Authors Note:
So this chapter's kind of a long one. Bear with me, I'm sure you'll love it. We'll see how long I last sticking to updating every Sunday. I'm on break at the moment so until university resumes I'm gonna go all out. Also this is the chapter I told you 'Othello' would be worked into.
One last tid-bit, sorry for constantly changing the story summary. I think it's just about perfect now. But I'm not totally sure if I love it yet.
Please don't forget to leave an awesome review. More reviews = better updates!
The Great Game – Part Seven.
It felt like no time had passed. Ellen sat up straight and tall with an alarming gasp. Seconds ago she had felt herself fall to the ground, struggling to fight the effects of a sedative. But now? Well now she had no clue. She sat blinking, taking in her surroundings. Gone was the bland concrete cell and her small collection of newspaper sheets. This new place was much more fascinating. She was in a library and a giant one at that.
Ellen slowly stood up, wary of her balance, but intrigued. The shelves around her towered. Stairs led around, winding to other levels and more mystery. Above an intricate stain glass window, in the shape of a rose, showered her in light. It was dusty and in need of a desperate clean. The shelves were similar too, heavily strewn with the grey granules. The most bizarre thing of all was the distinct lack of books. There was about a dozen books in total that she could see, in a library that could easily house hundreds of thousands. On her level, one lone mahogany table sat in the center. Adorned with three bankers lamps and pieces of newspaper. Ellen almost thought it was another clue but the articles were too faded to be legible. After glancing up, she glanced down to find a small tote bag beside where she awoke. She instantly reached down inside it to find a change of clothes and her earpiece laying on top. She was not putting on anything the Irishman brought her, he could get bloody lost.
With a quick swivel she looked for how she could have possibly entered here; two large swinging doors behind. She raced over, doubting that they would be open, but still shook them. She had to try, right? Alas, they were bolted shut. The Irishman had changed the game. She didn't know how much longer she had to solve his puzzle but with all the upset in his pattern she must have been nearing the end. She couldn't put her faith in Sherlock Holmes, despite doing well so far, if she had the opportunity to escape she had to take it. The Irishman was playing a game; He wanted her to solve a puzzle. She could only assume that if she won, if she unraveled the mystery that it would mean good things. It was like he wanted her to prove herself. Perhaps if she answered correctly he would show his face, or (even more of a leap) he would let her go. But she needed to make some ground, even meeting the man could help her work out how to play him. She'd already learned a lot just from his voice. So that was what she needed to do, but she needed more information. Despite her gut telling her not to pick up the earpiece, she waltzed back over to it and put it on. With a click it buzzed to life, but the Irishman did not reply.
"I know you're listening." Ellen said defiantly, "I know you're watching."
No response.
"You keep sending me clues. So I can only assume you want me to solve them for your entertainment. The whole kidnapping and threatening to shoot me game is getting old quickly, so why not move this along and give me some more information."
Silence still. It was infuriating, she almost screamed until from the second level there was a loud thump. It made her jump in her place, but rather than try and hide, something else in her took over. She threw the earpiece off and onto the ground and raced up the first flight of stairs. She weaved in and out the shelves, finding no one in sight. The only thing she did find was one old tattered book sprawled across the floor, as if it had fallen from its shelf. Suddenly everything was very clear. The Irishman wouldn't give her any new clues because she was standing in one! He'd moved her to a brand new location and everything she'd been given was a new mystery to solve. She'd said it herself, he was meticulous. Now every nook, every cranny, ever dust particle, was a clue. And the books, well they had to be the first place to start.
Ellen ran around again, looking at the placement of all the books in their corresponding sections. She noted their names and authors. Yes, this was planned. The books were not books at all. They were playwrights! But after picking up three she realized that there was a deeper pattern. They weren't different, aside for the publishing date and company. Just reprints of the same story. And what story was it you ask? Something Ellen's father had read to her at a young age, something that had been deeply personal; William Shakespeare's 'Othello'.
"What the hell did you do, Dad?" Ellen found herself whispering. Everything kept circling around her father and Nickolas Night. Now the kidnapper knew Ellen and her father's favourite story? That was slightly alarming. But more than that was how she felt things might play out. Lunatics using books as clues never ended well. She only hoped that her lunatic wasn't trying to make things play out like Othello. It was a great Shakespearian tragedy after all, and spoiler, almost everybody dies.
vvvvvv
Beth hadn't gone back to see her father in Ellen's apartment. She couldn't make herself. The moment they had shared had been important and she thought they had reached a point of understanding, but something about her father Beth still found unsettling. There were so many mysteries behind her father's eyes it was hard to know what was actually honesty from him.
She hadn't been told much about what was going on with her sister. Only that it wasn't over. The gas leak in the car park had been a rouse. Ellen was still alive. That hope was better than nothing. But it didn't put the other Harper daughter's mind to rest. Guilt ran through her. The last time the sisters had talked Beth had said some things she very much regretted.
So yes, Beth had thrown a costume party in Scotland Yard. It had been discrete, all the invitations had been sent out to emails only to be shown once and then self-destructed. While Ellen was the one who worked best with people, Beth had a strong suit in computing. So with her small get together from the I.T department and few other cool people from the main floor they took over the computer lab and were having a great time. Beth made the mistake of telling Dave, who brought way to many people as his 'plus one'. Somehow drugs were getting sent around and the music got turned too high, next thing a security guard had found them, ratted them out and Beth had found herself jobless. Yes, Ellen had been right that Beth was completely out of her mind for thinking she could throw a party in a police department and get away with it. That was over three weeks ago. Now, she was sizing up her other job options while wondering if her sister would make it through the night.
"I've got to run to work." Dave shouted walking out of his shower, wearing only a towel. His wet curls stuck to his face. As he spoke her phone beeped. Quickly she looked down hoping it was some news about Ellen.
Couldn't stay at Ellen's. We'll talk soon – DAD.
"I'm gonna head back home." Beth called back to Dave who threw on a pair of old boxers.
"Do you mind giving me a lift?" he asked, now slipping into a pair of his tracksuit pants, "Usually I just ask Mum to drop me, but she's out at book club with Doris."
"Yeah no worries." Beth nodded. That was the only unattractive thing Beth found with Dave; twenty-six and still lived in the granny flat of his parent's house. That and his inability to wash his own clothes. Finally Dave wandered out with his uniform on; a large fluorescent coat over a spaghetti sauce stained crimson v-neck tee. Somehow, trolley collecting was a turn on.
They walked up the driveway and to the street where Beth's car was parked. Beth had barely spoken to him since the whole ordeal with Ellen had started. She just sat next to her phone either crying or eating ice-cream. Sometimes both at the same time. So Dave didn't pester her, he sat silently and stared out the window of the car as Beth drove the quick ten minutes to his job.
When she pulled up, she smiled and leant over to kiss him goodbye but he flinched and pulled back.
"Beth…" he said softly, "I've got to tell you something. Something bad and you're not going to like it."
"You didn't jam the washing machine with a hairball again, did you?" Beth pulled away and cringed.
"That was one time!" Dave rolled his eyes and shook his head.
"Okay…" Beth paused and inspected Dave's face, he looked incredibly guilty, "What is it?
"Yeah, so… I… urghh. Right, actually, just forget it." He mumbled and stepped out of the car. Beth quickly pulled the keys out and chased after him.
"What the fuck?" she gripped his shoulder and turned him back around to face her, "Hey, if you've got something to tell me, then say it. I've got enough on my mind at the moment than to worry about something you've gone and effed up."
"I THINK I ACCIDENTLY HELPED GET YOUR SISTER KIDNAPPED!" Dave blurted out all at once, "This guy approached me after we broke up. He said if I could get some of your sister's clothes and some dumb book from her apartment that he'd pay me big money."
"WHAT?!" Beth shouted out, then regained her compsure, "Wait… How much?"
"Ten-thousand."
"Quid?" Beth's jaw dropped.
"Yes." Dave nodded, he refused to make eye contact with her, "I was just going to break in, but I tried twice and almost got caught and time was running out so I just…"
"-You came back to me." Beth finished his sentence dryly.
"I'm so sorry." Dave pleaded, "I didn't know what they wanted it for. I just thought some weirdo was gonna sit and sniff her stuff or something. No harm done."
"Did he wire the money to you?"
"No." Dave shook his head, "Cash in hand. Well in an envelope, in my mailbox."
"Damn it." Beth tightened her jaw. She had a look in her own eyes, like she was processing information. She got the look whenever she used to be gathering intel in the computing lab. Whenever she was helping to solve a case. Dave knew in that moment that Beth had pushed aside care that their relationship was a sham. She hadn't cared that Dave had lied, it hurt like hell but there was more important things to fret over. What she did care about, was finding out more on the person or people responsible for taking her sister.
"Did you ever see a face? How did they get in contact with you?" Beth insisted.
"I didn't see anyone's face. Just got a call from some South African guy. But the number was blocked. I couldn't call him back. I just got the stuff the other night when we were shagging on the couch, you know when Ellen was working late-."
"Yes Dave, I remember us shagging. Get to the point!" Beth shouted once more. He nodded rigorously and continued,
"I put it in some postbox, like they told me to. Then the next day we were protesting, then we were back at yours again, then you were crying 'cause they took her."
"Pass me your phone." Beth held her hand. Dave reluctantly pulled it from his pant pocket. She snatched it up, turning away and heading back to her car, "If I have to hack a million phones in London to find them, I will."
"You can't go after 'em." Dave chased her instead.
"They took my sister." Beth stopped at her car door, "I can do whatever I want. Oh, and by the way, as a token of your apology, I'm keeping this phone. Buy yourself another with your newfound wealth."
With that Beth was in her car and speeding back off to Ellen's apartment. Back there she had her laptop with a million hacking programs, she'd managed to keep hold of that when she was let go. Beth was going to find the son of a bitch who took her sister. Then? She was going to make him pay.
vvvvvv
Ellen was so worried. She knew there had to be another puzzle for Sherlock Holmes going on while she was stuck in here. It made no sense that the bomber wouldn't continue his game while she had been unresponsive. So again the clock inside her brain ticked. How long did she have? But with all the information she had been given, she couldn't piece anything together.
She bounded down the stairs and back to the large table with the banker lights, she couldn't help but have her eyes drawn back to the earpiece on the ground. The darn thing held so many answers. But she wasn't the only one desperate for her to put the earpiece back on. The doors to the library swung open and there was the familiar figure of the hooded Günther.
"Put it on." He drawled, a gun extended and other hand free to point at the device on the ground. Ellen, didn't move at first, she sat with her arms folded and a distinct pout on her lips. When Günther cocked the gun back and re-aimed at her she didn't defy him again.
"I'm going. I'm going!" Ellen hopped to her feet and raced over to it. Once it was on her ear there was the annoying voice of the Irishman again.
"You've grown rather brave, haven't you!" He said, his voice reeking of pride. Instantly she stopped worrying about the puzzle with Othello and remembered her plan she had hatched just before she had been knocked-out. As Günther handed her a pink phone the Irishman continued, "Well back to business. You can tell Sherly he's done good and saved you from another explosion."
"I don't get why you're doing all this." Ellen said once the bomber took a breath. It was a bland statement that almost sounded disinterested. As if Ellen truly was bored of this game. She was testing a theory.
"Why does anyone do anything?"
"I get snippets of understanding. This game you're playing revolves around my father, Nickolas Night and yourself, but why me? What makes it so important that you go through with all of this setting up?"
"Finally!" he said with delight, "You're starting to ask the right questions. Now make the call."
And she was back to being the messenger, but little did her captor know that she was about to shake things up. She knew Günther could shoot her, but she had to go out on a limb. If it meant protecting her family, she had a duty to try. The phone's ringing echoed in her ear; she had to get a warning across.
"Hello?" Sherlock's voice broke the silence. Ellen took in a deep breath.
"It's me again." Ellen responded. But Sherlock's response was confusing.
"What have you done with the other?"
"You can go and collect her." Ellen repeated what she was told, "She's at number 12 in the Terrace Apartment Block on Smith St."
"Are you alright Miss Harper?" Sherlock asked. Ellen hesitated.
"Hang up." The Irishman commanded from her earpiece. But she lingered, "HANG. UP!"
"My family is in danger! Watch th-." Ellen managed to shout out before Günther had pried the phone from her hand and hung it up himself. Her heart beat dangerously in her chest.
"I'm not afraid of your guns." She stared Günther in the eyes.
"It appears not." The Irishman said coldly. Günther who had his gun raised, lowered it to his side without a word. Ellen frowned and her heart somehow beat harder.
"But, if you think that there isn't repercussions for going off script…" Günther started to type in another number onto the pink phone, "You'd be wrong."
Günther held out the phone to her and Ellen took it wearily. The Irishman went silent.
"Hello…?" A lady's voice echoed out.
"Hello." Ellen replied, her own voice shaking, "It's going to be alright they've sent a rescue team your way as we sp-."
"You… cheated." The woman cut her off. Her voice riddled with fear, "We were playing... a… game."
"There… are… consequences." The woman began to sob. Ellen wanted to console her, to tell her everything would be alright. But before she could say anything there was a booming noise from the other side and the line cut out. Ellen gasped and covered her mouth as her own tears began to well and her throat constricted. Had Ellen inadvertently killed an innocent? In her attempt to save her family, she had condemned another. Then the cackling returned.
"Oooooh-y!" the laugh was menacing. It was evil. Ellen sat down, unresponsive as the laughing came to a slow finish, "Well it's good to know that you've learnt your lesson. I get it, you're think you're brave. You'll throw yourself under a bus and not think twice if it'll save daddy and little sissy. But you didn't think you'd be pushing someone else there instead."
"You are a monster." Ellen managed to get out before her grief took over once more.
"You haven't seen anything yet baby." His response was almost impressed, "Now be a darl and put the change of clothes on. Or perhaps I'll have to get Beth on the line…" And with that Ellen pried the earpiece out and stared over at the bag of clothes. She crawled over next to it and began to pull forth the contents; a baggy red sweater, black pants and some fuzzy socks. All of which were actual items from her wardrobe. That wasn't creepy at all… But she did as she was told.
That had been a terrible mistake, she should have kept her mouth shut. She couldn't begin to imagine what the woman on the other end of the phone must have been going through and then suddenly (and confusingly) snuffed out like a light.
Ellen had been right, the Irishman wouldn't hurt her. He was far crueler. She had wished she was wrong. The guilt that weighed her down now was something she had never experienced. But more than that, she was angry. Furious that she had been subdued again. Ellen did not go easily into the corner. Despite the fact she was terrified of the man on the other end of the earpiece, she still wanted to do everything in her power to make his life hell.
She watched as Günther left her alone, slipping the pink phone into his pocket and disappearing behind those huge swinging doors. For Beth's sake, she would change her clothes and also because she was starting to smell in the others. Ellen hadn't looked at her own appearance in some while now. It had to have been three days. That's how long she'd been forced to endure this torture. So she started to switch clothes, careful not to expose any skin. She knew there had to be cameras hidden somewhere, she didn't put a peep show past her captor. She pulled the sweater easily over her head and fumbled around inside to get her white work shirt off underneath. Then she slipped on the pants and lastly the socks, throwing aside her black pumps. She didn't really have much use for heels now. She went to put her shoes into the bag when she noticed there was still something inside. Something small and rectangular. It was another book.
Ellen picked it up, feeling its weight in her hands. When she flipped it over to read the cover it was no surprise it read 'Othello'. But this copy was not something pulled from a library. It was old, from many reads. It's hardback cover withering from sweaty hands that held it. It had pages tagged in the book. But the thing that struck the biggest nerve was what was written on the inside of the cover.
"To Ellen, Pride is the downfall of all great men, and you shall be mine.
With love, Dad."
It wasn't a fake message written from the bomber. It was something far more poignant. This was her father's copy, one he had given to her when she had graduated High School. He'd caught her reading it so much that he'd decided to give it to her as a gift. Somehow the Irishman had gotten a hold of it. Ellen flicked through the pages only to find it had been defaced. Parts of dialogue had been highlighted and things circled. To make matters worse every page or so something would be covered in white-out and new dialogue handwritten in its place. Then right towards the end, before the final confrontation, the pages had been ripped out. She flipped back and forth trying to understand why the kidnapper had defaced her copy. Like always, there was a pattern.
In Othello, the antagonist Iago put in motion a plan to corrupt the lives of the people around him for their wrongdoings to him. Whether the other characters had actively or accidently mistreated him, it didn't matter. He had a vendetta. The parts highlighted in her copy was the dialogue belonging to two specific characters; Michael Cassio and Roderigo. The characters fates were entwined throughout the story. At Iago's will Roderigo helps bring about a plot of Cassio's downfall and murder, but fails to kill Cassio. Instead Iago having no further use for him kills Roderigo instead. Normally after their fight towards the end, when Roderigo is killed, all of Iago's plans are revealed and he is captured to be tortured for his crimes at Cassio's command. But after their fight, the pages were gone. There was no ending.
Ellen shut the book unsettled, but held it closely to her chest. She had something more than a bundle of mismatched clothes to remind her of home, but it had been tainted. She got to her feet and padded up the stairs to hide in between the bookcases. She was sure that every inch of the place was lined with cameras, she doubted she'd truly be alone, but that didn't matter. She slumped down, legs huddled close and the book still at her chest.
She hadn't realized she had been crying at first. It was only when she looked down and saw small droplets of water hitting the book that she reached up to wipe them away. The whole time she had remained so numb. She didn't want to give the Irishman any satisfaction. She was a Harper after all. But as everything began to seep in, the weight of her situation became dire. So those tears flowed and she was happy to let them fall. She was human after all. Worry ate at her. She worried for her family, worried about Mr. Holmes' competency, she even worried about how the family of the elderly lady would be coping with such horrendous news. But that was only on the surface. Then she went deeper and wondered if she would ever be able to see the sun again. If she would be able to travel. She had a bucket list of things to do, first on the list was to learn how to swim. She'd never learnt as a kid, refused to go near water. She hated the creatures of the sea, especially after stumbling across the movie Jaws! It was all the little things that made Ellen's stobs stronger, shaking her deeply. It was the thought that she would never find love, never settle down and start a family. Never see grandchildren. Never live a full life. So many regrets piled on top of her that she thought her lungs might cave on themselves and she would die in this spot of the library. She didn't want to die, not really.
When she finally pulled her strength together and wiped away the last of her tears she was able to notice something. On the floor beside her, something had fallen from the cover of the book. It sat on its back, a flat rectangular paper. A watermark that lightly read 'Kodak' visible. It was a photograph. Ellen slowly reached down to it and flipped it over in her hand, careful not to put fingerprints on it. Had she seen this any earlier, she may have cried again. But not now. Not as everything fell into place. The cogs in her mind ticked over as she realized what all the clues were leading up to. Instead of feeling powerless and afraid, a fire in her belly grew. She grit her teeth and scowled at the image in her hand. That was it. The Irishman had overstepped the line.
The image was simple enough, her father and Nickolas Night dressed to the nine at some type of event. But that wasn't what made her so infuriated. Instead it was the chicken scrawl that had demented the image. In thick red ink crosses sat over Night's eyes and her father - a target drawn over his heart. Everything made so much sense.
Clue 1: The riddle of the man in the dungeon. The first mystery the Irishman had set for Ellen. The answer? When Night falls. She had already been told that Nickolas was going to die before he did.
Clue 2: The newspaper with the job promotion of Night. From a month or so back.
Clue 3: The newspaper reporting on the suicide of Nickolas Night, her story included as well.
Clue 4: The library, housing only copies of Othello.
Clue 5: Her defaced copy of Othello, the final scenes removed.
And of course, Clue 6: The image.
Her father was going to be killed. The Irishman had played them like Iago. Night had been cast as Roderigo and her father, Michael Cassio. But the story was going to be re-written. This time, Cassio would die.
Ellen could feel the blood pumping in her ears, she could hear the buzz of a mosquito weaving in and out of the other shelves. The world slowed around her, but her mind was not still at all. Hundreds of thoughts raced around, fighting for dominancy but they whizzed around one central necessity; She had to get to her father, she had to warn him and get him to safety. She didn't care how he got himself in this situation. They could deal with those questions later. For now she let her mind work at how to escape. There was nobody in the universe that could stop her from reaching her family.
Night began to fall (how ironic). The sun stopped beating down on the huge stained glass sky-light above. Its colours eerily dull. The rose fading in the shadows. Amongst the bookcases, the dust finally settled in place. The mosquito's buzzing coming to a halt. Ellen was calm and collected. Then the plan began to form.
It was ridiculous at first. Ideas of starting a fire with the wood from the bookshelves, setting off fire alarms and burning her way out. Then came the idea of finding and taking out all of the cameras, smashing the room to bits until someone came to inspect on her, then make a mad dash. But she understood the simpler the plan, the more likely her escape. So Ellen had decided. She would make one final phone call, then all she needed was a gun. A gun that resided on Günther's belt.
But for now she needed sleep. A dreamless sleep, but sleep all the same. When the sun would rise once more, everything was going to change. The game, was on.
vvvvv
He had solved the Connie Prince case, but despite that Sherlock had lost the round. The kidnapped girl, Ellen Harper had gone off script. 'My family is in danger! Watch th-.' The words rung in his head. His deductions after speaking to Mr. Harper had been confirmed. This was all part of a much larger picture. So now the bomber was coming after all the family, Sherlock could only assume. But Miss Harper had risked something big to give them that message. He doubted she was aware what the outcome would be. Most people would put themselves in danger to protect the ones they loved. Uh, sentiment. But it didn't take an idiot to know that by threatening someone's loved ones, using that as bait, a response was different. Logic concluded that Harper wouldn't endanger her own family to protect her own family. Therefore she couldn't have known about the old lady. The threat the kidnapper held over her was something she was willing to risk.
It was the morning after. He sat staring at the television, as a broadcast of another 'gas-leak' graced the screen. From the same address they had been given to collect the elderly lady. Cause and effect. The game didn't go to plan so the bomber improvised but sent a clear message.
"There has been no more word from police about the sudden and unexpected death of Minister Nickolas Night. His family and friends are still in shock." A news reader explained, "In other news the explosion which ripped through several floors, killing twelve people, is said to have been cause by a faulty gas main. A spokesman from the utility company…"
John reached to the remote and muted the volume.
"Seemed silly to have more than one hostage." Sherlock sat relaxed on his couch, picking something from his teeth with his tongue.
"He certainly gets about." John shook his head as more images flashed across the screen.
"Well, obviously I lost that round. Although technically I did solve the case," Sherlock plodded on, "He killed the old lady because Ms. Harper said something out of turn. I think he anticipated it would happen."
"What d'you mean?" John turned to him.
"You've seen the woman, she's not exactly the friendliest. So she's made a few calls like the bomber asked, then got a little bit cocky. Bam, she finds out her kidnapping isn't an accident and tries to give us a message. But like always he's one step ahead, organised. So he blows up the Granny to keep Miss Harper in check." Sherlock put his hands to his mouth and smiled slightly, "I wonder if she's had direct contact?"
"It would make her release unlikely if she had." John added, a brow raised in Holmes' direction.
"Yes. You'd think, he must stay above it all. He organises these things but no-one ever has direct contact."
"What ... like the Connie Prince murder – he-he arranged that? So people come to him wanting their crimes fixed up, like booking a holiday?" John said with a tinge of disgust in his voice.
"Novel." Sherlock said softly, his face beaming. John noticed the look and held his jaw turning back as the TV began another story. Raoul de Santos, the house keeper responsible for the death of Prince was being arrested. When John looked back her found Sherlock staring at the pink phone.
"Taking his time this time." He commented, tapping his foot impatiently.
"Anything on the Carl Powers case?" John asked.
"Nothing. All the living classmates check out spotless. No connection." Sherlock replied blankly.
"Maybe the killer was older than Carl?
"The thought had occurred." Sherlock bit his lip and let his head flop around on his neck.
"What about Peter Harper? Mycroft pull up anything?" John asked instead. Sherlock shrugged dramatically.
"So why's he doing this, then – playing this game with you? And the whole thing with the Harper's?" John questioned.
"I think he wants to be distracted." Sherlock let another smirk slip out.
"I hope you'll be very happy together." John laughed humourlessly, as he marched into the kitchen.
"Sorry, what?" Sherlock looked up, John spun on his heel and slammed his hands down on the back of his armchair.
"There are lives at stake, Sherlock – actual human lives… Just - just so I know, do you care about that at all?" he spat.
"Will caring about them help save them?" Sherlock replied irritated.
"Nope." John grit back, popping the 'p' at the end.
"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake." Sherlock replied too smugly. John scoffed again and gripped the chair tighter.
"And you find that easy, do you?"
"Yes, very." Sherlock met John darkly in the eyes, "Is that news to you?"
"No." John smiled back bitterly, "No."
"I've disappointed you." Sherlock's tone remained the same over smug one.
"That's good." John pointed at him, "That's a good deduction, yeah."
"Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them" As Sherlock had finished the pink phone hummed and in an instant Sherlock had deleted the little tiff between himself and Watson from his mind. He had a new case to solve.
