Sherlock sat next to Etheldrea on the sofa with a piece of paper that was written up like a contract in his hands. The two of them took turns reading off the main bullet points.
"I have the right to exclude you from certain cases." Sherlock said.
"Agreed. However, the rules are subject to change." Etheldrea replied.
"Agreed. Before that happens, we need to sit down and talk about it."
"Three days to finalize everything."
"Agreed. Now, sign the bottom."
She signed, and so did he. Then Sherlock folded it, put it in an envelope, and stuck it on the fridge.
"There, now it's official." Etheldrea said, "We are a team."
Sherlock smiled, "We are a team."
Etheldrea was on the sofa, trying to read a book, but her mind was in other places. All good things come in threes, and you've only had two. The note bothered her. A card and a photograph of some woman were all she had to go one. No prints, no DNA, nothing she could use to figure out who sent it to her, and may be threatening her.
Sherlock and John had been gone for over three hours, and she had managed to avoid them while she was at Bart's. They were dealing with the bomber case, and her dad was trying to keep her as far away from it as possible. In the meantime, she had her own mystery to solve. Waiting was an absolute torture, but it was all she could do now.
"Ethel dear," Mrs. Hudson asked as she walked in, "There's been a slight problem downstairs."
"What's wrong Mrs. Hudson?" she asked, standing up.
"See, I was trying out a brand new dessert recipe, and I don't quite understand the instructions. Would you be willing to come help me figure it out?"
Etheldrea smiled and nodded eagerly. The old woman smiled back and they headed downstairs. In the past, this happened anytime Sherlock was away on a case and couldn't take Etheldrea along. Mrs. Hudson would search for a special treat to make. Often she'd pretend she didn't know what to do in order for Etheldrea to help.
Down in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, Etheldrea looked over the recipe for chocolate lasagna. From the cupboards, she pulled out a glass dish, mixing bowl, rolling pin, and a plastic baggy. Mrs. Hudson grabbed the Oreo cookies and butter. They set to work, chatting happily.
As Etheldrea squashed the now fine cookie crumbs into the dish, Mrs. Hudson laughed, "It looks like your hands are covered in dirt."
"At least I'm not treasure hunting treasure this time."
"Oh, I remember watching you and your father run around the garden at times. Both of you pretending to be pirates, and then walk back to the house covered up to your elbows in dirt and grass. You had the biggest smile on your face, and it dropped the moment your father mentioned bath time."
Etheldrea laughed, "Yeah, I always hated that."
"Do you remember when I hid the little basket in the yard, and looking for it, you climbed that tree and fell into the mud? You were covered from head to toe, and your father held you as far away as possible."
"And then I squirmed out of his hands and ran around the house. I think that rug upstairs still has a few flecks of mud on it."
"Those were the days. Now you're always running about with your father and John."
"Except for now." Etheldrea mumbled with a bit of disdain.
She placed the glass pan in the fridge as Mrs. Hudson began the second layer.
"Ethel, you know why." Mrs. Hudson said, mixing cream cheese and cool whip together.
"I know, and I understand, but I think it goes against our pact."
"Is the pact really more important than making sure your safe?"
"Dad's not safe, and maybe I can help. If he would give me a chance, and something to do. So far, he's kept John and me in the dark on what's happening. He's having us instead solve Uncle Mycroft's problems. I just, I just want to help."
Etheldrea grabbed the glass pan form the fridge so they could pour the cream cheese and cool whip mix. Then she started making the third layer, chocolate pudding.
"Maybe you're helping him by helping you uncle."
"I don't want to help Uncle Mycroft though. If he stopped eating for one moment to actual get up and move, he'd have had it done by now, I'm sure."
"Maybe your grandmother can nag him." Mrs. Hudson teased.
Etheldrea laughed, "I'm so sure he'd listen to her. Grandma just loves him too much to nag."
"Then I suppose we'll have to. We can start by making sure he doesn't get any of this treat."
Etheldrea glanced up from pouring pudding on the dessert as her phone rang. After setting it down, and letting Mrs. Hudson put the final layer of cool whip and chocolate chips on top, she washed her hands. Then she checked her phone.
She wouldn't dare. – MH
Etheldrea laughed again, "It's Uncle Mycroft. He doesn't believe you."
"Tell him to stop sending you and your father into danger, and I'll consider it."
Done. – MH
Etheldrea shook her head and texted her dad, Uncle Mycroft's gone and bugged Mrs. H's flat again. Possibly ours too. - EH
Your dad says he'll deal with it later. John
"Come on, let's go watch some telly" Mrs. Hudson beckoned, "We have to wait a while for the chocolate to cool."
Another hour later, Etheldrea finished a rant on how it was impossible for the drug dealer to have willingly sold to a child because of the bruise cover by his jacket. Mrs. Hudson shook her head in mild amusement and said she was just like her father.
It was then that said father and his companion burst into Baker Street and hurried upstairs. Etheldrea said she'd be back in a bit and dashed after them. Sherlock was just typing his solution into his website, and then the pink mobile rang.
"He says you can come and fetch me now. . . Help! Help me please!"
"Where are you?" Sherlock asked.
"Pi-Piccadilly circus."
"Ok, we're going to call the police. You're going to be fine." John said.
John did just that, and a while later Greg called to tell them everything was alright. John had let out a sigh of relief while Sherlock and Etheldrea were simply indifferent to the news. While they had waited, Mrs. Hudson had come up with slices of Chocolate Lasagna for everyone, although Sherlock didn't eat his. While they ate, John recounted how the past few hours had been and what had happened.
A second message had shown a sports car, stained with blood. When they had found and looked inside the car, a card of a rental agency was in the glove box. The agency owner had a distinct suntan and was recently in Colombia, and the blood in the car had been previously frozen, so they concluded that the lost man, Ian Monkford, paid the agency owner to help him disappear.
Etheldrea had crossed her arms and pouted, "You two get to have all the fun."
"Feeling better?" Sherlock asked John.
The three sat in a small café down the street, calmly awaiting the next pip. John was eating breakfast while Etheldrea read.
"To be honest, we've hardly stopped for breath since this thing started. Has it occurred to you-?"
"Probably."
"No, has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope, breaking into the other flat, the dead kid's shoes- it's all meant for you."
"Yes, I know."
"Is it him, then? Moriarty?"
"Perhaps."
Next to her, the pink phone beeped. Sherlock opened the message and showed them a picture of Connie Prince.
"That could be anybody!"
"Well, it could be, yeah."
Etheldrea smirked, "thank god we live with Mrs. Hudson."
John sighed, "Lucky for you, I've been more than a little unemployed."
"How'd you mean?" Sherlock asked them.
"Lucky for you, Mrs. Hudson, Etheldrea and I watch far too much telly."
John stood and walked over to the counter where a TV remote was. Etheldrea and Sherlock turned towards the TV and watched as the Connie Prince show came on. Then, the mobile rang and Sherlock picked it up.
"Hello?"
Etheldrea watched him carefully as John came and sat back down.
"Why are you doing this?"
A moment later, Sherlock hung up and shook his head once. He glanced back to the TV to watch the report. Then he stood and walked out of the café with John and Etheldrea sprinting after.
"Let me guess," Etheldrea muttered, "You want me to go back to Baker Street while you and John go on your adventure."
"Not quite. Go and start organizing everything we've collected so far. Tape it up behind the sofa on surrounding that map we have in one of the drawer's. In a while, I'll send you some photos to add to the wall. You know where the string and tacks are; find every connect you can."
Etheldrea nodded and walked back to Baker Street. In the kitchen, she pulled out the tacks and map. Off the table, she grabbed everything related to the first two cases and started work. Half an hour later, everything was set up, and another hour later, Etheldrea had the Connie Prince evidence, and everything was connected. There wasn't a whole lot, only a few things seemed linked by location, but that could have been coincidence.
Another hour later, the flat was filled with Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. John had gone to visit Connie's brother. Sherlock was pacing in front of the wall, his hands in a prayer fashion.
"Connection, connection, connection." He muttered as he found none, "There must be a connection."
He stopped and started from the beginning, "Carl Powers, killed twenty years ago. The bomber knew him, admitted that he knew him. The bomber's iPhone was in the stationary from the Czech Republic. The first hostage from Cornwall, the second from London, the third from Yorkshire, judging by her accent. What's he doing? Working his way round the world, showing off?"
The mobile rang and he put it on speaker, "You're enjoying this aren't you? Joining the . . . dots. Three hours. Boom . . . boom."
The phone hung up and Sherlock walked away to call someone else. Mrs. Hudson looked on sadly at the wall.
"It's a real shame. I liked her. She taught you how to do your colours."
"Colours?" Lestrade asked, giving her his full attention.
"You know, what goes best with what. I should never wear cerise apparently. Drains me. Etheldrea should never wear all black; it'd turn her into a ghost."
"That's why I have the scarf, purple adds a bit of colour."
Sherlock ended his call and came to stand by the group.
"Who's that?" Lestrade asked him.
"Home Office."
"Home Office?"
"Well, Home Secretary, actually. Owes me a favour."
"Since when?" Etheldrea asked.
"Since December."
Mrs. Hudson ignored them all and continued her mourning, "She was a pretty girl, but she messed about with herself too much. They all do these days. People can hardly move their faces. It's silly, isn't it? Did you ever see her show?"
"Not until now." Sherlock muttered, grabbing his laptop.
He opened it to an old episode of the show where Connie was beating her brother's back with the audience chanting in the background.
"That's her brother. No love loss there." Mrs. Hudson informed them.
"So I gather. I've just been having a very fruitful chat with people who love this show. The fan site's indispensable for gossip."
A moment later, Mrs. Hudson went back downstairs and then Sherlock's phone rang. It was a call from John. They finished their conversation and Sherlock motioned for Etheldrea to grab her coat.
"Where are we going? And why do you need that old camera?" she asked as he pulled out a large bag from the closet.
"To get John and then to Scotland Yard. Cover for John."
As they rode in the cab, Sherlock looked her over. Arms and legs crossed, body angled slightly away from him, jaw set firm, eyes trying to find something outside to distract her.
"Which reason?"
"I'm sorry?"
"You're mad at me for two, possibly three reasons. Which one is it?"
"Wrong. I'm mad at you for four reasons. One, the whole Mycroft situation. I'm not his helper monkey, and neither is John. Two, I'm not exactly mad, more irritated, that you haven't told John you already figured it out. Three, I'm mad that you're not letting me help. Four, I think you've broken our pact, and for that, I'm furious."
"The Pact doesn't apply in this situation."
"I think it does."
"As your father, I make the final call on when it applies."
"As you're now sixteen year-old daughter, not nine-year old daughter, I think the rules need an upgrade."
"I think they're fine that way they are."
"I don't."
"Can we deal with it after the case?"
"Fine. Just remember, any and all disagreements have to be settled with in three days."
The cab ride was silent the rest of the way as was the walk to the Prince's house. Sherlock had her wait outside as it would be suspicious for a sixteen year old to follow them around. She could have been an unpaid intern, but it would have required too much effort. Now Sherlock just wanted to get in and get out.
A few moments later, John walked out laughing, with Sherlock behind him.
"Yes!" he cried, "Ooh, yes!"
"You think it was the cat. It wasn't the cat." Sherlock said as they walked to the main road.
"What? Yes. Yeah, it is. It must be. It's how he got the tetanus into her system. It's paws stink of disinfectant."
"Lovely idea."
"No, he coated it onto the claws of her cat. It's a new pet, bound to be a bit jumpy around her. A scratch is almost inevitable. She wouldn't-"
"I thought of it the minute I saw the scratches on her arm, but it's too random and too clever for the brother."
"He murdered his sister for her money."
"Did he?"
"Didn't he?"
"Nope. It was revenge."
"Who wanted revenge?"
"Raoul, the houseboy. Kenny Prince was the butt of his sister's jokes week in and week out. Virtual bullying campaign. Finally, he had enough, fell out with her badly. It's all on the website. She threanted to disinherit Kenny, Raoul had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle-"
""Wait. Wait! What about the disinfectant on the cat's claws?"
"Raoul keeps a very clean house. You came though the kitchen door saw the state of that floor- scrubbed within an inch of its life. You smell of disinfectant. I know the cat doesn't come into it. Raoul's internet records do, though. I hope we can get a cab from here."
John stopped for a moment and looked at Etheldrea, "Did you know this?"
"When I saw the evidence, it became utterly transparent."
"Does Sherlock know?"
"I'd think so. Come on, we have little over and hour."
Sherlock burst into Scotland Yard, walking straight to Lestrade.
"Raoul de Santos is your killer. Kenny Prince's houseboy. Second autopsy shows it wasn't tetanus that poisoned Connie Prince, it was botulinum toxin. We've been here before. Carl powers. Tut-tut. Our bomber's repeated himself."
"So how'd he do it?" Lestrade asked.
"Botox injection."
"Botox?"
"Botox is a diluted form of botulinum. Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the Home office gave me the complete records of Raoul's internet purchases. He's been bulk ordering Botox for months. Bided his time, then upped the strength to a fatal dose."
"Are you sure about this?"
"I'm sure."
"Alright, my office."
Etheldrea followed him while John stopped Sherlock for a moment. Lestrade made a call and a few moments later, Sherlock entered with a mad looking John behind him. Sherlock set up his laptop and entered the solution. John and Lestrade stood next to him while Etheldrea sat across.
The phone rang.
"Hello? . . . Tell us where you are, address. . . No! No, no, no! Tell me nothing about him, nothing! . . . Hello?"
"What's happened?" John asked.
Etheldrea watched her father as he slowly put the phone down. His face was blank, unreadable. She sat back in her seat feeling sick, and like she was going to cry, but she didn't. The logical side of her knew it was pointless. She didn't know the caller, didn't know anyone connected to them; she had no connection to them at all.
But why did she feel so guilty?