Chapter Seven
John called an hour later, "What do you need, Sherlock?"
"Yes, why didn't you call back earlier?"
"I was in the middle of the lecture. I thought we agreed that you would leave me out of whatever it is you got yourself into while I'm gone."
Sherlock sat up on the couch and stared at the skull on his mantle, "You agreed. I said nothing of the sort. Besides, it's important."
"I can't come back just to help you."
"Camie was taken."
"Camie. Who the hell is Camie, Sherlock?" John lowered his voice.
"Camie Greer, our new flatmate."
"Our new flatmate?"
Sherlock ignored the rage in John's voice, "I thought I told you."
"No, no you definitely did not." John huffed on the other side of the line. Sherlock stood and picked up his violin. He plucked one of the strings. Sharp. John quit pacing, "Why did you call me, Sherlock?"
"Did you look at the photographs that I sent you?"
"Yes, I did." Another huff.
"Describe them to me."
"Why, Sherlock. I have to get going."
"A girl is missing, John. Missing. She could be dead."
John sighed and Sherlock could hear him rummaging in a bag. John flipped through a pad of paper and cleared his throat, "You said they were cleaned with bleach. No evidence left behind."
"Come on, John. Give me something worth thinking about."
John shook his head, his hair brushing against the phone receiver, "Whoever did it was either a obsessive compulsive asshole or didn't want to be found unless they wanted to be found. Was there a pattern? Where the bodies were found, did they form a pattern?"
"Of course," Sherlock ended the call and closed his eyes. He found his map of London and pinpointed the exact locations of each of the murders. Play my game, Sherlock. The words repeated themselves over and love in his mind. Yes, but what type of game? A game of murder? Chess? Football? Or perhaps just her game. She controlled the rules so that only she could win. All to spite him, all to feel the thrill of the chase.
And there the pattern was. A spiral. Curving inward towards a small abandoned theater. Sherlock's phone vibrated, jerking him out of his mind. Unknown number. He opened the message and tapped on the attached picture. Another blood letter, this one smudged. The words were shakily written.
Involve the police and Camie dies. You know where to find me, Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock slipped his phone into his coat pocket and looked out the window. The London sky had darkened into a grey evening. Sherlock wrapped his scarf around his next and hurried down the stairs of apartment 221B.
Outside, the air shifted as a cold front moved in. Sherlock hailed a cab and jumped in.
A black car idled in front of the abandoned theater. Sherlock paid the cabbie and crossed the street. The windows to the theater were dark and boarded over. Sherlock tugged on the handle of the middle door and it swung open with a screech. The theater entrance hall was dimly lit from the holes in the ceiling. The place smelt of mold and animals, but the old grandeur of the theater was not easily hidden. Deep red and gold carpet lined the floors and faded murals raced along the walls. The doors to the theater hid behind thick red curtains.
Sherlock hurried up the grand staircase and through the main doors. There was a click and light blinded him. Sherlock shielded his eyes from the spotlight.
"Sherlock Holmes, so glad you could make it," A woman in red stood on the stage in her own spotlight. Sherlock glanced at the glittering necklace around her throat. The woman laughed, "I must admit I was a little worried. I was told you were smart, but I had no idea how smart. If you had arrived a little earlier then you might have saved your friend from a lot of pain."
Sherlock let his eyes adjust to the spotlight enough to see Camie laying behind the woman in a pool of blood. Her chest rose, she breathing shallow. "Who are you?"
"Why, my name is Alice, my dear. Did I forget to sign my letters again? Damn, I really am forgetful." Alice turned around and went to stand beside Camie. The spotlight followed her. "Please, have a seat. The show is about to begin."
"Which show is that?" Sherlock walked down the aisle. The spotlight followed him steadily.
Alice knelt beside Camie and opened a medical bag. From the bag, she took out a syringe filled with clear liquid. Adrenaline. Alice flicked the syringe twice, "I have been trying to get your attention for a while now. To be blunt, you have the skills to get something that I need and I have the reason you will get it for me."
"Her?"
"Don't lie, Sherlock. I have seen you two together. I know you care for her, I know the lengths you will go to to save someone you love."
"Why are you doing this?"
"Why does anyone do anything?" Alice smiled, "Because they are told."
Alice laughed and plunged the needle into Camie's heart. Seconds passed. Camie gasped and shot up. She looked around with widened eyes, "Sherlock."
Camie looked down at the blood seeping from her cut wrist. She wrapped her other hand behind her. Sherlock watched as Alice took a paint brush from her bag. Alice handed the paintbrush to Camie. Camie didn't let go of her wrist. She stared at Sherlock, who now stared at Alice. Camie's heart raced. She could feel the blood pulsing beneath her fingertips. Camie stared at Sherlock willing herself to stay awake as she sat in the pool of her own blood. Alice's lips brushed against her ear and Alice whispered something. Camie wasn't sure what. The world spun.
Alice stood and stepped back. Camie closed her eyes. When she opened them, Sherlock was on the stage. Alice's voice rang in her ears. "Moriarty. Moriarty. Moriarty."
A shot rang out and Sherlock's hands wrapped around her wrist. He yelled, but Camie couldn't make out what he was saying.
"What...? What...?" Sherlock yelled. The rest was background noise and everything was going black. Camie shook her head. Not what… Who.
"Moriarty."
