Authors Note:

I'm so happy with the direction this story is moving in and I'm excited as I get new followers. I won't let you guys down, I swear. Just as little pre-warning/spoiler you may want to brush up on you knowledge of Shakespeare's Othello. It's not totally necessary but if you know it you may pick up on a little references here and there; some foreshadowing. It's going to play a crucial role in how some of my mysteries will play out!

Please don't forget to review and follow. I need them to flourish!

The Great Game – Part Four

Peter sat in the living room with his youngest daughter silently. Their tea had gone cold a while ago and their conversation has died with it. Peter had spoken some more to Beth, tried to reconcile for his actions and she was all too ready to forgive him. But being a Harper like she was, it wasn't in her nature to let him get off without a little bit of suffering. She'd drag on her reluctance until the end of the night and then there was no doubt they'd be back to speaking terms again. The Harper girls had a tendency of being hard skinned; almost immovable once they'd had their mind set to something. That was something they had gained off of their deceased mother, Heather.

Heather had been an exquisite woman. Funny, kind and courageous. She had the most gorgeous ebony skin in all of Europe, many would agree. Her long black hair had been just as envied; until the cancer struck. It had been a slow and degrading battle. Despite all of Heather's strength and optimism she didn't pull through. Beth and Ellen had visited her mother everyday in hospital as the end drew nearer, bringing her fresh flowers. Beth would tell stories of her police training while Ellen would read Heather's favourite John Donne poems. 'The Sun Rising' had been more frequently visited than most. But Peter was never in sight. The year previously, his government work became more important than his family, and with a heavy heart the two had separated. It had seemed like Peter and Heather And even though he had truly loved Heather he couldn't find it in himself to speak to her, he couldn't taint his memory of what she was in his mind. As pathetic of an excuse as it was, it was something that Beth had to come to terms with.

"I'm not a hero, sweetheart." He finally declared, "I'm your imperfect asshole of a father and I'm sorry."

Beth nodded in response and gave him a weak smile. She stood from the couch and began to collect the cups to wash up.

"I need to go over to Dave's he's got the solution for my contact lenses." She replied, eying her father's reaction in the kitchen.

"That's not code for-," Peter went to question.

"No, it's not code for sex dad." She grabbed her jacket and went for her scarf, "But I'm sure with all the stalking you've been doing you already know our code."

"Thankfully, I do not." Peter grimaced and almost looked like her threw up in his mouth a little bit.

"You can stay here. Or not. Just don't wait up for me to come back." Beth turned the keys in the lock, starting into the stairwell. Peter got to his feet to close the door behind his daughter when she turned back one last time, "By the way. She still looked like an angel, even if she was frail and had no hair."

Then Beth was gone and Peter let out a sigh of relief. He knew exactly what was going on, he had only hoped that it would be someone less important in his life. They should have taken his secretary or something. Taking Ellen was over stepping the mark. Peter reached into his pocket drawing out his phone and dialling the first number that came to mind; James Moriarty's number.

When the phone was answered, Moriarty's chilling laugh echoed. Peter felt his jaw clench as his thoughts were confirmed. The bombings and Ellen's kidnapping had indeed been the work of the consulting criminal.

"Jim, I want her back now. The bombing was impressive and you've made your point. I'll stay." Peter spoke first, he was not in the mood for Moriarty's childish games.

"You think this is about you Harper?" James snapped back, "Do as you please, quit. Run back off to serve Queen and country. I'll still kill you for it, but I have greater plans for this daughter of yours."

"If you so much as harm one hair on her head-,"

"Whoops." Jim chuckled, "Too late for that."

"I'll kill you, you son-of-a-bitch."

"I see where she gets her fire from. But insults and death threats will get you nowhere Peter. She lives as long as Sherlock Holmes solves my puzzles. But how about I cut you a deal?"

"I'm listening." Peter drew out.

"I'm going to leave her a puzzle, just one. If she works it out, she gets to come home and you and your family are free. You can leave and have faith in both your daughter's safety. I mean, her life is still in the hands of that dull detective, so if he slips up I'll still blow her to pieces. But maybe she can prove herself before his timer runs out."

"And what if she doesn't?" Peter dared to question.

"Then you, me and Nickolas Night can have a long chat about loyalty before I get him to blow your brains out." Jim chided, "Goodnight Mr. Harper. Don't let the bed bugs bite." And with that the familiar hum of the dial tone echoed in Peter's ear. But Peter was not nearly done. He had one more call to make tonight and a long overdue favour to cash in. Nickolas Night owed Peter a lot. Now it was payday.

vvvvvv

Ellen couldn't believe the predicament she was in. Back against a cell wall and furiously devouring a peanut butter sandwich, she would have killed to have a nut allergy. Maybe this madness could end. No. Ellen was stronger than that. She didn't want to die, not really. Perhaps her life wasn't as exciting as most people. She'd never travelled, or had many notable hobbies. She had been a plain nobody, until suddenly she'd been turned into a bear. Now someone was poking her with a stick and it wouldn't be long before she turned around and began her own rampage.

She had begun to build a profile of her kidnapper. He had a very peculiarly accent, if she was right he must have been Irish. There was a clear Dubliner flow to his words, not that that specifically narrowed down who he was. Ellen didn't know any Irish people, so he wasn't any associate of hers. He clearly liked to play games also. She had a strong feeling that the riddle he had given her earlier was not the last. If he toyed with Mr. Holmes like that, then why would anybody else be different. At the moment he was a mystery and shrouding himself in riddles and games made analysing him only that much harder.

She finished her sandwich and allowed her head to rest against the concrete, taking in one large breath. This man had a fancy for attention to detail, but like all puzzles, the trick of a riddle was always in the wording. The answer had to be staring her in the face. Ellen got to her feet and properly inspected the room. There was one light, hung from the ceiling, fluorescent bulb. The peeling wallpaper had a recurring image, a black and white ornate symbol. It was almost like some kind of flower. Upon closer inspection the wall had holes in it, like bullet marks. Of course, Ellen couldn't miss the big yellow smiley face of the far wall. She hadn't seen it before, being turned away from it, but now it was as prominent as ever. The floors were a cold concrete and the chairs in the room were stainless steel, bolted to the ground. No windows and no other doors.

Ellen even checked underneath the seats for possible clues. For keys… For something… For anything. Then as if the light bulb had metaphorically appeared over her head, she stood up tall and glanced over at the tray her sandwich had been slid in on. Lining the tray had been an old newspaper, which she hadn't noticed until now.

Ellen bent down and brushed the crumbs away with her hand. The paper had been dated back to several months ago and the headline read as follows: 'Night in Shining Armour. Minister Inducted as Secretary of State for Defence'. Ellen kept reading on.

"Night In Shining Armour. Minister Inducted as Secretary of State for Defence.

Earlier today Nickolas Night, Minister for Transport was promoted to Minister for Defence. The news comes in the wake of Minister Thomas Brady's resignation after several witnesses came forth claiming Brady's involvement in embezzlement and corruption which was confirmed in front of a magistrate last Tuesday.

Night was eager to take up the role and commented 'Brady's actions have been irresponsible and plainly unjust to the British taxpayers. 'I promise to restore voter confidence and stability through my new role and do what I'm supposed to. Keep this country safe'."

A plastered next to the headline was a picture of the smiling Minister Night. Ellen frowned out of confusion. On any other occasion she didn't really give a damn about politics, it caused way too many arguments in her household. But now she wasn't confused because she didn't know who the politicians were, in fact the exact opposite. Ellen knew Nickolas Night. He was an old family friend of her father's. She seen him at many family dinners and get-togethers, but what was really strange was the last time that she had seen the man. It was no secret that Ellen's father was deeply involved in the government. While he was not the face of it like Night was, she knew the two of them had worked closely for many years. She had remembered that evening ever so clearly. It had been the first time she had spoken to her father after her Mother's death.

Peter and Ellen had dinner reservations. It had been time for them to open up to one another and set things of their past aside, so Ellen had planned a nice dinner in an open place so both of them would be forced to keep their voices down. The screaming matches the Harper's created never ended in a victor. Period. Everything was picture perfect, until Peter arrived. He was pissed off his face, shouting and laughing at the top of his lungs. He couldn't contain a single thought. It had been twenty minutes in when Night had arrived with his wife, casually unaware. He tried to greet Peter when he saw the two but before any greetings could be exchanged, Peter was on his feet, fists flying. There had been reporters everywhere. Ellen couldn't even remember how it was possible for so many people with cameras to be in one place and any given time. Her father had begun to violently beat Night and the restaurant staff had been forced to step in and drag him off his bloodied friend. Ellen had never known what the fight had been about, whether it was her father's drunkenness or possibly something else at play. All she had known was that the next day her father had come back to her apartment to apologise and to tell her that he had been demoted because of his actions. Apparently, the secret service weren't fans of their men beating up public servants.

And now reading this news article, everything about Night had suddenly become very shady. She didn't read the article as 'Nickolas Night gets inducted by his own merit', it read 'Thomas Brady booted… replaced by slightly less sketchy Night'. A cold shiver passed up Ellen's spine and a lump formed in her chest. This wasn't the last newspaper she was going to get, that was certain.

"I see you've noticed my next clue." The voice jeered in her earpiece, jolting her upright, "Good on you."

"What does Night have to do with anything?"

"Everything…" the man said softly, "And nothing."

Ellen sat in her position, in silence. All she could hear was her own breathing as the hairs on the back of her neck began to prick. Something about the newspaper wasn't right. The grammar and spelling was all fine, but there was something deeper; unsettling. Her kidnapper was still one step ahead. That needed to change and quickly.

"I need you to make another call." The comment was demanding, like the fun and games had been stripped back. As the man spoke the door to her cell opened yet again and in walker Günther. In the big man's hands were two items; in the left a gun was gripped tightly and in the other was the familiar pink phone. Günther didn't make a sound but merely threw the phone in Ellen's direction, which she caught in air.

"Same rules as last time. You tell them anything, anything that I don't allow you to and Günther's going to put a lovely piece of lead through your pretty little skull."

Ellen gulped and reached for the phone, unlocking it and going straight to the only contact in its system. As she pressed call and pressed the device to her ear she couldn't help but feel slightly relieved. She didn't know why, but she did. Something about the consulting detective was soothing and more than ever, Ellen Harper needed that.

vvvvvv

The lights were swirling red and blue. The tape sectioning off the public from the bombsite was glowing luminescent, as Sherlock lifted it above his head and waltz on in. Instantly he was met by an array of shouting and officers trying to push him back behind the line.

"Sherlock!" John was shouting behind as he finally caught up, ducking under the tape as well.

"No civilians." Two officers tried to push them back as Lestrade finally caught sight of the ordeal and marched over.

"It's okay mates. Let 'em through." He commanded and the two officers scowled but did as he asked.

To put it lightly, Lestrade was a mess. He had bags under his eyes and a look on his face of utter dejection. In the force, there was always good and bad days. There was fantastic chases and mysteries to be solved, those were the reasons why Lestrade didn't completely appose the idea of Sherlock's and his deductions. But then there were days like today, where everything went from shit to more shit, until everything around was a giant pile unbearable choking shit. There were things that Lestrade had seen in this line of work that haunted him when he closed his eyes and now there was just one more thing to add to that terrible list.

Greg still had a inkling of hope, call it foolish, but he did. Everyone on site could see, most especially Sherlock Holmes, and it was that reason that when someone declared they'd found a body that Lestrade could have swooned.

"Alive?" he pivoted on his heel and ran towards where the shout had come, Sherlock and John in close tow. Below, amongst the rubble were members of the bomb squad, pulling at the broken pieces of concrete as quickly as humanly possible. Out the bottom of a large slab was a foot, the black heeled pump barely gripping onto it.

Sherlock was taking it all in, perplexed by the mystery that this bomber had created. He couldn't tear his eyes away as the final pieces of rubble were removed and the girl's body sat lifeless on display.

"Jesus." John stepped back with a sigh, averting his eyes. Lestrade had had a similar reaction to John's only a tad more dramatic. At the reveal, he too looked away. A heavy breath left his chest and he struggled to capture more air. His brows contorted with confusion, anger… sadness. As he let his mind process the information the anger grew more prominent across his face. He stood still, his lip curling in distain. His breathing labored as he struggled not to beat the shit out of someone.

But Sherlock's eyes stayed locked on. It was a gruesome sight, whatever was left of Ms. Harper wasn't much to go on. Her face was deformed due to the impact of the explosion, there was holes where shrapnel had ripped through her soft flesh and blood continued to leak from every crevice the woman had. But it was as Sherlock inspected the body further that he drew one straightforward conclusion. This was not Ellen Harper.

"Arhhhh!" Lestrade screamed and belted the side of a paramedic van with his fist. Its bang echoed across the scene and the crowd watching on went silent, "This is my fault."

"Greg…" John stepped forward to try and comfort the other man, "This isn't your fault in the slightest."

"No, not at all!" Lestrade said, throwing his hands in the air, "How am I supposed to do my job properly when I can't even keep the people in my command safe, let alone an entire city?"

"Don't make a fool of yourself." Sherlock turned to him with a scowl on his face. Lestrade's head swung quickly in his direction as his feet took off too.

"How dare you." Lestrade held his fists forward.

"It's not Ms. Harper." Sherlock said dryly and Lestrade came to an immediate halt.

"What?" Lestrade's jaw dropped.

"Must I repeat myself? I thought I was clear." Sherlock rolled his eyes, a scoff sat at the back of his throat ready to be unleashed.

"Wait, what are you talking about?" John asked, confused. Like a cue, that scoff was released into the night and Sherlock's famous eye roll was an added bonus.

"Look at her clothes." He pointed back to the body, "It's almost an exact recreation of her outfit but look at the length of the skirt. Ms. Harper had a skirt an inch longer than the one on whoever that lady is. I'm sure once you get the body back for examination you'll find that indeed it's someone else."

And just to add to more of the drama of the moment, the pink phone that the bomber called from sounded a text alert. Sherlock swiftly pulled it from his pocket, and the screen read 'YOU HAVE ONE NEW MESSAGE'. Activating the phone there was the sounded for three clear Greenwich pips and one long one.

"Four pips." John stated as the men all looked at one another.

"First test passed it would seem, here's the second." Sherlock replied as a photo came up on the screen on the phone; A close-up of a car with it's driver's door open and number plate clearly visible.

"It's abandoned wouldn't you say?" Sherlock deduced.

"I'll see if it's been reported." Lestrade whipped his own mobile out and began to frantically dial. Sherlock craned his neck forward to get a closer look at the image when an incoming call took over the device instead. John looking on, became perplexed, staring at Sherlock for some kind of answer. Sherlock nodded and put the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

"It's okay you've gone to the police." A woman's voice spoke through the speaker. Sherlock felt a wave of relief wash over him as he recognised the voice. It was indeed their little kidnap victim, risen from the dead, "But don't rely on them."

"Have they hurt you?" Sherlock said softly, needing to test a theory.

"Clever you, guessing about Carl Powers." She continued on, ignoring his question. She must have been prompted by something or someone, "I never liked him. Carl laughed at me, so I stopped him laughing."

"You've stolen a voice, you really should give it back." Sherlock prodded.

"This is about you and me." At this line Ellen sounded very put off. For most of the call she had been reasonably well composed, something that Sherlock had underestimated.

"Who are you?

"Wouldn't you like to know." Ellen's voice rung with an eerie quality that wasn't her own. Suddenly Sherlock felt a great sense of unease in his gut, everything was very much real. This wasn't but a simple game anymore.

"You solved my last puzzle in nine hours. This time you have eight and while you try to solve it, she'll be solving mine."

Lestrade stepped forward off his phone with a relieved look on his face, "We've found it."

And Sherlock's phone went dead, the beeping hollow and foreboding. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and nodded in Lestrade's direction,

"He's still got her, we've got eight hours."