A/N Finally - A break in the huge, massive writer's block! Enjoy!

Chapter Ten - Clues, Mistakes and More

The taxi ride to the crime scene took about twenty minutes, stopping only long enough to pick up John at Baker Street since it was on the way. They went over the events that preceded this latest murder. Sherlock's phone buzzed and he fished it out of his pocket, stared at the text, then replaced it in his coat.

"Anything new?" John asked.

"Maybe." Sherlock answered, but did not go into details. John shook his head. Sometimes Sherlock's reluctance to share information was maddening.

They arrived at the crime scene within twenty minutes. Dashing up the stairs of the seedy old hotel, they were greeted by Inspector Dimmock and two crime techs. The scene was eerily reminiscent of the previous murders. Once again a young blond haired woman was bound hand and foot to the bed by rough rope. Her mouth gagged by a handkerchief and blue Oxford silk tie. As Sherlock began to survey the room John growled in disgust. How could anyone be so sick? John had seen his share of terrible crime scenes, but these rose petal murders were especially heinous in his opinion. Sherlock observed John's reactions and frowned.

"Problem John?"

"Yes, Sherlock, I have a problem with all this! These young girls did not need to die like this; it's all such a waste!" John glared about the room then focused on his friend.

"Will complaining about it change anything for them John?" Sherlock calmly asked. "Or would it be less distressing to you if the girls were fat and ugly? Perhaps it would be easier for you if they were all men or . . ."

"You know what I mean!" John glared at him in disgust.. "Don't pretend you don't feel anything. I know you better than that."

Sherlock looked at John calmly and nodded. "Yes, but feelings should never get in the way of scientific observation and deduction. For instance, have you noticed there are four distinct differences in this crime scene?"

John frowned and looked carefully about the room. He began to notice small differences, the most obvious was the pile of clothing on the floor beside the bed. "He didn't take her clothing away with him." John pointed out.

"Good," Sherlock approved.

John looked again. "There are bloody footprints going over to the window. He must have heard something and wanted to check it out. Shouts or maybe a siren?" John looked at the girl on the blood soaked bed. " He put the rose on her like the others, but left the florist's box lying in the corner of the room." John walked over to the box and carefully inspected it. "The florist's label has been peeled away." He noted. "That's all." He stated and looked up at Sherlock.

Sherlock gazed at his friend frustration clear on his face. "That's only three, John," He growled. "What about the fourth?" The good doctor looked about again and shook his head in defeat.

Sherlock gave an impatient huff and said: "The note John? Where's the note? There's always a note."

Sure enough, John saw the small card with a poem that was always placed the victim's hands was missing. As he placed the florists box back on the floor he noticed a small sound of something shifting. He opened the box and held it open for Sherlock to see the small card lying inside.

Scorned by your lover

Rescued by fate to be

Forever silent

Throughout eternity.

Sherlock flipped the card over and read what was on the back. Once again there was a personal message to him:

Sherlock Holmes:

Death is not Idle. He who searches the depths of the soul claims his own.

"What does it mean?" John asked.

"I have no idea." Sherlock shrugged." I do know that something spooked our murderer. He panicked and ran, leaving behind valuable clues. Sherlock grinned happily. "Look, John." He bent down and pulled a shoe cover that was sticking out from under the bed. "He dropped this. From the residue on the inside of the shoe cover I will be able to narrow down his movements and perhaps even find where he is hiding. It's payday John! He's made mistakes! And I am going to track him down!"

- ɸ -

Later that night Jacob Arnold tossed and turned in his small bed in the snug room he had created in his hideout. He often had trouble sleeping. Memories of his childhood tended to surface in reoccurring nightmares.

"Malcolm! Have you learned your lesson yet?" Father's scream rang in Jacob's ears. He restlessly tossed in his sleep, vainly seeking to still the voice. Father's voice. Father was angry with him, again. Father wanted to punish him. Again.

"Leave me alone, don't hit me!" Jacob sobbed at the face hovering over him. "I'm sorry, Father, I'll try harder I promise. Don't hit me!"

"You'll do more than try Malcolm, You will be the smartest, the best, or I will beat some sense into you." Jacob Arnold screamed. "No son of mine is going to be bested by the sniveling brat of a posh diplomat! The Holmes boy did this work perfectly today and he is two years younger than you! I'll not have it!"

Jacob felt the blows that followed. Father had a heavy hand. God, he hated Sherlock Holmes! Father was always bragging how intelligent Sherlock was. Demanding Malcolm to be smarter, better. Nothing he did was good enough. Echoes of Father's rough voice ricocheted in his brain. Father always said the same thing as he punished him. "Malcolm, have you learned your lesson yet?" Malcolm restlessly stirred in his sleep. "Have you learned your lesson yet? Have you learned your lesson yet? Have you . . ."

Jacob awoke abruptly, his harsh gasping the only sound. He was alone in the dark. He felt the attack coming and struggled to sit up on the edge of the bed. The pressure in his chest increased as he realized he might not be able to take another breath. Flailing about as he panicked, he panted, trying to draw air in. This time, it was really bad. The air eluded him, refusing to enter his lungs. His mouth formed a 'O' shape to suck what oxygen he could in hoarse drawn out gasps in a vain attempt to breathe. It felt as if his throat and lungs had collapsed. He grew faint, he was going to pass out. This time he was going to die. Breathe damn it!, he shouted to himself in his head. Long dry hacking coughs ending in whistling breaths began to rack his body, the coughs so strong he gagged.

Slowly air began to enter his lungs. Whistling narrowly down his windpipe. He bent double, head level with his knees, coughing and gagging, drawing in small amounts of oxygen. The tightness in his chest began to decrease a little. He stood upright and staggered to the kitchen. Bent double over the kitchen table he continued to gasp as his breathing slowly began to recover.

He poured himself a whiskey to cut the phlegm that magically appeared in his throat. Damn, that was close. He cleared his throat repeatedly as the whiskey burned its way to his stomach. Fifteen minutes later found him still at the table forcing himself to breathe as deeply as possible. He sat and calmed himself until the burning in his chest was gone except for a repeating urge to clear his throat. He was in control he reminded himself. He was Malcolm no longer. He was Jacob, and Jacob held control. Jacob was strong and smart and resourceful. Jacob was never afraid. He was Jacob. He was Jacob. He was Jacob.

- ɸ -

Mycroft Holmes glared at Gary Morris's defiant face.

"He's not serious you know," Mycroft chided. "Sherlock and John and Molly are not actually engaged in the acts you are describing," he scoffed.

"It sounded real enough to me," Gary replied. "He even told me that they rented a playroom at an S&M club!"

"He's just pulling your leg. If you called his bluff he would cave. Sherlock is not interested in things like that. I promise you."

"Well I know for a fact that Molly Hooper has a riding crop in her desk at Bart's I saw it for myself when I went through her office." Gary replied.

Mycroft's eyes widened and he lifted his brows. "Interesting."

"Well, I'm sure there is a simple explanation," Mycroft soothed. "No need to become alarmed."

"I'm not alarmed!" Gary denied. "I just want to finish this. Your scheme to make Sherlock jealous is not working, it has never worked and I want out."

"Perhaps, you are right. I'll just have to come up with something else." Mycroft sighed. "You're sure about going to Vienna? If you wanted to stay I can find something local for you."

"I think it best If I make a clean break. You know I have loved working with you Mycroft, but it's time I moved on." Gary reached across the small table between them and grasped Mycroft's hand.

"I suppose it is for the best." Mycroft sighed again. "Anthea will miss you. We both will miss you," Mycroft said softly. The two men stood and embraced each other tightly. Gary Morris smiled, turned and walked away.

- ɸ -

Jacob placed the small card in the dead girl's hand and laid the long stem rose nearby on her stomach. The scene looked very much like the others. Blood had sprayed over everything in the near vicinity of the body. He carefully took pictures with his mobile phone. Scotland Yard and Sherlock were still nosing about the murder of the girl from the pub and he had already killed again. He told himself it was because he had been so rudely interrupted at the last scene. How was he to know the police cars that roared to the front of his hotel were responding to a crime committed across the street? He had panicked. He was so upset that he had not enjoyed her death as much as the others. Jacob tried to convince himself it was just because of the panic and turmoil that day that caused him to hunt again so soon, but if he were honest, he knew that he was changing. He needed to kill more frequently. He felt an ever increasing urge to create violence. It was like a giant pump was filling him, building pressure, forcing him to act. At the same time he recognized that something was missing, he felt hollow. He needed more. He was spending less time with the girls. He no longer wanted to woo them or care for them. He hadn't even touched the last one, hadn't even wanted to. Killing became his only focus. He still felt the thrill of power afterwards but the empty hunger returned almost immediately. It was not enough. It was never enough.

It was time Sherlock Holmes and he got together. It was time to take control of the genius detective and show him who the smart one really was. That, he told himself, was what he needed. Once Holmes was out of the way he would not need to prove himself. He would be able to choose his girls and enjoy them again. Jacob slowly walked to the bed, glanced down at his work of art, then placed his latest poem and message to Sherlock Holmes in the girl's hands beside the rose.

Oh the beauty of sweet death

The halt of onward time.

Eyes so brown that once were yours

Soon only to be mine.

Sherlock: This is a game changer. Are you ready?

Jacob quietly crossed to the door, removed his shoe covers and cover-all. Placing them in his small suitcase, he left and closed the door behind him. His head was full of plans to lure Sherlock Holmes into his grasp. In a dark mood, Jacob failed to notice the man across the street start to follow him.

- ɸ -

Ten o'clock in the morning. John Watson lay on his back and stared at the crack that ran across the ceiling over his head. The narrow line wiggled its way from the far corner to over his head. He idly wondered how secure the old plaster was and whether it would fall on their heads anytime soon. Upstairs in the flat above someone slammed a door and John watched as small particles of plaster drifted down and landed on the duvet covering them. Not long, he thought as he stared at the crack and could have sworn that it was wider than a few minutes ago. Mary's flat was rubbish. It was a great location, but the place was literally falling apart. She needed to find a new one. He let his mind drift. The couple in 221c were moving out, Maybe he could convince Mary to move there. Mrs. Hudson had renovated it and it was now cheerful and mold free. Maybe he would rent it and ask Mary to share it with him.

He smiled as Mary snuggled closer and gave a small sigh of contentment in her sleep. He turned his head and watched her lovely face. He was so lucky, Mary had made the difference in his life. Only he knew how close he had come to giving into the darkness after Sherlock's "death". If it hadn't been for Molly's friendship and later Mary's love, he wouldn't be here today. He knew it for a fact. He owed so much to Mary Morstan and he realized suddenly that he wanted more than a flat mate. He wanted to spend the rest of his life showing her how much he loved her. John Watson was a traditional sort of man at heart. True he had had many lovers over the years and had even lived with several, but he had never felt for any of them what he felt for Mary. She made him happy. She made him want to be a better man so that he could make her happy. He wanted . ..he wanted to marry her and live with her forever. His eyes opened wide in shock. Where had that idea come from? He shifted in the bed and watched as Mary slept on. Twenty minutes passed quickly as John thought about his love for Mary. Marriage was good. He could totally see them married. The more he thought about it the more he liked the idea. He knew this wasn't a spur of the moment idea, it had been swimming around in the back of his mind for weeks. He looked over, she was so beautiful, even with her hair all mussed up. He raised up so he was partially leaning over her. At that point the source of his affection rolled over and jabbed her elbow into his nose.

"Ouch! Jeeze, Mary, don't kill me!" John grumbled. Mary opened her eyes and grinned lazily into his eyes.

"Sorry," she laughed. "If your nose didn't take up so much space, I wouldn't bump into it so much! Good morning love, why the serious look?"

John rolled suddenly and Mary found herself pinned to the mattress. She stared up into his deep blue eyes. She frowned, He was staring so intently into her eyes and he had an odd look to his adorable face.

"Uh, John, what's the matter?" Mary breathed.

"Me Mary?" John asked softly.

"What?" Confusion covered Mary's face.

"Me Mary?" John repeated.

"Of course I'm your Mary," she reassured him. "Are you okay? You seem a little nervous. I didn't hurt more than your nose did I?"

John stared at Mary for a few moments in bewilderment before realization of what he had said clicked in his brain. He sank onto his back and put his hands over his face in embarrassment. "I can't believe I said that!" he mumbled.

He straightened his shoulders and jumped off the bed and circled around to Mary's side. Mary sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed and looked at John in alarm as he sank to his knees before her.

"What's wrong John? Are you alright? You're not making sense. Are you feeling alright?" Mary asked in an anxious tone.

John stared up at her solemnly. His face red with embarrassment, he took a deep breath and tried again. Slowly, pausing between each word so that there could be no mistake, John Watson asked the most important question of his life.

" Will you marry me?"

Mary stared for a second, then looked him in the eyes and said,

"Will I."

If possible John's face became even redder. The tips of his ears almost purple.

"Will I." Mary stated again calmly, then broke into a huge grin." Oh John," she laughed, "of course I WILL marry you!" Mary leaped into his arms and they both went crashing to the floor.

- ɸ -

Molly Hooper hummed a happy tune as she breezed through the back exit at Bart's. Her thoughts were on making a mental shopping list. She wanted to make Chicken Kiev, fresh peas and a salad for this evening's meal. She planned to invite Mary over as soon as she got home.

The sidewalks were teeming with people and Molly did not notice the man walking closely behind the group of noisy teens. As the teenagers passed her the man broke away and sidled up to Molly. She felt a sharp sting of a needle in her neck. Whatever the stuff was it was extremely fast acting. Before Molly could open her mouth to scream she felt her knees give way. The man supported her and began to soundly kiss her, thus preventing her calling out for help. He snogged her so long that several people gave cat calls and one angry woman told them to get a room as she passed by. When he was sure the drug had taken effect, the man told a now semi-conscious Molly to lean on him.

"My car's just around the corner a bit. We'll have you all tucked away so you can sleep in no time." Molly nodded agreeably as Jacob Arnold helped her walk around the corner.