A/N: I must confess I barely had any idea of how the interaction between Sherlock, John, and Ciel should be like; I just write it as it comes. Please tell me what you think of it. :) This chapter's title is a tribute to my favorite from Agatha Christie And Then There Were None. Just couldn't resist it. :P

And thanks warblersalinaso much for pointing out that Mandarin and Cantonese are not that different. If you have any suggestion on how to come up with a good way for Ciel to deduce Lau out of it, please let me know. I'll leave it as it is for now as I have zero idea at the moment.

Also thank you all for faving (is this even a word? :P) this story. It gives me a good kick to try to finish this chapter. You know what's a better kick? A REVIEW!

Also, this chapter is un-betaed. Let me know if you find anything amiss!

Part 10: And Then There Were Three

John had no idea how it happened.

He was greeted that afternoon by Sherlock and Ciel who sat silently side by side in the waiting room. The three of them came back to Baker Street together with Ciel mentioning something about a broken telly. Before he knew it, Sherlock and Ciel were sitting in front of the telly, playing video game.

Apparently, it was a product Ciel had been consulted with. The company had finally finished the prototype and sent it to him for review. And Ciel gave them quite a startling string of commentary as he played along. It seemed that the entire game play and comments were record into a compact black box which served as a console. Protecting their assets, he was told. And Dear Lord, he thought Sherlock's complaint about the common place was bad.

"Four out of ten. Your puzzle is mildly entertaining, but can't you guys be original for once? Everyone who has played a decent amount of puzzle game can solve that in a minute."

"Someone who hasn't can solve it in a minute and fifteen," muttered Sherlock with a smirk as his finger twiddled over the controller with such ease that John swore his flatmate was secretly a gamer. Ciel gave Sherlock a grin in reply.

"Did you hear that? That's a good friend of mine and he doesn't play video games," he said in to the microphone with such clear mockery that made John cringed.

"I won't bother if video games are this boring," Sherlock added, but he still moved his character around most diligently.

"I won't either if it is in this sorry state," replied Ciel. "And what do you think of the multiplayer interface?" he asked.

"Disgustingly inadequate."

Ciel chuckled again. "I agree. If you intend for this game to be about teamwork, this text box is not helping at all. How am I supposed to know my friend found something if I have to squint to read a sentence long of nonsensicality while running for my life? It doesn't even make sense. Human uses visual perception as the main cognitive function, so think of text as a visual not just a piece of information. Be clever with it. Do get use to the world outside the code sometimes, shall we?" the young man paused with a heavy sigh, "For now, two out of ten. Really can't give you more than that."

"About right," the detective replied with a chuckle.

The sound from the telly and the two men went on for a bit longer until the level was done. Ciel quickly turned the black box off and complained not so quietly about having to go through another fifteen levels.

"Those lazybones," the young man muttered as he took off his microphone and rubbed his eyes; "Just because they don't want to code another thousand lines, they had to resort to something as stupid as a god-forbid text box!" He groaned loudly, "And they want a smasher. They're going to get smashed at this rate."

"I wouldn't bother if their collective intelligence declined to that level," remarked Sherlock.

At this, young man rolled his eyes and looked pointedly at the detective. "Not everyone can pick and choose, you know."

"Too bad then," Sherlock replied with a smile before he got up to his feet. "I'm up for a cup of tea, and maybe we'll go for Chinese this evening. What do you say, John?"

John was snapped back into the room then, bewildered. "Excuse me?"

And Sherlock sighed and did a subtle equivalent of an eye-roll. "I said we might go for Chinese this evening. I'm asking for your preference."

"Oh, right. Of course, sure," John replied, "And by we, you mean…" His eyes drifted to the young man who only smiled. And John rubbed the bridge of his nose intensely. "Since when did you two become pals?" he asked, not actually waiting for an answer.

"Not long," was Sherlock's reply. Then he continued to stare at John until the poor doctor realized that he was supposed to be the one making tea. He huffed but retreated to the kitchen anyway.

"You can make it yourself, you know," muttered John rather loudly.

"Yours is better," The detective replied before he took up his violin and started playing to pass the time. John didn't recognize the piece, but it was quite agreeable, so he wasn't going to complain.

"I'll help," said Ciel as he got to his feet and walked swiftly into the kitchen.

But John shook his head. "You're a guest. Go sit and relax," said the doctor as he put the kettle to boil.

Yet Ciel didn't leave. He looked down at the floor before asking quietly, "Is that what you think of me?"

John stared back. He felt a sharp pang on his inside as if something was wrenching. "I didn't mean that," he answered; "you're not just a guest."

"Then let me help, John," said the young man, "please?"

Somehow, John could quite find the strength to object. He simply gestured to the cupboard. "You get the mugs and tea. And some biscuits, too, if you like."

At this Ciel smiled shyly, and John felt that indescribable knot in his stomach loosened. He smiled in return as the young man proceeded with his task, remembering to wash the mugs first. Given the state of their kitchen, that would be most advisable.

"So, I gather that you share a flat with Sebastian. How did that come about?" John asked after clearing his throat. He had been curious about it for a while but didn't get a chance to voice it. He had met Sebastian just once so far. He couldn't quite come up with a scenario that would lead a man so refined to work and live with a young college student.

Ciel was surprised by the question, but he remained rather composed albeit not altogether comfortable. "It was a long story," he replied quietly; "It wasn't actually me who asked him to stay with us- "

"Us?"

"Me and my godfather," the young man replied, "My godfather owns a small apartment building in London. He wanted to take me in after my family was gone, but he was too old to provide proper care for me alone. So he asked Sebastian to stay with us and babysit me." Ciel sighed, "I guess it was for the best. I really resented the idea of being sent to an orphanage. And Sebastian, well, Sebastian was willing and able."

"But why Sebastian?" John asked. It seemed more logical to him to bring in a female rather than another male for the duty.

At this question, Ciel moved uncomfortably. "Well," he started softly, "he saved my life for one. And he was having difficult time providing for himself while studying for a degree. My godfather thought it was a good arrangement."

It was then that John actually caught up with what Ciel was saying. "He was the one that rescued you."

The young man snorted. "You make him sound like a hero."

"But he is, isn't he?" the doctor replied with a grin, "To you at least."

Ciel rolled his eye rather comically and said, "You just destroyed my ideology of a hero, did you know that?"

John laughed and Ciel smiled. "Must be bloody hard living with just men," remarked the doctor.

There was a short silence before the young man answered, "Yes, I do miss my mother."

John shot him a look of both sympathy and surprised – he really didn't think Ciel was going to be this open about his feeling - but Ciel simply shrugged, "Guess you want to know."

Before John could reply, the kettle whistled and he scrambled to turn off the stove and poured the water. Among many sounds in the room at the time was a ring coming from the living room, and the sound violin stopped. The next thing he heard was Sherlock storming the flat. "Forget the tea, John. No time for that now, Lestrade got a case for us. It's urgent."

The doctor turned tiredly to the detective with a sigh, "Can't we at least have a quick sip?"

But Sherlock wasn't listening to him at all. The detective was already in his coat and wounding his scarf. John sighed again. He gave Ciel an apologetic look before dashing off for his own jacket and ran down the stairs to catch up with Sherlock on the pavement.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Scotland Yard," replied Sherlock, "No detail yet, but it sounds very interesting."

"Not another bomb?"

Sherlock turned slightly to the doctor, the corner of his lips quirked into something that was supposed to be reassuring. "No, it's not a bomb," he replied.

"Ah, good," nodded John and turned to look for a cab. It was then that he spotted someone just beside them, someone with a black eyepatch.

He looked at Ciel then looked at Sherlock. None of them were looking at him, so he protested loudly, "Sherlock!"

The detective was too busy flagging down a cab to actually listen to what John was trying to say. By that time John got his attention at all, a cab was already in front of them and Sherlock was ushering them – the three of them – into the car. John was trapped to the door next to the young man who acted as if it was normal to jump into a cab with a mad detective and run off to a potentially gruesome crime scene. Sherlock didn't make any comment on their additional party either. The detective just sat there looking out the window as if it was a normal trip to the Yard.

John sighed again. Obviously, no one was going to be talking if he wasn't. "You can't do this," he said to the young man.

But Ciel didn't falter. "I'm in all my seriousness, John. If you're going to warn me that it'll be dangerous, I assure you that Sherlock had done just that."

John's gaze instantly shifted to the detective in question. "And you're letting him in," it was more of an accusation than a question, because John really felt like yelling nasty things at Sherlock at the moment.

"I don't see why I shouldn't," replied the detective.

"You're letting a twenty-year-old college student tagging along on one of your gruesome and dangerous expedition, and you said you don't see why you shouldn't?"

"Then let me remind you that Ciel is very much capable of making his own decision, and he understands the risk perfectly. I don't see why if he wants to study the case firsthand that he shouldn't."

John turned again to Ciel. "Study?"

"My specialization is in psychopathology," said the young man with great calmness; "and a good portion of criminals are psychopaths."

"But, we don't know yet if this case involves a psychopath. We know nothing," John tried to reason.

But every reason seemed to go to a dead end as the young man eyed Sherlock and answered, "A good game is always welcomed."

Sherlock replied with a clear smirk. Ciel nodded and smirked back before settling back into the seat. John could tell that they were definitely onto something that they didn't let John fully into confidence. It hurt a little to think that he was left out of something that might be very important. But John knew too well to hope they'd talk – not Sherlock at least – so he sat back and proceeded with applying Sherlock method to this puzzle in hope that it might shed some light for him.

It took them quite some time before they reached Scotland Yard, but even with that amount of time, John couldn't figure anything out. He walked beside Sherlock, radiating pessimism about him in hope that his flatmate would notice his disapproval.

"This is a very bad idea, Sherlock," John muttered as they passed the reception. He remembered to smile at the brunette behind the counter he had met numerous times. She waved at him, and let the three of them passed.

By the time they reached the floor of Lestrade's office, they could see the multitude of things that was going on. People were walking about shoving evidence boxes and papers into one another's hands. Lestrade himself was in a conversation with Anderson and a ballistic specialist. It was Sally that came to greet them with "Who is that?"

She, of course, was referring to Ciel who had been tactfully quiet and consorting since they arrived.

Sherlock gave her his typical reply, "He's with me."

Sally grimaced at him, "You're not bringing another unauthorized person in, and, my god, he's a kid, Freak!"

"He's coming with me," stressed Sherlock, not backing down.

Sally frowned and turned to John, "Can you try reason with him, please?"

"I have," John replied as he crossed his arms, being a bit defensive and upset, "I'm sorry, Sergeant."

Sally sighed heavily and turned back to Sherlock, "If you want to babysit, fine. But he's not going into crime scenes or anything like that, do you understand?"

"Yes," answered the detective in a whisper, "but Lestrade would be the one who has the authority to let or not let him in, not you. And I can assure you there are good reasons for him to be here."

Sally was about to protest again when finally Lestrade broke away from his colleagues and came to see what the commotion was about. It didn't take him long to spot the extra party. He was basically half the room away when he was shouting at them, "You're not bringing another friend in, Sherlock, and who is that?"

He barely finished his sentence when his step faltered and his eyes went wide in sudden and painful recognition. He was barely muttering the last word, "Ciel Phantomhive…"

Not John, not Sally, and not even Sherlock could see that turn of event. Only the young man was anywhere near composed and, if John might add, cold.

"Good evening, Sergeant. It has been a long time. No wait, you're a detective inspector now, aren't you?" said Ciel with an emotionless grin on his face, like a grin on a mask or a doll. He tilted his head, almost taunting, "Well, I guess that's for the best."

Sally was the first to actually move. "You know him, sir?" she turned to his superior and asked.

"Yes," was as much as Lestrade would answer; "I still have to talk to a few more people. You three go wait in my office. I'll be right there."

Sally's eyes went unnaturally wide at that point. "Three, sir? But-" she stuttered but Lestrade waved her off as he quickly crossed the room to another officer waiting for him. Sherlock took that opportunity to lead them to the office quickly.

"He was on your case as a sergeant," he muttered in his usually baritone once they were clear of the chaos. The young man shrugged before allowing himself into a chair.

"You didn't tell me you know him," added the detective.

"I don't actually know him. We just met in a couple of occasions a very long time ago," replied the young man disinterestedly.

He didn't elaborate nor did Sherlock had time to ask before Lestrade burst into his office looking all bristled and upset. He gave them a quick nod, meeting everyone's eyes in acknowledgement but lingered longer on Ciel who did not nod back. With a sigh, he went on with their business. "A murder," said the inspector; "Don't need you on that one, actually. It's something we found close to the crime scene that bothers us."

With that said, Lestrade reached under his desk and pulled out an evidence bag inside it was an empty honey jar half caked with mud and sand that Sherlock could quickly identified as most likely coming from the Thames. The inspector eyed Ciel again. The young man simply looked intensely at the jar but made no attempt to get up or move closer. Lestrade put on the latex gloves and opened the lid.

In it was a thumb.

The smell of blood, flesh and honey slowly filled the room. While John stood still in bewilderment, Sherlock moved closer, characterizing everything about it. The jar was quite dry and half of it rather clean. He put on the latex gloves and picked it up to examine the thumb inside.

"Where precisely did you find this?" asked the detective.

Lestrade quickly pulled up a map on his computer, "There," he pointed; "We were there on a call about a body. No thumb missing. He was swept up the bank. Estimated time of death is a week ago, but the water makes it difficult to tell exactly."

"Indeed," muttered Sherlock. He was still looking at the thumb. "This is definitely not related to that body." He narrowed his eyes and muttered, "What was the tide at the time?"

"High," replied the Inspector, "Why?"

The Detective didn't reply. He took of the gloves, turned dramatically and walked out of the room with a shout, "Come along!"

John looked between Sherlock and Lestrade before nodding to the DI and went off after his flatmate. Ciel had already risen by that time, but Lestrade stopped him.

"Ciel," called the DI. There was so much Lestrade wanted to say, but the only thing he managed was, "I'm sorry."

The young man turned. His cobalt blue eye was cold as ice as he gazed at the detective inspector and replied, "It's too late for that," before he left.

That eye had always haunted him. Not just because of the bitterness or coldness, but for the one time that there were anger, frustration, and sadness. He had always found the eyepatch unsettling, and the thought of what was left underneath even more terrifying. The combination of both on a face of a preteen boy so pristine and innocent was the worst nightmare he would ever have.

It was a year after the horrific murder of the boy's family and his miraculous rescue from what became a burning slaughter house. No progress was made on either case, and it was time for the officials to finally file it as cold-case.

He was still a sergeant back then and had moved on to other cases, but he was asked to be there when they finally had to hand back some personal belongings that was withheld as evidence for the past year, among them was a gold ring engraved with a delicate crest that no one recognized. Something had always bothered him about that ring, but it had already been identified by Angelina Durless – the sister of Rachel Phantomhive and a close friend of the family – to have belonged to her brother-in-law. Therefore, there was no reason to investigate it further. He never bothered.

He had felt sorry to have to keep that ring in the facility for a year before handing it back to the only survivor when its presence might have given some comfort for the boy who was struggling to regain his life. But when he set his eyes on the poor thing, he realized he was wrong. It wasn't a struggle; it had been a losing battle.

"I'm sorry to have to ask you to come," said the detective inspector in-charged sympathetically, but Ciel didn't reply. He didn't say a word of greeting when he came in. The poor boy was a bit taller, but still thin and pale as if he was a doll made of porcelain. It was his godfather, an elderly Japanese man, who was engaged in the conversation with them.

But the detective inspector insisted in giving the ring to the boy in person as it had belonged to his father. The Godfather protested but eventually gave in. It seemed so big and heavy in that small hand. But that hand held it firmly, clutching it even, like he never wanted to let it go again.

Without a thank you, without a gesture of gratitude, the boy looked the DI in the eye and grimaced, "You haven't done anything, have you?"

The DI was stunned at first. Then he smiled a little, saying he understood the boy's feeling and trying to explain the difficulties. The godfather coughed politely as he tried to end the meeting presently. Ciel just brushed both attempts at distraction aside. "You didn't even try," he said with cool leveled voice, but Lestrade could hear it shook slightly. He could see that the boy had tried to contain himself, but he was losing very, very fast. "You dismissed this as a cold-case right from the start. Stop pretending to me that you've cared ANYTHING about why my father and mother died."

His godfather had to hold him at this point. The boy was shaking, but his eye was fixed on the DI and his hand clutched tightly on the ring. It was probably the only time that Lestrade had seen any emotion or reaction on that small frame. Not even when boy recounted the detail of his own torture did he look so fragile… so small.

The godfather excused them both and ushered the boy gently along with him. But before they reached the door, Ciel turned his way and glared.

"Why didn't you do something about it?" he demanded, "You are much better than him. Why didn't you take the case!"

He didn't reply, didn't say a word as the boy was guided out the door by his guardian. When the door was closed, the DI spoke, "we have done all in our power. It is an impossible case." Lestrade had agreed.

He got promoted to detective inspector a year and a half later and, by that time, out-performed his superior that everyone had noticed. He didn't remember what Ciel had said about him being a better detective. He only remembered the accusation that he didn't do his best. He remembered that gold engraved ring in that small little hand.

TBC.

A/N: It's a small world, isn't it? I hadn't thought about Lestrade being on Ciel's case until, well, until I was writing this. I was surprised myself.