John woke up in the morning, and went to his clinic just in time.

"Good morning, Doctor Watson." Miss Wooch smiled at him.

"Good morning." He smiled back and walked into his office, carefully placed his mobile phone on the desk.

Not a single ring that day.

The day after that, he was startle from dream. The phone was ringing. Lestrade said from the other side of the line. "As you said."

"I was at work all day long, my secretary and patients can prove that for me." He was fully awake right away.

"John," Lestrade sighed, "we trust you. Come at London Bridge. By tube."

Thanks to his advice. It was the biggest traffic jam I had ever seen before rush hour in the morning, and obvious getting worse and worse.

An early runner reported it to the police. There was fog on the river, so he discussed with others for a long time whether that was a body or some plastic waste. If the latter, maybe a call to environmental organization would do. Some clever guy finally came up with the idea that police could dial any organization anyway, which brought police cars, crane and some special rescue persons and John onto London Bridge.

From the picture he could see, that body was hanged right under the middle of bridge. Preliminary autopsy showed the body was very dead at least 1 week before, and police quickly identify the victim.

"Ian Dikenson." Lestrade said when they put on gloves.

"Which part is missing?" John interrupted him. Dead bodies were just carriers to hints, if the murderer could tie a body to the structure of a 200-meter right under everybody's nose, the victim's identity wouldn't reveal any important clue, of course.

He got startled a little, then said, "None."

John understood the graveness in Lestrade's voice when he saw the body.

There was no missing piece; on the contrary, the body's left upper eyelid was knitted upward tightly with medical thread. John bent to examine. The skill was highly professional, that was his entire conclusion. He found it difficult to look into Lestrade's hopeful eyes.

"Left eye, this time." He finally said. "I don't know what does that mean."

"London Eye." Anderson said impatiently, "London Bridge and eye. It's obvious."

"And the eyelid?" John heard himself inquiring, half hopefully half annoyed.

"The structure of London Eye, of course." Anderson had a self-contented smile on his face.

No, not right, otherwise the knitting would be all around the left eye, not only on upper eyelid. John pointed this out.

"The murderer is mad, why do you think he would give it a damn?" Anderson looked offended.

Mad, indeed, but also thoughtful in preparing and carrying out murderers like this, too thoughtful to waste a hint or give out misleading ones. And to John it was quite obvious that whoever the murderer were, all what they really meant to do in those murders was giving out hints. The knitted upper eyelid carried information, and John refused to take the easier but not complete explanation to what he didn't know.

For now, he just repeated, "I don't know." Lestrade nodded and sent him out.

There must be something, John spoke to himself. He'd find it. He listed all the facts to himself during his way to work in tube.

Car explosion in Faraday garden.

Dead body without nose in trunk.

Man hung beneath London Bridge.

Eyelid sewed with thread.

And questions.

What do nose and eye mean?

Why does the murder give out hints? To show off, maybe, but why?

He examined everything in his mind, reaching no significant point.

It was 9:15 when he reached his office. John said a hello without looking at his secretary, walked into his office directly. He got too much things in mind to clear out before work.

Miss Wooch had already left newspapers and mails on his desk. He put them apart when an envelope drew his notice. It was an advertisement from some map company, promoting shop owners to put their mark on map, and the decorating image on it looked extremely familiar. Then John realized it was a map of Old London he was looking into, and right in the middle of it he saw a giant eye. The name of street rendering the edge of eyelid read—Thread and Needle Street.

John froze, and mechanically he dialed the number of Lestrade while sight still fixed on the map.

"The eye," he said, "There must be something in that eye."

Lestrade promised him they would examine it again. In anxious waiting John couldn't get himself into work. At last he had to ask Miss Wooch to turn off all the appointments. The latter looked at him curiously, but said nothing. Then he found himself searching the case on the Internet. This effort was hardly necessary since all details of this case were hidden from media, yet John found most description of the dead body were surprisingly correct in details.

That was how it worked, he thought, when the call came.

"A diamond in his pupil, very tiny that we missed it. How did you know?" After a pause, Lestrade changed his question, "What does that mean?"

John looked at the Google map, there was a radius image right there, in the middle of the giant eye of Old London where the pupil should be.

"Leaden Hall Market." He said, "Check it, quick."

Lestrade's team was efficient. Before busy hours of Leaden Hall Market, policemen found 8 bomb under its roof, and 8 in its base. They made a second check, and a third one. Then the market was reopened. Everyone held their breath and waited.

Nothing happened; it was just another usual day of Old London and Leaden Hall Market. At the end of the day, John, Lestrade and everyone couldn't help to high-five each other.

Then Donovan commented, "You did learn a lot from that freak, didn't you?" She smiled.

John nodded but didn't smile, "I don't see this coming to an end."

His words swiped relieved look from everyone's face and a shaping plan of some celebrating drinks. Everyone looked so miserable now. Then John added, "But it buys us time to rethink what's going on."

He left the market when Lestrade followed him out, with Donovan and surprisingly, Anderson.

"What do you think of their next move?" Lestrade asked.

"I don't know, maybe an ear, or anything." John shrugged, "And I don't think we can stop the murders."

Before Anderson opened his mouth in disapprove, John explained, "Whoever the victims were, they are cold dead already." That stopped any further protest from them.

"So we could do nothing except for the next body turning up?" Donovan finally asked.

"Yes, hopefully we could have some time before it."

"Any specific idea?"

"Not yet." He shook his head.

There was silence. Then Lestrade began, "We are worried about you, John."

"What for?" He replied rather rudely. He didn't want to touch that topic, not for now, not at all.

"You know what we mean." They exchanged glimpse, "All the murders, they look like Moriaty's work."

In relief John almost burst into laughter, "Of course not, no way. He is dead."

"Yes." Donovan picked her word carefully, "But…"

"There is no 'But'," John examined the worried faced of 3 sergeants in turns, "Sherlock…" He said, and broke up himself. He couldn't believe he said that name so naturally just now after 12 months' efforts in avoiding voicing it, and trembled a little for the warmth and pain it brought him. Then he said the name again, his voice firm, "Sherlock…he makes…" John swallowed again. He would correct his grammar mistake, his picky and annoying flat mate. He just couldn't resist it, could he? "…made sure of it."

No one spoke for a moment. Then Lestrade said seriously, "But this obviously aims at you. The murderers knew we'd come to you for help. You are the only person hints could reach except for the police."

"And Moriaty tried to kill you twice, remember? Now he wants…" Sensing my look, Donovan changed the way she put it, "his party want to carry on again. That's logical."

"No." John found himself smiling, almost laughing, "I don't think any deathly killer would work for dead criminal leader, and do you guys never read papers? The details are posted in full and correct everywhere. The hints could reach anyone they are meant to…" Again, he broke up himself.

Four people looked at each other inquiringly.

"Who are they meant to reach, then?" Finally, Anderson voiced the question aloud.

John's heart began racing. Could the answer be what he desperately wished for? Part of him couldn't resist the lure thinking about it, the other part painfully reminded him what he saw on that day. Both ideas lingered in his mind for the rest of that day, and two days after that.

Day and night, when he closed his eyes, John saw the fall.