I deleted the previous chapter, the former chapter nine. I was going through (and, also trying to write the tenth chapter) and I found that I didn't quite like it in the least bit. What Molly had said about her sleeping patterns in the former chapter nine; forget about it for about two seconds during the first part, but then you can remember it during the second part of this chapter. I revised the second half of chapter nine (formerly) and, although some of the sentences are exactly as they were before, the context of them are somewhat different.


According to the news media—the newspaper, television, and radio alike—a similar series of murders, thefts, and assaults have been committed in the last three months (from November 7, 2011 to now), in the United Kingdom and even across the English Channel into France, Germany, Belgium, and the Netherlands. Twenty-one murders, thirty-six thefts, and twenty-nine assaults in total. By the time the authorities of the five countries realized the connections, it was already late January and there were seventy-two victims, almost a victim a day.

The events are as follow:

All of the eighty-six victims were found early in the morning, usually by eight; supposedly, exactly six hours after the crime took place. The crimes were mostly committed in the victims' houses (which were all locked), but, sometimes, the location varied from alleys to parks according to the time, place, and crime. The murder victims would always be found in their homes on their backs with their throats cleanly slit by a three-inch blade, with a red tulip in their hand (the left hand for the even number victims, the right hand for the odd) whilst the assault and theft victims would be found on their stomachs with the red tulip vertically placed on their backs, with no visible signs of injury and no sign of poison or drugs in their systems, although bruises would appear at their shoulders and hips by the next day. The victims would also remember nothing; however, twenty of the sixty-five thefts and assault victims remembered hearing classical music along with a feeling of despair and fear right before they became unconscious. In addition, five out of these twenty saw a semi-transparent dark splotch out of the corner of their eyes as they walked towards the music, apparently in some sort of a trance state.

It wasn't until the seventy-third victim—and the twenty-third assault—that the classical music was finally documented as Igor Stravinsky's The Rite of Spring*. "About five and a half minutes into the first act", the victim, told York police, "y'know when the Virgins come dancing in and dance for thirty seconds—I only 'eard about forty-five seconds of it before blacking out. But, the last fifteen seconds—that's when the sense of terror overcame me and I became very afraid for my life."

Moreover, it wasn't until the eighty-first victim—and the twenty-first murder—that a witness came forward, who was walking their dog in the streets of Essen, Germany when they saw a "flash of black with a face of gold" bolt from the apartment of thirty-three-year old engineer, Kurt Oppenheimer, at around two in the morning. The witness described the "flash of black with a face of gold" silently leap off the roof of Oppenheimer's apartment building across to the roof of the other building, "quite easily and swiftly, like a ninja", they stressed, and saw nothing else. Oppenheimer was later discovered in his bed with a look of serenity and peacefulness on his face, his throat neatly cut, and a red tulip in his right hand. The lead detective even stated in his report that Oppenheimer had "looked like he was sleeping...there was no sign of blood anywhere on the sheets and there was only a few droplets on the pillows". The two doors that led to the roof of the building were later found closed and locked with no sign of forced or any kind of entry, along with the doors and windows of Oppenheimer's apartment and the tenants reported no sounds or disturbances that night. Oppenheimer's time of death was estimated at two that morning by the medical examiner and nothing appeared to have been stolen.

None of the victims had anything in common. Only ten of the victims were doctors, but all in different fields and none of them had met while the other seventy-four were of various professions ranging from a carpenter to a sales assistant, and, once again, none of them had ever met or come across each other and had nothing really in common, with the expectations that a few of the victims watched the same show.

The items stolen from the thirty-six people were objects that weren't immediately realized as being stolen until much later; they were pretty ordinary objects such as a fake marble bust of American president Abraham Lincoln stolen from a twenty-one-year old writer in Dublin, Ireland; a thirty-year old diary from a seventy-year old grandmother in Cherbourg, France; and a forty-seven-year old record of Maria Callas Sings Verdi Arias—Othello, Don Carlo, Aroldo from a forty-three-year old headmaster in Brussels, Belgium. None of the items has been found as of this writing and the combined forces of the five countries (who have actually created their own united task force) believe that these crimes are the work of a group or groups.


"Have you heard about these killers with golden masks?" Molly asked Sherlock with an indifferent, bored, tone—but with a dull edge of enthusiasm towards the end—as she placed her dark blue peacock coat onto the wall hook. Two weeks had gone by without a hint of Moriarty; Molly had begun to show up at the flat, at the random times that Sherlock and John happen to be there, for a cup of tea for about ten minutes before giving a vague excuse and leaving in a rush. It was six o'clock on a Thursday night, on February 9, 2012; John was out on a date with Sarah and Sherlock was reading the Daily Mail, a thick perfume of odium and malice in the air around him.

"Eh", Sherlock muttered in a bored, flat tone as he turned the page, "Twenty-one murders, thirty-six thefts, and twenty-nine assaults all committed by a gang of golden masked assassins who can"—he then said in an exaggerated, excited tone—"'walk through walls' and 'fly like birds'."

"Hm, I'm surprised you're not interested", Molly sat down on the couch; "It seems like a good opportunity to show off in fount of a task force comprising of some of the best law enforcement officers of five countries."

"While that does sound tempting"—he glanced over the newspaper at Molly—"I've got bigger fish to fry", he then went back to reading the newspaper.

Molly shrugged and then started to slowly rub her eyes and face with the palms of her hands for a minute before Sherlock asked, in a jaded tone, "You must be tired", Sherlock glanced at Molly again, "What? You must be getting two or three hours of sleep?"

"Not even that!" Molly shook her head faintly and muttered in frustration, "I haven't been sleeping at all", she continued to shake her head, "I go to bed at eleven, sleep for an hour, before waking up at midnight in cold sweats, on the verge of screaming", she sighed hopelessly, "then I lie in bed for half an hour, trying to dump everything out of my head to fall back asleep, until twelve thirty"...Molly bit her bottom lip in thought and trailed off, intently studying at her feet. "And then, at eight, I'm either in fount of 221 Baker Street, or on the London docks, or in the park", Molly gazed at Sherlock, "Once I found myself on the Chunnel, coming back from France."

"What happens at twelve thirty?" Sherlock lowered his newspaper down and examined her, his brows intertwined in interest. 'Finally...some action.'

Molly looked down and bit her bottom lip again, her brows furrowed in thought, before slowly saying and looking back at Sherlock, with a lost look, "I...I don't know. The odd thing is that—when I wake up...I'm dressed", Molly exhaled a rattled breath, "so I can't be sleepwalking, because my makeup and hair is done flawlessly", she placed her index finger to her mouth, "and I'm always so exhausted and worn out. I feel like the floor of a taxi cab."

Sherlock let out an impassive, uninterested sigh and went back to his newspaper, "Oh, I don't know, take some damn sleeping pills or something"; his mind quickly listed possible diagnoses, 'Insomnia. Psychogenic amnesia and depression without psychotic features. Acute psychotic episode under extreme stress, aggression during an amnesic drug-related state. Potential case of homicidal somnambulism or volitional (deliberate) homicide with stress-induced amnesia and complex partial epileptic seizures with automatic behavior—keep an eye out for that.'

"I have", Molly said sharply, "And—oh—before you started 'diagnosing' me, Sherlock, I don't have a history of sleep trouble, bed wetting, sleep walking, or any of that...and neither does my family, so you can get rid of your whole Ken Parks theory. Furthermore, I've tried all of the sleeping tricks, but nothing works. I've even locked my doors and windows and, yet, I always find myself in the middle of nowhere, with no memory of how I got there", Molly paused, looked at Sherlock or, rather, the newspaper, and then added, "Moreover, I really don't like the tone you're giving me."

"Oh, sorry, that I don't like hearing people complain about their problems", Sherlock said sarcastically and callously as he shook his newspaper loudly, "Catch me on a day I can muster up some interest."

"A-ha", Molly pointed at Sherlock, "so that twenty minute bitch fest you gave me after I was gone for a few days for my grandmother's funeral doesn't count, hm?" Molly clapped her hands together, lightly, in recognition, and then said in a mean, cynical tone, "Oh, but, of course not, because you're Sherlock Holmes and we mortals are no match for you", she said in a singsong voice, but then continued in a firm, mean voice, "But, you better be careful up on that pedestal or else you'll fall off and have to walk along down here with the rest of us and—I don't know?—maybe catch a glimpse of yourself in a surface of a pool or a window, and, trust me"—she said this is a nice, sweet tone, "dear, you're not going to like what you see."

Sherlock said nothing, but his grip on the newspaper tightened, ever so slightly, and that's all Molly needed to see to know that she had finally won a round against Sherlock Holmes.

'It would have been better with spectators, but, a girl can't have everything.' Molly smiled a sickly sugary smile and then glanced at a clock, "I gotta go", and she said standing up, the smile still plastered on her face, her tone suggesting that she thought nothing of ill had just occurred. "Mycroft has me going on another date and I can't be late for it", Molly muttered as she pulled a her coat on over a black dress with faded red flowers and adjusted the collar on the coat, "the last time I was late Mycroft sent me on a date with an ass-grabbing, ass face", she shudders. "Ugh", she waved, "I'll see you later."

Sherlock merely cleared his throat and shook the newspaper again to straighten it, "Well, that's simply not true at all", he cleared his throat again, "What makes her think I'll fall off my pedestal?"


*= a 1913 ballet by Russian composer Igor Stravinsky and Polish choreographer Vaslav Nijinsky.

.com/watch?v=jF1OQkHybEQ (youtube) (The bit is at 4:55 till about 5:33.)