Thank you to everyone who wished me luck and I hope everyone getting exam results got what they needed. I'm off to York. Yay!

They looked over the body and he really hoped that Molly wasn't about. She wasn't going to be happy to see Sherlock again so soon after his last comments.

He did however feel useful again as he was asked a variety of medical questions. That was better. Even more so when he was sent off to research the woman.

An hour later he did not expect to be sat in the dead woman's living room, her cat climbing over him and her brother taking rather a lot of interest in him while pretending to be a journalist. It really didn't help that he disliked cats.

When the brother sat next to him he was getting rather uncomfortable. As he smelt disinfectant on the cats paws he felt relief.

He almost smirked. It was about time he got Sherlock there, posing as a photographer of course. The man would get the brothers attention rather than him with his tall dashing good looks.

Unfortunately from the way the brother was still uncomfortable close he hadn't fallen for those good looks. Damn. It was probably Sherlock's eccentricity which put the man off.

As he legged it out the door he was glad he'd never have to go back there. He'd figured it out. Him!

"You think it was the cat. It wasn't the cat."

Why did the man have to spoil his fun.

"What? Of course it was the cat. It must be. It's how he got the tetanus into her system and its pores stink of disinfectant. New pet. Bound to be a bit jumpy. Scratching is almost inevitable."

"Thought of it as soon as I saw the scratches on her arm but it's too random and too clever for the brother."

Bugger.

"He murdered his sister for her money."

Sherlock just dismissed it. "Did he? It was revenge."

The man really was dramatic. In this day and age how many killed for revenge.

"It was Raoul the house boy. The cat had nothing to do with it. Did you see the state of the floor, clean, covered in disinfectant. Even you smell of it now."

"Connie's brother was the butt of all her jokes. He was fed up of her bullying campaign. When she threatened to disinherit him the boy who'd gotten rather accustomed to his lifestyle killed her."

He didn't even bother to argue with the man. He knew he was wrong. The detective sent a smirk his way.

"The house boy did her Botox which is a weak form of the poison that killed Carl Powers. He had been storing it up and bulking up the order for months to concentrate it then injected her during one of her regular injections."

On the way back to the police station it dawned on him that Sherlock had known all along. For the second time since this game had began he found himself keeping quiet for his own peace of mind. If Sherlock knew he could save her then a few hours extra as a hostage were insignificant to his mind.

He hoped the woman lived, if only for Sherlock's sake.

He was knocked out of his thoughts by Sherlock's sudden exclamations of no down the phone. Dread gripped him. "Tell me nothing about him. Nothing."

She was talking about the man behind it all, Moriarty. The one thing she couldn't do. As Sherlock went silent he didn't need to ask what had happened. He knew.

The woman had said too much and she was dead.

No matter how much his partner claimed not to care and to be a sociopath he knew that it wasn't entirely true. Even if he couldn't feel guilt for the woman dying he would feel failure. Failure to stop her from dying despite the fact he'd solved the puzzle.

Gently he guided Sherlock out of the police station and back to their flat. He was mostly unresponsive but for the hand that was clinging to his jumper like it was a life line.

ooo

A cup of tea securely settled with in his hands he settled back down next to Sherlock as they watched the news. The man is leaning into him for comfort as he explains what has happened. Even though he had already guessed he let his partner explain. To muse upon it out loud.

He added a question here and there. It was all part of his duty as replacement skull, although he liked to think of himself as a far superior model. After all it wasn't like a skull could actually talk.

"So he arranged the murder of Connie Prince?"

Sherlock hummed and carried on babbling off ideas, stealing some of his tea despite the fact he claimed to never eat or drink or sleep while on a case. The bugger ended up drinking most of his cup.

"Why's he playing this game then, does he want to get caught?"

"Maybe he wants to be distracted."

God. It sounded like there was another Sherlock out there in the world, apart from Mycroft. One who was a lot less fussy about where he got his thrills. A Sherlock who was into organised crime, killing and terrorism.

It was a terrifying thought as he leant back into the man. He was eternally glad that his partner was on their side.

As the pink phone beeped signalling another crime his chest clenched. He really did hope they both made it out of this alive.

ooo

There was a kind of norm to looking over bodies these days. Sherlock looked over them before hand and had no doubt already picked up on how they were killed but he appreciated that he was brought to double check and pick up anything more medical that the man may have missed. Even if he did get dragged off to the bank of the Thames, a less than pleasant place to be.

It was gratifying coming from a man who never asked for help if he could work it out on his own. Although he suspected he was brought along more for the company and to patch up Sherlock when someone took offence to his usual way with words than actual medical knowledge.

That and self defence. He'd managed to cut the number of times his partner got punched or slapped down to five times a month. A definite improvement from when he first started working with the man.

"The water's eroded most of the evidence but I'll tell you one thing. That lost painting they've found is a fake."

"But what's that got to do with him?" Lestrade asked. John was quiet, after five years surely the DI had learnt that Sherlock wouldn't be able to resist telling them.

"Everything. Have you heard of the Golem."

Vague memories of a Jewish next door neighbour who baby sat him and Harry from time to time swamped his mind. They weren't very clear but he remembered the name from the stories. "It's a story, isn't it? A horror story."

Sherlock nodded at him. "It's a Jewish folklore. A gigantic man made of clay and it's also the name of an assassin. One of the deadliest assassins in the world and that is his trademark styles."

"It's a hit" John wasn't sure they really wanted to get mixed up with an assassin but after the international crime syndicate less than a week ago there really was no backing out now.

The following explanation was fantastic as usual. He said it aloud and the following grin he got was well worth it no matter how much he was inflating his partner's ego.

ooo

They were in a cab going god knows where. It wasn't like his partner ever had the common courtesy to actually tell him. That would be far too simple. It didn't help that ever since he had first met the man he was rather nervous of being in cabs. "How are you going to find the golem?"

The grin as Sherlock sent his way as he tore a page out of his notebook rolled up in a fifty, stopped the cab and jumped over the metal barrier was hardly promising.

He found himself following as Sherlock passed the note and money to a homeless woman under Waterloo bridge. That was their bloody rent!

"What are you doing?"

"Investing." He supposed that whatever kind of investment it was a lot safer than letting the man on the stock market. He could just see the police and god knows how who else turning up at their door accusing Sherlock of various types of fraud.

He supposed it would be a good way to get money though.

Still as they both got back into the cab and drove away he hadn't really gotten a clearer answer.

Another chapter down and this episode should be done with fairly soon. Probably only one or a max of two chapters till I get back to the main story line.