Hey, guys! So sorry to keep you all waiting. It's been a crazy couple of weeks. So, to those who are still reading and those who have liked this story, thank you so much. It really means a lot to have someone read this and actually like it. I promise to try to get these updates out sooner. Please review! Much love. :3
Once they got to the morgue, Lestrade was already waiting for them. The detective inspector nearly rolled his eyes as the pair came around the corner, John holding Sherlock's arm as if he needed to be corralled, and Sherlock allowing it.
"Connie Prince; fifty four. She had one of those makeover shows on the telly. Did you see it?"
"Nope." Sherlock replied as he moved out of John's grasp to look at the woman.
"Very popular, she was going places."
"Not anymore." Sherlock marked, "So, dead two days. According to one of her staff, Raoul De Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden. Nasty wound. Tetanus bacteria enters the blood stream; good night, Vienna."
"I suppose." John mumbled towards Sherlock.
John was pacing around the body, looking over the wound and thinking to himself. Sherlock watched John lean over and assess the wound.
"So what's wrong with this picture?" Sherlock asked out loud.
Lestrade looked over to him, "Eh?"
"It can't be as simple as this." He looked over to John, "Otherwise the bomber wouldn't be directing us towards it. Something's wrong."
All three of the men stared down the corpse. Sherlock was deducing each visible wound on the woman. She had a scratch pattern on her arm which looked to be similar to cat's claws and spots on her forehead that were similar to the pattern of injection needles. What was different, though, was the fact that all of her wounds had traces of blood, but the wound on her hand was perfectly void of blood traces. Sherlock spoke up then.
"John?"
"Hm?"
"The cut on her hand, it's deep. Would have bled a lot, right?"
"Yeah."
"But the wound is clean. Very clean, and fresh."
Sherlock snapped his pocket magnifier shut.
"How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?"
"Eight – ten days."
Sherlock grinned slightly.
"The cut was made later." John realized aloud.
"After she was dead?" Lestrade questioned. He looked just as lost as John had a moment prior.
"Must have been. The only question is how did the tetanus enter the dead woman's system? You want to help, right?" Sherlock asked, turning to John.
"Of course."
"Connie Prince's background – family history, everything. Give me data."
"Right."
John turned and left quickly to find what Sherlock had asked for. Sherlock was about to follow him, but Lestrade stopped him before he could.
"There's something else that we haven't thought of."
"Is there?" Sherlock said flatly.
"Yes. Why is he doing this, the bomber? If this woman's death was suspicious, why point it out?"
"Good Samaritan." He replied in a rather sarcastic tone.
"Who press-gangs suicide bombers?"
"Bad Samaritan."
"I'm serious, Sherlock. Listen, I'm cutting you slack here. I'm trusting you, but out there somewhere, some poor bastard's covered in Semtex and is just waiting for you to solve the puzzle. So just tell me, what are we dealing with?"
Sherlock smirked slighty.
"Something new."
Sherlock caught up with John as he was making his way down the hall to leave the morgue.
"John, wait." He called out.
John turned around and was nearly run over by the taller man. Sherlock pulled him out to the street, giving him directions along the way.
"Use an alias. Something believable to someone like Kenny Prince."
"Who's that?" John asked, turning the corner where Sherlock was hailing a taxi for him.
"Connie Prince's brother. Go interview him. Come up with something to—"
"I know, Sherlock, I know. I need to get data for you."
Sherlock glanced down at John as the cab pulled up. He then gave John the address and some cab fare. Before John got into the cab, Sherlock caught his hand and pulled him into a gentle hug. John grinned and kissed Sherlock chastely on the lips before slipping into the cab.
"Love you, Sherlock." He said as he went to close the door.
Sherlock beamed.
"Love you too, John."
A few hours later, Sherlock was staring at the wall where he had pinned all the information he had on the bomber, trying to piece together what was going on.
"Connection, connection, connection. There must be a connection." He muttered as he paced the room, "Carl Powers, killed twenty years ago. The bomber knew him. Admitted that he knew him. The bomber's iPhone was in stationery from the Czech Republic. 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?"
Suddenly the phone rang out, interrupting his rant.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you? Joining the...dots?" The old, quaking voice said over the line.
Sherlock frowned and glanced around the room.
"Three hours – boom...boom." She broke off sobbing, and hung up the phone.
"We're devastated. Of course we are." Kenny said to John as they walked into the sitting room. John went to take a seat on the sofa and the strange hairless thing, which resembled a cat, decided to take an interest in him.
"Can I get you anything, sir?" Raoul asked John.
"Er, no. No, thanks." John said, still trying to get that hairless rat to leave him alone.
"Raoul is my rock. I don't think I could have managed." Kenny said looking over at the houseboy fondly.
John simply pressed his lips together and scratched the thing behind its ear, hoping that the simple gesture would appease it enough for it to leave him alone already.
"We didn't always see eye to eye, but my sister was very dear to me." Kenny said sadly.
"And to the public, Mr. Prince?" John asked.
"Oh, she was adored. I've seen her take girls who looked like the back end of Routemasters and turn them into princesses." Kenny mused,"Still, it's a relief in a way to know that she's beyond this veil of tears."
"Absolutely." God, John hated this stupid little hairless demon that decided to lie across his lap.
"Great. ... Thank you. Thanks again." Sherlock said to someone over the phone.
"It was a real shame. I liked her. She taught you how to do your colours." Mrs. Hudson said to Lestrade as they waited for Sherlock to get off the phone.
"Colours?" Lestrade asked, slightly confused.
"You know – what goes best with what. I should never wear cerise, apparently. Drains me." Mrs. Hudson said in a matter-of-fact tone.
Sherlock hung up, and walked back over to Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade.
"Who was that?" Lestrade asked, wondering where Sherlock could get all this information so quickly.
"Home Office." Sherlock answered quickly.
"Home Office?" Lestrade asked, shocked.
"Well, Home Secretary, actually. Owes me a favour." Sherlock said, shrugging.
"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?" Mrs. Hudson giggled to Lestrade, who returned a polite smile, even though he clearly had no interest in what she was rambling about.
"Did you ever see her show?" Mrs. Hudson asked Sherlock quickly.
"Not until now."
Sherlock picked up his laptop to show a clip from Connie Prince's show. The display of sibling harassment was borderline abuse from Connie's part towards Kenny Prince.
"That's the brother. No love lost there, if you can believe the papers." Mrs. Hudson commented.
"So I gather. I've just been having a very fruitful chat with people who loved this show. Fan sites: indispensable for gossip."
Sherlock turned back to the screen. Definitely no love lost there. Kenny may not have killed his sister, but he wouldn't mourn her passing either.
"It's more common than people think. The tetanus is in the soil, people cut themselves on rose bushes, garden forks, that sort of thing. If left untreated..." John said, speaking to Kenny Prince, who he thought was across the room.
John trailed off when he looked up and Kenny was right beside him, right smack-dab in his personal space. John looked him over, allowing his discomfort to show apparent on his face.
"I don't know what I'm going to do now." Kenny droned, somewhat leaning in.
Well he did have a flare for the dramatic, didn't he?
"Right." John said, leaning as far back from Kenny as possible.
"I mean, she's left me this place, which is lovely, but it's not the same without her."
John again tried to move away from the overbearing man beside him, but there was nowhere to go.
"Th-that's why my paper wanted to get the, um, the full story straight from the horse's mouth. You sure it's not too soon?"
"No."
"Right."
"You…fire away."
John was about to start taking down a few fake notes, when he noticed the cat, who'd finally gotten off of him to do whatever it is hairless rat-cats do. Just then a thought occurred to him as he smelled his fingers after scratching his nose.
"Oh."
Sherlock was still staring at the wall of information when he heard his phone ring. He quickly checked the screen to see who it was.
"John." Sherlock said without any other greeting. They really didn't have the time now.
"Hi, love. Look, get over here quickly. I think I'm onto something. You'll need to pick up some stuff first. You got a pen?"
"I'll remember." Sherlock said grabbing his coat and heading for the door.
"That'll be him." John said sometime later when he heard the door open. Thank God.
"What?" Kenny asked, confused. He had been fixing himself in the mirror and had not been paying attention to John's mentioning of his "photographer".
Sherlock was motioned into the room by Raoul. He was carrying a camera bag and was walking – no – strutting into the room with an air of confidence. John smiled slightly. Go figure.
"Ah, Mr. Prince, isn't it?" Sherlock asked politely.
"Yes."
"Very good to meet you." Sherlock said, shaking Kenny's hand, but also taking a good look at it.
"Yes, thank you."
"So sorry to hear about ..."
"Yes, yes, very kind." Kenny said waving off the sympathies. He'd heard enough about his sister for one day, apparently.
"Shall we, er ..." John asked, motioning to Sherlock.
Sherlock walked over to the sofa, put the case down and started rummaging in his bag. Kenny turned back to the mirror and was fiddling with his hair again. Drama kings mustn't have bad hair for a prime photo-op.
"You were right. The bacteria got into her another way." John whispered to Sherlock, who was turning the dials on the camera for the correct light settings.
Sherlock was smirking. "Oh yes?"
"Yes." John replied, not noticing Sherlock's haughty expression.
Kenny turned around then. "Right. We all set?"
"Um, yes." John nodded, turning back to Kenny.
Sherlock to the camera out and got ready to take a few shots.
"Can you ...?" John asked, motioning for Kenny to make a pose.
As Kenny leaned one arm on the mantelpiece and posed, Sherlock walked over to him and started taking photographs of him in a rather unprofessional manner.
"Not too close. I'm raw from crying." Kenny complained.
Just then, that little hairless beast came in and started moving around Sherlock's feet.
"Oh, who's this?" Sherlock inquired.
"Sekhmet, named after the Egyptian goddess." Kenny answered.
"How nice. Was she Connie's?" Sherlock said in a tone that said he truly did not care at all.
"Yes." Kenny replied, not noticing, or caring about, Sherlock's tone.
John reached down towards the cat to keep it away from Sherlock's feet but Kenny beat him to it and cradled the little demon.
"Little present from yours truly." Kenny smiled at the feline.
John didn't understand how that thing could be a present. Whatever works, he guessed.
"Sherlock? Uh, light reading?" he inquired.
"Oh, um..."
He lifted a second flashgun, which he was holding in his other hand, and held it towards Kenny, firing it straight into his face. Very unprofessional, indeed.
"Two point eight."
Kenny squinted his eyes shut against the light.
"Bloody hell. What do you think you're playing at?!" Kenny yelled with his eyes burning from the intense light.
John immediately reached out and rubbed his fingers over one of the cat's front paws. There needed to be a reason he smelled disinfectant when he was holding the cat earlier. Sherlock kept firing the flashgun to keep Kenny's eyes closed, much to the man's disliking.
"Sorry." Sherlock apologized.
John lifted his fingers away and sniffed them as Sherlock continued to fire the flashgun. Yup. The cat reeked of cleaning fluids.
"You're like Laurel and bloody Hardy, you two. What's going on?" Kenny complained.
"Actually, I think we've got what we came for. Excuse us." John said moving away.
"What?" Kenny asked, confused. Right awful reporters, these two were.
"Sherlock." John warned.
"What?" He asked, looking over at John.
"We've got deadlines." John said, grabbing the camera bag.
Sherlock followed after him without another question. This case was getting rather tedious. It wasn't as if he didn't already know.
"But you've not taken anything!" Kenny shouted after them, but the men were gone.
Once they were out of the house, John chuckled delightedly as they speed-walked down the drive and moved towards the main road.
"Yes! Ooh, yes!" John laughed, certain that he'd just helped tremendously with the case.
Sherlock couldn't help but smile. "You think it was the cat. It wasn't the cat."
"What? No, yes. Yeah, it is. It must be. It's how they got the tetanus into her system. Its paws stink of disinfectant." John said. He knew he was right. He had to be.
Sherlock was still smiling. "Lovely idea."
"No, he coated it onto the paws of her cat. It's a new pet – bound to be a bit jumpy around her. A scratch is almost inevitable. She wouldn't have ..."
Sherlock interrupted him, "I thought of it the minute I saw the scratches on her arm, but it's too random and too clever for the brother."
John chuckled again. That was something he wasn't going to argue against.
"He murdered his sister for her money."
"Did he?" Sherlock asked.
John looked over at him. "Didn't he?"
Sherlock shook his head. "No. It was revenge."
"Revenge? Who wanted revenge?" John asked, totally confused.
"Raoul, the houseboy. Kenny Prince was the butt of his sister's jokes, week in, week out, a virtual bullying campaign. Finally he had enough; fell out with her badly. It's all on the website. She threatened to disinherit Kenny. Raoul had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle, so..."
"No, wait, wait. Wait a second. What about the disinfectant, then, on the cat's claws?" John asked, stopping and turning to him.
"Raoul keeps a very clean house. You came through the kitchen door, saw the state of that floor – scrubbed to within an inch of its life. You smell of disinfectant now. No, the cat doesn't come into it. Raoul's internet records do, though. Hope we can get a cab from here." Sherlock said, walking on ahead of John.
John scowled at Sherlock, but followed behind him. Could he just once pretend to let him be right? Just once? No, of course not.
"Because he's bloody Sherlock Holmes, the only one around here with a brain." John thought to himself, keeping the scowl planted firmly on his face.
Sherlock glanced over at John and kept his expression blank. Maybe he should have just told John in the first place. But then again, what would be the fun in that? He was getting used to these cases, which had become almost entertaining in a sadistic kind of way, so following through was the only thing to do at this point. Perhaps John was just tired. That was it.
Sherlock and John both walked into to Scotland Yard about twenty minutes later and Sherlock walked straight up to Lestrade and handed him a folder that John didn't care to know how he had obtained.
"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." Sherlock boasted proudly.
"So how'd he do it?" Lestrade asked.
"Botox injection." Sherlock said as if it should be obvious.
"Botox?" Lestrade asked, more than a little lost.
"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."
"You sure about this?" Lestrade had to ask. Sherlock was rarely ever wrong, but he had to be sure that this was all correct.
"I'm sure." Sherlock said flatly. Of course he was sure. Why did people always question him?
"All right. My office." He turned and walked to his office, leaving the two alone.
"Hey, Sherlock. How long?" John asked, grabbing Sherlock's arm, stopping him from following Lestrade.
"What?" Sherlock looked down at a rather stroppy John and he kept his expressionless gaze.
"How long have you known?" John asked, scowling up at him.
"Well, this one was quite simple, actually, and like I said, the bomber repeated himself. That was a mistake."
"No, but Sher – The hostage…the old woman. She's been there all this time!" John wanted to really shout, but somehow managed to keep his voice low.
"I knew I could save her. I also knew that the bomber had given us twelve hours. I solved the case quickly; that gave me time to get on with other things. Don't you see? We're one up on him!"
Why didn't John see that the woman didn't matter? All that mattered was catching the criminal.
John let out a breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. Sherlock could be a real arse at times, and this time was no exception. John had expected this to happen at some point. People don't automatically change after entering a relationship, and that did not exclude Sherlock. John didn't even know how to begin to tell Sherlock what was wrong with what he had just said about the poor woman. They would discuss it more later, but at that moment he just followed Sherlock into Lestrade's office. A headache was slowly approaching, and he knew they were in for a long night.
Sherlock quickly typed out how Raoul de Santos murdered Connie Prince into his website and posted it. Apparently the bomber was keeping full tabs on them at all times, because almost immediately there was a call on the pink phone.
"Hello?" Sherlock answered.
"Help me." The woman sobbed out.
"Tell us where you are – address."
"He was so ... His voice ..."
"No, no, no, no. Tell me nothing about him. Nothing." Sherlock all but shouted into the phone.
"He sounded so ... soft."
Sherlock heard a shot, and then nothing. No. But he solved the case…
"Hello?"
"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked seeing Sherlock's shocked face.
"What's happened?" John asked. He knew everything had gone wrong.
Sherlock didn't answer either of them. What could he say? What was there to say? He had been wrong. He was never wrong. Technically he had been right. He did solve the case, but was he wrong to wait until the end to save the hostage? Why did she have to start to describe him? If she had only listened to him, she would still be alive. This was a setback, but there were other rounds to come. He just had to be patient.
John looked down at Sherlock's expression as he lowered the mobile onto the desk. He knew how much of a blow this was to his detective. He and Lestrade exchanged glances as John set his hand reassuringly on Sherlock's shoulder. Oh yes, this was going to be a long night.
.
