Chapter Three

Well, for those of you that guessed the answer to the riddle was The Empty Hearse, you weren't far off.

Sherlock ran up to the door of 23 Leinster Gardens and opened it, finding a piece of paper taped to the cement wall opposite the door.

Sherlock grinned as John joined him in the narrow corridor. "Leinster Gardens. The empty houses." He ripped the paper from the wall and read it aloud.

Congratulations on your first clue

Bet you wonder how I knew

There'll be time for that later

For now, here's a riddle that's greater

I lie in plain sight

Don't bother to hide my might

In order to find my land

The Iron Man might lend a hand

Sherlock looked up at John with a frown. "Iron Man? Surely they meant Iron Lady?"

"Unless they actually meant Iron Man," speculated John. He watched Sherlock's frown deepen. "Comic book superhero. He's part of those Avengers movies they're making recently."

Sherlock looked back down at the riddle. "Why would they mention him? Tell me about him."

"Erm…well…his name is Tony Stark," John began, thinking back to the last time he had seen one of the films. "He's a billionaire genius inventor who made an iron suit to fight crime, namely terrorists. He's a bit cocky—kind of reminds me of you, actually. He's played by Robert Downey, Jr."

Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing fits." He looked over the riddle again. "'Hide my might.' Someone powerful."

"Maybe it's literally talking about Iron Man," John suggested, pointing down at the paper. "'Plain sight.' Tony Stark revealed himself to be Iron Man; he doesn't have a secret identity like most superheroes. I think they have several Avengers figures at Madame Tussaud's. Maybe that's where—"

"No, too obvious," Sherlock cut him off.

John gave a sigh, looking back at the riddle. "'Find my land.' An address?"

"The address of someone with might," Sherlock agreed. "Iron Man…Iron Lady…" His face brightened. "Robert Downey, Jr." He looked at John. "Downing Street." He turned and rushed out the door.

Sherlock jumped out of the cab as John quickly handed over some notes and followed. The two of them negotiated with a guard at the edge of the gated road, and thankfully before long, they were escorted towards the door of 10 Downing Street, but they saw nothing out of the ordinary. They spent several minutes searching the surrounding area before Sherlock stopped right in front of the door, staring down at the welcome mat.

"What?" asked John, walking over.

Sherlock said nothing as he stepped forward and lifted up the corner of the mat, revealing a piece of paper taped to the underside. Gingerly peeling it off and then tossing the mat back to the doorstep, he retreated to the pavement to read it.

You're halfway there

But there's more to share

So, buck up, soldier

I've got another clue, mister

I watch over Queen and Country

Even if it is just case-interrupting tea

In the heart is where I tower

And hope we don't have another backfire

(Shame on me

That wasn't a very good rhyme)

"'Watch over Queen and Country,'" recited John. "Queen's guards?"

Sherlock was shaking his head. "'Case-interrupting tea.' 'Backfire.'" He turned to face him. "John, when have we ever had a case interrupted for tea?"

John nodded in realization. "The Hiker and the Backfire." He smiled, shaking his head. "'Buck up, soldier.' So, what, Buckingham Palace?"

"It can't be," said Sherlock. "We'd never get in there." He looked down at the riddle. "Something that watches over Buckingham Palace… 'In the heart is where I tower…'" He looked over at John. "Victoria Memorial." He turned and started running back towards Whitehall.

John tossed the last of his money at the cabbie and then followed Sherlock as they ran up the rest of The Mall towards Victoria Memorial in front of the Palace. Sherlock tore his way up the steps to the foot of the monolith, circling around it as tourists scrambled to get out of his way, their auras flashing in surprise. When he had made it 180 degrees around, he stopped and bent down to where a rather thick plaque hung on the side of the stone. He pulled the fake plaque off and turned it over in his hands before finding the hinges and opening it. He pulled the folded paper out and read it to himself before hurrying down to the street and over towards Canada Gate, where it was less crowded.

"What is it?" asked John when they had come to a stop to the side of the gilded gate.

In response, Sherlock shoved the paper at him before placing his fingers on his temples and closing his eyes, retreating into his mind palace. John looked down and read the riddle.

You're almost done

Oh, what fun

The game is almost through

Can't wait to meet you, too

An American, though I may be known

My home may be shown

I was called by many trades

You'll know me if you get good grades

John looked up at Sherlock. "An American?"

"Yes, an American who owned property in London," Sherlock answered quickly without opening his eyes. "Someone important enough to be learned about in school, someone who was skilled at many trades, someone whose home would now be a tourist attraction." He opened his eyes. "There are only two museums of American-owned homes: Dennis Severs' House and Benjamin Franklin House. Dennis Severs was in no way an important historical figure. Benjamin Franklin was."

Sherlock darted for Constitution Hill, heading for The Mall. "Taxi!"

The two of them ran to the front door of the building, but after several minutes, Sherlock was still unable to find anything.

"It doesn't make any sense," muttered Sherlock, his fingers to his temples in frustration. "There's nowhere else it could be." He began pacing, going over it all again.

John, meanwhile, looked towards the building and stepped inside, heading towards the reception desk.

The woman there smiled at him. "Good afternoon, sir. Here for a tour?"

"Actually, I was wondering if anyone dropped off an envelope or a package today," John told her.

The woman looked down below the desk and then back up at him. "What's the name?"

"Sherlock Holmes?" asked John, hope rising. "Or maybe John Watson?"

The woman shook her head. "No, sorry."

John nodded and started to turn away before pausing and turning back. "What about Molly Hooper?"

The woman's face brightened. "Oh, yes." She leaned down, picked up an envelope and handed it over.

"Ta," said John as he made his way back out to the pavement, where Sherlock was still pacing as he talked to John (or thought he had been talking to John).

"—so it could only have been those two," Sherlock was saying.

"Sherlock," said John.

"It couldn't have been Dennis Severs because the—" began Sherlock before John grabbed hold of his arm.

Sherlock's momentum spun him around, and John turned to face him as his eyes opened.

John held the envelope out to him. "Here."

Sherlock looked down at the envelope with Molly's name on it and then frowned up at John. "Where did you find it?"

"The receptionist," John told him.

Sherlock snatched the envelope from him, grimacing in frustration at himself. "Stupid!" He unfolded the paper inside and read it out loud.

So, here it is

The end of the quiz

Now, all that remains

Is to free Molly from her chains

You have all you need to solve the mystery

You just have to look back and see

You better hurry to the rescue

You have until half past two

John looked at his watch. "It's almost twenty past two."

"Oh, God…" muttered Sherlock as he paced. "Have all you need…look back and see…" He came to a stop and looked at John. "The riddles."

"Victoria Line, Leinster Gardens, 10 Downing Street, Buckingham Palace and Benjamin Franklin House," John recited, searching for a pattern.

"Nothing connects all five of them, so they must spell out the new location together," said Sherlock. His eyes darted this way and that over the pavement. "Ten minutes. God, it could be anything. What—"

"Sherlock," John told him firmly, grasping hold of his shoulders and looking him in the eye. "Focus."

Sherlock closed his eyes, and with an almost visible effort, pushed his emotions down. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. "Right. 10 Downing Street and Buckingham Palace are both related to the government and the monarchy. Victoria Line is only connected by name. Leinster Gardens and Benjamin Franklin House… Something's there. What is it? What?!"

John shrugged. "Leinster Gardens is one of your boltholes, but Ben—"

"My what?" said Sherlock, looking up at John with wide eyes.

"Your bolthole," John repeated, confused at the look of revelation on his face.

Sherlock spun towards the road. "Taxi!"

As soon as a cab pulled up, Sherlock and John jumped in.

"Parliament Square," Sherlock told the cabbie, flashing Lestrade's ID at him. "Police emergency. Hurry."

The cabbie pulled out into traffic, driving as quickly as he could.

"Parliament Square?" asked John.

"Downing Street represents Parliament," Sherlock explained. "The Palace, Leinster Gardens, the Ben Franklin House—I once jokingly told Mrs. Hudson that one of my boltholes was—"

"Big Ben," said John, nodding.

"Big Ben," agreed Sherlock. "At the Palaces of Westminster. That's where Molly is."

John tossed some notes from Sherlock's wallet up at the cabbie as they came to a swift stop at Parliament Square. Sherlock had already tossed the door open and was jumping out before it had come to a stop. John tore after him as Sherlock darted across the road, heedless of traffic as drivers laid on their horns. Sherlock raced along the pavement next to the Palaces of Westminster towards Big Ben. As he turned towards a door at the base of the tower, John glanced up to check the time, and his feet stumbled to a stop.

"Sherlock!" John called urgently.

John was certain that his horrified tone was the only thing that pulled Sherlock away from his quest to get to Molly. Sherlock ran over to John and looked up at the clock face, which read 2:25. They could just barely make out a small figure hanging at the bottom of the clock.

"Oh, my God…" John gasped out as Sherlock ran back for the door, shoving his shoulder into it several times before it broke open.

John rushed after his friend's frantic pace as he tore his way up the maintenance stairwell. John was desperate to check the time but knew that it would only slow them down. John had no idea how he was finding the strength to keep running up the many flights of stairs, but he knew that the adrenaline crash would leave him sore and aching for days.

About a quarter of the way up, they were joined by an officer who had given chase, and the man was yelling up the stairs at them as he ran to catch them.

Good luck, John thought. His military training had taught him how to push through exhaustion, and Sherlock…well, the terrified detective was already four flights ahead of him.

When he finally reached the top, Sherlock was already moving back and forth among the gears and mechanisms near the clock face facing Parliament Square, trying to find a way through the cluttered room.

John looked down at his watch: 2:29. He looked up, his eyes poring over the clock face. He spotted the hatch door near the middle, and from the angle where he was standing, found a catwalk that led to it. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked up at his pointing finger and raced over, jumping the railing onto the catwalk and shoving the hatch open. The wind blew through the hatch, nearly knocking Sherlock over just as the cop emerged from the stairwell.

"Oi!" shouted the cop, grabbing hold of John. "What do you think you're—"

John pulled away from the man, his eyes on the hatch as Sherlock leaned out. There was a great snap as a rope that was pulled taut among the gears broke, and a woman let out a short scream just before Sherlock spun back through the hatch and collapsed onto the catwalk, Molly held tightly in his arms.

"Oh, my God…" muttered the officer in shock as he let go of John, who collapsed against the wall in relief. The officer pulled the radio from his shoulder, calling for backup and disappearing into the stairwell.

John took a moment to catch his breath as he realized just how hard his heart was pounding from the run up the tower. He glanced over at the catwalk, where Sherlock was still holding Molly where they had fallen onto it. Molly's head was buried in Sherlock's chest as she sobbed and gasped, the pink in her aura flashing to fuchsia sporadically. Sherlock held her tight to him, whispering reassurances in her ear. John couldn't tell which one of them was shaking more.

John moved over to the end of the catwalk after a while as Sherlock finally sat them up, his hands on Molly's shoulders. John pulled his penknife out and handed it to Sherlock.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock urgently asked Molly as he opened the knife. "How much did they hurt you?" He grabbed hold of the rope binding Molly's wrists and started sawing at it.

"Just a blow to the head when he took me," Molly told him, her voice still a bit shaky. "And some rope burn from when I was hanging…" She broke off at the memory, tears falling down her face.

Sherlock hurried to cut through the rope and then pulled Molly towards him as she wrapped her arms around him. "You're safe now. It's all right. You're all right. It's all all right." Over her shoulder, his eyes clenched tight as a tear fell down his face.

John quietly stepped back and turned slightly away to give them privacy.

"I'm so sorry," Sherlock told her.

"For what?" asked Molly.

"This was all my fault," said Sherlock, easing back to look at her, his hands still on her arms.

Molly looked surprised to see the tears in his eyes.

"They used you to get to me," Sherlock told her. "If I hadn't gotten here in time…" His hands started to shake in his grip on her arms.

Although John had told himself to give them a little privacy, he found that he couldn't tear his gaze away from the sight of his best friend having what could only be described as an emotional breakdown.

"All this time, I've managed to fool them—Moriarty, Magnussen—all of them," Sherlock went on, starting to ramble. "This is exactly what I've been trying to avoid, and it was all for nothing. They still found you."

Molly raised her hands to his chest, grabbing hold of his coat to ground him. "Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

Sherlock shook his head, lowering his gaze and his arms. "It's too late. It's not important."

"No, I think it's very important," Molly told him, her aura starting to calm to its usual light pink and soft gold. "What have you been avoiding?"

Sherlock looked up at her, clearly struggling with himself. He finally let out a defeated breath. "Hurting you. My enemies would always be searching for my weakest point, and if they ever even guessed that it was you…" He waved vaguely around at the clock face. "That's why I push you away so harshly. Despite how much I hate myself for it, I'd rather it was me who hurts you than them." He looked sadly down at the floor almost in embarrassment.

Molly was silent for a long while. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because you've moved on," said Sherlock quietly. "After I dealt with Moriarty's network, I came back to find you engaged. By the time you broke things off with Tom, I was dealing with Magnussen and then Moriarty's return and Smith and Eurus, and…" He paused, taking a calming breath. "You've moved on now. I'm nothing but a friend for you."

Molly shook her head as she reached out and placed her palm along his jaw, bringing his head up to look at her. "You know, for a detective, you are surprisingly unobservant."

Sherlock frowned at her.

"It's not too late, Sherlock," Molly told him quietly.

Sherlock's frown eased slightly as he blinked in surprised. "It's not?"

"No," said Molly, shaking her head. "Never. I love you."

A smile appeared on Sherlock's face. "I love you." He reached up to cradle her cheek in his hand.

The next second, the three of them froze in shock as a bright light blossomed in Sherlock's palm, shining upon Molly's face. John's jaw dropped as he turned more to face them. Sherlock stared at his hand a moment before he slowly drew it back, turning it over and over as the white light dimmed and began changing.

"What…" said Sherlock breathlessly. He held up his other hand as it began emitting a dim light as well. "What's happening?"

"Sherlock…" whispered Molly, staring at the light on his hands in wonder, obviously having already figured it out.

"What?" Sherlock asked her.

Before Molly could respond, the light transformed from white to lavender to lilac to a deep, rich purple, and soft gold swirls began flowing and spiraling through it as it began rising past his wrists.

Sherlock's eyes widened in realization then as his jaw dropped. "It can't be…" He looked up at Molly as her aura's pink flooded through the swirling gold, shining in her love for him.

John had never seen this happen in person. The urban legend that only a soulmate could return the aura came from truth, but not the way society thought. The aura returned because the Aura-less felt deep love towards someone and could feel that deep love returned to them. True love—it was only this that could break through the life-alerting trauma they had sustained that had left them Aura-less.

The violet and gold snaked its way under Sherlock's sleeves as they watched and, before long, was emerging from his collar, flowing up over his head before it seemed to shine and project itself into an aura that surrounded him completely, just like anyone else's.

John stared at the deep purple—the color of nobility—as the gold—the color of purity—swirled lazily over it for another moment before speaking. "I thought you said you were born Aura-less."

Sherlock looked up at him, still shocked and now confused as he tried to remember. "I thought I was. I…" His gaze trailed off. "Oh…of course… I used to have colors." He looked down at his hands, which shown with his newfound aura. "But then I rewrote my memories."

John closed his eyes for a moment as it all became clear. "Eurus."

Sherlock nodded. "She didn't just kill Victor."

"She killed your soul," Molly whispered, reaching forward and taking his hand.

Sherlock looked up at her. "And you brought me back to life." He reached forward, wrapping his fingers around the back of her neck and leaning forward to kiss her.

John smiled and turned away to deal with the officers who had just arrived.

John walked over to Lestrade's office, and the inspector threw his arms up a little when he saw him.

"Finally!" said Lestrade as he emerged into the main office. "You guys haven't called since you were on your way to the Ben Franklin House! What happened? Did Sherlock find her?"

"Oh, he found her, all right," John told him.

Lestrade frowned at the grin on his face. "What are you so happy about? Besides the obvious."

John faintly heard the ding of the lift, and he glanced back in that direction before looking back at Lestrade. "You are never going to believe this." He then turned towards the doors, stepping out of Lestrade's view. He also gazed around the office quickly to see that Donovan was only a few desks away, standing talking to a colleague.

Good, he thought as he looked back at the doorway.

The next second, Sherlock came through the doors with his arm around Molly's shoulders, his other hand holding one of hers, and his aura shining his deep violet and bright gold for everyone to see. John enjoyed glancing around to see the Yard officers staring in shock at the usually Aura-less consulting detective, and then he looked over at Lestrade, whose mouth was gaping as wide as his eyes were.

But the real amusement came when Donovan glanced up at the sudden hush of the room and spotted Sherlock—the man she always called "Freak" due to his lack of aura. She stared in shock as Sherlock and Molly approached, and she seemed to inadvertently take several steps forward.

"Yes, Donovan?" asked Sherlock in a tone that warned her to watch what she said.

"You're…you're not…" Donovan muttered.

"Aura-less, no," Sherlock finished for her. "When I was a young child, my criminally insane sister kidnapped my best friend and drowned him."

Donovan's face—and aura—paled; she prided herself on her ability to comfort traumatized victims, especially because Sherlock did not.

"Needless to say, that was very traumatic," Sherlock finished. "Now, if you don't mind, Molly has had a very trying day, so…" He then steered Molly further through the room until they reached John and Lestrade. "Molly is here to give her statement and describe the man that kidnapped her. Quickly. Then I am taking her back to Baker Street to keep an eye on her concussion. Any questions you have later can be addressed there. And then…" he lowered his voice slightly as he looked down at Molly, "after you have healed, I intend to show you just how happy I am that you're alive."

Molly smiled, and then, in front of the shocked officers in the room, Sherlock gave her a long kiss.

Sherlock then broke away and looked over at them. "All right, Lestrade, let's get this over with."

John looked over at Lestrade and just about burst into laughter at the stunned look on his face. The man looked like he hadn't even heard Sherlock.

"Lestrade," prompted Sherlock in annoyance, waiting only a moment before raising his voice. "Greg!"

Lestrade blinked a few times and looked at Sherlock. "Hmm?"

"If we could move it along," said Sherlock. "Molly's injured."

"Uh…right, yeah…" said Lestrade, leading them into his office.

John smiled after his friend and chuckled, shaking his head, before going to follow.

"Did you know?"

John turned to see Donovan standing behind him.

"That's why you've been his friend, right?" said Donovan. "You knew he used to have an aura?"

John stared at her for a moment before dropping his head and shaking it. Even after finally seeing the man Sherlock kept hidden deep inside, she was still at it.

John turned his body to face her. "No, Donovan, I never knew until ten minutes ago when Molly brought his colors back. Neither did he."

Donovan frowned in confusion.

"He was so traumatized when he lost his best friend that he rewrote his memories. He had no clue he used to have an aura. You see, Donovan—" he went on in a raised voice as she looked like she was about to interrupt, "unlike you, I don't need to see someone's aura to know that they should be treated like a human being. You really shouldn't judge people at first sight." He turned and looked at Sherlock for a moment before glancing back at Donovan. "You never know what hidden depths they may possess."

And as Donovan's neon green dulled to an olive and then to a moss and her pink spikes grew as murky as a pinkish-purple storm cloud—which was a frankly horrific combination—John turned and marched into Lestrade's office.

THE END