A.N. Here is the next chapter. I hope it's a bit more exciting than the last. It's not at full potential, but we are building towards some true action, I can promise you that.

Thanks for the reviews and alerts. I am glad to see that you still find this enjoyable. I hope I can keep it up.

Thank you especially to CaptainThetaSherlock and HowlynMad for the reviews. This chapter is for you.

Enjoy!

Chapter Nine:

Sherlock hardly flinched as his phone buzzed for a third time. John was chasing him, but he had no will to fight with the doctor. He needed time alone and away from human life. He hoped to find some clue wandering the streets, wished for some enlightenment to open his eyes to the game Moriarty had forced him into. Already, John was beginning to doubt him, beginning to doubt his ability to stay sane. And how was he supposed to convince John otherwise that he already knew a third woman was already dead, and that, by morning, the call would come from Lestrade, beseeching him to come?

The connection between the two—soon to be three—he knew too. Or, rather, he believed he did. And why shouldn't he be right about it, when he was right about everything else?

His phone was ringing now. He glanced at it, almost willing it to be Lestrade. It was not him, though. The number was Mycroft's. No, thank you very much.

He hastily put it away. His brother was an enigma as usual. Only ever interested in contacting Sherlock when he needed a case solved, this pursuit seemed to be of a different nature, one he could not quite place, and one he had no time to chase after.

A few more steps and the phone rang again. Damned contraption. This time it was Lestrade.

His frustration changed to elation. "Where is she?"

"What? Sherlock, where are you? John called looking for you. Seems to think you've gone rogue." Lestrade's exasperation was evident even over this distance. "Did you find something?"

Sherlock scowled. "No. And you didn't either?"

"No…"

Hanging up abruptly, Sherlock continued to walk in sweeping gaits as he came to the alley where Mina Weathers had been found mutilated. He gazed around the place, taking note of every missing flagstone, ever possible detail. But nothing stood to gain him any more knowledge.

The second body had been found exactly forty blocks from here. Why forty? He glanced at the surrounding houses. Why here? Why there? Why?

Moriarty had promised not to make this simple and he was succeeding rather well in making Sherlock dance. "Damned man," he whispered to the wind as he began to make his way to the spot where Katelyn Mirark had been found.

Time seemed to fade as he walked. Moriarty was killing women, mangling them and leaving him a trail of their dead corpses. To win, he would have to successfully know who Moriarty planned to kill next and when he would strike. If he could do that, he would catch the man and victory, sweet victory, would be his. And if there was more to it than that?

What if Moriarty left him a definitive clue in hope that he would stumble upon it and find him and draw him back into battle? He would not put a plan such a man. All he could do was embrace the idea, allowing it to excite him. What a true test that would be.

Darkness had long fallen completely over London, and the stars were now veiled from sight by ominous black clouds as he reached Katelyn Mirark's last resting place.

Pulling out his torch, he scanned the area, rummaging through the bins where she had been found. But it was not there, like Mina's had not been.

It, in this case, was a mobile. Two women were dead, and both mobiles were missing. Both key to his investigation, their absence was Moriarty's doing. With them, this case might already have been solved. Without them, it became a challenge. Clever little man.

Convinced that there was nothing to be found, Sherlock clambered from the rubbish and stood in the darkened alley, making a note to inform Lestrade that he would need access to these women's email accounts and wishing for a cigarette.

As he left the alley, his mobile began to ring again. Grumbling, he held it out. Lestrade again.

"Yes, Lestrade."

The voice on the other end was frayed. "We've got another."

"Where?"

The place given, Sherlock called to mind a map of the city, tracing the distance from his position to that of the new body. The conclusion made him breathe deeply in excitement.

Forty blocks.

C H A P T E R N I N E

The text had only stated a place and a single command: Come!

It was nearly midnight and yet he was wide awake, sitting up, waiting for the detective. The text—though a clear sign that the man was alive—did more to concern John then comfort him. It was also a sign that someone else was dead.

The cab ride felt excruciatingly long with the absence of Sherlock. The empty silence almost made him want to pick up a conversation with the cabbie. Almost.

Arriving, he found the place abuzz with police officers. Sally stood near the police tape, talking with a man who seemed almost too drunk to stand up all on his own. She glanced at him coldly as he arrived, her eyes watching him as he crossed the tape.

Others were bent over a body lying in the middle of the street. Among them, he recognized Sherlock's tall frame. The detective was standing almost as if at attention while Lestrade talked—or rather, yelled—at him, his arms gesticulating wildly.

"Ah, John," Sherlock exclaimed as he caught sight of the doctor. "Glad to see you weren't asleep."

"How d'you…never mind," John mumbled as his gaze was pulled to the woman below. He suddenly wished he had not come. This woman, unlike the others, was almost perfectly intact save for one undeniable feature: a huge gaping hole in her chest.

Even with just one glance, John knew that her heart had been ripped out. This was made ever more evident when he then noticed that said organ was sticking out of her mouth. "Jesus Christ Almighty." John rubbed his eyes wearily.

"We've already discovered that she's a teacher at Roedean in Sussex. Name: Delilah Huron," Sherlock explained, choosing to ignore John's usual profession of disgust. "Thirty-one, she was declared missing by her husband two hours ago. Apparently, she should have arrived home by train around six. When she wasn't there, he figured there'd been an error. I say he's right." He glanced back at the body. "Being a Saturday night, we can only conclude that she was killed sometime last night. Or so, I'd like to believe."

"How do you come to that conclusion?" Sherlock offered no response to Lestrade's question. "Right, then let us do an autopsy before you make any more brilliant deductions." His tone was one of aggravation as he snapped out his remark.

"John, what's your professional opinion?" Sherlock enquired then of the doctor, turning away from Lestrade.

"I…"

"Don't answer him, John." Lestrade was fierce as he issued his command, his eyes boring into Sherlock's skull. "You can't just take control of this situation, Sherlock."

"And you can't confiscate letters as you do."

"It's addressed to me."

"But it's meant for me," Sherlock growled low, grinding his teeth, his hands clenching tightly in frustration. "Even the one he sent John. He's playing with me through you. Now. Let. Me. See."

Lestrade shook his head, his expression suddenly one of exhaustion. "You are unbelievable." Resigned, he passed over a crumbled sheet of paper.

John watched in silent fascination as Sherlock read through it, a grin slowly spreading across his lips. He looked far too pleased—a sure sign that the letter was proving invaluable in some sense. "Sherlock?"

The detective folded the letter and shoved it at Lestrade. "Take it back," he said sharply.

Lestrade took it, his eyes curious. "And?"

"And what?"

"What does it mean, Sherlock?" Lestrade demanded, his patience wearing extremely thin.

Sherlock shrugged. "Why don't you tell me? It's yours after all."

"Sherlock," John protested, distraught by how poorly the detective was treating Lestrade. Sherlock's eyes fell on him, cold and unfriendly. He hesitated to say anything, unable to hold the gaze that lingered on him. "Just…don't…" he said finally.

Lestrade was fuming, his frustration boiling like a volcano bound to blow. "Tell me," he hissed in a dangerously low voice. "Now."

Sherlock's expression revealed a sudden recognition of the nerve he had hit as his entire being seemed to soften. "He actually signed this one," he said finally. "JR—Jack the Ripper. He's making a point of identifying himself. It's a sign." He glanced at the body at his feet again. "When can I meet the husband?"

"Hang on," Lestrade refrained from answering the question as his own took precedence. "What's it a sign of?"

Sherlock sighed. "That I am right."

"About?"

The glint in Sherlock's eyes as he prepared to respond was one of pride of knowing. "That the connection between these women is much like the one of Jack the Ripper's original victims."

"Which is…?"

"They're prostitutes," John replied before Sherlock could. The detective seemed surprised though, as the shock wore off, a smile crept across his features. "You think they're prostitutes?" John repeated, sounding less than certain. During the hours of Sherlock's absence, he'd done some research on the man, hoping to find some clue to better help him understand. He considered himself a relative Jack the Ripper expert now.

Sherlock's smile broadened. "We live in a modern time now. I think the term call girls is a better choice of words."

"Call girls?" Lestrade sputtered. "A business woman and a teacher. Established women in the UK and you think they're prostitutes?"

"You didn't mention the maid," Sherlock pointed out. "You think it plausible for her to be prostitute? Because she's not established?"

Lestrade withheld a response and John quickly leapt to his defence. "Can you really believe he's stalking call girls just to embrace the whole Jack the Ripper legacy? Maybe he's just trying to trick you into following a false lead."

Sherlock shook his head with determined certainty. "No, believe me. If he thinks to identify him as such, then he knows what he's doing. He's not just doing it to trick us. He has a reason, I know he does."

Lestrade looked less than willing to believe such a statement, though he did not bring up such doubt as he watched Sherlock. "So, what? Are they call girls from the same…what, company? Or different?"

"Same," Sherlock replied and John wondered how he'd come to reach that conclusion.

"And which is that?"

Here Sherlock faltered, a frown creasing his features. "I don't know…yet."

"Which is why you want complete access to their email and phone records." Lestrade arrived at this conclusion with a smirk.

Sherlock nodded. "If you wouldn't mind," he added, as if to help his case, though his voice seeped with mockery.

"As you wish."

Sherlock grinned. "Excellent. Now, I assume the husband will come in to identify the body."

"We're sending it to St. Bart's once we're done here…which means once you're done."

"Oh, I'm done," Sherlock informed him pleasantly. "I'll meet it there." With a quick nod of his head, he turned to John. "Care to join me?"

John nodded. "Yes, I think I will." There were a few bones he had left to pick with Sherlock, and large questions he still needed to have answered. "I'll nab us a cab."

C H A P T E R N I N E

He was burning with adrenaline. Finally, this case was going somewhere definitive. True, they were clues left by Moriarty, but that hardly mattered. He had seen the truth of it before having it confirmed by the man himself. He knew what he was pursuing, knew where this chase was leading him. It was an interesting choice on Moriarty's part, this game, these murders. And it was only at a beginning.

John was strangling quiet, quiet in a way that made Sherlock know he had much to say. What precisely, he did not know. In a rare gesture of concern, he prompted John for a confession. "What seems to be on your mind, John?"

"I…" John stammered, seemingly surprised by Sherlock's inquiry. "I had a discussion with Sally Donovan," he replied grimly. "She was developing a theory as to who the murderer might be."

"Of course she was," Sherlock mused. "She thinks it's me, doesn't she?" it was not, in all honesty, surprising. Sally often took occasion to accuse him of such monstrosities. It no longer shocked him, but John seemed rather astonished by it all.

He stumbled over his next sentence. "When we first met, she told me that one day we would find a body and you would be the one who had put it there. I suppose that doesn't surprise you, either?"

Sherlock shook his head. "She likes to label me as a criminal. It makes her feel powerful. But let's discuss the real problem, shall we? You think she might be right."

The alarm that glinted in John's eyes made him feel sudden rising discomfort. He could sense that this conversation would no longer be an easy one. "No, I don't," John answered quickly, though his voice did not carry any honesty.

"But why shouldn't you? It's natural."

"No." John regarded him with angered eyes. "I shouldn't. And I don't like how people are willing to spread lies about you."

"Are they lies?"

John shook his head fiercely. "Don't play mind games with me, Sherlock," he warned crossly. "We're friends and I trust you. You saved my life, even though technically you were the reason I found myself needing to be saved, but even then…" He looked sheepish suddenly. "I believe you to be a good man and you are not Moriarty and you deserve better than for Sally to go behind your back making such remarks." Done, he sat back in his seat and released a long sigh. "Now, I would appreciate it if you forget everything I just said."

Sherlock could not. "You've put too much faith in me, John. I don't deserve it. You should not trust me so." He thought of Moriarty's letter to John, certain the doctor was remembering it now too. The warning to beware had not been misplaced, but John did not seem to share such sentiments.

"Don't say that."

"But it's true."

Their conversation was momentarily called to an end as their cab rolled to a stop before St. Bart's. While John paid the cabbie, Sherlock glanced up at the edifice before him. He hoped she would be there; he had some questions to ask of her.

"Wait up," John called after him as he went. "We've still got time before the body arrives. Our conversation isn't quite done yet."

"I do believe it is," Sherlock corrected him as he continued on. "You have stated your belief and I have stated mine. Let's agree to disagree and move on." He had no wish to continue on with John. He had new things on his mind, new discussions to be pursued with a certain Ms Molly Hooper.

John, however, was persistent. "Sherlock, I've been with you for four months and I know you're not insane. Why are you trying to convince me otherwise?"

"I know I'm not insane," Sherlock corrected him as he swept into the rather empty hospital, John following close behind him. "Donovan and Moriarty are the only ones intent on proving otherwise. All I have to say is that you have to be careful about how much you trust me. Remember what that did for you last time?"

John hesitated behind him, but Sherlock made no attempt to stop and wait for the doctor to think well on his words as he moved to the elevator.

"They can't convince me," John stated firmly as he came to stand beside him. "And neither can you. I know." He sounded certain.

Sherlock said nothing as the lift arrived. Clambering in, he watched as John settled in beside him, seemingly proud, as if he'd overcome some great obstacle. He had no will to fight him. For now, he would leave the doctor to his delusions.

Molly was indeed at the morgue when he arrived. A chance of fate? Or had Lestrade insisted on her being here?

"Are you here, then?"

It had been near a month since Sherlock's last encounter with Molly, an encounter he could only remember as being less than pleasant. Her coolness of form seemed to have remained as she stared him down with unfriendly eyes.

"As are you?"

"Lestrade asked me to come in. I've been performing the autopsies…if I can even call them that." She looked even more angered as she reflected on the bodies that had come into her possession.

Sherlock watched her carefully while John lingered behind the two. "And have you found anything interesting?"

"Besides the missing organs and limbs. I imagine you find that thrilling." Her voice was cynical, very un-Molly like.

"Extremely," Sherlock replied, finding her coldness a sudden impetus for his own frustration. He did not care for her attitude; it was rather off-putting. "Nothing thrills me more than mangled, mutilated corpses. Women especially."

Behind him, he could hear John's sharp intake of breath as Sherlock's words echoed through him, shaking him to the core.

Molly trembled as anger billowed in her eyes. "You're so cruel. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Many, numerous times." Sherlock cast off her weak insult. She would have to do better if she hoped to make him shake. "In fact, Sally Donovan just recently accused me of being the murderer. I suppose you're of the same thought."

Molly's gaze seemed to waver as she watched him, her eyes softening. "I don't think you're that cruel," she replied, her voice quieter, and lacking the chill of before.

Sherlock too calmed his mind as he watched the young woman with interest. There was some kindness in her still, a fact that made him believe that her earlier attack had only been a front. "You and John should talk later," he commented quickly. "Now, what can you tell me about the two women?"

"They had intercourse within an hour of their murder," she replied, the topic seeming difficult for her as her eyes fell away from the detective. It was a discomforting subject. "With a man. The same man, it would seem. I haven't been able to identify…"

"Moriarty's been having a fun time, hasn't he?" Sherlock cut her off, staring now at John. Here he would find the beginning for his next conversation. "I don't imagine you will be able to identify the man." He looked back to Molly. "Jim's not that careless."

"Jim?" she repeated, her eyes suddenly wide. "I know what you think…"

"You don't think the same?" His curiosity was piqued as he noticed another swift change in Molly's demeanour, one of fear and uncertainty. Did she not know that the man she had dated was in fact a master criminal? "That man you introduced me to, he's the one who tried to kill me. He's the one killing these women now."

Molly's expression sank to despair as she struggled to answer him. "I haven't…"

Her words were cut off suddenly as Lestrade entered, Anderson following close behind, wheeling the body of Delilah Huron before him. He glared at the man, Anderson replying with a look that would never equal his own.

Molly meanwhile was staring at the corpse with teary eyes. "I know her," she whispered. "Delilah. We went to school together." Her voice cracked. "She was a nice woman."

"Of course she was." For some reason, he restrained from telling Molly that the woman had been selling her body for some months now. It was a gesture of kindness he could not quite define.

"The husband should be here soon," Lestrade said, incapable of offering any sympathies. Three women were dead now and pretending to care would take more energy than he had. "We'll wait for him before starting anything."

"Is it necessary for Anderson to be here?" Sherlock demanded roughly as they fell into sudden silence. "He's putting me off."

"You're putting me off. You have no medical advice to offer. You should leave."

Sherlock glared him down.

"Children, easy," Lestrade chided them. "You both stay until I say so. Understood?"

Sherlock doubted he would ever understand how a man like Anderson had ever obtained a job here. He had no intelligence to speak of, no true understanding of the art he pretended to be a master of. Molly was a far better choice than he. These thoughts he kept to himself as a new man suddenly entered the room.

On first glance, three things became evident. One: the man was an alcoholic, two: he was a construction worker, and three: he would be dead within three months.

"Mr Huron?"

The man nodded as Lestrade stepped forward. "I'm sorry to ask you to do this."

He sniffled, his charcoal tinged fingers rubbing at his red eyes. "Is it really her?"

"We need you to tell us that Mr Huron," Lestrade told him, guiding him towards the body lying on the slab. A blanket had been laid across her body, the heart removed from her mouth.

Sherlock watched with curious eyes as the man stepped forward, his eyes falling upon the pale face. As they did, a squeak escaped his mouth, and he collapsed to his knees falling. Make that dead in two.

The man was sobbing hard, without humiliation. He did not care that he was surrounded by people invading on his mourning, did not care that he came out as week and dependent. But Sherlock did, because seeing such a show of emotion gave him ever more insight into the life of the man and by extension, Delilah.

"Mr Huron," Sherlock spoke up then. "Your wife was a teacher at a school. A boarding school too. I imagine she wouldn't often come home."

The man looked up, his face tear-stained. "What?"

Sherlock patience was bound to wear thin. The blubbering of this man would impede him in his research if he did not gain control of his emotions. "Your wife, she was a teacher, yes?"

"Yes," Mr Huron sniffled.

"And you a construction worker, lately unemployed,"

"Yes," he stammered, seemingly shocked by Sherlock's knowledge. "I,,,"

"And your wife was not often home," Sherlock continued, not wishing to give him the chance to falter into some story of why he was unemployed, and that it was in no way related to his alcoholic tendencies."

"No. She came home one weekend a month. This was…"

He did not care to hear about how this was supposed to be the weekend he would see her. "And you've been having an affair."

The man stammered. "No…I…"

"Don't lie. I see it in your eyes. You loved your wife, but your tears are not just that of loss. You regret what you've done, regret that you didn't share her love alone. You were a man who spent months separated from her. Of course you've been having an affair on the side. Did you meet her at a tavern? Did she have a name?"

The man shook his head. "I don't…"

"Oh stop," Sherlock interjected coolly, hating how the man was fighting for his innocence. "What was her name?"

Mr Huron took a deep breath, as if summing up what little courage he possessed. "Mina. Mina Weathers."

C H A P T E R N I N E

John did not know how Sherlock had known that there would be a connection there and he did not have a chance to ask as Sherlock made some rude comment about Delilah and her possible hobby as call girl. Mr Huron brewed with anger as he stood and punched Sherlock in the mouth.

The detective stumbled back, but did not fall, the shock in his face slowly falling to amusement as Lestrade ushered the husband from the room.

"Well, that was interesting."

Molly meanwhile looked extremely riled by the ordeal. "Why did you say that?"

"What?"

"That she…you know," Molly stammered. "It wasn't kind."

John couldn't see Sherlock's expression, but he was certain it was one of reproach. "And you think me kind, do you?"

Molly shook her head. "No, I don't."

Feeling the need to intervene, John cleared his throat. Though Sherlock cast him a quick glance. It did nothing to slow the detective's wrath as he posed a new question to Molly.

"And is Jim kind?"

There was a moment when Molly paused, unable to present any clear response. "I haven't seen Jim…"

"Has he tried to reach you at all? Text? Phone call? Email? Letter?"

Molly shook her head, her eyes wide as she stumbled over Sherlock's rapid-fire questioning. "I went out with him three times before I introduced…I haven't seen him since. He hasn't…I don't…."

"Oh, Molly, Molly. Did you really believe he liked you?"

The poor woman was on the verge of tears. "Sherlock, stop."

Glancing at John, Sherlock looked surprised, as if having forgotten that the doctor was there. "She was dating a murderer. I'm trying to figure out how the deep the relationship was. If you don't like it, leave."

"I don't like it, but I'm not going to let you tear her apart," John said in defence of Molly, throwing her a quick glance.

She smiled gratefully, though it was quick to fade as Sherlock looked back to her. "Do you know where Moriarty is?" he asked now in a slightly softer tone.

Her head shook firmly. "No. I don't."

Sherlock sighed heavily. "You're lying."

"I'm not."

There was a pause. "Are you defending him?"

"Sherlock!"

Lestrade had returned, looking rather harried. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I was thinking I could get some answers to help us find our killer," Sherlock replied. "Why is that so wrong?"

"Timing, Sherlock," John echoed from behind. "He just saw his dead wife. He was emotionally unstable."

"How curious," Sherlock mused. "I always do wonder why people choose to care when it makes them so very vulnerable."

Lestrade's eyes rolled high. "I'm sure you'll keep wondering. Now…"

A sharp ring pervaded the air, cutting Lestrade off. He threw his hand into his coat pocket, and pulled out a mobile. "Give me a sec. Lestrade," he answered the phone.

John watched in fascination as the detective inspector's expression fell to surprise. "Are you sure?" A few more seconds fell. "No, bring it here. Be quick about it. Yeah, he's here. That's the point…Donovan. Yeah, alright. Quick." He hung up and seemed to freeze in the action as an expression of excitement filtered briefly across his face.

As he turned to Sherlock, John was aware of a gleam of triumph in his eyes. "You won't believe this," Lestrade said, his voice caught between surprise and wonder.

"You found another body," Sherlock stated unimpressed.

Lestrade smiled slyly. "Yes. But it's not a woman." He paused. "It's Moriarty."

A.N. Cliffie! I love my cliffies. I know the feeling's not quite mutual, but the new chapter should be up soon, so bear with me till then. What did you think, then? Any good? Is it getting more exciting? Are you losing interest? Is there anything you're hoping to see? Any questions? Any suggestions? Let me know.

Next chapter: Is Moriarty really dead? How will this affect Sherlock? Does Molly know more than what she's saying?