Chapter 14
Sherlock arrived at the Princes's house and found John hiding in the closet.
"I feel the need to point out that this was the first place I looked," Sherlock said.
"Haha, you're so fuAAAAAAAA!" John stopped mid-snap to scream as Trump Cat walked in.
The cat and Sherlock stared at each other for a long moment, then both gave a nod of understanding and the cat walked away.
"Oh my god thank you so much," John said. "If I weren't still in this closet I would give you a blowjob right now."
Sherlock looked straight into the camera.
After an amazing escape through one of the windows, they left the house.
"It was the cat that got the tetanus into her system. It must have been," John said.
"How do you figure that?"
"Because it was fucking evil!"
"Lovely idea," Sherlock said. "But not quite the right answer."
"Bullshit! There was disinfectant on the cat's claws. She put it there—and it must have scratched her in the process, getting the tetanus in her bloodstream."
"Bah, the disinfectant has nothing to do with it. You saw the whole house. The floor was scrubbed within an inch of its life. You smell of disinfectant. Your mom smells of disinfectant. No, the cat had nothing to do with it."
John sighed. "Okay…"
-Lestroodle's Office-
"It was revenge," Sherlock was explaining to John and Lestroodle. "Raoul, the houseboy, was still salty about the time Connie blew up her brother with a grenade launcher."
John frowned, thinking back to the still-intact Kenny he had met less than an hour ago. "Wait, how did he—"
"Because shut up. Anyway, Raoul spiked her botox injection with botulinium, thus killing her." Sherlock leaned over to the window and screamed the answer out into the air.
A moment later, the phone rang. It was an old blind woman—another bomb victim. "Please, help me."
"Where are you?"
"He was so...His voice..."
"That's not what I asked!" Sherlock said. "Don't give me any description!"
"His voice was so soft…"
They waited for a gunshot in tense silence, but nothing happened.
-Speedy's Cafe-
The sniper in charge of the old woman put down his sandwich as his phone rang. He picked up, holding it away from his ear as shouting ensued on the other side.
"I went to get something to eat!" he snapped. "What the fuck do you want me to do, sit there for twelve fucking hours aiming a rifle at an old lady? She can barely walk on her own! Yeah, sure, go ahead and fucking fire me, see if I ca—" His rant was cut off by a bullet going through his brain.
The other patrons in the cafe continued eating, probably not even noticing what had occurred.
-Scotland Yard-
"Well, that was awkward," Sherlock said after a full five minutes of silence. "Hello?" he said into the phone. "Eh, whatever." He tossed the phone over his shoulder.
"Do you even care about what happens to these victims?" John asked. "Like, at all?"
"Will caring about them help me save them?" Sherlock replied.
John glared. "Nope."
Lestrade seemed to be paying attention for once. "Well, actually—"
"SHUT UP GRINDELWALD!" Sherlock turned back to John. "There's something I need to clear up: I don't actually give a shit about anyone. Except Danny Devito. So you can stop wasting your time."
John snatched the pink phone up from the floor. "Fine. No sex for you tonight, mister."
"Wait, what?"
-The Thames River-
They found the body of a round man wearing a white shirt, black pants, black socks, and no shoes.
"The Shoeless Man…" John mused.
"That sounds like shit," Sherlock said. "Call it The Hapless Doctor."
"Why?" John looked over at the dead guy. "Is he a doctor?"
"No, but you are. GET REKT SCRUB!"
John ignored this and went to inspect the body. "He's been dead for about twenty-four hours. Did he drown?"
"Asphyxiated," Lestrade said.
"Oh, yeah, obviously."
Sherlock stood up, done with his deductions. "The painting is a fake!"
"What?"
"We must find the Golem!"
"What?"
Sherlock sighed, remembering that his mind worked 320948209348209348329084 times the speed of everyone else. At least, that's what he liked to think. "The Golem is a famous assassin. This is his signature style, look." He pointed at the dead guy. There were dicks drawn in sharpie all over his face.
"He's a security guard at the Hickman Gallery where they were about to reveal a rediscovered painting, which is a fake, by the way," Sherlock said. "That was why the Golem killed him—because the security guard saw that the painting was a fake. I know from the number and size of dicks on his face. Let's go." Sherlock left.
-A Cab-
Sherlock had been staring at the pink phone for a solid hour. "Why hasn't he called yet? He's breaking his pattern."
John scowled. "It's not like he's your boyfriend or something." He looked out the window. "Where are we going, anyway?"
"Nowhere. I just like sitting in cabs."
John blanched and turned to the driver. "Sir, how much do we owe you?"
"You're up to two hundred pounds right now."
"SHERLOCK!"
Moments later the consulting detective was roundhouse kicked out of the fifty-miles-per-hour vehicle and onto the sidewalk. His cheekbones broke the fall, fortunately.
He'd landed right in front of the Hickman Gallery. John jumped out next to him, suffering no damage for the same reason a rubber ball doesn't break when you drop it. Because both are under five foot.
"Alrighty then." Sherlock stood up and dusted off his cheekbones. "Why don't you head over to Dead Guy's house and see what you can find out about him. I'll be sitting in another cab."
-Dead Guy's Flat-
Dead Guy's roommate, Julie, showed John up to the room. "Yeah, he's a big fan of astronomy. Say, where is he, by the way?"
John cleared his throat. "Oh, you know, just…out. Swimming."
-Hickman Gallery-
A well-dressed woman, clearly in charge of the museum, stood in front of the newly-rediscovered painting. She jumped, hearing footsteps behind her.
"Does it bother you, that the painting is fake?" Sherlock asked, taking off the gigantic fake mustache he'd been wearing.
"It's not a fake," the woman said in a heavy European accent.
"Yes it is."
"No it's not."
"Yes it is."
"No it's not."
"Yes it is."
"No it's not."
"Yes it is."
"No it's not."
"Yes it is."
"No it's not."
"Yes it is."
"How did you even get in here?" the curator asked.
Sherlock shrugged as some loose plaster rained down from a hole in the ceiling. "...The door."
SCHOOL! IS! KILLING! ME! I am very tired so here is the next chapter enjoy