I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes, or the BBC show Sherlock.

Takes place post episode three of the second series (The Reichenbach Fall), so please be aware of spoilers.

Eyes behind masks

by Kaiyo no Hime

Chapter Eleven

Mycroft stared at the paper in front of him. Frowning. Deeply. It was not what he had been expecting from the report, and he was deeply disappointed in the investigators. He had let the New Scotland Yard and John have their fun, running around the city chasing a sadistic serial killer, but now the time for games was over. While yes, people had been hurt before, it had crossed the line into personal two crimes scenes ago.

So Mycroft Holmes, an insignificant member of the British government, had actually deigned to step in and have the matter cleared up. It was one thing to remind him of his brother's death, it was another thing entirely to threaten a person that he considered a friend. Well, nearly a friend. Either way, they had decided that threatening one John Watson was worth their time, and Mycroft had decided it was now worth his time to put a stop to their little games.

Only he was as clueless as John and the entire New Scotland Yard as to who it was. There was nothing on the CCTV, no evidence left at the crime scenes, no tiny detail that was overlooked. For once, everyone was being very thorough, and he was just as clueless as the rest of them. He had searches going for anyone involved in doll crafting, and had discovered a rather morbid group that haunted the internet and was completely devoted to making very disturbing, very life like dolls. And he was having every single person involved in all of said forums investigated. Morticians, mortician's apprentices, make up artists, hospital workers, morgue workers especially, doll crafters, wood carvers, and everyone who had purchased more than a pound of human hair in the last three years.

With all of the power of the British government at his disposal, Mycroft had expected to have the killer sequestered to a tiny, cold, dark, cement cell within three days. Instead he was being told that the results of the investigation were the same on all sides: nothing. A broad spectrum of exact details that tied no one to a single crime. He had thought the aspect of Sherlock's doll and the targeting of John would narrow down the search, but he had severely underestimated just how popular John's blog had been.

Everyone had read the exciting adventures of one Sherlock Holmes. And, if they hadn't before, they certainly had once his brother had committed suicide. He might as well drag the Queen out into the streets and accuse her of the murders for the good it would have done him. Mycroft sighed, steepled his fingers, and leaned onto the desk, silencing the growl that had built up in his throat.

Today was not his day. And, given his rash of bad luck, he was more than slightly worried as to what the night, and the following days, would bring. At this rate John Watson was a dead man. And, no matter how he wondered about the odd sentiment, Mycroft Holmes did not like that. And what Mycroft Holmes did not like he changed until the results were ones that he did approve of.

Mycroft glared at the tea cup sitting next to his elbow on the desk. His tea had gone cold.

John took in a deep breath, and nodded as Lestrade looked him over carefully. He had to do this, John told himself. It wasn't about just not appearing weak, it was about himself. The Doll Doctor had left a message. A very clear, concise message, and John knew that he best not ignore such a message.

John was next. Maybe he wouldn't be the next corpse, or even the one after, but he was the target. All of this was for him now. All of these people, these innocent men, women, and children were victims to show him that the Doll Doctor was coming for him. In a way, John found it thrilling and exciting. But, no matter how much he loved the adrenaline that coursed through his system at the thought of such and adversary, he couldn't dismiss the sorrow for all those who had fallen to send him the note.

Their blood, innocent and red, was used to mark out that words that the Doll Doctor was coming for him. And it was not going to be the silent, painless end that the others had all had the benefit to experience. John swallowed sharply, shaking his head to clear his thoughts, and held out his hand.

Lestrade nodded, and placed the folio in his outstretched fingers.

"You don't have to do this," he said again, "No one would blame you. I wouldn't want to see this if I were you."

John shook his head, "I can't run away from this, Greg. This is my life, and I'm not going to spend it hiding under the blankets at Mycroft's every time someone decides to threaten me."

Lestrade snorted, "A bit more than just a threat, John. Especially given his talents."

John nodded. He knew. Anyone who was that good at taking apart and putting back together a human corpse would be more than just simply deadly with a blade. They would be an expert at undoing a person's mind with delicate torture. The threat the Doll Doctor had left had not been a hollow one. He was serious, and he was more than capable of doing far worse than he was sure any of them could imagine.

The two men were tense, the silence deafening as John stared at the folder. It wasn't the full scene report, he knew that. He could easily have access to it, he had been there after all, but it was just the photos he had requested to see. He wanted to see what the Doll Doctor had done to him, his doll, rather than read about it. It would cement the desire to not run away, but stand and fight. John Watson may be a healer, but, deep down, he enjoyed being the soldier far more. And this wasn't a case of strategic retreat, it was him standing his ground, and looking death straight on, and refusing to go.

John opened the folder, and stared at the first photo.

The first photo was nearly innocent. The front door. It wasn't the original door to the house where the scene had been staged, it was new. And, unfortunately, there were not CCTV cameras in the suburban area to show who had come and replaced the door. But, outside of the address numbers, it was a near exact replica on the front door of 221B. Black, wood, and weathered. Even scratched where the CIA had broken in and threatened Mrs Hudson.

John sighed, and turned to the next photo. Lestrade already knew about the door. He had certainly seen the original enough times to recognize it instantly, crime scene or not.

The second photo was not as pleasant. It showed the entire living room in its gory glory. The John Watson doll, exact down to the detail of the sweater that John knew he would burn rather than ever wear again, hair perfectly colored, and John was sure the autopsy would show even matching scars across the body. But there his doll was, staged gracefully along the couch, throat slashed just like all the other victims. Only this one had been stitched together rather than skinned for spare materials.

And there, along the wall behind him, was written the message in elegant ink: 'Betrayer. Let your sorrow not die!'. Simple in elegance, though the details were different. Where the others had all had coins, John's doll had none at all. He was not worthy to pay the fare into the afterlife it seemed.

The five little dolls, neat and delicately feminine versions of Sherlock, were sitting on the coffee table, staring angrily at him. Whoever did this had not been happy. They had been meticulous and careful, but they had also been very, very angry. And John knew that this is what would bring the killer out of hiding and allow them to catch him: he hated John Watson more than he valued his own safety. He would make a mistake, and he would make that mistake while targeting the ex-Army doctor.

And that, at least, brought a smile to John's face. They would catch him because of this. Of that there was no doubt.

AN: And now things start to get very, very fun.