Flyaway213: hm, ya know...those may be something akin to clues. I don't know. Lol. Keep reading!
Lucy36: thank you so much for all the awesome reviews on, like, ALL my stories. I'm glad you are enjoying them. Sorry it took all day for chapter three...hope you like it.
Ally: here be ch. 3! Hope you like it!
Juze: I know, poor kid. Like I said above, I can't tell you everything, cause that's just...well...not fair. Thanks for reading!
Magicstrikes: I promise it does go somewhere. Lol. Just may take a bit longer in this fic to get there.
Chapter three
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The man drove into the heart of London, his face contorted with rage. 'Must find another.' The voice in his head whispered. He shook his head violently, cringing at the harsh chuckle the voice had. He would find another. Find someone to replace her.
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Sherlock and John sat on the train to Waterloo. Sherlock looked out the window, clearly not gazing at the scenery. His fingers drummed against each other as he recalled the tingling sensation they had been exposed to earlier. John took note of Sherlock's new twitch. He sat next to him, watching the detective's fingers flex and move ever so slightly. Curiosity got the best of him.
''Sherlock, what is wrong with your hands? You've been moving them constantly since earlier this morning.'' John asked. Sherlock didn't seem to register what he was saying, merely responding with neutral answers.
''Hm? Oh, yes. Right.'' John looked at him again, a small smirk creeping up on his face. Whatever it was that caused Sherlock to be so distracted, it certainly had nothing to do with this case. They spent the remainder of the trip in silence.
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A few hours later, the train pulled into the station. The two men disembarked, and made their way inside. As they approached the ticket counter, Sherlock took in his surroundings. John pulled out a photo of the young Gaines girl. He showed the man at the counter.
''Oh yea, I remember seeing her here with her father just yesterday. She seemed rather ill, slumped over by his side. He mentioned something about motion sickness. Poor kid.'' The older gentleman explained. John looked to Sherlock.
''Could you give us a description of what the man looked like?" John asked. The man nodded his head slightly and began to describe the girl's ''father.'' It wasn't even a close match to Tom Gaines. The man in question was practically the polar opposite of Samantha's father. Large, standing approximately seven feet high. He was bald, grossly overweight, and had scars up and down his arms. Nothing like the clean cut business man from Soho. John thanked the clerk, and he proceeded to follow Sherlock outside.
''Where to now?" John asked, gazing up at his friend. Sherlock stood unmoving.
''I have no clue.'' He said, looking around the town's surrounding buildings.
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The man drove down the long street past a large white building. He slowed as he saw what he was looking for. A young woman with strawberry colored hair and slender figure walked from outside the building. She wore a canary yellow sweater and black trousers. 'She's the one.' The voice called to him from within. He reasoned with it as he saw the man escorting her.
''What about him?" He asked aloud, as he stared at the short, stubby man who walked alongside her. The voice spoke again. 'Disposed of easily enough. You've done it before. She's perfect. She's the one.' The man nodded as a grin grew on his face. He followed them down the street, and then followed behind the cab that carried them away.
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Sherlock and John had proceeded into town, asking a few of the locals if they had seen the young woman or the large man who was 'escorting' her. Few were helpful, which led to Sherlock's ever-growing frustration.
''Stupid. They are all stupid.'' He seethed as they walked out of a nearby tavern. John looked warily at his friend.
''Sherlock, perhaps he isn't a local. Samantha Gaines was the only one to disappear from anywhere outside of London. Perhaps the man got lucky, found her here, and took her before the train reached home.'' John tried comforting his friend's mind. He had seen Sherlock get frustrated before, when things did not go according to his plans. Sherlock merely grumbled to himself as they walked down the street.
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Molly's shift had almost ended. She was looking forward to going home and relaxing for the weekend. It had been the first time since her mother's death that she was free to do what she wanted with her time. Molly finished up the paperwork for the last cadaver, and filed it away with the other reports. She was preparing her things to leave.
''Oh, hey Molly. Didn't know you were still here.'' She heard a voice behind her. Mike Stamford stood in the doorway, smiling at her. She waved at him, before collecting the rest of her things.
''I was just leaving, actually. Unless there was something you needed.'' She started to put her bag back down, when Mike motioned for her to stop.
''Nonono, no need to do that. I was actually coming to make good on my bet that we had. You were right, it was the ruptured spleen and not the lung cancer that killed Mrs. Dresbow. I owe you a pint. And a Stamford is always good on his word.'' He explained. Molly smiled proudly, before playfully gloating.
''I told you! You forget, I do post-mortems all day, Mike. I can tell you what the last thing people ate was, just by looking at the stomach acid in their guts. Yes, you do owe me. Shall we?" She laughed, pointing a finger at him. He nodded, before holding the door open for her. The two walked down the halls of St. Bart's hospital, before exiting through the emergency ward's entrance. The sun shone down on them, as the walked up the street a ways. Mike stuck his arm out and hailed a cab. They climbed in, and the cabbie drove to Stamford's favorite pub.
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