The two head back to Scotland Yard and Sherlock hands Lestrade a folder that he produces from his coat. "Raoul is your killer," He tells the man, "A second autopsy shows that it wasn't tetanus but botulinum toxin."
Greg takes the folder and opens it, reading the info quickly. "How'd he do it?"
"Botox injection." Sherlock answered leaning against a wall looking on with a smug look.
Lestrade looks up, "Botox?" He questions,
Sherlock nods, "Botox is a diluted form of botulinum. Raoul was hired to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the Home Office gave me the complete records of Raoul's internet purchases, "He gestures to the folder in the D.I.'s hand, "He's been bulk ordering Botox for months, he bid his time before upping the strength to a fatal dose." He finishes.
"Are you sure?" Greg asks closing the folder and tucking it under his arm.
"I'm sure." The taller man confirms.
Lestrade sighs, "Alright." He says moving off.
John looks over at Sherlock, "Sherlock, how long have you known?" He asks. This case had seemed much too easy for Sherlock and not really challenging.
"For a while," The sleuth answers, "The bomber repeated himself, we've been here before with Carl Powers that was a mistake." He explains excitedly, his eyes wide with interest.
"Sherlock! The hostage, that old woman, she's been there this whole time!" John snaps though he isn't surprised and that aches.
Sherlock huffs and rolls his eyes. "I knew I could save her, I knew we had twelve hours. I solved the case quickly and that gave me time to get on with other things, don't you see? We're one up on him!" He exclaimed.
John isn't pleased and knows that it isn't right for the man to play with another person's life this way; he also knows that Sherlock won't see it that way. The Consulting Detective is a great man as well as brilliant but amongst the genius of his big brain there isn't much room left for any empathy. At times it is maddening. "Right." He says quietly.
Sherlock eyes him carefully before pulling out the pink phone and sending out a text, it's only a moment later when a call is incoming. "Hello?" The tall man answers.
John doesn't hear the rest of the words when his head explodes with agony. His vision whitens and his limbs give out, he falls heavily to the floor. Screaming fills his ears and nothing can be heard over the roar. John is trying to draw a breath but he can't, he's gasping but never getting enough air.
"John." Sherlock says.
John blinks focusing on the taller man. Nothing had changed; he hadn't fallen or had any trouble breathing. It hadn't really happened.
"The woman, she started to tell me about the bomber." Sherlock tells him.
The doctor nods, "She's dead."
Around them the office had sprung into action, people are running all over the place. Phones are ringing non-stop, everyone is shouting. The two men are forgotten and ignored. So they leave.
When they get home John doesn't say anything before going to bed, he didn't want to dwell on anything that had happened at the moment. He already knows that the night is going to rough. John isn't wrong, as soon as his eyes close he's drug into a dream;
A dead, bloated face with lifeless brown eyes stares at the sky which is a dreary grey. Slowly the sky morphs into thick dark colors like paint. A star above brightened for a moment before disappearing.
"John." A whispering voice chanted softly.
A flashing light silhouetted a large figure and a distorted voice spoke about plants. All around a white room emerges from the gloom and on the wall is a single painting matching the sky above the dead face. As with the sky the bright star near the center of the painting melted.
"Ten." The bomber's voice says.
A timer appears counting down in red.
"Nine."
A small boy wearing a vest with explosives attached to it.
"Eight."
The boy whimpered fresh tears stained his face, the timer on his back getting closer and closer to one.
"Seven." The voice changes into that of the young boy's.
"Will caring about them save them?" Sherlock's voice asks echoing.
"Six."
"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake." Sherlock says.
"Five." The little boy sobs.
The timer flashes and a laugh builds up. "I'll burn the heart out of you," The bomber whispers, "People do get sentimental about their pets."
"Four." The small boy's voice slowed down, elongating the word.
"You aren't worthy of his attention, he is almost perfect." The bomber breathes and the feeling of warm air breezes across skin.
"Three." The timer flashes again.
Sherlock stares his eyes showing confusion and pain. "John?" He asks
"Two." The boy squeaks his voice cracking with his crying.
"There are lives at stake, Sherlock, actual human lives...and you don't care" John's voice waivers.
"John." Sherlock's voice murmurs.
"One." The bomber whispers.
John wakes up, breathing heavily, and expecting his room to be in ruins. It wasn't but there is a Sherlock in his room. The tall man is at the door and just a dark silhouette in the gloom. The doctor struggles to sit up. "Sherlock?" John asks.
Sherlock moves closer to the bed the street lamp light from outside glows dimming on him. "Do you want to talk about it?" He asks.
"Not really," The doctor answer, "But might as well." From there John explains his dream even adding in the parts from his visions from the past few days.
Sherlock is up pacing the floor. "It sounds as if the next hostage is going to be a child and it has something to do with a painting."
John sighs, rubbing his face. "It would seem so, but we can't use it to solve the next case. It would look suspicious. The bomber is watching you too closely." He tells him. Thankfully the dreams and visions had been easy to deduce, in a way, even John is able to figure it out.
The taller nods in understanding. "It still will be helpful; we'll know what we're looking for." He says moving to sit on the bed next to John.
"I don't think I'll be able to go back to sleep." John says leaning into the other man.
Sherlock chuckles, "I haven't been able to sleep. I'm trying to find a connects between the cases, it's going slowly." He admits kissing the top of the doctor's head.
John looks at him from under his eyelashes, "What have you learned?"
"I started with Carl Powers," The consulting detective starts, "I checked through all of his classmates at the time; they all were traceable with very mundane jobs."
"The bomber could have been an older student." John suggest.
Sherlock nods, "I looked into that as well, though I believe our bomber would have made sure his trail was covered. We won't find him through that link," He tells him, "Monkford didn't have any connections other than Janus Cars, before the trouble Monkford didn't have anything. Now Janus Cars has had quite a bit of activity, here let me show you." He says getting up and holding out a hand to John.
The doctor smiles and takes the hand and he's pulled down the stairs through the kitchen to the living room where the wall above the couch had been turned into an evidence board. Everything is there with newspaper clippings accompany. It is very impressive.
"See," Sherlock jabs at a list, "Over the lifespan of the company people and staff have disappeared, ended up dead, won a lottery, moved out of the country suddenly, and received money from a wealthy relative. Most of the clients I was able to track them down and all of them managed to obtain a hefty amount directly to their accounts though they wouldn't release this info I was able secure their banking statements."
John lifts a brow at him, "Is this something I should be worried about?" He asks staving off his awe.
The taller man shrugs, "I covered my tracks so I doubt anything will come of this." Sherlock replies smirking smugly.
"Great, "John says not sounding convinced, "So this money were you able to trace that?" He presses hoping the answer is no so there definitely wouldn't be an unforeseeable problem.
Sherlock sighs, "Unfortunately that's where I stopped. The numbers are from all over the place and I would need to have a bit more knowledge on the systems before I would be able to hack them and dig a bit deeper." He answers.
"What about Connie and the hostages?" John asks wanting to know what could have led to the talk show host's demise, other than the upset houseboy.
"Connie had many enemies and rivals, though none of them had it out for the woman. Raoul seems to have worked alone but the bomber had to have some sort of hand in the whole thing," Sherlock says almost to himself, "The hostages on the other hand are completely random, other than having bombs strapped to their chest they have nothing in common. Age gaps, genders. occupations, correlating dates, nothing, and none of them had ever met; they didn't live within the same area of the city."
John presses closer to the man, sliding a hand down his chest. "The hostages could be random, I mean the bomber isn't focusing too much on them besides wanting to blow up the city, they could just be minor distractions for the police. Not so much you, since you don't care about them." He says offhandedly.
"Will caring about them help save them?" Sherlock asks looking closely at the wall.
The doctor shivers, those words echoing straight from his dream, "And you find that easy do you?" He asks genuinely curious.
Sherlock huffs looking at the man, "Yes, very. Is that news to you?" He questions eyeing him carefully.
"No," John responds heavily.
The tall man's eyebrows narrow and he frowns, "I've disappointed you." He states.
"There are lives at stake Sherlock, actual human lives, and you don't care." John fires back knowing he shouldn't be this upset about something he already understood completely.
"Don't make people into heroes, John," Sherlock says sharply, "Heroes don't exist and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."
John balls his fists moving back from the taller man, "Then I hope you two are happy together." He chuckles bitterly.
The consulting detective stills staring hard at John. "What?"
"You and the bomber," The doctor clarifies, "You were made for each other, he's bored, and looking for someone to play his game. You, you happily go along with it, this dance because you and him are too similar. It's amazing you've survive so long without him." He hisses. The words are spilling from John faster than he can think and now all he can imagine is some faceless man with only an eerie smile whispering to Sherlock and somehow convincing the man to join him in ruining the world.
Sherlock looks helplessly at John and for once in his life is speechless.
"Right," John growls, "I'm feeling tired again, goodnight." Quickly he escapes up the stairs and locks himself in his room. He does lay down but there is no sleep for him and John knows neither will be getting much sleep for the next few days.