Chapter Three - Darkness and Light

The room was dark and cold. The heating unit in the cheap hotel room was not working properly, which did not surprise the man. From the sagging satin sheet covered mattress to the scarred and scratched furniture, everything in the room was old and worn out. The room stank of cigarettes, stale booze and urine. It didn't matter. All that mattered to the man who called himself Jacob was the struggling form of the bound and gagged woman on the bed. She was young and pretty.

"Ah Emily," he sighed as he looked into her horror filled eyes. "You were the best," he assured her. "The others were nothing compared to you."

The girl whimpered behind her gag. He bent down and touched the smooth skin of her left thigh. Emily made an angry groan behind her gag and tried to shift away from his touch. She couldn't move far. The ropes tying her ankles to the foot of the bed and the ones securing her wrists above her head did not allow much room to maneuver. The man who called himself Jacob smiled. He could tell from her reactions that the light sedative he had given her to get her into the room unnoticed was wearing off. That was good. It was important that she be aware of the ceremony and what was happening to her. He pulled up a rickety straight-backed chair and sat beside her waiting. Only a few more minutes. She was about to become beautiful and very dead.

As he waited, the man who called himself Jacob felt the urge to talk, to reminisce. "I was fifteen when Father first allowed me to go hunting with him." He told Emily. "Father enjoyed hunting prostitutes. We would go late at night and pick up a girl. My father would tell her he wanted her to make a man out of me. Once we got to a hotel room, he would take over." The man who called himself Jacob frowned. "It was the only thing Father did that I did not approve of. I thought the prostitutes were dirty and disgusting. I liked what he did to them afterwards though."

The man who called himself Jacob went on in almost a reverent tone. "Father taught me everything. He made sure I understood how important it was to pay attention to details. By the time I was twenty, I was helping him with the girls. I didn't mind so much then that they were prostitutes." He looked down into Emily Pickerson's eyes and smiled. "Not that I ever thought of you as a prostitute, my love. You were a precious gift. I never dreamed you would be a virgin. Not in this day and age. You have given me what every man secretly desires. I will be your only one forever." He rambled on, declaring his love for her. His appreciation of her beauty. Small inane remarks to fill in the time. Sweet nothings to calm the girl.

When it was time, he stood and walked over to the small suitcase and donned the thin white MicroGuard coveralls. He carefully covered his face with the plastic shield and then picked up the knife, his father's knife and returned to the bed. Emily's eyes widened and she began to struggle in earnest.

"Because I was the first for you, I have decided to allow you to be my first. He held up the knife for her to see. I have killed before, but not with the knife, my father's knife." He looked down into her tear streaked face. He saw the moment she gave up and accepted her coming death. He wiped the tears away from her face. "Don't be afraid poppet, it will be over soon." He bent down and kissed the spot on her cheek that he had wiped the tears from.

The man who called himself Jacob thought he would be nervous, but the knife felt comfortable, as if he had done this a thousand times. Well, he had in a way, watching Father, and later in his fantasies. He was truly ready. With a quick slash he made a horizontal cut across Emily's body right below her breasts, and then quickly as the blood began to flow, he made a vertical cut from the midpoint of his first cut. Dragging the knife down her torso he ended the cut in a quick curve to the left. He stood back and surveyed his work. The cut in the shape of a large letter J was bleeding copiously. Ignoring the muffled screams, he quickly slashed both of the girl's arms from her wrists to her armpits and repeated the cuts on her legs from the groin to the ankles. Blood spurted everywhere as arteries were severed. It looked like a red water fountain cascading downward to soak into the bed in patterns like rose petals. Soon she was too weak to struggle, then the moans ceased as she lost consciousness. At last her breathing stopped and her eyes began to glaze in death.

He stood beside the body and held the knife over his head. "My name is JACOB!" he announced in a steady voice. No longer did he need to be the man who called himself Jacob. He was Jacob. And like his father Jacob and grandfather Jacob before him, he had a calling. Wiping the blood off his gloved fingers he positioned the card containing his latest verse on Emily's stomach. He idly wondered if Sherlock Holmes would be called in this time. If he was, Jacob was curious to see what he would deduce from the words. Apparently, no one else was clever enough to figure out what was going on. He had high hopes for Mr. Holmes however and looked forward to dealing with him in person one day soon. He glanced down at the card:

When I stare into your lovely eyes,

I see the anger held at bay.

While within, your darkness cries,

As death creeps close your way.

Jacob silently laid a single red rose on the body beneath the card and went to the adjoining bathroom and stripped out of the blood covered coverall. Carefully folding everything into a small duffle, he left the hotel. He was sated for now, but he knew it wouldn't be long before he would need to hunt again.

ɸ

Mycroft sat in the chair of the reading room of the Diogenes Club. He was supposed to be reading the newspaper he held in front of him, but actually he was thinking about a recent visit he had made to see Mummy.

Ten years ago, when Marie Venet Holmes had been Seventy-three years old, she had surprised her two sons by announcing her recent marriage to Jean Leflore, a French diplomat who had been attached to the embassy in London. In the intervening years much of her time had been spent in Paris with only occasional visits to her London home. Mycroft had seen little of Leflore, apparently they were still together, but he had retired and moved back to France and had not been seen since. Today at the advanced age of eighty-three, Marie was still going strong, making life difficult for anyone who disagreed with her. Hence, her invitation. Mummy was at her London home and wanted to see Mycroft. It was not a simple invitation, more of a summons really, and Mycroft had reluctantly gone. It went just about how he expected it to go. With the tea barely poured, she had launched into the subject of her concern.

"Why aren't you married by now Mycroft?" Marie stared at her son sternly.

Mycroft sighed, "Mummy we have discussed this already. You know I am sterile. At my age, there is no reason to get married just so we could adopt. It wouldn't be fair to the poor girl, even if I could persuade one to marry me."

"Nonsense." Marie said briskly. Forty-three is not old, and who said anything about you marrying a girl?" Don't you have some man friend hanging around somewhere?" She looked at her son expectantly.

Mycroft was shocked. For his mother to say such a thing to his face rendered him speechless.

"Mycroft, Mycroft," his mother said shaking her head. "Don't you know that a mother always knows? I've known you were gay since that time you invited the Williams boy to visit on holiday when you were fifteen."

Mycroft stared at his mother in consternation. "I didn't know I was gay for sure until I was twenty-three."

"Which goes to show you a mother always knows." Marie repeated. "Now do you have someone you would consider marrying or not?"

"No, I don't," Mycroft said, "and it's not that simple. A person in my political position cannot afford to flaunt traditional values so openly."

"Oh, come now, this is not the dark ages." Marie sniffed. "Gay couples marry all the time now."

"Not the ones in government, Mother."

Marie nodded thoughtfully, "Well then," she said, "we'll just have to find you a woman that wants a child and doesn't mind being hooked up with you."

"You make me sound like a worn out pair of work boots at a fancy dress ball." Mycroft complained.

"A mother must work with what she has. Now, let's see. Who do we know that could fit the bill? How about Bob Flinder's oldest girl, she's not married."

"That's not funny Mother." Mycroft said huffily. "Jeanette Flinders is as least sixty-five and you know it."

Marie smiled. "Don't dismiss her on account of age. I have it from very reliable sources that she thinks you are quite handsome. However in this case I quite agree. Jeanette does not have the temperament to be a good mother."

"Thank God for that at least." Mycroft mumbled to himself. "Mother, I think this has gone quite far enough. If there is nothing else you wish to talk about, I have several Important . . ."

"Sit down." Marie said sternly. There were no smiles about her now. Mycroft who had half risen to leave sat back down.

"I know," she continued. "What about your secretary, what's her name? I can never remember it. Every time I turn around she changes it."

"It's Anthea; and she is my assistant, not my secretary. You leave her alone, Mother. She is a good friend and I will not have you messing around, spoiling a perfectly good working relationship." Mycroft said heatedly.

Marie Lefleur watched her oldest son carefully. "All right," she said suddenly in a smooth voice, "no need to get upset. I'll tell you what, I will give you until Christmas to come up with a suitable match or I will begin to take steps."

"Mummy, this is ridiculous. I will have no part in this," Mycroft said sternly.

"You will, or I will take matters in hand. Christmas, Mycroft. That's my final word . . . unless you can guarantee an engagement announcement from your brother. Say, by Christmas?"

Mycroft snorted. "There is less chance of Sherlock getting married than I, Mummy. You know how he is. What woman or man for that matter could stand to be around him for a lifetime? You would have better luck having the pope announce that priests and nuns could marry as to see Sherlock wed."

"Doesn't he have that Doctor still rooming with him? You don't think they are cozying up together?"

"No, Mummy. Though for a while I thought they might be. Apparently they are just good friends." Mycroft said.

"Oh. Well what about the other Doctor, the creepy one that cuts up dead people? What's her name? Millie, Mindy, Mandy?" Marie asked.

"Molly," Mycroft said. "I don't think there is much hope there. Sherlock has been using her to get access to the morgue for his experiments, but I think that's all it is."

"Pity," Marie said. "It would have been nice to have a Doctor in the family. Well, you have your work cut out for you Mycroft. I want an engagement by Christmas from one of you. I don't care which."

"What brought this on Mummy? Why now for heavens sake?"

Marie shook her head. "I guess it all started when Sherlock faked his death. Life is short and none of us are getting any younger. I want to see you all settled before I die." Marie Lefleur pressed a hand against her head. "Oh dear. I feel one of my headaches coming on. I'd better lie down before it gets worse. You have no idea how much I worry about you boys. Thank you for coming over today, Mycroft." She stood up, leaned down and kissed his cheek. "Think about what I said," she reminded him and tapped his cheek with a finger as she stood and left the room.

Mycroft just shook his head. Mummy always had this effect on him. He had no idea how he was going to solve this problem.

ɸ

Molly looked up from her desk as Mike Stamford knocked on her door. It was late afternoon, and she had just finished filing the latest post mortem into the system. She was looking forward to her day off tomorrow. Mike was not alone. Standing beside him was a tall distinguished looking man. Molly smiled and motioned Mike to come in. She stood as the two men entered her small office.

"Molly I want you to meet our newest pathologist, Gary Morris. Gary, this is Molly Hooper, one of the best pathologists you are likely to ever meet."

Ignoring Mike's compliment, Molly smiled and held out her hand. "I'm pleased to meet you Mr. Morris."

"Make that Gary, please." Gary's large hand engulfed Molly's small one. "Tomorrow is my first day, but I decided to drop by today and meet everyone. I hope I will able to help with the workload." He smiled and slowly released her hand.

Molly looked at the man's handsome chiseled features. She took in his neatly combed blonde hair, broad shoulders, narrow hips, and the long narrow legs that ended in shiny shoes and the thought "Greek God" passed through her mind.

"I was rather hoping that you would take the time to show Gary the ropes, Molly," Mike asked with a sheepish grin. "I could show him but I'm sure you would do a much better job. That way you can cover not only the facilities but you would be able to go over procedures with him as well."

"Of course," Molly said. She glanced at Mike. "This is a pleasant surprise; I thought the open pathologist position was not to be filled until sometime after Christmas. We may actually get caught up on our reports soon."

"Yes, we are very lucky," Mike agreed. "It was a matter of him being in the right place at the right time I expect." Mike smiled blandly.

Molly looked at Stamford. What an odd response, she thought. "Shall I show him his office area? It will be Pauling's old one I assume, since he has been promoted to head pathologist?" Mike nodded his head in agreement.

Molly turned to Gary Morris and said, "Doctor Pauling is not here today. You'll be able to meet him tomorrow. I'll introduce you if you like."

"There's no need," Gary smiled. "I met him yesterday when I was interviewed for the job."

"Well, Gary, I'll leave you in Miss Hooper's capable hands." Mike clapped him on the shoulder in a friendly manner and left the room.

As Molly led him around the morgue, she learned that he was inquisitive and charming. She found out that he was single, only two years older than she, had two brothers and a sister, and that he enjoyed sailing, mountain climbing and hiking. He just seemed to rattle information off whether she asked for it or not. "He sounds too good to be true." Molly thought to herself. The man was likable enough. He was very friendly and attentive to her, but something about him sent Molly's radar buzzing.

As they finished the tour, they passed the lab. Molly saw that Sherlock was seated behind a microscope working with slides.

"Is that Sherlock Holmes? Gary exclaimed in an excited voice. Oh you must introduce me. I have wanted to meet him for ages."

"I don't think . . ." Molly started out, but before she could finish her sentence Gary had grabbed her hand and pulled her into the lab behind him.

"Sherlock," Molly said in a breathless voice, "this is Gary Morris, our new pathologist."

Sherlock looked up and ignoring the outstretched hand, stared at Gary Morris for a few seconds. He glanced at Molly and noticed her flushed cheeks and look of distress. Sherlock stood up as Gary Morris started to lower his hand and held out his own and grasped Morris's hand firmly. "Sherlock Holmes," he said simply.

The two men stood smiling at each other, neither one moving. Molly looked from one man to the other. Morris towered over Sherlock by several inches but somehow Sherlock had the larger presence in the room. She noticed Morris flinch a little and then relax as Sherlock released his hand. Neither man said anything.

Molly cleared her throat and started to say something, anything to break the awkward silence.

At the same time Gary broke in with, "Well it's been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Holmes." Gary turned to Molly and said, "I think I'll head down to my office and see if I can get it organized for my first day tomorrow." He paused for a second then asked in a confident tone, "How about meeting me this evening after you finish work and we'll go for some drinks or something?"

Molly blushed scarlet. She didn't want to go out with this man. She didn't know him and something about him bothered her. But Sherlock was standing there smirking at her and that mad her angry. Before she could think of a good excuse that would still save face in front of Sherlock, Sherlock ended it all by walking around and putting his arm around Molly. "Don't forget, Molly, we're watching a movie tonight," he said.

"Yes," Molly agreed, "I'm sorry Gary. Perhaps another time?" She winced as Sherlock's fingers pinched her side.

"Yes, well I'll be seeing you then." Gary smiled and left the lab.

"What was that all about?" Molly glared at Sherlock.

"Did you want to go out with him for drinks?" Sherlock asked in a lazy tone.

"No, but I was only trying to be kind. I do have to work with the man."

"Precisely, better he have a clear understanding of how things are Molly, than leading him on, allowing him to think he has a chance with you."

"How things are? What things Sherlock?" Molly asked exasperatedly.

"I can see I have neglected you too long," Sherlock murmured. "You once said that you needed time; that you wanted to go slow. Your words Molly, not mine. I think it's time we kick this relationship of ours up a notch and see where it goes, don't you?" With that he lowered his lips to hers and proceeded to kiss her as she had never been kissed before. It was if all their other kisses had been practice. This kiss was a whole different beast. At one point Molly felt sure she was going to faint. She was definitely light headed. Sherlock raised his head and looked into her eyes. Molly could see the hunger there, it frightened her with its intensity, but it also excited her. She knew this was what she wanted as well as Sherlock.

"Tonight, your place, seven o'clock," he whispered. "Don't cook, I'll bring take out and a movie." Molly nodded. He gave her a quick kiss and was gone.

After he had left, Molly grabbed a sheet of paper off a nearby table and began to fan herself rapidly. "Oh my," she said. "Oh my, oh my, oh my." It was some time before she was able to wobble across the lab to her office. Once she sat down, she didn't have a coherent thought for at least ten minutes.