, why couldn't Sherlock?

John didn't even bother answering that last. Sherlock, he suspected, had already been up all night and had likely forgotten (or simply deleted) the fact that most humans require sleep for proper bodily function. Climbing into slacks and a jumper, John scrawled a note to Mary, dropped it on the pillow, and made his exit. The time on the alarm clock at this moment read "7:12".

He grabbed a sack lunch from the refrigerator, peeked in on Sheryl, who was cooing quietly in her sleep, and texted the consulting detective back as he stepped outside and hailed a cab.

7:14 a.m.
Is it going to be dangerous? ;) - JW

As a general rule, John did not care for the use of emoticons in text messages, as he found them rather banal means of communicating expression. He thought that Sherlock probably felt the same way, but he sent the winking face regardless, because if there was one place Mr. Holmes was deficient, it was in his comprehension of people's feelings, and without the additional clue, John wasn't sure Sherlock would recognize that the text was a joke.

7:14 a.m.
I seriously doubt it. Nothing was actually stolen. And what on earth did you send me a semi-colon and an end-parenthesis for? - SH

For the second time that morning, John Watson rolled his eyes. Apparently it was going to be one of those Mondays.

The cab dropped the doctor just outside of the boutique. For a change, the site had not been barricaded off by Scotland Yard, so he did not have to answer any awkward questions about why he was strolling up to a crime scene, cool as you please. This, John surmised, was presumably linked to the fact that, according to Sherlock, nothing had been taken. But if there was no crime, he wondered, why were they there?

Sherlock met him at the small blue door.

"At last, a possible connection!" he exclaimed gleefully. "Do you see it?"

"Uh..." John thought back to last week's case. "The murder victim, Rockwell. He was a jewelry forger, wasn't he?"

"Precisely," the detective nodded sharply, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. "And now a break-in at one of London's many fine jewelry outlets."

"But you said nothing was taken," John said, following Sherlock as the man turned and strode down the aisle between displays.

"And today you were too tired when I texted you to brush your hair before leaving your flat," he replied without bothering to turn around. "Oh, I'm sorry. I thought we were listing things that were painfully obvious."

John flattened his hair self-consciously, hastening his step to keep up. At the end of the aisle, Sherlock tapped smartly on the door to the back room and a young, well-dressed woman, presumably an employee, opened it.

"Is this your friend?" she asked, eying the doctor coyly. "You didn't tell me he was cute."

"Very astute - I did not tell you that. I also did not tell you that he is married and finds the cut of your skirt unappealing even if it does complement the length of your legs. Show us the security footage. John hasn't seen it yet, and I could do with watching it again."

The significantly more flustered woman opened the door wider, introducing herself as Tiffany, and led the men into a room already containing Lestrade and Donovan, who, fortunately, refrained from making any snide comments about Sherlock's presence in the company of the store attendant.

"Morning, John," Lestrade greeted him amiably. "This is a weird one, make no mistake. Here, check this out."

The DI pulled a laptop to him and rewound the security footage. The time stamp placed it just after midnight the previous evening. It showed a single figure, masked, first carefully picking the lock on the side entrance and then punching in the code to turn off the alarms on the exterior security system.

"The controls are on the outside for safety purposes," Tiffany explained.

"Mmm, very safe," Sherlock muttered, "putting the 'off' switch on the outside where anyone could get at it. A real stroke of brilliance."

"Never mind that," John said quickly. "Why break in at all? What were they after?"

"'She'," Sherlock corrected. "Look at the height, the figure, the way she steps. Possibly someone very, very clever trying to fool us, but balance of probability says your cat burglar is a woman."

"So she breaks in," Lestrade narrated, pointing out the scene's particulars for the doctor's benefit, "passes by a dozen cases of jewelry worth hundreds of pounds a piece, passes the cash register as well, reaches the end of the aisle, just outside the door here, picks something up, and then leaves."

"You said that nothing was taken," Sherlock said, frowning in Tiffany's direction.

"Because it wasn't." The girl was obviously frustrated. "There's nothing on that table but a stack of business cards and a pot of flowers, and I was working the final shift last night - I'd have noticed if there was something unusual set over there."

"Was anyone else working with you?"

"Oh, just Marilyn," Tiffany laughed. "She's new. Scottish. Loves American music, and gossips something awful, let me tell you."

"A trait which clearly is in no way shared by any of her co-workers," Sherlock said under his breath. "When did she start working here?"

"About a month ago, now. She does clean-up, inventory, all that sort of thing. I spend most of my time out front with people. Her brother drops by sometimes - I don't like him. He smokes. Drinks, too, if I know him at all. But she adores him, of course."

"What about customers?" the detective mused. "Who came in here yesterday?"

"Oh, er..." The girl thought hard for a minute. "It was a pretty slow day... Let's see... We had a gentleman in around noon to pick up some new cufflinks - his sister's getting married next week, darling gentleman. And, uh, there was a woman in at 4:00 who browsed but didn't end up making a purchase, and... another woman, just before we closed. She got a pair of earrings; diamond set in 24 karats. A classic look, simply classic -"

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock interrupted. "Now, did any of the three of them go near the table?"

"The table?"

Sherlock's sigh conveyed in a single breath his utter disdain for those unable to follow his train of thought. "Yes, the table. The one, which, according to you, only holds flowers and business cards."

"Oh. Not really. Ah... Actually, come to think of it, the earrings were on display near to the table. I suppose it's possible that, when I unlocked the case, she could have gone over to it. Not that I'd like to speak ill of a paying customer," she added hastily.

"A fact she was probably counting on," murmured the detective.

"So you know what happened?" Donovan asked skeptically.

"Well, yes, of course we do."

"Sherlock..." The detective turned to John, who was regarding him with his arms crossed.

"Oh. Am I doing 'the look' again?"

"Yeah, uh-huh. How about taking us through it?" the doctor prompted.

"Right. A woman enters the shop and purchases a pair of earrings conveniently close to the back table. While Tiffany isn't looking, the woman turns, takes a business card, scrawls a message on the back, and replaces it on the pile. She would want to be sure that no-one else would take it by accident, so she came in just before closing. That night, another woman breaks in with help from your new girl, who could have gotten access to the security code from your boss' drawer while working here in the back. She takes the message and leaves. What we need now is to figure out what the note said..."

Spinning around, Sherlock went back into the main room, closely followed by the remainder of the team and located the table. It was a small mahogany piece, burdened by a hideous antique flower vase and a small stack of crisp, professional-looking cards.

"Pencil," Sherlock said shortly.

When he was handed one, he began to dust it over the top card, allowing the graphite to rub off ever so faintly.

"She would have been in a rush," the detective explained. "She'd have kept the card on the pile to expedite the process, and would have written quickly. Quickly usually means heavier-than-average pressure. If we're lucky, we should see - ah ha!"

The grey graphite had covered most of the card, but hadn't been ground into the faint grooves left by a woman's heavy writing on the sheet above. Thus, the message was distinctly visible in thin, white lines.

GREEN.

"Green..." John repeated. "What's it -?"

"There's going to be a break-in," said Sherlock decisively.

"What?"

"When?"

A chorus of questions ran out. The doctor, either better acquainted with Sherlock's nebulous statements or more intimately familiar with the backwards plots of criminals, asked,

"Where?"

When Sherlock turned to him with a faint smile, John knew he'd picked the right question.

"Very good, John. The crime is not going to occur here. That much is plain. Had burglary of this establishment been the intent, why not do it last night instead of waiting until the police were surely going to have been alerted? No, this was the staging ground, nothing more. Tonight, there is a popular American band staying at the Camelot House just behind the Astley Clarke premises. They are particularly big amongst their Scottish followers. I'd say that this was the brother's idea - probably out looking for some easy cash, and doubtless he knows some pretty bad people, too, who wouldn't mind making a score. He's got himself a group, and the information on the band's schedule is all neatly provided by Miss Marilyn. She loves her brother - he could talk her into getting the security code, no problem. So there it is - set up in the neighboring jewelry store, send the signal card when everything is in place, and tonight, presumably at the same time, while the band is out performing, our little gang breaks into their hotel room and holds them up for cash when the members return."

By this point in time, everyone was staring at Sherlock like a school of goldfish.

"How does he work these things out?" Lestrade asked weakly.

"He's a freak, I told you," Donovan muttered quietly.

"Be ready at the Camelot House tonight, detective inspector, and you'll catch them in the act."

Ten minutes later, having sorted out the details of the evening's escapade, John and Sherlock were again waiting for a cab on the street corner.

"Not exactly the connection I was looking for, John," Sherlock said with a small grimace. "There has to be a pattern - there just has to be!"

"Maybe Moriarty isn't behind it," the doctor shrugged. "It doesn't all have to boil down to one of his little games."

"But I have to assume that it does," the detective argued. "Otherwise, I won't be able to stop him hurting someone again."

Sherlock did not actually say "hurting you again", but the words hung unspoken in the air between them anyway.

A cab pulled over, mercifully free of lunatic serial killers. John ate his lunch in the back seat, Sherlock stared out the window, and it was altogether a sombre party who stopped on Elvanston Street.

"This one wasn't so far away, was it?" John remarked. "I swear, Mary's gone to Astley Clarke before."

The frown on Sherlock's face deepened.

"Has she, at that?" he whispered to himself.

"What was that?" John asked, leaning back into the cab.

"Hmm? Oh, nothing."

The car stopped outside of John's flat; the blonde man climbed out the side before turning back and looking at Sherlock.

"Come to dinner with us?" the doctor invited.

"Thank you, no," Sherlock replied, a little cooler than necessary. "I'll not force myself on the happy couple. Enjoy your evening. Say 'hi' to Mary for me. Ta."

Without further ado, he pulled the side door closed and gave the cabbie his address, leaving John, puzzled, on the sidewalk.

Mary came out to meet him, holding a tiny blonde girl in her arms.

"Did you get the milk, love?"

John rubbed his temples.

"Damn. No, I forgot. Sorry."

"Don't worry, dear, I'll get it. Go drink a cup of tea. Oh, and John?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you leave a note in the bathroom this morning?"

"In the bathroom? No. I left it on the bed. Why?"

"No reason, dear. Go get your tea."

MARY WATSON
Tuesday

It was Tuesday morning, 7:00, and Mrs. Watson was feeling less enthused about getting up. Sheryl had not been keen to continue sleeping for a straight eight-hour run, and had woken five different times after midnight. Still, Mary was nothing if not resilient, and after a moment of self-pity, the woman nudged her husband and headed for the shower.

"Joining me this morning?" she called over her shoulder. Only muffled groans issued from the bed in reply.

I'll take that as a 'no', she smiled to herself.

Shower, scrub, shampoo, lather, rinse, repeat. Cucumber body wash was her favorite, but John preferred apple, so she reached for that instead. She could hear her husband cursing to himself as he attempted to find his phone, his keys, and his toothbrush, two of which were in the bathroom; oddly, the toothbrush was not one of those two.

She could hear his "Have a good day, love!" as he left for work, and his silly, nonsensical gurgling to the baby.

When the hot water ran out as it always did 15 minutes into her shower, Mary Watson stepped out of the bath and found herself confronted with another pink sticky note, again stuck to the center of the mirror.

Tuesday's message was a large number four; Mary could only assume her husband had stuck it there when he'd entered to get his keys.

"Men," she said irritably, ripping it off the mirror. Once she was dressed, she retrieved a displeased Sheryl from her bassinet and dropped the Post-It on the bedside table.

Hold on... she frowned. Hadn't she set yesterday's note there as well? Where was it? Perhaps John had moved it the previous evening.

Sheryl started crying for real then, looking for her third breakfast that morning.

Thank God for maternity leave, Mary thought. It's like feeding a Hobbit - small, and always hungry.

JOHN WATSON

Dr. Watson was looking forward to a quiet day at the clinic. Running around London with Sherlock Holmes prevented him going stir crazy, but it did not do much to pay the rent. Thankfully, the detective had not yet texted him, which indicated that he might actually get some work done for a change.

The office was quieter without Mary there. Sarah wouldn't give him the time of day, which he was fine with, and the other doctors were always polite, but not much in the way of conversation. It was just as well, really. For once, the blonde doctor was not bothered by the steady stream of flu shots alternating with folks possessing symptoms of a deeply unfortunate, somewhat compromising nature.

He'd prescribed dermatological hand cream, a trip to the ER, three booster shots, and a new sleep medication by the time he was through, and feeling very pleased with himself. Slipping into a light jacket, he was already reaching into his pocket to phone Mary when his cell buzzed of its own accord - a text message.

6:04 p.m.
We've got another one. The London Library. Urgent - SH

John sighed softly. At least the consulting detective had managed to wait until after hours to get a case. His fingers danced over the electronic keyboard as he punched out his reply.

6:04 p.m.
I'm on my way. - JW

6:05 p.m.
Mary, I won't be home for dinner. Don't wait up. - JW

The London Library, located in St. James's Square, was the world's largest independent lending library, and one of the primary literary institutions in the UK. Founded in 1841, the building was open to all, upon the payment of an annual subscription, and the building's collections included everything from fine art to architecture to philosophy, religion, and travel. Today, it was cordoned off from the rest of the square by police tape and cars. Lestrade came to meet John's cab, looking worried.

"It's a murder," he said the minute John exited the cab. "Sherlock's examining the body on the third floor. Shot, by the look of things, and Sherlock seems to think it's Moriarty's MO. He panicked the moment he saw the room. Maybe you can talk some sense into him."

"That would be a first," John said quietly, to which Lestrade just laughed.

The detective inspector lead John through the ground floor to the lift, which took them up the TS Eliot house to the floor marked "M", housing books about art. The tall bookshelves stood in narrow rows and seemed to frame an old window spilling the light of the golden sunset across the metal grill floor. The curtains fluttered in the soft spring breeze.

The body was in front of the window: a young, blonde woman laying flat on her back, a dark bloodstain in the center of her chest. Sherlock Holmes was bent over her, examining her watch, but looked up when John walked in.

"Ah, finally," a pleased Sherlock said. "John, come here."

The doctor stepped gingerly on the floor but found that the metal did not so much as shift beneath his weight. Once beside the detective, he took more careful stock of the corpse.

"Female," he said, a trifle obviously. "Shot through the heart, by the look of it. A... very small caliber bullet..."

".338 millimeter -" the detective began.

"- Lapua Magnum," John finished with a small smile. "Recently popularized by the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq."

"Of course," Sherlock said quietly. Somehow, John did not get the feeling that the detective was referring to the bullet.

John completed his examination. "No other signs of violence, though the way our luck seems to run, an autopsy looking for poison might not be out of place. Is she staff? She's got a name tag... Emilia Roberts?"

"Mmm, she's staff," Sherlock nodded. "Shortsighted. Her glasses are in her hand. She was bent over and had taken them off to examine something below the window. When she stood up, she was shot. Our sniper was situated on the roof of one of the neighboring buildings and fired through the open window. There's no need to look for poison - Moriarty wouldn't bother with being so redundant."

"What makes you sure that this is Moriarty's hit?" John asked, frowning.

"Because I've seen this sniper's signature before. Ms. Roberts was shot by none other than Sebastian Moran, a notorious mercenary on Moriarty's employ. Everything about this resembles his work - the clean shot through the cracked window, a direct hit to the chest over a distance of at least 100 yards, the bullet size - nothing messy, quiet, and very professional. He even took into account the grilled flooring and shot her from a place where she'd fall on her back - less chance of blood dripping down to other floors and getting noticed. Brilliant."

"But what's the motive?"

Sherlock exhaled slightly. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"John," Sherlock rolled his eyes, "as you so frequently attempt to remind me, I am human. I'm not omnipotent. I make deductions based on factual observations. There is very little here to go on. She had a good relationship with her parents, no significant other to speak of, or children, but according to her co-workers she was happy and pleasant to be around. No apparent drunkenness, drug abuse, gambling, or other like vices. She was a touch OCD, but that's no reason to shoot a person - usually. Insofar as I can tell, there is absolutely nothing significant about the girl; she was a totally ordinary, successful librarian."

John was admittedly annoyed by the dismissiveness with which Sherlock treated the corpse, but he also recognized that if in fact Moriarty was behind this, there was no time to argue with the arrogant detective about the merits of compassion. Therefore, he bit his tongue and looked around the room.

"You said she was looking at something. What was she looking at?"

"I've already thought of that," the detective shook his head. "According to the body's current position, she was standing here -," Sherlock walked to a place directly in front of the window and crouched down, "- and was looking at this book display. There are no new pieces to be accounted for, nor any particularly old ones of significant value. Furthermore, I've already done a quick internet search - none of the pieces mentioned in any of these books are on display here in London, nor are they due for an exhibition any time soon."

John grimaced. There was one lead down. "Well... what was she doing here? I mean," he clarified, "obviously she works here, but why was she looking at these particular volumes?"

"That is the question, isn't it? There is no reason for her to not be here - the art room was part of her jurisdiction - but it does seem curious. How did Moran know where she was going to be? How soon did he know about the window's being open? And why was she here, looking around, when there were two carts full of books that required her attention?"

"Maybe she was feeling lazy," John suggested.

"Unlikely," Sherlock countered. "Her boss put her down as a hard worker, and don't forget the OCD - she would never leave a job unfinished."

"Yes, you mentioned the compulsiveness, but I don't see it."

"Oh, you see it, John, but you don't observe. Look at her hands - fingernails chewed, so a worrier, then, of nervous habits. The skin on her finger tips is rubbed red - a compulsive cleaner, but not a hypochondriac. One only has to look at the state of her shoes to see that. I had a look at her desk. The pens were arranged according to color, and the papers split up by subject in separate folders. Conclusion: she exhibited obsessive behavior about the appearance of her environment."

"Well..." John hazarded, "maybe she was cleaning. She bent over, and -"

"No, John," Sherlock interrupted. "Where are the cleaning supplies, then? No wipes, no duster -"

"Have you ever been in a library?" John cut back in. "Half the work is in keeping the books themselves tidy. Maybe one was backwards on the shelf, or sitting on it out of place."

Sherlock stared at him; John would have sworn that there was something positively electric in that expression.

"It's possible," he said excitedly. "There are other potential explanations, but it's possible! We can take that as a working hypothesis. So someone enters the building, disturbs the books near the window, Moran gets into position... Ms. Roberts passes, notes the books out of place, which would be relatively unusual in a library of this demographic, and is compelled to stop and fix them. She's dead the moment she stands. It seems to fit the facts."

"Except for one thing." Lestrade had been listening to this exchange with keen interest, but took that moment to step forward. "We know how she could have died, which is great, and we have the killer. But unless I've missed something, we still do not have a plausible motive."

"As usual, Lestrade, you have missed several 'somethings', but for once I do not believe any of them pertain to motive," Sherlock said. "There is no logical reason to shoot this particular librarian."

"So look for an illogical one, then," John put out. "Maybe... Moran shot the wrong person. Was there anyone else in the room?"

"Not supposedly," Lestrade sighed. "She was shot, according to forensics, around 5:00. People downstairs heard the echoes of the shot, but the body wasn't discovered by maintenance for another half hour."

"In any case, it's highly unlikely that Moran made a mistake," Sherlock added. "The gun required to make such a perfect shot over so long a distance would have had a very powerful scope on it; Moran knew exactly who he was shooting."

"Wouldn't Moriarty know you would recognize his assassin's work?" the doctor asked. "Maybe he just wants your attention."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he went to stand at the window, gazing across the London skyline.

"Now you're starting to sound like me," he said. "Lestrade, I'll give you the information I have on Moran, but I wouldn't expect to catch him, if I were you. He is good at what he does. I'm going to continue to investigate, and will let you know as soon as I find anything useful. John... thank you for coming. Your assistance is, as always, invaluable. It seems we've come across a stumbling block, however, so you may as well go home."

John stood and laid a hand tentatively on the detective's shoulder. Sherlock glanced up and looked at him, his surprise at being touched evident.

"Can I help?" the shorter man asked. "Do you need me to go somewhere? Look something up?"

"221B is out of milk," Sherlock said, a small smile turning his lips.

"I'm being serious, Sherlock," John reprimanded him. "If there's anything I can do, let me know."

"I will," the detective replied, turning back to stare out the window. John glanced over his shoulder at Lestrade, who was regarding the pair curiously. The doctor gave a small jerk of his head toward the door. Taking the hint, the DI slipped out to wait in the hallway.

"Sherlock," John said more forcefully. "Just promise me one thing. Promise me that whatever you find out you'll tell me, even if you can't trouble yourself to let Scotland Yard know. No going off after Moriarty on your own."

This time, Sherlock turned all the way around and looked at John seriously.

"You are worried."

"Mmm. Good deduction, that."

"Why?"

"Why am I worried?" John asked incredulously. "Oh, um, I don't know - maybe because the last time this happened, you jumped off the roof of a hospital and let me think you were dead for two years. I don't particularly care to spend another string of weeks contemplating the logistics of putting a bullet through my brain."

Sherlock blinked. He blinked again as his superhuman intelligence attempted to process that statement. An expression came over his face that said very clearly "processing failed"; most people would have termed it confusion, but then, Sherlock Holmes was not most people.

Eventually, he said only, "Yes, John. I promise. I will text you if I find anything."

"Thank you," John said. "Now, perhaps you can pay for my cab home for a change."

MARY WATSON
Wednesday

Mrs. Watson was ready. She'd stepped into the shower about five minutes ago and had developed a plan for catching her mysterious sticky-note-depositor in the act. Her hair could forgo its daily drubbing for once - the Post-Its were beginning to get under her skin. Something was just... off about them.

Stationing herself at the back of the tub, she positioned herself in a place where she could clearly see around the shower curtain while still remaining more or less obscured herself. Now all she had to do was wait... Or not.

With a disbelieving snort, Mary turned off the shower and stepped carefully onto the blue bathmat. A small pink piece of paper was already adhered to the glass, inscribed with a number three. The woman frowned. She had predicted this, but that did nothing to ease her concern as she stared down at the number.

Checking her watch, Mary noted that she was not mistaken; she had only stepped into the bathroom five minutes ago, and the note had most assuredly not been there before. Outside the bathroom door, she could hear John dragging himself out of bed. One hand on her hip, the other holding the paper, she walked back into their sleeping quarters.

When John looked up and found his wife staring at him, totally undressed and still dripping, his expression went from one of sleepy annoyance to one significantly more alert.

"Ah... Problem with the bath, love?" he asked.

"What," she asked, holding out the paper for him to see, "is this?"

"Uh..." John stepped closer, unsuccessfully trying to repress the blush spreading over his cheeks. "It looks like a number three. Why?"

Mary could practically hear him trying to work out why he was in trouble for a three and sighed internally. So he hadn't had anything to do with it, then. Still, just to make sure, she asked, "What about the note from yesterday, and the day before?"

John's expression turned even more confused. "What notes?"

"Other numbers," Mary replied vaguely. "I've been finding them on the bathroom mirror."

"That's... weird," John said. "Look, uh... I have to get to work, so do you mind if we skip over the foreplay this morning? I swear, I'll make it up to you later. All the espionage you want."

Mary let a smile she didn't feel cross her face. "'Course, love," she said gently. "Come here."

She pulled him to her and kissed him deeply as her husband ran his hand down the small of her back. Ten minutes later, John was off for work, and Mary was thinking breathlessly that she might need to finish that shower after all, hot water be buggered. In fact, a cold shower was almost certainly what the good doctor ordered.

In the excitement, the third note had fallen to the carpet. Mary picked it up and took it to the side table. This time, she was certain she was not going slowly crazy. Both the previous notes were gone. She deliberately set the pink paper down. Someone was repeatedly breaking into their flat and leaving cryptic notes.

Five... Four... Three... A countdown.

Mrs. Watson did not know what it was a countdown to, but she had the sneaking suspicion it was not going to be good.

In the bassinet, Sheryl started to cry. Mary picked her up carefully, cradling the darling baby to her. John was right, even if he didn't know it. Espionage could wait. There was a baby to look after.

And it seemed that espionage was content to wait.

They would wait.

They would wait for two more days.

After that, all bets were off.

JOHN WATSON

Dr. Watson had been sitting in his office for an hour when the text came.

8:30 a.m.
Hostage crisis. Riverwood Secondary. - SH

John very nearly fell out of his chair. Riverwood was a private school. There were children in danger.

8:30 a.m.
Txt me details ASAP. - JW

John was out of the office before the message finished sending.

Thank God my hours are flexible, he thought fleetingly as he punched out. On the sidewalk, John elbowed a man out of the way, shouting "police" and diving into the cab that the first man had been seconds from boarding. The doctor gave the address in the same breath and wrenched his mobile from his pocket as it buzzed with a reply.

8:33 a.m.
Lone gunman holding kids for ransom. Hurry. - SH

The fact that Sherlock had bothered to reply at all was enough to set John's pulse into overdrive, but the last sentence was an order which John immediately relayed to the cabbie. Mentally, John thanked the sixth sense that drove him to keep his handgun in his coat pocket at all times. Something about living with Sherlock Holmes for any period of time did that to a person.

The cabbie had to pull over at the entrance of the street; a line of police barricades had cordoned it off from the rest of traffic. John practically threw his fare at the driver and raced to where Lestrade was standing with Donovan, Anderson, and the others.

"John." Lestrade's face was paler than usual, and his often-cheerful countenance was creased in worry. "He texted you, then?"

"Yes. Where is he?" There was no question about to whom they were referring.

"The roof of that building." Lestrade pointed to an old brick structure abutting the small campus. "God knows how he got up there. But he seems to think he can break into the school without being noticed by the gunman. Meanwhile, we've got a negotiator here trying to talk to..."

Lestrade didn't bother finishing his sentence. No sooner had he told John where Sherlock was than the young doctor was off and running.

The building the detective inspector had indicated was a dilapidated old warehouse that had the look of an urban reclamation project abandoned half-way through. Bulldozers and forklifts stood rusting behind chain-link fence, while a crane sat unmoving, halfway through the task of lifting an I-beam. The whole area was littered with warnings about trespassing and the consequences thereof. Studiously ignoring these, John hopped the fence and skirted the machinery. A fire escape ran up the side of the warehouse; mercifully, John was tall enough to grab on to the retracting ladder if he stood on a crate.

By the time he reached the roof, the doctor was panting, his legs burning with exhaustion, but seeing Sherlock motioning him over caused some of the discomfort to dissipate.

"You took your time," the detective said mildly.

"Easy for you to say," John countered. "I swear I talked the cabbie into breaking a dozen traffic safety laws on the way here."

Sherlock snorted. "Ever seen me drive?"

"Never mind that. How are we getting in there?"

The detective squinted at the crane. "I've done all the necessary calculations. Accounting for the length of the chain and our relative velocity, I think we can run and jump onto the chain fast enough to swing most of the way to the roof of the school. At that point, we'll have to jump. We'll only have one chance at it, though - if we miss the first jump, the motion of the chain will decrease exponentially."

"Wait. What?" an astonished John asked.

"Just follow me," Sherlock said impatiently. "Jump when I jump. And a bit of friendly advice - don't miss."

Sherlock counted thirty paces back from the edge of the warehouse roof, standing such that he was in line with both the crane and the school building. Despite an infinite number of misgivings, John was standing next to him, silently questioning their sanity.

Without warning, Sherlock started running. John dashed after him. At their top speed, the edge of the roof was approaching far too fast.

"Don't... pause," Sherlock gasped through gritted teeth. "Maintain... kinetic... energy. Jump!"

One after the other, the men leaped from the edge. Sherlock caught the chain easily, having worked the mechanics out in his head, and slid down it to land on the I-beam even as it began to swing forward. John's catch was less graceful. He missed the chain entirely, catching Sherlock around the waist and clinging on for dear life.

As predicted, their combined momentum was enough to swing them out to the edge of the school roof. At the moment when the chain paused in midair, having reached its height and not yet succumbing to the downward pull of gravity, two things happened in unison: Sherlock spun himself backwards so that John fell off him onto the gravel roof, and the detective jumped off the metal bar.

Unable to see exactly where he was aiming, Sherlock missed the roof, scrabbling desperately instead at the edge. His fingers slipped, and he lost his grip. He'd resigned himself to falling off a building for real when John reached over and grabbed him by the wrist.

"Can't have you doing that, now can we?" the doctor grinned cheekily, ignoring the scrape across his temple and the bruises Sherlock could see already forming on his forearms. He hauled Sherlock onto the top of the school, and they lay there a moment, breathing heavily.

"That," Sherlock said dryly, "was not one of my best ideas."

"You think?"

The sound of a shot being fired sent a shock of adrenaline through John's system.

"Sherlock?" he hissed. "The kids!"

The detective forced himself to his feet, brushing the dust from his trenchcoat.

"There should be an access door up here somewhere. Help me find it."

The door, it turned out, was not particularly hard to find, nor was the lock difficult to pick, at least in Sherlock's skilled hands. They raced down the stairs, Sherlock flipping Lestrade's badge at a pair of terrified schoolmistresses.

"They're on the first floor, poor dears!" the first woman exclaimed.

"Did you hear the gunshot?" the other asked, eyes brimming with tears. "Oh God, I hope they're okay!"

Sherlock was already dragging John to the staircase.

"No time to bother with an elevator," he explained. "Could get stuck. The shooter could cut the power. Better to take the stairs."

John nodded and put on another burst of speed. Two flights of stairs flew past, and then they were on the ground floor. Sherlock put a finger to his lips, as if John had to be told that silence was key.

"We have to find him," Sherlock breathed, bending to John's ear. "If the opportunity presents itself, shoot to kill." John did not ask how Sherlock knew he had his gun with him; the doctor had had his hand on it for the last five minutes.

All at once, they heard a voice shout from a classroom down the hall. As one, the pair began to creep forward. There was a small scream, and John felt his stomach clench, but the gun was not fired again.

The corridor ended in a T-junction. With the school on lockdown, all the doors were shut and the lights turned off. Down the right passage, however, though all the doors remained closed, a single room had lights on. The men nodded to each other.

As they approached the door, they could hear heated voices as the gunman argued with the Yard's negotiator over the phone.

"Two million pounds and not a bill less, you hear me?" the man growled. "They're rich enough if they can afford this place."

There was a brief pause in which John and the detective reached the door. It was solid oak, but a glass panel set into the wall showed a sliver of the classroom - Algebra, to all appearances. The gunman was only just visible, the side of his bald head and stocky body barely able to seen from his position in the center of the room. The desks had been pushed as a barricade against the door, and the students were huddled in a terrified group against the far wall.

Sherlock wrenched John away from the glass before any of the young people could see them and give away their position.

"I can't shoot him from here," John hissed.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied. "You can't shoot him from there, either, at the moment, and seeing you will only cause the children to panic. We have to wait for him to move."

The gunman chose that moment to start arguing violently again.

"Good," Sherlock whispered.

"Good? How is that good?" John asked, as the one-sided conversation revealed that the children's families couldn't afford the £ two million ransom.

"Listen," Sherlock commanded, and reluctantly, John complied.

At first, he noticed nothing other than the sound of angry shouting, but soon he heard something else - pacing. Suddenly understanding what the detective was waiting for, John edged sidewise slowly until he could just peer through the window. The gunman was out of sight, but as he waited, the man's voice grew louder until he stormed angrily across John's line of vision.

The doctor drew his cocked Browning's and slid fully in front of the glass just as the man walked past again. Before he had the chance to see him, John took aim and fired.

There was a long silence. It occurred to John that he was clenching his eyes shut, and he slowly prized them open. There was a clean hole through the glass and the gunman's body stretched out on the floor. The two dozen students were staring at him, wide-eyed, unsure whether the doctor was there to rescue them or to add to their ordeal.

Shaking slightly, John dropped his arm and slid his gun back into his pocket. Pressing his face near the bullet hole, he said through the window, "It's alright. I'm with the police. You're safe."

Sherlock was already texting Lestrade when John looked down. A handful of the more adventurous secondary schoolers were nervously pulling the desks from the door, as if unsure whether they should be doing so. When enough of them were moved that the door could be opened, John strode in and took charge of the situation. He shepherded the children into a line away from the body and did his best to offer reassurances while Lestrade's team filed in.

The teacher proved the recipient of the earlier shot. Sherlock examined both the bodies while John helped distribute shock blankets to the students. In spite of everything, the odd sensation of déjà vu tugged a small, slightly hysterical smile from his face.

When the children had cleared the room and Anderson had been dispatched to help make phone calls to parents, Sherlock sat curled up on top of one of the desks, frowning at John and the detective inspector.

"Well?" Lestrade asked. "It's the second shooting in two days. Is it Moriarty, or isn't it?"

"Yesterday, I was certain it was," the consulting detective said quietly. "On the surface, this appears to be an utterly unrelated case. But you are right - it is coincidental. And you know how I feel about coincidences - the universe is rarely so lazy."

Thursday

Mary sat on the bed, staring at a number two written on a pink Post-It note. Slowly, she typed a short text into her mobile, not yet pressing "send". It would be ready when she needed it.

John fought fatigue from his office chair at the clinic. Last night's investigation had been exhausting on a multitude of levels. It was so strange to see Sherlock out of his depth, and concern was eating him alive.

Sherlock stood in place, staring at his wall, forgetting to eat, to sleep, and sometimes to breath. He was missing something. A piece of the puzzle that would link everything together. But what?

JOHN WATSON
Friday

Sherlock sent him the message before it was yet light.

5:17 a.m.
Report of new activity Shadwell Manor. Meet me. - SH

The blonde man had slept poorly, and the vibration of his phone woke him immediately. Shadwell Manor. Of course - from the last week's case. John scribbled Mary a note and was out the door the moment he was dressed.

It was not hard to get a cab at 5:30 in the morning, and traffic was blessedly light. The sun was just rising as the black taxi car pulled to a stop at the end of the long drive marked "Shadwell". A moment later, a second cab stopped and Sherlock Holmes climbed out.

"Right on time, Doctor," he said, steel-grey eyes alight with the thrill of the chase. "Lestrade got a call this morning from one of the neighbors that someone was seen sneaking around here in the dark last night. He asked us to look around and see if there's anything to it or not."

"Do you think there is?" John asked, stifling a yawn.

"Could be," the detective answered, looking around eagerly. "This could be the connection I've been waiting for."

It did not take much searching to discover footprints in the dew-wet grass. John might have passed them by, but Sherlock pointed out the characteristic breaks in the verdigris, and soon they were following the narrow track around the back of the house. It stopped at the edge of the property, near to the neighboring manor house.

"This is where Lestrade's call came from," Sherlock said. He pointed at the ground. "Look at the tracks - they're all muddled. Our man milled around here for a while before going off that way. He was probably talking to someone on the phone, but what I can't fathom is why he would come here to do it. It's like..." The detective's eyes widened and he took off following the second track, which ended up looping back around to the house.

Chasing after him, John called, "It's like what? Sherlock? What is it -"

Sherlock stopped mid-stride, raising his hand to stop John also.

"It's like he wanted to get caught," Sherlock said quietly. He pointed to the footprints, which disappeared into the abandoned Shadwell manor. "Why else would he cross a deserted property to make a loud phone call outside an inhabited house and then sneak back into the empty one?"

"Wanted to get caught?" John repeated. "But -"

"John, please suppress your inner desire to become a parrot and be silent a moment."

John took the cue to shut up, but continued to stare.

Cautiously, Sherlock pushed the back door open and followed the path of the intruder inside. Sherlock traced the faint pattern of wetness across the floorboards to the front room. It was exactly as it had been last Thursday, except sans Rockwell's body. With the absence of the corpse, there was the addition of a new curiosity. A single pink note was stuck to the wall concealing the old fireplace.

Sherlock followed the footprints out the front door, concluding that the intruder had done nothing more than enter and put up the note before he left. Doubling back, he and John stared together at the paper. It said one thing, and one thing only: Oopsie.

"I've missed something," Sherlock said hollowly. "I've made a mistake."

"Sherlock..."

"Quiet, John. I'm thinking.

"But Sherlock, Mary -"

"Shush."

"Mary had a paper -"

"Shut up!"

Throwing up his hands in frustration, John walked back to the center of the living room, thinking hard. Eventually, Sherlock faced him.

"Call Lestrade. It would appear we have a situation."

MARY WATSON

Upon waking, Mary Watson did not head for her customary shower. Instead, she opened her phone and pressed the "send" option on her unsent text.

7:00 a.m.
I have a favor to ask. Can you watch Sheryl today? - MW

The reply was not long in coming, at which Mary smiled grimly.

7:01 a.m.
Is something going on? - MH

7:01 a.m.
Not sure. Still, I'd rather be safe than sorry. - MW

7:02 a.m.
I suppose I owe you one for Sherlock. - MH

7:02 a.m.
For calling the ambulance or for shooting him? - MW

7:03 a.m.
...
I suppose I owe you two. A car will be there in five. - MH

Mary stood and retrieved the sleeping baby from her cradle. She knew she could count on Mycroft. Whatever happened today, their baby would have the best protection the British government could provide.

The black car arrived exactly on time, and Anthea herself stepped out, Mycroft's own personal lackey.

"Anthea," Mary said demurely. "I was not expecting the honor."

"Neither was I," Anthea replied, taking the baby from her mother. "Is there a situation I should be aware of?"

"I'm assuming by 'I', you mean Mycroft."

"Of course."

"I have reasons to be... concerned. I would be able to concentrate better if I knew that Sheryl was being looked after by the best of the best."

Anthea nodded slightly. "Mycroft has accorded the child a personal armament of MI6 bodyguards." Ever the discrete one, Anthea managed to not look like she thought this was totally overkill, though both women knew she was thinking it.

"Thank you," Mary said genuinely. "And tell Mycroft for me as well, please."

Anthea nodded and slid back into the car, holding Sheryl. Mary watched it disappear before turning back to face the flat. Ample time had passed. If someone meant her ill, they had had a perfect opportunity to break in and prepare themselves. The woman drew a silenced pistol from under her cardigan. She too had had time to prepare.

There was something wrong about having to break into one's own flat, but that was what it felt like as Mrs. Watson carefully examined every room for signs of an intruder.

Living room - clean.

Kitchen - clean.

Dining room - clean

Water closet - clean

Laundry room - clean

Bedroom - clean.

That left only the bathroom, and somehow, Mary was not surprised. She nudged the door open with her foot and found herself staring at an empty room. For good measure, she checked behind the shower curtain, but as she'd expected, no-one was there.

Steeling herself, Mrs. Watson turned and faced the sink. There was a small box on the counter, and a single pink note on top of it.

One, the note said.

Mary opened the box. There was a mess of wires inside, and an LCD screen displaying the numbers 5:00. As soon as the lid came off, the numbers began to count backwards.

4:59

4:58

4:57

Semtex. Naturally.

Mary let out a shaky breath and set the box back on the counter. She had five minutes. She could run. Just as she thought this, a small bulb lit up red and began blinking.

... . ._.. ._.. _

Morse code.

Hello.

"Hello," Mary said coldly. "Who are you?"

_ _ ._. .. ._ ._. _ _._

Moriarty. Naturally.

"May I have a minute?"

_._ _ .._ ... ._ ..._ . .._. .. ..._ .

You have five.

_.. _ _. _ ._. .._ _.

Don't run.

_ ... ._ _ ._ _ .._ ._.. _.. _... . _... _ ._. .. _. _.

That would be boring.

Mary stepped into the bedroom and retrieved a pack of matches. Perhaps that was an unusual item for a new mother to carry in her purse, but then, Mary Watson was an unusual new mother. Lighting one, she held it up close to the bedroom smoke detector. A minute later, the alarm went off. She could hear people upstairs shouting in consternation. Good. Perhaps some of them would make it out alive.

Returning to the bathroom, Mary retrieved her phone and typed in her last text message.

7:29 a.m.
John - don't go and be sad. I'm mad for you. At dinner, see Mycroft. Our dear Sheryl, bless her, is sleeping and safe. Moriarty is gone. Did you see it? Sherlock will be looking for safe. - I love you. - Mary Watson

Mary watched the clock count down. When there was thirty seconds left on the clock, she sent it. Just enough time to be sure John got the message, and not enough time for her to have to see his reply.

_... _._ . _... _._ .

Bye bye.

The clock reached zero. There was a noise so loud she couldn't hear it, and a light so bright she couldn't see it. And then there was nothing.

JOHN WATSON

Lestrade was talking to Sherlock, arguing with Sherlock. The detective inspector could not see how he was supposed to remedy Sherlock's lapse in understanding, and Sherlock could not see what was so difficult about sending two dozen police cars out to scour the city of London for any sign of Moriarty or his undercover henchmen.

They had been at it for the last forty-five minutes. John was just grateful that Lestrade had not brought his team with - it was far too early to deal with Sally's insinuations about Sherlock's usefulness.

His phone buzzed. The number was Mary's. He read the text message once. He read it again.

"Sherlock?" If John's voice sounded an octave higher than normal, he chose to ignore it. Sherlock, on the other hand, took note of that fact, analyzed it, and came to the conclusion that something was very, very wrong.

"Yes, John?" he said, stepping away from the detective inspector. Lestrade followed close behind.

"Read this," John said, handing Sherlock his mobile. Sherlock read the message, and his eyes widened. "Does that mean anything to you?"

"This is from Mary?"

"Yes."

"It's nonsense,"" Lestrade said, reading it over Sherlock's shoulder. "Why would she send that?"

"It's not nonsense," Sherlock snapped, beginning to shake almost imperceptibly. "It's a skip code. Mary knows skip codes, remember? Every third word." He handed the phone back to John, who re-read the message with a sinking heart. The text now read:

John - Don't be mad at Mycroft. Sheryl is safe. Moriarty did it. Be safe. - I love you. - Mary Watson

At that moment, Lestrade's own mobile rang. He answered it hesitantly.

"Anderson?"

When he hung up a minute later, he too was shaking.

"There's... been an explosion," he announced. "In an apartment building on Elvanston Street."


Yup. I went there. Sorry. I guess my best justification is that Mary dies in book!canon too, and it is sort of integral to my quasi-plot. Finally, the Morse Code WAS formatted correctly, but FFN seems to have some kind of problem with having four periods or underscores next to each other, so now it's all jacked up. It bothers me from an "artistic integrity" point of view, so if you find yourself as annoyed as I am, it is correct on my Wattpad version of it.