The Great Game: Part Three

Mrs Hudson's shoes crossed the apartment floor and left them to it so only the three of them remained. Mozart rang out signalling a call, she removed her phone from her pocket. She didn't bother to check the I.D. there were only ever three people that called her and two of them were in the same room as her right now. "John."

"Hi. Sorry to interrupt but I thought Sherlock might be busy working on everything. Look I think I've got something and I need you to come and check it out. I need you to pick up some stuff first though. You got a pen?"

She looked over her shoulder to Sherlock and Lestrade and grinned, "No, but I have a Mind Palace so shoot."

"Nice house." Scarlett observed as she walked up the gravel path to the front door.

"Is it worth killing over though?" Sherlock asked her as he shifted a bag on his shoulder.

"Oh, I'd kill for it." She said looking up at the gigantic house and imagining the massive estate behind it that would undoubtedly make up the back garden. She turned to him and her smile slipped at the look on his face, "It's got nothing on Baker Street though, I swear!" She added hastily. Sherlock just rolled his eyes silently and knocked on the front door.

The houseboy – Raoul – answered the door and showed them in, taking them into a huge, well decorated living room. "Ah, there you are boss!" Both Sherlock and Scarlett chorused upon seeing John.

They both walked further into the room to greet the two men. "Ah, Mr. Prince, isn't it?" Sherlock asked while placing down his shoulder bag and one of the long black cases the two had between them before Scarlett placed down the other one.

"That's right." The man announced.

"Excellent to finally meet you." Sherlock walked forward and shook his hand and she did the same not two seconds later parroting similar words whilst observing Kenny's hand in her grasp.

"Yes, yes; thank you." She thought he sounded rather full of himself.

She pulled away from him, "So sorry to hear about..."

He interrupted her. "Yes, yes, very kind."

"Right then you two, shall we, er... set up?" John asked Sherlock and her.

"Sure thing boss, um, Sherl can get the tripod set up while I sort out Mr Princes' look." She smiled at Sherlock – who was giving her the death glare – while John tried to stifle a laugh.

"Yes," he managed to get out, "I'm sure Sherl can manage the tripod set up just fine."

She went to distract Kenny, giving John a second to fill Sherlock in, "Right Mr Prince. Do you want anything on your face to prevent shine?"

"No thank you dear, I applied something the moment I knew your reporter friend was coming. Take note: you must always look your very best in company."

"I'll most definitely keep that information locked away safely, sir." She fiddled with his hair a bit and then called out to the other two, "Boys, I think I'm done here."

"Um, yes. Okay then." John replied it was clear that he was unsure of the entire situation.

Sherlock, who had taken the camera and flashgun out of his shoulder bag, jerked his head towards Kenny. The older man seemed to get the message as she stepped back out of the way and he posed for the camera, leaning one arm against the mantelpiece.

"Not too close." Kenny protested as Sherlock walked forward with the camera, "I'm raw from crying."

A cat meowed at Scarlett's feet. She looked down expecting to find a mass of fur but instead was met by a mass of wrinkly skin wearing a collar. She shuddered; she wasn't really a cat person, never mind mutant ones with no fur.

"Oh," She said, trying to keep her voice even, "who's this?"

"Sekhmet." Kenny replied. "Named after the Egyptian goddess."

"H-how lovely." She kept the smile on her face but was sure she saw Sherlock smirk at her discomfort. "Was she Connie's?"

"Yes."

She went to pick the cat up but it seemed to sense her fear and it hissed at her before it bolted for Kenny, but John intercepted and caught her first, "I got her for Connie myself." Kenny said proudly.

She watched John immediately reach out and rub his fingers over one of the cat's front paws. Sherlock kept taking photos to make their cover believable. She spotted John from the corner of her eye lift his fingers away to smell them as Sherlock continued to take photos.

"Well that's it; I think we've got what we came for. Excuse us Mr Prince." John said after a second.

"What?" Was it just Scarlett or did the man sound crest fallen?

"Sherl. Scarlett. Let's go. We've got deadlines." John told them.

After Sherlock had hastily packed away with her help the three ran for it, ignoring Prince's protests. She heard John laugh to himself happily, "Yes! Ooh, yes!" He smiled triumphantly.

"You think it was the cat. It wasn't the cat." Sherlock told John with a smile but then he turned to her and his face fell, "Scarlett, don't ever call me Sherl again." Sherlock said rather sourly.

"Naw, but it suits you!" She protested.

John ignored them both, "What? No, yes. Yeah, it is. It must be. It's how they got the tetanus into her system. Its paws stink of disinfectant."

Sherlock was smiling again, "Lovely idea though."

"No," John still tried to defend his idea; "he coated it onto the paws of her cat. It's a new pet – bound to be a bit jumpy around her. A scratch is almost inevitable. She wouldn't have..."

He trailed off as Sherlock interrupted him, "I thought of it the minute I saw the scratches on her arm, but it's too random and too clever for the brother."

"He murdered his sister for her money though." John said still laughing quietly.

"Nope," Scarlett shot the idea down, "I thought that too when I saw the house, but then I saw the help."

"The help?" John questioned, "No, what about the cat?"

"Raoul keeps a very clean house. You came through the kitchen door, saw the state of that floor. Scrubbed to within an inch of its life. You smell of disinfectant now. No, the cat doesn't come into it." Sherlock answered.

She laughed as John pulled his jacket up to sniff at it as Sherlock looked toward the main road.

"Raoul's internet records do come into it, though." Scarlett said. "I do hope we can get a cab from here." She whined.

Sherlock walked off to get a black gab and she placed a hand on John's shoulder knowing he felt bad for not getting this particular one right. This seemed to get him to move and he walked in Sherlock's direction.

"Never mind, John. There'll always be next time."

-Break line- Break line- Break line -

With just an hour to go before the old women was due to die the three of them ran into New Scotland Yard heading for Lestrade's office. It was dark outside and Scarlett had to watch her step as she rushed up the buildings main steps. It didn't take them long to get into Lestrade's room once they were inside as they had all decided to border line run.

Once they were finally stood in front of Lestrade who was sat at his desk Sherlock declared with a file in hand, "Raoul de Santos is your killer. Kenny Prince's houseboy. Second autopsy shows it wasn't tetanus that poisoned Connie Prince – it was botulinum toxin."

He threw the file down onto Lestrade's desk and as the inspector reached for it Sherlock continued, "We've been here before. Carl Powers? Tut-tut. Our bomber's repeated himself."

"So," Lestrade asked leaning back into his desk chair, "how'd he do it?"

"Botox injection." Scarlett answered. She thought of catching sight of the tiny pin pricks in Connie's face as she lay dead on the autopsy table back at Bart's.

"Botox?" Lestrade asked turning his attention to her.

"Botox is a diluted form of botulinum." She told him.

"Among other things," Sherlock began to say, "Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the Home Office gave me the complete records of Raoul's internet purchases." He pointed to the folder on Lestrade's desk, "He's been bulk ordering Botox for months."

She looked over her shoulder at John who hadn't said anything in a while she was shocked but not altogether completely surprised to see the look of anger on his face. She wanted to alert Sherlock to this fact but he was too wrapped up in his story to notice her attempts to silence him.

"Bided his time, then upped the strength to a fatal dose." Sherlock concluded.

"You sure about this?" Lestrade urged.

"I'm sure." Sherlock nodded.

"Alright." Lestrade conceded, he got up and left the office briefly to talk to someone.

"Hey, Sherlock. How long?" John asked casually but she could hear the angry undertone.

"What?" Sherlock asked oblivious.

"How long have you known?"

Scarlett squeezed her eyes shut willing Sherlock not to say what she knew he would. He did anyway, "Well, this one was quite simple, actually, and like I said, the bomber repeated himself. That was a mistake."

John clenched his fist, trying to remain calm, "No, but Sherl… The hostage…that old woman. She's been there all this time."

Sherlock leaned closer looking at him intensely, "I knew I could save her. I also knew that the bomber had given us twelve hours. I solved the case quickly; that gave me time to get on with other things. Don't you see? Now we're one up on him!"

She felt sympathy for John as he pursed his lips in frustration, waiting for Lestrade to return so they could upload the deduction to the website. Once he had Sherlock sat behind Lestrade's desk and began to type: Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox. Before finally uploading.

The bomber had obviously been watching the webpage as the pink phone which she had in her pocket rang out almost instantly. Sherlock nodded and she answered the call.

"Hello?" She said into the receiver.

"Help me. Please." The elderly woman cried in an anguished voice

"Tell us where you are. Do you have an address?" She spoke clearly.

"He was so... His voice..." The woman began to say and Scarlett cut her off hastily.

"No, no, no, no!" She cried urgently, "You mustn't tell me anything about him. Nothing, shh!"

Her eyes widened in alarm looking but not seeing as the woman continued, "He sounded so... soft."

There was a gun shot and the line went dead, she didn't bother calling out. She knew what had happened. She leant against the office wall to support herself. "Scarlett… Scarlett?"

She looked up to see who had called her; it was Lestrade, "What's wrong?"

"What happened?" She heard John make a move towards her; she straightened up and leant the back of her head against the wall, closing her eyes.

Slowly she lowered the iPhone from her ear and bit her lip focusing in on the only person that hadn't reacted. Sherlock, "She's dead."

-Break line- POV Change- Break line-

That morning Scarlett sat in the flat with John and himself watching the news on the TV. She hadn't said a thing since she had left Lestrade's office the night prior. He glanced down at the pink phone on the left arm of his chair. He knew even though it was completely irrational that she blamed herself. The windows were still broken and boarded up making the loud traffic outside even louder causing her to wear a pinched expression.

Then on the TV, the story they had been waiting for flashed to life on the screen. A high-rise block of flats with the headline at the bottom of the screen was shown. The headline read, "12 dead in gas explosion". The picture moved in for a close-up, showing a corner of the building with many floors having been torn open and exposed to the air.

"The explosion, which ripped through several floors, killing twelve people..." The news reporter was saying.

John looked over his shoulder at him while Scarlett remained in her catatonic state, "Old block of flats. He certainly gets about." John said.

"…is said to have been caused by a faulty gas main. A spokesman from the utilities company..." The reporter continued.

"Well," He said nonchalantly, "obviously I lost that round – although technically I did solve the case."

Then he heard it, the noise he'd been waiting for: Scarlett snorted. He sat there waiting for her verbal onslaught, it would be short but powerful he knew from previous experiences.

"Well," She said heatedly but in a mocking tone, "as long as Sherlock Holmes solves his case then there's nothing to worry about is there?" She glared at him, "Never mind the twelve innocent people dead all because one psychopath wanted to grab your attention."

He picked up the remote control and muted the volume on the TV, throwing John a 'Don't get involved' look.

"He killed the old lady because she started to describe him." He told her quietly as she fell into a prickly silence. "That wasn't your fault, you couldn't have stopped it."

She glared at him but unfazed he still continued, "Just once, he put himself in the firing line." He told them both.

He was getting the result he wanted, her muscles were uncoiling, relaxing, "What d'you mean?" She asked him shortly.

"Well," Sherlock said focusing on the wall opposite him, "usually, he must stay above it all. He organises these things but no-one ever has direct contact."

"What...like the Connie Prince murder – he-he arranged that?" John questioned in disbelief finally speaking as he too noticed Scarlett relaxing, "So people come to him wanting their crimes fixed up, like booking a holiday?"

"Your opposite," He looked at her, glad that she was finally engaging, "a consulting criminal." Her eyes were wide in wonder as she finished.

"Marvellous." Sherlock said in admiration.

"Huh." He heard John say as he clearly processed this before turning back to the TV to watch Raoul de Santos being bundled out of Kenny's house by police officers. The press shouting questions at him, pushing and shoving, the headline on the screen reading: 'Connie Prince: man arrested.'

Sherlock looked down at the pink phone, "He's taking his time this time."

"Anything on the Carl Powers case?" John asked him uncomfortably as he watched the scene on the TV unfold.

He didn't answer; instead he watched Scarlett get up and stretch, moving for the first time in hours, "He told me when he had that young man strapped up to that bomb that he killed Carl because he laughed at him. All of his old class mates check out?"

"Yes." He told her, "All the living classmates check out spotless. There's no connection."

"Anyway," John asked, "who would want to kill old classmates?"

"Oh," Scarlett said rather darkly, "I could think of a few I wouldn't mind getting rid of." Sherlock silently agreed with her and smirked at John's uneasy expression.

"Maybe the killer was older than Carl?" John threw out trying to change the topic.

"The thought had occurred." Sherlock said simply.

Sherlock pressed his fingertips together in front of his mouth and smiled slightly as John asked him, "So why's he doing this, then – playing this game with you? D'you think he wants to be caught?"

"I think," He replied evenly, "he wants to be distracted."

John laughed without humour whilst getting out of his chair and heading towards the kitchen, "I hope you'll be very happy together."

"Sorry, what?" He asked confused as he heard Scarlett laugh quietly before she started to hum the wedding march sarcastically. He chose to ignore her.

John turned back to him looking furious as he leant his hands on the back of his chair, "There are lives at stake, Sherlock – actual human lives… Just - just so I know, do you care about that at all?"

Sherlock was starting to feel irritated as Scarlett turned in her seat to give the conversation her full attention. "Will caring about them help save them?"

"Nope." John replied simply.

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake." He said coolly.

"And you find that easy, do you?" John said his voice full of disbelief.

"Yes, very. Is that news to you?"

"No." John acknowledged as he smiled bitterly at Sherlock, "No it's not."

Sherlock locks onto John's eyes for a moment before stating, "I've disappointed you."

John smiled angrily as he pointed at him sarcastically, "That's good – that's a good deduction, yeah."

Sherlock just looked at him blankly before telling him, "Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

They continued to stare at each other for a second before the pink phone sounded a message alert, disrupting them.

"Excellent!" Sherlock exclaimed to himself.

He picked up the phone and activated it. The phone sounded one short pip and the long tone; a photograph appeared showing a river bank.

"Round four." He heard Scarlett state from her spot in her chair. He heard John move across the room and sit down.

"Great." Sherlock heard him sigh heavily. "It's a view of the Thames." Sherlock told them, describing the picture out loud, "South Bank – somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo." He reached into his jacket for his own phone.

"You check the papers," He told them both, "I'll look online..."

He looked up to see John, although sat down on the sofa his back was tense, head bowed, "Oh of course, you're angry with me, so you won't help."

John raised his head not looking at him and shrugged silently in response, "And you?" Sherlock turned his head to Scarlett who was looking at him with a mixture of emotions she was attempting to hide before she finally settled on tired.

She sighed sadly before saying, "I'll always help you. You know that."

He watched her cross over to sit next to John on the couch picking up some papers before he said, "Not much cop, this caring lark." He loudly clicked the 'k' on the last word for emphasis.

Sherlock dismissed both John and Scarlett from his mind as he began a search on his phone:

''Search: 'Thames'

RESULTS:

+ High Tide

+ Riverside''

Sherlock continued his online search, totally focussed on his work and oblivious to the emotional trauma which he knew his flatmate and niece were going through. After a while he heard John sniff, before he heard him start to finally riffle though the papers. Sherlock changed what he was searching for:

''Search: 'Local News'

Results:

+ Greenwich

+ Waterloo

+ Battersea''

He selected the Waterloo link on his phone and he is rewarded with timed reports from the Waterloo area, giving tide times, police reports and other information.

"Archway suicide." He heard John call over to him as he read the paper out loud in an irritated tone.

"Are ten a penny." He said snapping back irritably.

John threw him a look before Sherlock went back to the Local News option and selected Battersea. The page showed him a message saying:

'No new reports.'

He then decided to try the 'Thames Police Reports' link and started to scroll through the duty log

"Ah Jesus," He heard Scarlett sigh heavily, "Two kids stabbed in Stoke Newington."

"Man found on the train line – Andrew West?" He heard John say not two seconds later.

"Ah, can I have that, John? I need everything and anything on him for that case." Scarlett said to their flatmate.

"Mycroft really let you work that case on your own?" John asked surprised.

Sherlock heard the smile in her voice as she replied, "Well you two are busy with exploding people so someone else he trusts had to do it."

"And how did his colleagues react when they learnt that the fate of missile plans lay in the hands of a seventeen year old?" Sherlock asked her looking up at her in time to see her turn to look at him.

"I don't think he's told them, I believe he's just said 'Holmes is working on the case'." She shrugged, "Well, he's not lying is he? I am a Holmes." She smirked at him in a satisfied sort of way while he heard John snort.

"You're the better of the three I've met." John told her.

Scarlett laughed in response, "Wait until you met my Nan and Granddad."

"He has parents?!" John asked in a mocking gasp and he watched with slight amusement as Scarlett fell about laughing.

Unable to find anything online Sherlock gave up with an exasperated sigh, deciding to do what he should have done in the first place. He hit the speed dial for Lestrade's number. "It's me." He said as soon as Lestrade picked up the phone, "Have you found anything on the South Bank between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge?"

-Break line- POV Change- Break line-

Later on Scarlett found herself walking down a river back with Sherlock, John and Lestrade, snapping on a pair of latex gloves, her previous brooding mood all but dissipated. She watched as the police and forensics officers worked on the scene in front of them.

"So," Lestrade started to say, "d'you reckon this is connected, then? To the bomber?"

"It must be. Odd, though..." She watched Sherlock hold up the pink phone "he hasn't been in touch."

"But we must assume that some poor bugger's primed to explode, yeah?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes. And without knowing a time limit we'll have to work quickly." Scarlett found herself saying, "Which means no buggering around, Sherlock."

He looked at her clearly affronted before he stepped back and took a long look at the man's body as they arrived which was now lying on its back on a plastic sheet. "Any ideas?" Lestrade asked after about a minute.

"Seven." Sherlock told the DI casually.

"Seven?!" Lestrade said stunned.

"He's exaggerating, Lestrade, I only have four." She told him.

"And that," Sherlock said without looking up from the body, "is why you are merely an understudy."

"Rude!" She gasped in mock hurt.

She leant down on the opposite side of the body to Sherlock and decided that she needed a magnifier like his, which he was now using. She looked at the ripped pocket on the man's shirt before working her way downwards until she reached the man's feet. Sherlock got there before her and had started to pull off one of the socks and examine the sole of the foot with his magnifier.

She stayed where she was with the body as Sherlock stood and silently gave John permission to look at the body. John – much like he had the first time he had been on a case with them – looked enquiringly at Lestrade for permission to examine the body. She smiled as the Inspector held his hand out in a, 'be my guest' gesture.

John squatted down beside the body on the opposite side to her and reached out to take hold of the man's wrist as she clocked Sherlock walking a few paces away before getting his phone out.

"He's dead about twenty-four hours – maybe a bit longer. Did he…?" John started to ask.

"Drown? No." Scarlett said before he could finish, "look here," she said gesturing to the man's face, specifically his mouth and nose which showed signs of bruising. "Asphyxiation marks."

"She's right," Lestrade said and both she and John looked at him, "According to forensics there isn't enough of the Thames in his lungs."

Something on the man's forehead grasped her attention, "Finger marks." She muttered. She envisioned someone behind this man grabbing from behind, one hand over his mouth and nose, the other pressed into his forehead, pulling him back.

She took her hand and attempted to cover both the man's mouth and nose to no avail. This man's hand had to be huge. Not to mention he had to be taller than the deceased man lying in front of her judging by the angles of the marks. She thought for a couple of seconds before she came up with an answer – the answer being Oskar Dzundza – as Sherlock walked back over to them.

"He's in his late thirties, I'd say." John commented, "Not in the best condition."

"He's been in the river a long while. The water's destroyed most of the data." Sherlock told Lestrade and she saw him grin. "But I'll tell you something: that lost Vermeer painting's a fake." Her eyes widened in understanding.

"What?" Lestrade asked confused about how they had gone for talking about a dead man to a painting.

"We need to identify the corpse. Find out about his friends and associates..." Sherlock ignored Lestrade.

"Wait-wait-wait-wait-wait. What painting? What are you – what are you on about?" Lestrade protested.

"It's all over the place." She told the Inspector, "Haven't you seen the posters? Dutch Old Master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago; now it's turned up. Worth thirty million pounds."

"Okay. So what has that got to do with the stiff?" Lestrade asked trying to understand how the two were linked.

Sherlock grinned briefly, "Everything. Have you ever heard of the Golem?"

Scarlett grinned as she realised she had been right, "It's a horror story, isn't it? What are you saying?" John asked not understanding the context.

"Jewish folk story states," Scarlett began as she finally stood back up, "That there once was a gigantic man made of clay. It's also the name of an assassin – real name Oskar Dzundza – one of the deadliest assassins in the world." She pointed down to the body, "And the way this man was killed, that's his trademark style."

Sherlock gave a small nod looking at her with what she knew was his version of pride – even if it was only detectable to her, "So this is a hit?" Lestrade stood transfixed looking down at the body.

"Definitely. The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands." Sherlock accompanied the statement with the motion of strangling thin air.

"But," Lestrade still asked confused, "what has this gotta do with that painting? I still don't see..."

"You do see," Sherlock sighed exasperated looking up to the sky, "you just don't observe."

Scarlett laughed as John intervened, "All right, all right, girls, calm down. Sherlock? D'you wanna take us through it?" She sighed as Sherlock took a step back, knowing that he was about to show off as he pointed at the body.

"What do we know about this corpse?" He asked them, "The killer's not left us with much – just the shirt and the trousers. They're pretty formal – maybe he was going out for the night, but the trousers are heavy-duty, polyester, nasty. Same as the shirt – cheap. They're both too big for him, so some kind of standard-issue uniform. Dressed for work, then. What kind of work? There's a hook on his belt for a walkie-talkie."

"Tube driver!" Lestrade exclaimed and Sherlock threw him a look which she interpreted to mean 'idiot', she tried her hardest not to laugh.

"Security guard?" John tried.

"More likely. That'll be borne out by his backside." Sherlock said.

"Backside?!" Lestrade cried shocked.

"Well I'll be damned Sherlock, you've been checking out a corpse." Scarlett snickered and she heard John chock out a laugh.

Sherlock, to her surprise stuck his tongue out at her in childish protest. "It's flabby. You'd think that he'd led a sedentary life, yet the soles of his feet and the nascent varicose veins in his legs show otherwise. So, a lot of walking and a lot of sitting around. Security guard's looking good. And the watch helps, too. The alarm shows he did regular night shifts."

"Why regular? Maybe he just set his alarm like that the night before he died." Lestrade reasoned.

"No-no-no," Sherlock protested, "the buttons are stiff, hardly touched. He set his alarm like that a long time ago. His routine never varied. But there's something else. The killer must have been interrupted; otherwise he would have stripped the corpse completely. There was some kind of badge or insignia on the shirt front that he tore off, suggesting the dead man worked somewhere recognisable, at some kind of institution."

She watched as he removed something from inside his coat pocket, "I found this inside his trouser pocket." He said holding up a small scrunched-up ball of paper. "It's sodden by the river but still recognisably..."

"Ticket stubs." She concluded after looking at what he held.

"Ticket stubs." He agreed, "He worked in a museum or gallery. Did a quick check online– the Hickman Gallery has reported one of its attendants as missing." He pointed down at the decease man. "Alex Woodbridge." Sherlock said unveiling his identity.

"Tonight," He continued, "they unveil the re-discovered masterpiece. Now why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? Inference: the dead man knew something about it – something that would stop the owner getting paid thirty million pounds. The picture's a fake."

"Fantastic." John said looking at Sherlock in admiration.

Sherlock, still annoyed about the argument earlier she could tell, merely shrugged and said, "Meretricious."

"And a Happy New Year!" Lestrade added.

She watched John throw Lestrade 'seriously?!' look and she grinned at Lestrade's sheepish face as John looks back down at Alex Woodbridge, "Poor sod."

"I'd better get my feelers out for this Golem character." Lestrade said walking backwards.

"Pointless. You'll never find him. But I know a man who can."

"Who?" Lestrade asked walking right into the trap.

Sherlock just grinned, "Me."

She sighed as she and John went to follow Sherlock who was walking away, "You're a show off, you know that right?" She asked him.

"Of course."

-Break line- Break line- Break line-

"Why? Why hasn't he phoned?" Sherlock asked in frustration in the back of the cab, "He's broken his pattern. Why?"

Before she can say anything in response his eyes widen and he leant forward in his seat in order to talk to the driver, "Change of plan," He says, "We need to go to Waterloo Bridge."

"I thought we were going to the gallery?" John asked in confusion.

"We will in a bit." Sherlock assured them.

"The Hickman's contemporary art, isn't it? Why have they got hold of an Old Master?" John said, thinking out loud.

"Dunno. Dangerous to jump to conclusions. Need data." Sherlock told him.

She watched him take his notebook from his pocket and write something on a page before tearing it out and folding a bank note inside it. She knew instantly what he wanted, "Give it here," she told him holding her hand out, "I'll be quicker." He nodded and handed over the paper before telling the driver to pull over but to wait for her to return.

"I won't be a sec!" She called as she jumped out of the cab and easily vaulted over the railings at the edge of the pavement before she began to run, not bothering to respond to John's cries.

Scarlett slowed as she spotted a homeless girl under the bridge and to her surprise it was Hazel, the girl that had found the pink case for her during Sherlock's and her first case with John, "Hazel, girl!" She called out and she looked up.

"Ms Holmes!" She said in surprise her Northern accent still present despite her time in London. She had a blanket wrapped around her and a few more possessions surrounding her, her matted hair pulled back into a scruffy ponytail.

"Sherlock needs a favour, I don't know what it is, it'll be all down on the paper I expect." She said finally stopping in front of the girl handing over the note. "You don't mind?"

"Course not Ms! Not seeing as our last meeting meant I didn't end up most likely dead that night."

"If you ever need anything," She said handing over her own twenty pound note, "find Smitty, he'll look after you."

"I'll be sure to Ms! Thank ya!"

She turned on her heel giving Hazel the thumbs up before sprinting back up the way she'd come. She vaulted back over the railings, and hastily climbed back into the cab.

"Done and done." She said a little breathlessly, "It was Hazel, I like Hazel."

Sherlock nodded and judging by John's lack of questions he had been filled him in during her absence.

It didn't take them that long to get to the gallery and before either John or she followed him he stopped them. "No you two," he said, "I need you to find out about the dead man, ring Lestrade and he'll give you the address."

"Alright." Scarlett got back into the cab and rang Lestrade getting the address quickly so they could get on their way.

"Are you okay?" She looked next to her to find she was being studied by the doctor as the vehicle pulled away.

"Hmm, yeah, why wouldn't I be?" She asked him.

"Well, you know, after this morning…" He paused, unsure of what to say, "I mean… I know you bounced back quickly, but if you needed to talk…" He let the offer hang in the air and she just looked at him.

"Thank you, I appreciate it. I'll be fine. We just clash like that sometimes. I forgot that you've never been around to see it before. I guess that's what happens when a sociopath looks after an empath."

"A what?" John asked.

"An empath is someone who can understand someone's emotions practically to the letter. That's why I find it really hard to hate someone because I can always see the reasoning behind their actions. It's great for when I'm trying to work out alibies, especially murder ones."

"Right, okay."

"I usually don't let people know though; it makes it easier and yet harder at the same time, especially when we're on a case like this. I can't help think about these poor innocent people being targeted because of one man's boredom. Sherlock just doesn't understand that I can't just…He took me in, Sherlock I mean, just picked me up from school one day. He knew what I was going through... He taught me how to act like a sociopath, how to cover my emotions. But that's all it is. An act. He seemed to forget that I can't always just… " She sighed looking out of the cab window.

"Switch off." John finished.

"Exactly." She said, "God only knows what Afghanistan would have done to me." She looked at him expectantly.

"Oh no. We're not going there. The amount of stuff I saw… No, there's no need for you to hear what I went through."

"That's not what I meant. This…" She meant their life, "being with Sherlock, it reawakens your inner solider. And you can't deny it. I can read your emotions, read you. It might frustrate you sometimes but you enjoy this."

He looked at her stunned, "That's basically what Mycroft said the first time we met."

"Ah well then, I must be right." She smirked and returned her gaze to outside of the window.

A short while later they're out of the cab and entering the home of Alex Woodbridge. The women that let them in lead them to Alex's bedroom situated in the attic. It was messy and cramped with clothes he would never need again scattered over the carpet. She spotted a large object under a sheet near the window but chose to ignore it for the second.

"We'd been sharing about a year. Just sharing." The woman – Julie – told them.

"Mmm." John said looking around the room as well, he walked around a bit but left everything undisturbed.

"May we?" John asked Julie pointing to the large sheet covered object.

"Oh yeah, of course." She told them.

Scarlett stepped forward and lifted the sheet away letting it fall in a pile on the floor. She let out an impressed, "Wow…" At the telescope on a tripod that had been revealed to them.

"Stargazer, was he?" John asked conversationally as she fiddled with all the focuses and angles.

"Oh god, yeah. Mad about it. It's all he ever did in his spare time." She told them and Scarlett caught the sad twinge in the woman's voice as she turned away sadly. "He was a nice guy, Alex. I liked him." Scarlett watched her as Julie gazed around the room.

"He was, er, never much of a one for hovering." She laughed to herself. They both smiled at her.

"What about art? Did he know anything about that?" Scarlett asked stepping back from the telescope back into the centre of the room.

Julie shook her head, "It was just a job, you know?"

"Yeah." They both said together.

"Has anyone been asking about Alex?" She asked casually as she looked over the contents of his bedside table.

"No," she said, "we did have a break in though."

"When was this?" John asked as she straightened herself up.

"Last night funnily enough. Nothing was taken mind. Oh – there was a message left for Alex on the landline." She tagged on only just remembering.

"Who was it from?" John asked.

"Well, I can play it for you if you like. I'll get the phone." Julie offered.

"Please, if you wouldn't mind."

She left the room briefly to fetch the phone and returned quickly pressing the play button; a woman's voice rang out, "Oh, should I speak now? Alex? Love, it's Professor Cairns. Listen, you were right. You were bloody right! Give us a call when..." The line went dead and the message ended.

"Professor Cairns?" She didn't recall anyone with that name.

"No, no idea, sorry love." Julie said with a shake of her head.

"Mmm. Can we try and ring back?"

"Well, no good." Julie said sadly, "I mean, I've had other calls since – sympathy ones, you know?"

They both nodded and Julie left the room again just as Scarlett's phone trills a text alert. She got the phone out and looks at the message:

'RE: BRUCE-PARTINGTON PLANS

Have you spoken to West's

fiancée yet?

Mycroft Holmes'

Scarlett grimaced and put the phone away again, "It's on my to-do list." She said.

"Sorry, what?" John asked looking perplexed.

"Nothing, just Mycroft getting on to me about those bloody plans." She said and John laughed in a huff.

"Actually, seeing as I think we're done here, do you…" She steeled herself, "Um, do you… would you mind coming with me?" She asked looking at him.

"No," John said with a smile, "no of course not."

-Break line- Break line- Break line-

In Andrew West's flat Scarlett had sat herself down next to Westie's fiancée. Her mug of tea was on the coffee table in front of them, half full. John sat in an armchair close by.

"He wouldn't. He just wouldn't." Lucy insisted to them.

"Well," she said gently finally getting together the nerve to take Lucy's hand, "stranger things have happened." John nodded in agreement as he leant forward.

"Westie wasn't a traitor. It's a horrible thing to say!" Lucy was obviously devastated by the idea.

"I know and I'm sorry," she reassured, "I don't think it, I never even met the man but you must understand that's..."

"That's what they think, isn't it, his bosses?" She figured out what Scarlett was going to say.

"Unfortunately, yes…" She agreed with Lucy.

There was a pause in which she didn't know what to say so John took over for her and she smiled gratefully. "He was a young man, about to get married. He had debts..."

"Everyone's got debts," Lucy cut across him in tears, "and Westie wouldn't wanna clear them by selling out his country."

"We know this is hard Lucy, believe me, we do." She soothed the woman, "can you tell me exactly what happened that night?"

"We were having a night in, just watching a DVD." She said taking a new tissue to her eyes, she even smiled a little. "The idiot normally falls asleep, you know, but he sat through this one. He was quiet." She dissolved into tears once more.

"And then, out of the blue, he said he just had to go and see someone. No warning at all."

"And there's no one who you think it could have been?" Scarlett asked gently. Lucy just shook her head for what must have been the millionth time during their visit, unable to speak through the tears.

Later, after Scarlett and John had calmed Lucy down somewhat she showed them to the front door. A cycle courier walked along the pavement towards the house, wheeling his pushbike.

"Oh, hi, Luce. You okay, love?" He asked Lucy who was at the door with them.

"Yeah." She said, although in Scarlett's opinion she sounded anything but.

"Who are these two?" He asked Lucy.

"Scarlett Holmes." She said stepping forward and taking his hand.

"John Watson. Hi." John did the same and shook the man's hand.

Lucy turned to herself and John, "Scarlett, John, this is my brother, Joe." She turned to her brother, Joe, "John and Scarlett are trying to find out what happened to Westie, Joe."

Joe looked them both up and down, "You with the police?"

"Uh, sort of, yeah." John said. Again she was surprised, just how old did she look?

"Well, tell 'em to get off their arses, will you? It's bloody ridiculous." Joe said in a state of exasperation.

"We'll do our best." Scarlett reassured before turning back to Lucy as both Joe and his bike entered the house. "Well, thanks very much for your help Lucy; and again, we're very, very sorry about Westie." She said as she stepped down off of the concrete steps and her and John started to walk away.

Lucy called after them however, "He didn't steal those things, Ms Holmes."

Scarlett turned back to look at the young women, "I knew Westie. He was a good man." She began to cry again, "He was my good man." She said in a self-reassuring voice before returning inside and shutting the door behind her.

They headed back to Baker Street in a cab in the dark and as they pulled up along the side of the road by the flat she spotted Hazel. She was waiting with a paper cup in hand, shaking it at passers-by calling for spare change. As she got out of the cab she spotted Sherlock in the doorway of Two-Two-One-B.

He walked toward her as she made a beeline for Hazel, "Alex Woodbridge didn't know anything special about art." She heard John inform Sherlock as he too got out of the cab.

"And?" She heard Sherlock say as she reached Hazel.

"Any spare change, Ms. Holmes?" The girl asked.

"Don't mind if I do!" She said cheerily and Hazel slipped her a piece of paper, "Thanks kid. You get in touch with Smitty?"

"Yeah, we're gunna be sticking together for a while, Ms." Scarlett raised an eyebrow in suggestion and the pair giggled before Scarlett walked away.

"And?" Sherlock repeated growing impatient.

"And Mycroft drains me," She said walking towards Sherlock and John again while handing the paper over, "but then, you already knew that."

"That's it? No habits, hobbies, personality?" Sherlock sounded annoyed.

"No, she's winding you up, Sherlock. He was an amateur astronomer." John told him.

"Both of you, back in the cab, now." Sherlock said.

-Break line- Break line- Break line-

The three of them were now walking in a side street in Vauxhall and she watched amused as Sherlock looked up at the stars dotted in the night sky. She preferred to keep her eyes on the path ahead watching the shadows.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Sherlock asked them.

"I thought you didn't care about things like that." John told him.

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it." He replied logically.

Scarlett didn't bother to interrupt as they walk into the Arches, "Listen: Alex Woodbridge had a message on the answerphone at his flat – a Professor Cairns?" John queried.

"This way." Sherlock told them and they turned right into a practical alley.

"Nice!" John said in a carrying whisper, "Nice part of town. Any time you wanna explain."

"The Homeless network really is indispensable." Sherlock said in way of explanation.

John took a flash light out from his pocket as did Sherlock and Scarlett, all three of them switching them on.

"Homeless network?" John asked and Scarlett realised they hadn't explained what the homeless network was yet.

"Our eyes and ears all over the city." She explained in a whisper.

"Oh, that's clever. So you scratch their backs and..."

"Yes, then we disinfect ourselves." Sherlock told him and she bit back a laugh.

Her flashlight depicted many homeless people settled for the night on the damp ground and as she moved her flash light she thought she saw a shadow move, "Sherlock!" She called out loudly.

"Come on!" He shouted and they were off running against a wall, watching an impossibly tall man straightening up.

"Golem's sleeping rough?" She asked in a whisper.

"Well, he has a very distinctive look. He has to hide somewhere where tongues won't wag – much." Sherlock said to her.

"Oh shi…" She heard John start to say.

Sherlock pulled John's pistol from an inside pocket from his coat, "Don't mention it." Sherlock told him. At least John was protected.

The assassin known as The Golem broke into a run and hurried away down a tunnel. They all chased after him and reach the tunnel just in time to see him climbing into a waiting car which immediately sped off.

"No, no, no, no! It'll take us weeks to find him again!" Sherlock yelled in frustration.

"Or not. I have an idea where he might be going." John told Sherlock.

"Professor Cairns?" She asked the army doctor.

"Professor Cairns." John replied with a nod. It was a good feeling, having one up on Sherlock.

-Break line- Break line- Break line-

Sherlock and John raced into the theatre through another door, making Scarlett stay out of the way at the back of the auditorium – which, she thought, was one of the most parental things Sherlock had ever done. John stopped, aiming his pistol for the assassin who was strangling the Professor as Sherlock yelled out.

"Golem!"

Over the rooms sound speakers she could hear the narration of the projection on the giant theatre screen, "…many are actually long-dead, exploded into supernovas." The voice was saying.

Scarlett gasped in horror as she watched the Golem snap Cairns' neck and drop her like a broken twig on the floor, as lifeless as a rag-doll. The images of the projections sped up as the Professor's body hit the mixing bored, fast forwarding the footage before it was cut off completely and the room was thrown into darkness.

"John!" Sherlock yelled.

"I can't see him. I'll go round. I'll go!" John shouted back.

"Scarlett, don't move!" Sherlock shouted out to her.

The projectors lights flickered on and off, throwing the room into darkness and occasionally a flood of light.

"Who are you working for this time, Dzundza?" Sherlock demanded into the darkness.

Suddenly from her position at the back of the theatre Scarlett was grabbed from behind, a massive hand clasping over her mouth and nose. She let out a terrified, if muffled scream as she kicked and thrashed against the giant assassin.

"Scarlett?!" She heard her uncle yell for her yet could do nothing but struggle in the massive man's grasp.

The room was suddenly thrown into a bought of light, she was being held in the middle of the theatre floor, Dzundza having obviously dragged her across the room. She didn't care though; her vision was going fussy from the lack of oxygen, "Golem!" She heard John shout.

She watched John cock his gun, saw a glimpse of what she thought was terror on Sherlock's face. No, not terror, her Uncle Sherlock didn't do scared. She didn't think she did until now, she whimpered from the effort of trying to get his hand away from her face.

"Let her go, or I will kill you." John said with a steady clam in his voice.

Her eyes begin to close of their own accord and just when she was ready to give up, the pressure around her mouth and nose were gone. The Golem throwing her away to his left in order to kick the gun out of John's grasp.

Scarlett staggered, unable to fully regain her balance, watching as Sherlock lunged for the huge man through streaming eyes whilst he attacked John. The last thing she remembered before passing out was the voice of the narrator saying over the chaos, "…long dead, exploded into supernovas."

Then everything went black.

Hi,

Wow, look at that! I said I'd update tonight :) I don't think i missed any spelling errors, but it's late so, meh.

Thanks to LilliabellaMichelle for adding this to her favourites and to AshRain114 for following the story. I feel bad leaving a cliff hanger so I'll update tomorrow (or later today - as it's like 12:00am now). I only own Scarlett, not the show 'Sherlock'. This is part 3 of 4 to 'The Great Game'. Review and let me know what you think! :)

Thanks,

H.H