"Why me?"
John was staring at the ceiling, as if he somehow hoped to find the answers there.
"What?"
He rolled his head to look sideways at Sherlock, who was scanning through his phone at lightning speed, looking for information—though on what, John wasn't sure. "Why me? Why is Moriarty going to so much trouble to frame me?"
"No offense, John," Sherlock answered, in a voice that usually meant something offensive was coming, "But this isn't actually about you. It's me he wants—you're just the tool he's using."
Frustration surged. "Right. Yeah, thanks for the reassurance." John lurched to his feet. He needed to go somewhere and cool off. "I'll remember that the next time I'm strapped to a bomb. That it's not personal."
Sherlock looked up from the pile of papers he was sifting through, and John saw a flash of something that might have been hurt cross his face. Then it was gone, so quickly that John discarded the notion. Surely it wasn't personal to Sherlock. They were friends, certainly, but nothing seemed to get past that rhino-hide that protected the inner Holmes.
The look had taken the sting out of his anger, though—especially since he knew Sherlock was right. Moriarty wasn't the sort to have personal beefs with lowly army doctors. He was merely a piece in the game. The tension went out of John's shoulders, and instead of stumping from the room, he stepped closer to the case notes clustered around the mirror. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Alright, Sherlock, alright." He looked down at his friend. "Any ideas?"
"Seventeen, but not enough information to act on any of them."
"Four victims—another one on the way." A sudden thought struck John, and he reached for his phone. "We should call Lestrade—"
Sherlock was out of his chair, his hand gripping John's arm, before the doctor finished speaking. Startled, John stared up at Sherlock's face. "What? Don't you think we should warn him?"
"And put him in danger too?" Sherlock's icy eyes narrowed. "As soon as Lestrade knows Moriarty's game, he becomes a part—a pawn on the board. Easy to take out. If Moriarty thinks, even for a second, that he's a threat, Donovan and Anderson will be looking for a new boss."
John tried to pull his arm away. "But someone will die, Sherlock! You can't just let that happen!"
Releasing his grip, Sherlock stepped back. "Chances are, it already has," he said, his voice resigned. "The other victims were all killed within hours of each other. In all likelihood, the last one is already—"
Sherlock's phone chirped.
"—dead." They stared at each other. Then Sherlock pounced on the phone, snatching it up and unlocking the text. He read it, and passed the phone to John without a comment.
5th body found in alley
olivia norwood student
age 22 meet me at
the yard –gl
"And there's number five," John sighed. "Just a kid."
"Someone needs to teach that man how to text," Sherlock grumbled. "…Olivia Norwood, Olivia Norwood…the name, the name is important…" his voice trailed off.
John picked up a pen and took down the list of victims. Jeremy Ovington, Wilson Adams, Helen Nash, Thomas Shore, and now Olivia Norwood. Five victims, just as Moriarty has said. Feeling sick, John added the new name to the list.
"Something is missing, John," Sherlock burst out. He began pacing the short length of the room, ruffling his hair with both hands in frustration. "Like an itch I can't scratch. It's there, just on the tip of my brain…Olivia Norwood…Who is Olivia Norwood?"
John shook his head and lifted the list to pin it back to the wall. He stopped, something catching his eye. Jeremy Ovington. Wilson Adams. Helen Nash. Thomas Shore. Olivia Norwood. He stared at the small slip of paper until the penciled letters burned into his brain. Across the room, Sherlock abandoned his pacing to fetch his coat and scarf.
"John? Are you coming?"
Jeremy Ovington. Wilson Adams. Helen Nash. Thomas Shore. Olivia Norwood.
No. The list was wrong. John shut his eyes and pictured it: Jeremy Ovington. Helen Nash, then Wilson Adams. Thomas Shore. Olivia Norwood.
"John?" Sherlock's hand touched John's shoulder, and the puzzle clicked into place.
"Oh my—Moriarty…" John banged a fist onto the mantelpiece with a bang, upsetting a pile of CDs.
"What?"
John laughed and turned to look at his friend. "It's my name, Sherlock. Look." He pointed to each name. "J-O-H-N W-A-T-S-O-N. Just another way of subtly smearing me, connecting me with this stupid game of his—"
Sherlock snatched the list away, his bright eyes darting over it.
Chuckling and realizing full well that he was slightly hysterical, John grabbed his coat. "This is just getting ludicrous," he said, "At first it was threatening, now it's just a joke. Moriarty is going over the top."
Sherlock slowly pinned the list back with the rest of the notes. "It doesn't make sense," he agreed. "I don't care how off his nut a murderer may be—no one would sign their name on a crime scene in that many ways."
"Initials spelling out my name, my serial number, my gun…It's too easy. No one is going to believe I actually did all that." John followed Sherlock out the street and onto the sidewalk.
"You'd be surprised what people will believe," the lanky detective said, hailing a cab. "If they read it in the newspapers, it must be true."
"Newspapers?" John climbed into the black vehicle and slid to the far side.
Sherlock climbed in beside him. "Right." On the way to New Scotland Yard, he filled John in on his conversation with Mycroft.
"So, in essence," John said, as they arrived at the Yard, "Every move we make is being watched, and next week's headline is going to be about my arrest."
"More or less."
"Fantastic."
John well knew the way to Lestrade's office by now—he had been there often enough with Sherlock to find his way blindfolded—but he had never traversed the halls with so much foreboding. If Moriarty had his way, the next time John came here it would be in handcuffs.
Not a pleasant idea.
"John, Sherlock," Lestrade greeted them, his voice sounding overly cheerful. He motioned them into his office and shut the door. John took a seat in one of the uncomfortable chairs across from the DI's desk, but Sherlock continued to stand, even after Lestrade returned to his own chair.
"Where's the body?" the consulting detective demanded.
"Yeah, and it's nice to see you too," Lestrade snapped back. He looked as if he hadn't slept in days. "Downstairs. Morgue. And no, you can't go down there yet. I need to talk to you—both of you," he added, with a significant look in John's direction.
Sherlock relented, lowering himself into a chair beside John. "About what?" he asked, but John already knew what the detective inspector was going to say.
Lestrade sighed. "John…where were you between the hours of four and six this morning?" He asked the question as if it took the last ounces of his energy.
"Baker Street," John replied, remembering the nightmares that had awoken him that morning. "Didn't get up until six or so."
"Is there anyone who can confirm that?"
"Inspector, if you are implying that—"
The DI cut off Sherlock's indignant exclamation with an upraised hand. "I'm sorry—but I have to ask."
"It's alright, Sherlock," John said. "No, there's no one. Sherlock was already out—didn't come back in until seven or so."
Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. "I was afraid of that."
John managed a tight smile for the man. "What makes you ask?"
"It was the call," Sherlock answered for the DI, speaking quickly, as if he couldn't stand the slow pace of the world any longer and had to try to speed it up himself. "That, combined with your serial number—which I'm sure he looked up—"
"And the little fact that the search for registration on your gun sent off so many alarms I got a visit from someone whose name I don't have security clearance to repeat…" Lestrade waved a helpless hand. "I haven't filed anything yet, but it's only a matter of time."
Cold disappointment flooded John. "You don't honestly believe—" he burst out.
"No," Lestrade reassured him. John immediately felt ashamed for doubting the inspector's intelligence and loyalty. "No, and no one with any sense will either. It's too obviously a set up."
"And you don't even know the whole of it," Sherlock added. He grabbed a pad of paper and a pen from Lestrade's desk, scribbling out the names of the victims. "See?" He underlined each initial. "J-O-H-N W-A-T-S-O-N."
Lestrade cursed. "What have you stirred up, Sherlock?" he demanded. "Whatever it is, you might have had the decency to keep John out of it."
John stood. "In his defense," he said, "I think I probably involved myself." He remembered the explosive jerk of the gun in his hands, aimed through one window and into another, and Sherlock silhouetted against the florescent lights with a deadly pill in one hand. From that moment on, there had been no turning back. From cabbies and guns to pool water and explosives strapped to his chest to serial numbers and a fake SIG in his desk drawer…It was all a long chain leading inexorably to this.
Ooh, Moriarty was good.
John shoved his hands into his pockets. "Can we go?"
Lestrade sighed. "For now, yeah. But you're my only suspect, John—I know you didn't do it, and you know you didn't do it, but my bosses will have my head and my badge if I hold out on this."
"I completely understand." And he did. Sherlock didn't, by the disgusted look he was giving the graying inspector, but John did. He only worried about the consequences of his being arrested—the humiliation and the bother of it all wasn't the problem. It was whatever Moriarty was planning behind the scenes that concerned him.
As they left the Yard, Sherlock kept up an eloquent tirade insulting the public police force at large and Detective Inspector Lestrade in particular. John tuned him out, his mind rummaging through every word Jim Moriarty had uttered during their conversation in the flat. He felt as though he were missing something—as if the clues to solving this whole puzzle were right under his nose, like a riddle that would look childishly simple the moment he knew the answer. But he couldn't sift any solid conclusions from the encounter any more than he could follow Sherlock's diatribe—which was now entirely in classical Latin, interspersed with a large quantity of words that John, even with his limited and completely medical exposure to Latin, was pretty certain Sherlock hadn't learned from a textbook. Unless the textbook was written by a Roman sailor.
"…the man with the match holds all the cards... I cheat." Moriarty's voice echoed in John's mind, as he stared out the cab window at the passing London city.
He had a feeling that the match was about to strike.