The Game

"Murder will out, 'tis sure, nor ever fails, and chiefly when God's honour vengeance needs.

The blood cries out upon your cursed deeds" ~ Geoffrey Chaucer, "Canterbury Tales"

Picture this.

It was twelve forty-five at night, on the seventh of March.

It was a dark and stormy night. Of course it was. It took place in London.

The last train carrying the general public left Aldwych on the evening of 30th September 1994. He remembered that vividly.

He had liked that station. He vaguely remembered when it was closed off for six years to be used as an air raid shelter during the Second World War, the unused tunnels storing art and treasures from the British Museum. That had been a long time ago and he felt old just for remembering. The church nearby, St. Mary Le Strand had been destroyed in the bombing back then too, before being magnificently restored in the 50's and its spire was gleaming at him with familiarity.

The old man shoved his hands in his pockets and waited, despite the rain. He had been born and raised in London. Rain was rain. In fact, it wasn't really London if it didn't rain and entire spring season was the most unpredictable.

He heard footsteps behind him, mingling with the cold, small drops and turned around with a grin, to meet his associate.

That was the last thing he ever heard.

Half an hour later uniforms were at the scene. Half an hour after that, the DI took over of the scene and, fifteen minutes later Sherlock stepped out of the cab and wrestled control over, apparently, the whole street. He was much like the London fog in that way, rolling around and taking up everything, being lethal to the elderly and the young. In which case, Lestrade felt pretty damn elderly. He was, in fact, completely blaming his salt and pepper hair on him.

"Think it's the same guy?" John asked, to fill the uncomfortable silence that reigned over them while the detective took in the details of the body, looking for all intent and purpose as if he was re-enacting some sort of morbid interpretative dance routine.

The body of the geriatric man whose wallet ID'd him as Henry Gilbert was cooling on the pavement. He was spread on his back as he'd fallen, hands at his side as if crucified. A large crimson blossom stained his shirt and throat, where the bullet had entered and his skin was ghastly white. His glasses were still on as was his hat, though quite a bit bent.

You didn't really get fedoras like that anymore.

Lestrade tried to keep his mind at the scene. Donovan had decided to take statements, veer off civilians and generally be in any place Sherlock wasn't. He couldn't blame her.

As for John…well, Lestrade didn't know what to think of John, seeing as the man looked and behaved like a normal person, something that the detective decidedly was not and probably didn't even want to be.

He'd have thought of it as 'dull'.

"The gun wound's the same" he sighed as a response. "As is the bullet. It came out through the other side. The time is about right, too" Lestrade shook his head. What a way to go… "There are a lot of differences, though"

Like the location. That was damn different. It was the first body killed somewhere else other than their home. Or maybe the killer was just getting started. They had made a profile out of the killings. It was generally considered a bad sign when they went off pattern, but so far, the patterns had been less than fool proof. The time and the bullet seemed like the only thing that stayed the same.

And Sherlock was growing more irate by the minute, which did not spell out a good time for anyone.

"Computer addict, widower. His wife died twenty, twenty-five years ago. He stayed indoors mostly" he said with a tone that almost indicated a grudge as he lifted the man's upper lip. "He had money, but he was frugal. He must have been waiting for someone and he walked a long way to get here"

"How can you tell?" Lestrade asked, as was mostly customary.

"His coat, his hat, his shoes…they're soaked, but it was a rather mild rain. He walked here and got caught in it, then waited for a short period before he was shot"

That was it, though. Oh, personal details stood here and there. His hands were rather soft, good for delicate work, his shoes were polished by hand, he had loved his wife but moved on…that sort of thing. But nothing relevant. Nothing to show him much about the killer.

Sherlock hated that. He would have enjoyed the little game is the killer had even thought about making it some sort of game or if he would have gloated or even send mildly threatening notes to the police. He didn't.

He just wanted to kill people, so he did. In fact, it wasn't even that certain that it was a 'he'. Sure, the statistics were completely in favour of the male gender but it wasn't impossible for the killer to be a woman, therefore it was still a possibility. In his head, there were at least ten probable theories and twenty-four possible ones but there was absolutely nothing to filter them all by.

It was a lot more frustrating than other cases, but at least he wasn't bored anymore.

So when Lestrade said "Well, me and some of the guys are going to check out his apartment, want to come?" he was the first one to get into a cab.

What had started as a rather cold day of March developed into a freezing night with drizzling rain, the type in which no one could pass off as distinguished or even dignified. Thereof, she was dripping, partway between the apartment and the outside world through the open window, trying to get inside with a bit of class.

She failed.

She fell onto her arse, one boot caught on the windowsill, the other in the curtain.

Very undignified.

She scrambled to her feet, hoisting the large backpack on her shoulder and looked about.

Milo always came through the window. The entire building was a security system made up of old biddies who got so bored at home, they butted into other people's business. Just going up the stairs meant having four eyes watching from behind each door. It gave her the chills.

"Gills?" she asked, looking about. The kitchen and the living room were in the same space, empty. She checked his bedroom, also empty and knocked at the bathroom door. After a few seconds, she came to the obvious conclusion that there was no one there.

A note, however, was. It was placed on the old man's laptop.

M,

Meeting E. Will come back as soon as possible. Make yourself at home. There's hot cocoa in the pot.

Love, H

She smiled and dropped her backpack to the floor, regardless of her own laptop and skipped to the kitchen area. The cocoa was indeed in a pot, because he knew she hated tea, and a chipped mug was recently washed and set on the table.

She grinned as the sense of safety washed over her. There were few places she considered safe, but she could always count on one of them being in London. And that was her mug.

She liked broken things almost as much as she liked broken people.

She poured a generous amount and left her boots and coat off to dry. Then she sat down on the sofa with the certain awkwardness of one who wanted and should have felt at home, but didn't. It had been years since she'd last saw Henry and it hadn't been in exactly hushed tones. There was generally a lot to argue about in the world of crime.

Henry had had a happy childhood, a fulfilling young adult life and a regular adult life. He had seen the Second World War happen, even if only a part of it and he had been too young then to participate in it. But he had a certain idea of right and wrong instilled by his elders and tough situations. He had principles.

Milo had never had them and if she ever did, they were probably stolen.

It had made relationships somewhat tense. He wrapped more layers of shadows around himself, effectively passing off as a ghost. He had a dozen fake addresses, all under different names, mail and items being delivered to trusted people, an entire web of intrigue on his location and real name and most importantly, the favour of almost all the major crooks in the area. Despite that, he'd always been courteous to her, which made her feel guilty. She thought that he had planned that.

Nothing should have happened to him, yet she called him anyway, to no avail. Then she called Eddie, but he too, didn't answer. With him, she hadn't argued.

Something was wrong.

She took to pacing a bit, finished the cocoa and when that was done, slammed right into the quality scotch and lit a cigarette. The world was always better to face with alcohol in you.

She rifled through his old books for a bit, looking at the signed ones, then moved on the more recent acquisitions, those that needed to be read in order to earn their spot on the shelf. A green piece of paper fell out of one and she took a look. It was a brochure for Green Fields Retirement Home with Henry's tight writing saying "E.L – L.A". Milo frowned.

Then she did something that was generally considered quite a large faux-pas in the world of fences Henry belonged to. She opened the old man's laptop and starting buggering about. He had hidden databases of people he did business with, databases of items that had reached him, databases of items that had been stolen and hadn't gotten to him. She perused the list of business he'd gotten lately and frowned. There was a very small amount of transactions done lately, perhaps less than there should have been, only with people he had frequent prior dealings with and for good money.

To her, that did mean retirement.

And he hadn't even said a word to her.

He was an interfering old baggage, who took to coddling her like a child and generally fussed about, but deep down they were what one might call friends. So when a dramatic e-mail consisting of:

I need help. Please, come to my apartment, tonight.

showed up in her inbox, she settled all of her affairs and took the first flight to London. It might have been about his retirement; it might have been about a recent transaction gone sour; it might have been about Eddie – Eddie who had had fortune and infamy get to his head. But his files didn't reflect any of it. She took off her watch and connected it to the laptop, copying all the data on it.

It might have been unfair, ill-mannered and perhaps even offensively intrusive, but Milo rarely cared about any of that. Manners and goodwill were for regular people, she used to say, and 'regular people' tended to sound like an insult every time.

She also checked his e-mail address, which stupidly logged on by itself, but all the e-mails had been carefully deleted, as was generally customary.

Then she went to the window to watch the street. What she expected – or more appropriately, what she wished – was to see was an old man, still wearing a fedora and a cloth handkerchief folded in a two-point at his suit pocket, cross the street and enter the building. What she got was a police car stopping right at the entrance.

She didn't panic. It took quite a lot to make Milo even worry, but her mind definitely entered overdrive.

She ran towards the still connected watch, tapped the keys on the laptop with accurate efficiency, running a self-made program that scrambled the MFT and the bytes of all the data she wanted to remove before deleting them, running her clothed forearm over the keyboard to erase prints and shutting the computer down. She ran to the bedroom, next, while strapping her watch back on. In there, for the past five years or so, Henry had stashed a go-bag, at her suggestion. It was a faded dark coloured duffle of medium size. Beneath the pillow was a handgun.

She took them both with her.

Then she shoved her wet clothes into her backpack and tossed it all out the window.

By the time the landlord had been rudely awoken and opened the door with his key, she was long gone.

"There was someone else here" Sherlock said, squinting at the window.

He'd burst in like he owned the place, large steps and eyes creeping over every object in sight. The entire room was his stage and he didn't just observe. He composed. He stood taller, even when sitting or crouching, his head was elevated, he came across as superior. He pissed everyone off.

"Came through the window" he muttered and walked, still bent at the waist, towards the small kitchen area. "Had cocoa" he rose and sniffed.

"Is that…relevant?" Lestrade asked, fairly doubtful.

"I don't know" he answered and went inside the bedroom, then bathroom, before coming back inside and staring at the sofa.

Lestrade crossed his arms, impatiently. "Anything?"

The clear answer was, not really.

There was still no connection.

The old man had money, style, little treasures gathered along his years: china plates, a silver, antique photo frame polished to perfection, a small, old vase, a baroque lamp, an old, worn Persian carpet, editio princeps books on the shelves. They all clashed with an ugly neon orange rug, so a present or something equally sentimental.

He had had porcelain veneers dated almost five years back so the money was not recent. Had enough cash to get them but not enough to have an apartment in a better side of London, or better curtains. Frugal, as he had thought, but not without style or hobbies. The only thing that looked vaguely cheap was a chipped little tea mug on an unmatched saucer sitting on the side of the sink, to dry.

Sherlock answered, a bit more half-hearted than he would have wished, but still, his deductions were spoken rapidly and to the point, like bullets. "The man was a recluse. Didn't go out at all. He had all he needed right there" he pointed to the laptop. "Had a few casual acquaintances. Not good enough to visit often, but enough to warrant sentimental gifts"

"So, completely different from the last two" the DI said, displeased, refusing to ask for more details on the how, seeing as the answers didn't even matter anymore.

But Sherlock's mind was focused on something else. Someone had been there that night.

There was water that had dried on the wood floor in the shape of very tiny feet, a chipped mug recently washed, but not the pot and there was a faint smell of cigarettes in the air.

Clove.

He spotted a piece of green paper sitting on the table, looked at it and frowned before pocketing it. He didn't want Lestrade ruining it before he had a shot at investigating and if anything came out of it, fine. If not, he wouldn't have to explain his wrong deductions.

Then Donovan entered the room carrying a notepad and a pen.

"I have the statements. Apparently, the victim didn't leave his flat much. The neighbours barely saw him go in or out. He even gets his groceries delivered"

Sherlock had noticed that, in fact. Henry had been a neat man, but not pathologically so. Every visible wrapper from his garbage can was from a different delivery company. Either the man was paranoid or a very bad tipper.

"He usually had many visitors at any hours of the day or night. Lately, however, he hasn't been seeing as many people. Always paid his rent on time, quite often in advance and he baked cookies that he shared with his neighbours. Chocolate Chip" she closed the notebook. "And there was a call from the lab. They just got the evident and they're still running tests but they're fairly sure that the bullet that killed him was from the same gun as the one that killed the previous two"

Three bodies put the man as an official serial killer, and yet they still had nothing.