A/N: Special thanks to Avyncentia for the beta.
"Nicotine," Sherlock muttered, eyes darting about as he emerged from his bedroom. His fingers were busy at the buttons of his shirt, making slower work of it than normal due to their trembling.
John pulled his coat on. "Patches?" he offered, taking a step toward the kitchen to find them.
"No, no, no. Cigarettes. Patches are too slow for this, too small."
"We haven't got any in the flat," said John. "And anyway, I'm not sure…"
"I can't think like this," interrupted Sherlock. "The nicotine will help clear my head."
Wisely, John chose not to argue. Trading one habit for another might not be the best idea in the world, but if the choice was between cigarettes and hard drugs, John would let the cigarettes slide for now. "The shop round the corner, then - I'll go in and you can get us a cab?"
Sherlock shook his head as grabbed his coat and scarf off the hook and draped them over one arm. He tucked the thick case file under the other. "No time. Lestrade will have some, he always does."
"He doesn't smoke."
Sherlock's mouth twitched. "He does when he's stressed. Come on."
In the backseat of the cab, Sherlock skimmed the file and talked John through it. "Three hostages so far, the most recent two taken today - well, yesterday, technically, as it's after midnight now - the other taken two nights ago. First victim is a thirty-two-year old woman, unmarried, but living with a boyfriend in central London. He's been cleared of all suspicion… photo." Sherlock held out a photograph.
John took it from him, holding it under the light flickering through the window from the streetlamps. It was a picture of a couple standing in Trafalgar Square, holding hands, each of them wearing t-shirts with different stylisations of the Union Jack screen-printed onto them. "They look like tourists."
"Good, yes, she's American; he's French."
John passed the photo back into Sherlock's waiting hand. "Expats? Here for work?"
"Must be - flats in central London are expensive… let's see - ah, yes. She's a marketing director for, um… investment firm of some sort, irrelevant. He's in marketing too, different firm, same basic idea. Now. The disappearance… They had a dinner date. She didn't show up. According to the boyfriend's statement, he waited at the restaurant for two hours, then went home, she wasn't there, and she never answered her phone. He figured she got stuck in an international conference call and couldn't break away to get in touch with him. He went to bed, she wasn't there when he woke up, and he rang the police at 5am. The ransom note came that day."
"Ransom note?"
"If you can call it that." Sherlock held it up.
The streetlights flashed through the windows of the cab as they sped on through London, and John read a line with each burst of pale white light.
I have Christine Keller.
An eye for an eye.
I can't make any promises.
The note was printed in a thick but unremarkable typeface, on crisp white paper, the type you'd find in anyone's computer printer.
"Directed at the boyfriend? Jealous ex?" John squinted in the dark. "If this is about him, then why kidnap the police officer as well?"
"Because it wasn't directed at the boyfriend. This note was sent to the Telegraph offices, but not by post. It was hand-delivered by courier. If it were for… for… hm..." Sherlock trailed off, lifting one hand to his temple, his expression tense and stony.
John winced. "Not feeling very well, are you? You know you don't have to do this."
"Lives are at stake and the police are out of their depth," Sherlock murmured. "Besides, it wouldn't do me any good to go back to Baker Street and suffer through it with nothing else to occupy me. This is the lesser of two evils."
That was true enough, John supposed. He blew out a breath and fumbled in his coat pocket for a moment, before producing the small bottle of paracetamol. "Lucky for you, I thought to grab this on the way out."
Sherlock accepted the bottle gratefully and tapped a couple of tablets out. He tossed them back dry and continued in a low voice. "Where was I? The note. It was sent to the Telegraph. If it were meant for the boyfriend, it would have been delivered to him directly. No, our kidnapper is trying to get someone else's attention. The media? The police? The government?"
"What do you think it means?" John asked, peeling his eyes away from Sherlock's sharp profile to pick up the note once more, frowning at it in confusion. It didn't make much sense. "The note's not asking for anything, just to be found. And this bit - An eye for an eye. But then it contradicts itself, I can't make any promises. It's a threat. Is that why the police officer and her daughter have been kidnapped as well? An eye for an eye… this is… revenge, for something?"
"Seems so. Need data. I'll know more after we visit the latest victim's flat." Sherlock had closed the file and set it on the seat between them. Now he was leaning up against the window, pressing his forehead to the cool glass.
John was starting to get the distinct impression they shouldn't have left the flat. The stress of withdrawal was enough without all this extra activity taxing Sherlock's body as well.
"I'm fine," Sherlock said, as though plucking the thought from John's head.
Of course you are.
Ten silent minutes later, the taxi dropped them at a block of flats that had been sectioned off from the rest of the street by yellow police tape. Sherlock thrust a wad of notes at the driver, muttered something to John about getting the change, and got out of the cab in a hurry. John did as he was told, tucked Keller's file under his arm, and followed Sherlock toward the scene.
Lestrade met them at the perimeter, lifting the tape so that they could both duck under. "Okay," he said, "our guys have already been through, so you've got your run of the place, just… try and remember this is one of our people, and be… y'know, sensitive."
John's eyebrows lifted slightly as he glanced from Sherlock to Lestrade and back again. "Sensitive. Right, of course."
Sherlock's gaze swept the street, the flats, and the police officers gathered there, before coming to rest on Lestrade. "Do you have - "
"Yeah, hang on. Thought you might ask, so… here." Greg pulled a well-worn packet of nicotine gum out of his pocket and offered it to the detective.
Sherlock looked a bit crestfallen.
"I don't smoke," the DI reminded him. "That's the best I've got."
"You reeked of it this morning," grumbled Sherlock. He pressed two squares of gum out of the blister pack and handed it back.
"I bummed a smoke off a mate, not that it's any of your business. Let's go up before I change my mind about this." Greg turned and headed for the stairs up to the flat.
Sherlock turned toward John, who gave him a warning look, and the pair of them followed the DI.
Inside, Lestrade dismissed the last few stragglers from his team and let John and Sherlock in. "We don't think they were taken from here, the place is neat and tidy, but it's the best place to start looking for a connection between them and the kidnapper." He sighed heavily and pulled a notepad out of his jacket pocket. "Right. T/DC Hannah Blake, twenty-nine years of age, single; and her daughter, Ellie Blake, age two. Didn't show for work this morning, didn't answer her phone. Another officer came by here and found this tacked to the door." Greg passed a slip of paper in an evidence bag to Sherlock, who glanced over it and passed it to John.
I told you I couldn't make any promises.
Tick-tock.
John felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stand up as he gave the note back to Greg. "And the girl?"
"Presumed to be with her, since she's not with the nanny, grandparents, aunts…"
"What about the father?"
"Sperm bank on Harley Street."
"Oh." He watched Sherlock chew thoughtfully for a minute and then drift away into the dimly-lit flat. John turned his back on his flatmate and spoke quietly to the DI. "Listen, Greg… I know what I said before, but you have to understand, he might not be in a fit state to do this... "
"I was desperate," Greg interrupted. He looked into John's eyes with a deadened expression. There were lines of worry and exhaustion around his eyes, and John began to understand the gravity of the situation. "I didn't bring this case over because I wanted to. I brought it because I'm desperate. Blake's twenty-nine, just a kid, and the little girl… Listen, this guy, whoever he is, he doesn't leave behind any trace. Nothing my guys can work with. Sherlock's our best shot at finding the victims alive..."
"I know, I can see that, but… in this state, what if… I mean, if he can't…" He balked at even saying it, but he knew he had to. He lowered his voice to a coarse whisper, his expression grim. "Look. He's not all there right now, so if he can't do this, just this once…"
Greg turned up his hands and shrugged, shaking his head helplessly. What else was I to do?
"John," called Sherlock from across the flat.
Sighing, John nodded at the DI and left to find Sherlock inspecting the clothes hanging in Hannah Blake's wardrobe. He had his black leather gloves on and was peering at the label on a navy blue blazer.
"What sort of enemies does does a police officer have?" Sherlock asked, releasing the blazer and thumbing through the other hangers on the rack.
"Mm… criminals, lowlifes. Anyone she's arrested." John sniffed and took a cursory look around the room. It was plain, but well-furnished, lived-in. There was a nightgown draped on the edge of the bed, and a pile of children's toys in front of the mirror. "I suppose most people who would wish her harm would be in prison."
"Yes, but not all."
"No, not all."
"And what sort of people do marketing directors associate with?"
John snorted. "Nobody in that category, I would imagine."
Sherlock hummed.
"So… who do they have in common, then? Is that what you're trying to figure out?" John picked up a photo on the night table. A tiny blond toddler smiled up at him from the frame. "What about… service people? Nannies, housekeepers?"
"No." The detective shook his head. "Blake obviously doesn't have a housekeeper and Keller doesn't have children, so no nanny."
"Fair point… what are you thinking?"
"Not sure yet." He snapped his gum and crept toward the bed, clicking on the lamp and carefully opening the drawers of the night-tables.
Frowning, John placed the photograph back on the table. His gaze slid toward the toys on the floor, and he could feel his mouth going dry. "Why take the child too?"
Sherlock shrugged. "It's possible he didn't mean to. If Blake and her daughter weren't taken from the flat - which it appears they were not - then it's safe to assume they were abducted on the street. The girl might have been with her, and the kidnapper wasn't expecting it. Any mother forcibly separated from her child would scream, and the child would likely do the same; he won't have wanted to make a scene. The quickest way to get Blake into his vehicle at that moment would have been to grab them both… otherwise he'd have to wait til Blake was alone, which would have required patience and some foreknowledge of her schedule at the time of her capture."
"Vehicle?" John tilted his head, mulling over Sherlock's proposed abduction scene as he rifled through Blake's bureau. "What makes you think it was a vehicle?"
"I doubt he's keeping his hostages anywhere nearby. He'd need transport from here to the hideout."
"Right, of course. Well, then, same with Keller. The file said there were no signs of forced entry or a struggle at her flat either." John poked his head into a room adjacent. Bathroom. Windows closed. Makeup case on the vanity. He came back out again. "So aside from the little girl who might have been kidnapped by accident, we have two women, both between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five, both abducted from the street or some public place, within forty-eight hours of each other… both with ransom notes that weren't sent to their families…"
Sherlock straightened, pushing the night-table drawer closed, and swept out to the sitting area again. The flat was an open floor plan, and as John joined his flatmate, he could see Lestrade standing in the kitchen, talking on the phone. John turned back to Sherlock, watched him as he inspected the room, gathering data about Blake's life from everything - the knickknacks on her shelves, the photos on the mantle, the dust on the windowsill. "Chances are," John thought aloud, "Keller and Blake don't know each other, or even socialise in the same circles. So why them? Why both of them, why so quickly?"
"Hard to say. The note seemed to imply the kidnapper wants revenge for something, as you were saying. An eye for an eye. But at this stage it's impossible to say what Blake or Keller has done to offend."
"This was obviously premeditated. He was a long time planning this - right?"
"Yes. Typically you'll find - oh. Oh! The note. Lestrade!" Sherlock turned and crossed back to where Lestrade was just putting away his phone. "The note, I need the note again. Actually, both of them." Greg handed them over, and Sherlock gingerly slid one of them out of its plastic evidence bag, holding it up to the light and inspecting it carefully. "Hm. I knew there was something off about the note, but I didn't think of it right away. Do you see the way the ink bleeds out of the letters ever so slightly?"
John and Greg both leaned in to look. John wasn't sure what he was looking at, but he said, "Okay, but what's it mean?"
"This paper is heavier than what you would put in your printer, but that's exactly what's been done to it. Who pays for heavy paper and then just runs it through a household laser printer?"
"I don't know, who?"
Sherlock slid the paper back into its bag. "We're going to find out. Lestrade, I need to get into Keller's flat."
Greg looked surprised. "Uh, not just now, you don't," he said, shaking his head.
"Why not?" Sherlock asked indignantly.
"Because it's half two in the morning, and someone else still lives there. You can go tomorrow, though."
Tight-lipped, Sherlock sighed through his nose and glanced at John. "Right. Barts, then, John. The paper may have some trace of our kidnapper in it - "
"We checked it for DNA already," said Lestrade, pointing at the file that John had left on the kitchen worktop. "You read the report, there was nothing there."
"Yes, and you know I don't need DNA to find - "
"Just stop, the both of you," John chimed in, "because it's pointless: again, half two in the morning, the lab is locked up for the night. Now, is there anything you can do with it at home?"
Sherlock groaned. "A bit."
Lestrade seemed to relax a little, and he handed Sherlock another file, this one almost as thick as Christine Keller's. "Meantime, here's this. That's Blake's personnel file. I've had my guys check over it already, so we've ruled out anybody she's arrested in the last thirty days, but there might be something in there that we missed." He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, his gaze travelling over the room, taking in Blake's flat one more time as though hoping some detail would jump out at him - evidently, it didn't. "Okay. Well, that's it for now, I guess, guys. Listen, go home and get some rest, and I'll come round tomorrow to take you to Keller's flat. I imagine the boyfriend won't be keen to let you in without police credentials, not after his girlfriend was kidnapped."
Sherlock nodded, and John thought he could see the flicker of a frown pass over his face, but it was gone too quickly to be sure he'd actually seen it. John discreetly pushed him toward the door whilst gathering up the files with the other hand. When he noticed Lestrade wasn't moving, he looked back over his shoulder. "Aren't you going, too?"
"Not just yet," Greg said, his face turning grim. "Few more things to wrap up here. Text me if you guys come up with anything, though."
Now it was John's turn to nod, and the two of them descended the stairs, headed back out into the street.
Outside, Sherlock pulled in a slow breath and turned a sharp left at the police perimeter. John jogged to keep up. "Hang on - shouldn't we get a cab?"
"Not just yet," Sherlock said over his shoulder. He led John away from the crowd of police officers and reporters and rounded a corner at the end of the block.
Whereupon he immediately slumped sideways against the brick wall, clinging to it for support as his legs buckled.
"Jesus, Sherlock!" John dropped the files and moved to catch his flatmate round the waist to keep him from knocking himself out on the pavement. "Okay, okay, just… easy there… Sit down." He helped him down and made him bend his knees. "Why didn't you say anything?" he scolded. "We could have left ages ago!"
"Didn't want Lestrade to notice," Sherlock admitted, dropping his chin to his chest. He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths to steady himself.
Crouched before him, John rolled his eyes. "He's your friend, Sherlock, I doubt he would have minded. Besides, it's to be expected." He watched Sherlock wince at this, and noticed that the colour had receded from his face.
"It isn't about him minding," he answered. "I don't need him thinking I can't do it…"
"That you can't handle the case?"
"Exactly. And anyway… Donovan was right outside."
"Well, she can sod right off," John grumbled, though he understood perfectly. They were at odds enough as it was without giving her any reason to think he was less than one hundred percent. And, as Lestrade had pointed out before, if anyone found out that Sherlock was back on the drugs, it wouldn't matter that he had sworn them off - Greg would be in serious trouble.
Sherlock mumbled something about 'annoying' under his breath and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, groaning.
"Yeah, well, it's your own fault." John stood and stepped away from his friend to scoop the files back together and tuck them under an arm. With his free hand, he waved down a passing taxi before kneeling on the pavement in front of Sherlock again. "Come on, we need to get you home. Can you stand?"
"Mm." Sherlock nodded and blinked his vision clear. He ignored the hand John held out to help him up, pushing up from the wall instead. His features crumpled a little at what John guessed was a surge of nausea and headache, and swayed slightly on the spot.
Discreetly, John steadied him with a hand at his waist and they climbed into the cab.
Sherlock was silent the whole way back, which wasn't surprising. John thought he saw him nodding off once or twice, but when the cab stopped outside their flat, he made a grab for the door handle immediately. He'd made it to the top of the stairs by the time John had paid the cabbie and followed him, but he was struggling with the key. His hands were shaking.
"Here," John said softly, deftly taking the key from Sherlock's trembling fingers.
Sherlock made a frustrated sound from low in his throat but didn't protest. He stood out of the way as John unlocked the door, and practically fell through when it swung open.
John set the files down on the sideboard and shrugged his coat off, turning to hang it on the rack. "Do you want a cup of tea before you - what are you doing?"
Sherlock had seized the files and was thumbing through them. He'd already pulled out the evidence bag containing the kidnapper's most recent note, and it dangled delicately from between his teeth as he shuffled through papers. "What do you think I'm doing?" he retorted, snatching the evidence bag and several documents and turning toward his microscope.
"You almost knocked out on the pavement back there!"
"Yes," Sherlock drawled, unable to deny it. His face was still ashen and he was shivering as he slid into his chair and prepared the microscope.
Sighing in exasperation, John stalked over to where Sherlock was sitting. "Look at me." After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock complied, and John laid a hand across his forehead. Naturally, the detective flinched away.
"I'm not ill, John, I'm just - "
"Technically - " John interrupted, "you are." He sat down across from Sherlock and pushed the microscope out of the way, so that the other was forced to make eye contact. "Withdrawal is a medical condition and it requires medical management."
Petulantly, Sherlock sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "You seem to forget I've done this before."
"Yes, and just how much fun was it?" John's eyes flickered over Sherlock's face, waiting for a clever retort, but it never came. John seized the opportunity. "Look. I can make this easier for you, but only if you let me."
Sherlock didn't answer. He only stared back, reading John like a book, as ever.
"Mycroft wants to put you in a centre. If he goes to the police with your little 'problem,' you'll be mandated to one. We can keep that from happening, Sherlock, if you let me help you. If you listen to me."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning taking care of yourself. Meaning drinking water, resting when you're tired - and eating, like a normal human being. Meaning being honest with me when I ask you how you're doing."
Sherlock's defencive posture seemed to deflate a little - in defeat or exhaustion, it wasn't clear, but he had relaxed nonetheless, and now his eyes left John's to make an apparent study of the surface of the table. "Lestrade helped me once."
"Yes, I know."
The detective scowled darkly. "Have you seen the scar running down his right arm?"
John wracked his brain. He'd seen it, but he hadn't thought much of it. It looked like a knife wound, several years old, neatly healed, and John had assumed he'd probably got it during a case. He tilted his head, trying to catch Sherlock's eye.
"I did that. I was halfway through detox. I was panicking, he touched me, and I cut him. I could have killed him."
"I think you underestimate Lestrade," John snorted. At the death-dagger glare that Sherlock gave in return, John quickly composed himself. Sherlock was right - a person could be dangerous in that state. But he didn't care. He wasn't sure how to explain that to someone who didn't understand 'sentiment' but he just… didn't. So instead, he spoke in a language he knew his flatmate would understand. "If you don't let me help you, Mycroft will give you his version of 'help,' and I don't think you want that. You said you don't need anyone thinking you can't do it. Right? Look at me, please. Right? So let me help."
"And Lestrade?" Sherlock questioned, lifting his chin defencively.
John blinked. "What about him?"
"Do you want me to do what he says, too?"
A slight smile lifted the corner of John's mouth. "We'll see."
Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded.
John took his silence as acquiescence. "Right. Good. First order of business - sleep. Now. Not for long if you don't feel like it, but you need to drink water and get some rest, at least."
Three seconds seemed to go on and on as Sherlock looked longingly toward the microscope before dragging his eyes back up to John's, possibly considering an argument, but at last he pushed his chair back and stood.
John breathed a sigh of relief.
When John woke, he knew it had been less than four hours since he'd lain down. His limbs felt heavy and his eyes burned when he opened them. He considered turning over and going back to sleep, but he could hear movement from downstairs. Sherlock had settled down for the night just a few minutes before him, and if the noise downstairs was any indication, he'd been up for a while already - which meant the sleep thing hadn't gone as well as John had hoped it would. Still, the fact he'd willingly settled down at all when there was a case on was a vast improvement. He deserved credit for that, but John knew he had a tough time ahead getting him to do anything by request.
Reluctantly, John tumbled out of his warm bed and pulled fresh clothes on. He brushed his teeth, ran wet fingers through his hair, and headed for the sitting room.
Sherlock was pacing frantically, wearing only pyjama bottoms and his dressing gown, his torso and feet bare to the chilly air of the flat as he padded back and forth between the kitchen and the sitting room. He barely looked up as John entered, managing only a slight gesture that could almost have been a wave.
"It's the paper, the ransom note paper," Sherlock stated without introduction, his voice betraying his distress. "There's something… I can't put my finger on it. But there's… something."
"Very eloquent," said John, nodding. "Tea?"
"I'm not manic, John, I'm serious. I know this paper, but I'm not sure why or how. I've seen it before. What time is it?"
John glanced at his phone as he made his way to the kitchen, being careful not to intersect with Sherlock's path. "Just after seven. You look like hell, by the way. Have you eaten?"
There was barely a pause to allow for an exasperated eye-roll before Sherlock's footsteps resumed.
John turned his back on his friend, filled the kettle, and turned it on. Then he went and leaned against the threshold, watching the detective's repetitive movements. He looked like an animal in the zoo. "It'll come to you," he offered.
"We'll know more after we've been to Keller's flat," Sherlock agreed. He did two more laps of the room and stopped beside the breakfast table, where notes from both files were spread out beside Sherlock and John's open laptops. "The kidnapper is the only common link between these two women. Blake's arrest record over the last thirty days is literally as long as my arm - hopefully one of the names on it is also in Keller's address book. Then we'll know who we're looking for."
"You think it's as simple as that?" John wondered.
"It's the only way," replied the detective, bracing both hands on the table to stare down at the data. "Otherwise they've both been taken at random, in which case our chances of finding them alive falls dramatically."
Every day that passed saw the victims' chances slimming. John knew that. But if even Sherlock was admitting that they had nothing to go on, then the situation was truly grim. For the moment, though, he'd have to let Sherlock worry about the case. That was his job. Sherlock was John's job. "Well, we'll see what we find at Keller's flat. Right now, though… do you feel up to breakfast?"
"No," Sherlock replied immediately without looking up.
This was not unexpected. John shifted his weight. "Because you're not feeling well, or because you don't want to?"
Sighing, Sherlock leveled an irritated glare at the wall across the room before turning to look at John. "Fine."
John knew better than to gloat. He didn't respond, only turned back to the kitchen to put their breakfast together, but once he was out of Sherlock's view he allowed himself a self-satisfied smile. Apparently he'd gotten through to his flatmate. It was just breakfast, he knew, but it was better than nothing.
As he was preparing toast and peeling boiled eggs, John heard Sherlock on the phone. He spoke in clipped tones, all business, as he arranged for Lestrade to meet them at Keller's flat shortly. When John emerged and laid their plates down on the coffee table, Sherlock had rang off and was sitting on the sofa, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. Christine Keller's photo stared up at him from the table.
"You okay?"
"Fine," Sherlock replied quickly. He glanced at the hard lines of John's face and amended, "Just tired."
John rewarded this admission by choosing not to press further. He nudged Sherlock's plate over a little and started in on his own. "What time does Lestrade want us at Keller's place?"
"In an hour." Sherlock nibbled his toast and considered Keller's photograph. It was obvious that something about this case was niggling at him, but even he couldn't say what. "Who writes a ransom note but doesn't deliver it to anyone who can ransom the hostages?"
"I don't know. Who?"
"I haven't the slightest idea."
En route to Keller's flat, Sherlock and John made two stops. One to buy cigarettes; another to pay a member of the homeless network to gather information about five different paper mills that manufactured the type of paper that the ransom notes were printed on. Despite their extra errands, they arrived outside the flat first. Sherlock stood on the kerb and smoked while they waited.
"I wonder if it would have been quicker to visit the mills ourselves," John thought aloud, standing beside his flatmate and watching the traffic.
Sherlock tilted his head back and exhaled a ragged ribbon of smoke upward. "No. She'll visit the one closest and delegate the others. It would take twice as long and cost three times as much for us to take taxis to all of them individually."
"What are they looking for?"
"Locked doors, suspicious activity… missing employees. Anything that could possibly indicate something amiss. It'll narrow the search down to two or three mills, and then we can split them up between us and Lestrade."
Though John didn't say it, he wasn't sure the DI would go for that.
A police car pulled up to the kerb and parked nearby, and Lestrade got out of the driver's side. He gave Sherlock the once-over, dark eyes lingering on the cigarette perched on the detective's lip, but he didn't say anything about it, though he may have wanted to. "You look like hell."
Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh. "So I've heard," he said, glancing at John. He stamped out his cigarette butt on the pavement and made an after-you gesture at Lestrade. "What's the boyfriend's name?"
"Luc Bonheur. And I feel the need to remind you he's been cleared of all suspicion and his long-term live-in girlfriend is missing, so please be nice."
John's gaze wandered toward Sherlock in time to see him rolling his eyes to himself, and the two of them followed the DI inside in much the same fashion they had just six hours prior on the other side of the city. They took the elevator to the tenth floor, and stood patiently in the hall as Greg knocked on the door and identified himself, holding up his credentials to the peephole with the other hand. When that didn't earn them a response, he pressed the buzzer and called out again.
"Maybe he's not in?" John suggested after a few more minutes.
Lestrade's agitation was growing by the minute. "No, I just spoke to him an hour ago." He pulled out his phone and dialled - Bonheur, presumably. "It's ringing out."
John pressed his ear to the door. Silence. Now the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up, too. "Nothing. I don't hear a phone."
Lestrade waved John out of the way and huffed out a breath. He called out one more time, giving his name and title, asking Bonheur to come to the door. Still no response, and Greg dialled for backup. "Stand back," he ordered the other two. He sucked in a breath and hefted a mighty kick at the door just to the side of the lock. The door buckled but didn't budge. Lestrade kicked again, and this time the door snapped inward. "Stay here," he barked at John and Sherlock as he drew his gun.
But he only walked two feet into the flat before he stopped. His posture slackened and he holstered his weapon. "Shit. Shit!"
John and Sherlock cautiously followed him inside, and as they drew close behind him in the cramped foyer, they saw the source of the DI's frustration.
Lying face-up in a pool of his own blood in the middle of the open-plan sitting room was the body of Luc Bonheur. He was fully clothed, and the apparent cause of death was a horizontal slice across his throat, from ear to ear. The sheer amount of blood was staggering. It soaked the white shag carpet, pooled on the immaculate glass tile. Greg stepped gingerly around it to secure the flat, checking the other rooms, even though they all knew the killer had gone.
"He's not giving us any fucking time!" Lestrade roared, turning and pushing past the boys to pace in the hallway. "How the hell are we supposed to comply with the notes if he takes a new victim every twenty-four hours or less? Fucking hell!"
John had half-turned to watch Lestrade's tirade, but he felt movement at his shoulder and looked toward his flatmate, who was staring blankly at the crime scene and breathing much too quickly. He touched his shoulder, brows knitting in concern. "Sherlock?"
The consulting detective's eyes were scanning the scene rapidly, left-to-right, top-to-bottom. "That's it… that's just it. We're not meant to solve it. He's making them watch."
"Making who watch?"
"Them." Sherlock tore his gaze away from the body and looked meaningfully toward Lestrade. "This is all about them."
"The police. How do you mean? You think he wants their attention?" John questioned.
"More than that. He's punishing them." Sherlock turned so that he and John were facing one another in the small space of the entryway. His eyes, though, were on the DI. "Lestrade. I need all your cold case files."
"I don't have any!" he snapped, stopping his mad pacing to throw his hands up at the sheer ridiculousness of Sherlock's request. "I gave them to you, and you bloody solved them all!"
"I need the ones you haven't released to me."
John shook his head. "You finished them. He would have given them to you if he had any, Sherlock."
Inappropriately, Sherlock smirked. "No. There are laws about these things. Even when using a not-strictly-legal consulting detective. He's held some back, because certain conditions have to be met before a cold case can be brought back out or released to the public. Those conditions have now been met."
"Why?" demanded Lestrade, seething as he waited impatiently for an explanation. "What good would it do?"
"It will help us solve this case, for one." Sherlock's steel grey gaze flicked to John and then back to Lestrade. "The notes imply that the kidnapper - killer - wants revenge. We thought he wanted revenge against Christine Keller, or the Blakes. But that's not it. It's you. The police. He wants revenge against you."