Chapter 4

Constable Fitzhugh had been as good as his word. By the time Greg finally got back to the yard the files on his newest victim were there waiting for him. Felicity's real name had been Jemma Pierson. Her mug shots showed a woman who had been rather pretty once but at 28 was starting to show the ravages of the life she led. Her hair had been badly bleached from her natural brown to a very unnatural blonde and she wore far too much makeup to cover the shadows under her eyes and the lines that had already begun to dig themselves into her face.

Nonetheless, there was something about the slight smile she had, even when going through the procedure of arrest that suggested someone who had retained her sense of humour despite it all. Her record was long but fairly monotonous: solicitation, possession, more solicitation, more possession. No violence or anything like it. Jemma Pierson had been a danger to no one but herself. Even then, the reports of arresting officers and prison guards all gave the picture of a clever woman with a sharp, sarcastic sense of humour. The kind of person you couldn't help but like even when you were arresting her, exactly as Fitzhugh had described.

Like Cynthia before her, Felicity had had no pack. She'd used the standard suppressants to repress her heats and used her omega status to her advantage in her profession. She'd sometimes been homeless and sometimes had enough for a flop house or a room at a pay by the week hostel. There was no family. The only difference here was that Felicity seemed to have a great many friends and regular clients. She'd been arrested once in the process of buying heroin from one of her suppliers. The man had been taking in along with her and had spoken of her with obvious fondness.

As Greg pinned up her mug shot on the white board in the conference room he'd commandeered for this investigation, he felt unaccountably depressed by it all. It wasn't that he was usually unaffected by the murders he investigated. He was always affected. But there was something about the tragedy of Felicity's entire life, ending as it did at the hands of someone who clearly didn't even see her as a person, that got to him. She smiled slightly out of her picture now, unaware of the gruesome fate in store for her. A fate horribly illustrated by the crime scene pictures displayed next to her. On other side of the board, 16 year old Cynthia smiled shyly out of her own picture, next to the images of a ravaged body and a pile of internal organs.

He had to shake it off though. He didn't have time for this.

Jones sat at the table, going through the list of Felicity's known contacts just in case. Farther down the table another senior officer plugged away on a laptop, looking again for any like crimes. Greg had done such a search when they'd found Cynthia's body and he doubted there'd be anything to find this time. But procedure was procedure.

A quick breath, not quite a gasp, caught his attention and he looked toward the door. Donovan stood there. As the newest member of Greg's team it had been her Jones had sent to fetch coffee for them all. She'd left before Greg had put up the pictures and as she'd been canvasing the neighbourhood this morning and hadn't been a member of the team two months before, she'd never seen just what had been done to these two women.

"Pretty, isn't it?" he asked with sympathy.

Donovan straightened up, clearing her face of the shock of the moment before. Coming forward she quickly handed the other two officers their coffee before coming over to Greg and handing him his. He accepted the cup gratefully. Yard coffee was horrible stuff, but he needed the boost too badly to forgo it at this point.

Greg nodded toward the board. "What do you think?"

He hadn't really got the chance to get the measure of his newest officer yet. Though he appreciated her earlier display of backbone in the face of Sherlock's petulant wrath.

She folded her arms over her chest, studying the pictures. Her eyes were narrowed in concentration, the earlier horror gone.

"They're both omegas, right?" she asked.

"Yep," Greg answered, pleased that she now seemed entirely focused on the problem of the investigation. She'd felt the deaths when she'd come in, that was obvious. Something he wanted from any of his officers. But she was clearly able to put that aside to do the job. Another thing he expected from those under his command.

"So what's his angle then?" She seemed to be speaking to herself as much as to Greg. "Is he just completely obsessed with omegas in general or has he got a thing for the ripper or both?"

Greg nodded, pleased. "I've been wondering the same myself. In this case, I think it's more the first than the second. Our second vic was a known prostitute, sure, but we have no evidence that she'd been working last night."

"Right," Donovan nodded. "And based on where she was killed that kind of seems unlikely. That's not the kind of place you'd take a john. What about the first? I haven't had a chance to look at the file yet. Was she a pro?"

"Not really," Greg answered. He moved over to the table and pushed Cynthia's file toward Donovan who had followed him. "She'd only been on the streets for about two months and while we have information that she'd tricked a couple of times, she wasn't what anyone would call a professional."

"Just a runaway kid," Donovan said, flipping quickly through the file. "And she sure wouldn't have been tricking where she was found any more than the first second one would have. All the ripper murders were done while the women were working the streets, crimes of opportunity. Not here. Think they were selected beforehand, stalked before they were killed?" she asked.

"It seems the most likely scenario," Greg confirmed.

Greg exchanged a look with Jones who nodded slightly in approval. This new officer was definitely going to be an asset to the team.

~ 0 ~ 0 ~ 0 ~

It was almost two weeks later when Jones caught Greg on his way back up to his office from questioning a suspect in a standard burglary gone wrong.

"Sherlock's been arrested at one of Bradstreet's crime scenes. He was booked about ten minutes ago."

Greg rolled his eyes. Still, he'd wanted to talk to the kid about what he may or may not have heard regarding what the papers were already calling the Millennial Ripper. Greg's team had been doing their best but the prostitutes, homeless and junkies who had been those most likely to know anything in this case weren't generally eager to talk to the cops. Sherlock, as one of their own, was far more likely to get the information they needed. Greg hadn't seen him since Felicity's crime scene though and so hadn't had a chance to ask him. It was damn inconvenient not to be able to contact Sherlock himself.

If he got down to the cells quickly enough he could talk to him before whoever it was who always got him out arrived.

He nodded his thanks to Jones and headed down.

Sherlock sat on the bench at the back of one of the holding cells. He'd drawn in his knees up to his chest and was staring unhappily at nothing.

"What did you do to Bradstreet?" Greg asked. If anything, Greg had begun to think that the other DI might be considering making use of Sherlock as Greg himself had. She'd come by only a couple of weeks ago to ask what kind of help the kid was and had seemed genuinely impressed by what Greg had shared.

Sherlock shrugged, not looking up. "She objected to the fact that I was high and said she'd talk to me when I "sobered up". As if my deductions would be any more valid an hour from now than they were at the scene."

Greg leaned against the bars of the cell, watching the kid. Clearly he was coming down from the high, staring into space as though he were somewhere between being asleep and awake without the manic energy he'd probably had earlier.

"I'd have kicked you off my crime scene if you'd turned up high too," he said. "We might not be able to stop you from using but we sure as hell aren't going to have it shoved in our faces either."

Sherlock gave him a sour look.

Before Greg could say any more an officer showed up.

"Looks like you're getting out," he told Sherlock. "Someone's upstairs finishing up the paperwork as we speak."

Greg moved away from the cell as the officer unlocked it.

"That was fast. Who's doing the paperwork?" Greg asked, realising he might finally find out just who it was who kept getting Sherlock out of jail like this.

The officer shrugged, clearly not particularly interested. "I was just sent down to get him."

Greg nodded and followed them as the officer lead an unusually subdued Sherlock out of lock up.

At the duty sergeant's desk a young woman waited in a crisply fashionable suit. She looked cool and a collected and nothing at all like Sherlock.

Sherlock did not seem either surprised or pleased to see her.

Greg stepped forward.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

She eyed him for a moment before nodding to him. "Detective Inspector, my name is Antonia. I'm here to make sure the paperwork to release... Sherlock goes through.

Like hell your name is Antonia, Greg thought. Also, there had been a slight pause before she'd said Sherlock's name as though she'd been about to call him something else first and then thought better of it.

He snatched paper on the desk beside the desk sergeant and looked quickly through it. It was signed by the Detective Chief Superintendent.

Who the hell had the power to do that? Why would the super care about some junkie Bradstreet had picked up?

Just as he was wondering, Bradstreet stormed into the room, clearly furious. "What the hell is going on here?"

A tall woman with short blonde hair and a no nonsense attitude Jane Bradstreet was the DI Greg most enjoyed working with of all their colleagues. She was straightforward, intelligent and had a wicked sense of humour. It was unusual for a beta to rise as high as she had at so young an age and she'd got there by solid police work and an impressive arrest rate.

Greg handed her the forms releasing Sherlock from custody and she swore.

"Who the hell are you?" she asked "Antonia". She received the exact same answer as Greg had. Word for word, in fact.

Antonia then turned to Sherlock who had been unaccountably silent throughout the exchange staring at the woman with a petulant expression. He looked pale and about to drop. The cocaine was well and truly out of his system now and the crash had to be hitting the kid hard.

"Well you sure as hell aren't making off with him before I…" Bradstreet began.

Antonia pretended not to hear her. She spoke to Sherlock for the first time. "If you'll come with me, there's a car waiting."

Sherlock seemed to pull himself with difficulty out of the funk he was falling into.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," he snapped with something like his usual acerbity.

"He's not going anywhere with anyone until I have a chance to talk to him," Bradstreet said marching over to stand between Antonia and Sherlock.

She was taller than Antonia and, to Greg's eye, far more attractive. Antonia's more ripe curves were far from unappealing but there was something about the smaller woman that put him off. She was too poised, too certain of herself to the point of smugness. She was far too certain of herself when faced with an angry DI. Which meant that whoever was behind her has some serious clout. As if the super's signature on the order to release Sherlock wasn't enough sign of that already.

Who the hell had that kind of power and influence? And when had he wondered that exact same thing not that long ago? And he had wondered about it. He was sure of that. Something else had happened that involved someone with a lot of power…

Then he remembered.

"Do you work for Holmes?" he demanded from Antonia, interrupting Bradstreet who had been reading the other woman the riot act. Bradstreet was not usually so volatile and he wondered what had put her in such a temper. It wasn't just this.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock's head snap up. There was only a momentary look of surprise on Antonia's face. There and gone quickly as she schooled her features back to impassivity. Still, it had been there. And that explained how she'd known who he was. It was her boss who'd been accessing his records. He tried not to grind his teeth.

Greg stepped forward. "I'd like you to tell Holmes that I don't appreciate someone going behind my back. If Holmes wants to know about me…" he paused, uncertain whether Holmes was male or female and decided to play the probabilities. "He can come and bloody well ask me himself."

Antonina eyed him coolly for a moment before nodding. "I will pass the message along Detective Inspector."

She looked back to Sherlock who just snorted.

She gave them all a cool nod before turning and leaving.

"What the hell was that about?" Bradstreet demanded.

"We'll talk in my office," Greg said. "Sherlock, you're coming too."

For once in his life Sherlock didn't argue.

Once in Greg's office Sherlock dropped into one of the visitor's chairs watching Greg with a look of serious trepidation, like he was suddenly unsure of him. Why, though, Greg couldn't imagine.

Bradstreet shut the door behind her and turned to eye Greg. "Alright," she said taking a deep breath before leaning against the wall. "Who's Holmes and what the hell is going on here?"

Greg shook his head. "I have no idea. All I do know is that someone accessed all my records not long ago. And I mean all of them. Records, case history, officer evaluations… everything. All DCI Chamberlain could get was the name Holmes, but when he tried to find out who that was he couldn't seem to get anywhere. It's a name that clearly commands obedience but just as clearly shuts everyone's mouths damn fast. When I was wondering who'd have the pull to get the super to sign off on something like this…" Greg shrugged. "It was a gamble but it paid off."

They both turned to look at Sherlock who had slumped down in the chair. The tension of a moment before was gone as though Greg's explanation had relieved him.

"Sherlock?" Bradstreet asked.

Sherlock said nothing for a long time, staring at the carpet at his feet.

"He works for the government," Sherlock said at last. The two Detective Inspectors waited but nothing more was forthcoming.

"I think we got that much," Bradstreet said, taking the seat next to Sherlock's. "What does he have to do with you?"

Sherlock shrugged. "He... I'm a genius. He wants me to work for him."

That, Greg was sure, was less than half the story. Not that someone within the government having their eye on Sherlock would be a shocking idea, but this was far more than just a recruitment attempt.

Sherlock sat up slightly and looked at them both. "That's all I'm saying. He's… he has power. He's dangerous. You don't want anything to do with him."

"Well, it's a little late for that," Greg said. "He's been in my business ever since I started working with you."

Bradstreet groaned. "I guess that's something for me to look forward to. Joy."

Sherlock seemed to take a moment to process what she'd said. He blinked at her before pulling himself together with clear effort. The smirk he gave Bradstreet didn't have a half of its normal smugness.

"It's taken you long enough to…"

Bradstreet cut him off. "I went through what you gave me at the scene and what I could look into of it so far checks out." She pulled a PDA out of her pocket. Unlike Greg, who preferred his old-fashion notebook, Bradstreet was a gadget freak. "What else?" She gave Greg an apologetic look. "Sorry but I want to get what I can before he's totally useless."

Greg nodded agreeably waving at her to continue while Sherlock sputtered that he was never useless.

It took only another ten minutes for Bradstreet to get what she needed from Sherlock. It was an odd robbery, someone had managed to get into a jewellery store and make off with a lot of jewellery in the middle of the day with no one seeing anything. Just the kind of thing that would catch Sherlock's interest.

When she was done she looked to Greg again. "So, what should I expect from this government agent?" she asked.

Greg shrugged. "All I know is what I've already said. He got his hands on all my records, and I mean all of them. Even the stuff that no one outside of the yard is supposed to have access to. He went over Chamberlain's head to do it and he's pissed as hell about it. That's all I know."

Bradstreet sighed. "This is going to be fun." She turned back to Sherlock. "If you ever turn up at one of my crime scenes high again I'll ban you from it. And don't think I can't. But as long as you're sober, we can see how this goes. Do me a favour though. When you do show up, just tell the uniforms holding the scene who you are and to have them tell me that you are there. No more of this sneaking onto the scene business. If I want to keep chain of evidence I have to know who was where on scene at all times. It's bad enough I'm letting you on. If it gets out in court that there was unauthorised personnel on scene without us knowing exactly where they were and what they were doing at all times then any and all evidence gathered at that scene could be called into question. And I'm bloody well not going to see some murderer go free because you're arsing about. Got it?"

It was more or less the same agreement Greg had been trying to work out with the kid. Although, in his case he'd found waiting to see which uniforms caught him trying to sneak on and which hadn't was informative.

Sherlock looked petulant, but finally nodded before going back to staring at the carpet, glassy eyed.

The two Detective Inspectors eyed him with concern. They both knew the kid well enough to know that this was very, very wrong.

"He always like this when he's coming down?" Bradstreet asked, getting up to leave.

Greg shrugged. "I don't know. I've never actually watched him come down before."

"I do so love being talked about as though I'm either deaf or absent," Sherlock snapped, a bit of his usual self showing through.

Bradstreet turned toward the door, not entirely able to hide the amused smile. "I'll see you later, Greg," she said. "And you Sherlock."

Greg gave her a nod.

She shut the door behind her when she left and for a while Sherlock and Greg sat in silence.

Greg turned in his chair to look out the window behind him. Evening was falling quickly and the wind had clearly picked up. There had been some flurries during the day but it was snowing in earnest now. He made a face. They were supposed to get as much as two maybe even three inches by morning and the temperature was going to plummet. By now the homeless shelters around the city would already be filled to capacity and it was going to be cold out there with the wind on top of freezing temperatures.

He sighed. Ann was going to kill him.

"Come on," he said, getting up. Sherlock looked up clearly wary.

"Where?" he demanded.

"Look," Greg said pulling on his coat. "It's going to be bloody cold out there with heavy wind and snow. There's no chance in hell at getting a place in one of the shelters this late in the day and you're coming down from one hell of a high. If you think I'm going to let you go off in this to freeze to death in some alley somewhere you're out of your mind."

"I don't need your charity," the kid snapped.

"Good," Greg snapped right back. "Because you're not getting it. I need you for this damn serial killer case. And if having you as a resource for it means putting you up for the night so you don't freeze then so be it."

Sherlock didn't get up, just eyeing the DI and Greg wondered what he was seeing. It was often hard to tell with Sherlock just how much he could see. Sometimes it felt like he could read your thoughts but there were other times when he simply failed to understand the strangest things. More than once when Greg had brought up the fact that he knew of good rehab centres Sherlock had snapped back that either he wasn't going to owe Greg any favours or that he could solve Greg's cases perfectly well as he was. As though the only reason Greg would want to help him was to have Sherlock owe him or to protect Greg's access to Sherlock's deductions. For all his brilliance he seemed honestly incapable of realising that Greg was worried about him.

He liked the kid, God help him. Lord knew what that said about him, but he did. He didn't want to see him dead either by freezing to death or overdosing and he sure as hell didn't want to see Sherlock destroy exactly the things that made him so incredible.

"Also, I need to pick your brain about the case and I'm too hungry to sit about here while the snow gets deeper and my dinner gets colder. The roads are going to be bad enough now. I don't want to know what they're going to be like in an hour or two."

This seemed to satisfy Sherlock. As long as the primary motivation for things was entirely selfish, Sherlock was far more comfortable with it than when there was anything altruistic involved. It made Greg wonder about his background. What kind of family had the kid come from that he couldn't see honest concern when it was right in front of him?