TITLE: It Takes a Village
CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Fourteen: More Adventures in Babysitting
RATING: T (language, content)
A/N: dun dun dun. some of molly's dialogue in chapter 12 was from a tumblr user kura06. i've been talking with her about this story A LOT and she has given me some FANTASTIC ideas! stay tuned! this story is getting VERY complex! THIS CHAPTER TAKES PLACE ONE YEAR AFTER THE LAST FLASHBACK FYI
OH, and PS, NOO it's not anything supernatural/wicca/occult/etc related. the chicken bone, hair, all of it will make sense...in a twisted Sherlock sort of way!
Please read and review, many thanks.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.
Chapter Fourteen: More Adventures in Babysitting
When it came to babysitting Billie, Molly Hooper wasn't always exactly on hand when Sherlock Holmes wanted to fly off to one of his cases.
Of course, that did little to stop him.
He had been in the middle of reading Treasure Island to the child when the call came.
"You're going to want to come down here," Lestrade had said as way of greeting.
"Something finally interesting for me?" Sherlock had sighed dispassionately.
"Raven's feather sound familiar?"
Sherlock paused, his memory flashing back to nearly a year ago. The strange, still unsolved case.
"Is anything else the same?" Sherlock prompted.
"Another stabbing," Greg cleared his throat. "Seven times, again. This time, with a knife."
"A little more typical," Sherlock shrugged. "He's getting boring."
"A butter knife," Lestrade finished.
Sherlock's brows knitted together.
"Tell me that's not a coincidence," Greg grunted. "A bloody butter knife and a fork. It still doesn't make any sense, but it's another connection."
"The victim?" Sherlock pressed.
"12 year old Liam Foster," Greg was audibly restraining himself. "A kid. A damn kid." A pause. A sigh. "Can you come?"
Sherlock chanced a glance at the contently sitting and staring baby.
"I'm on my way."
Sherlock made quick work of gathering his own bag of "Billie supplies" he had put together himself after his one time babysitting trial run had turned into a regular event. He slung the satchel over his arm and crossed the room to where the girl was now guiding her stuffed dog over and around the terrain of pillow piles. Sherlock had blanketed the floor with pillows and blankets ever since during one babysitting adventure Billie had decided to perform a swan dive off the coffee table.
The little girl saw the man approaching and immediately ceased her make believe quest. Her round eyes drifted to the bag before finding his serious ones.
"Go now?"
"Yes, we are leaving, Billie," Sherlock answered the child, smirking at her smarts.
"Up, please!"
Sherlock didn't stop the smile from spreading across his lips as he leaned down and swooped the child into his arms.
And that was how he showed up at the crime scene. A baby bag hanging loosely over one shoulder, a child in his arms, and a dog dangling from the little girl's hands, holding onto the stuffed creature for dear life.
"Sometimes, Sherlock, I honestly think that you're trying to get me fired," Lestrade said in way of greeting.
"Oh, relax, Inspector," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm sure one of your lot can manage to watch her for five minutes without causing too much damage."
"They're not your babysitters," Greg crossed his arms.
"It's that or you're condoning subjecting an innocent child, John and Mary's, innocent child, to graphic images of violence that she will most likely subconsciously carry for the rest of her life." Sherlock lifted his eyebrows.
"Sherlock -"
"I'll watch her."
"What?" Both detectives spun and spoke in unison.
"I said, 'I'll watch her'," Sally Donovan repeated, striding forward with a smug, yet amused, smile on her face.
"You sure?" Lestrade glanced suspiciously from Sally to Sherlock.
"If it's that or let her be traumatized by the freak here, then yes," she smirked.
Sally and Sherlock didn't have a sparkling relationship after his return, but there was something different in their interactions. Sally's usage of "freak" wasn't as derogatory as it once had been. It was almost that of a brother-sister banter. There was name calling and insults, but they were almost playful and not possessing the poison of previous years.
"Fine," Sherlock nodded.
"What? Really?" Lestrade turned to Sherlock with wide eyes.
"Sergeant Donovan is the eldest of six siblings. Four boys, two girls, including her. The second oldest child of the family is already eight years younger than Donovan. I'd say she's had practice. She won't be subject to my usual interview, as even I believe she can take care of Billie for five minutes while I am just in the next room."
Sherlock set Billie on the ground and Sally reached for her hand. Tentatively glancing back at her uncle, Billie took the outstretched arm. Donovan's demeanor drastically shifted as she directed her attention to the child. She smiled and spoke to the girl, all the while leading her away from the door to the room of the murder.
Sherlock watched Billie disappear around a corner before whirling around and bounding into the room. It was only after his crossed the threshold did he give pause.
There, lying on the floor, was the body.
But this wasn't just another corpse.
This was a child.
The first underage victim Sherlock had laid eyes upon since Billie's birth.
They were years apart, and yet, for some strange reason Sherlock couldn't quite place - and that was quite annoying - the sight somehow affected him.
Swallowing down the sentiment, Sherlock stalked forward, circling the body.
The young boy was on his back, his face pulled up into a sort of laughing smile, and if Sherlock just looked at his features, he would say he was merely sleeping, the the middle of some fanciful dream. But then the detective gazed down at the stab markings that decorated the child's chest and knew better.
Squatting next to the prone form, Sherlock prodded the boy's face.
"Yeah," Greg spoke what he knew the detective was thinking. "Anderson said that his mouth was pinned like that."
"Postmortem too," Sherlock spoke softly. "Just the feather this time? No bone."
"Nothing else," Lestrade shook his head even though the man neglected to lift his gaze from the child.
"Was he already dressed like this?" Sherlock gestured to the angelic costume that clothed the body.
"The school across the street was doing a play," Greg informed him.
"Why the smile?" Sherlock leapt up from the ground. "You won't find any connection between the victims."
"So don't focus on the victims?" Greg crossed his arms.
"No," Sherlock paced, "focus on the victims! It isn't about any connection, but these aren't random. A person who goes to such lengths to orchestrate these murders, to plan and wait an entire year between kills, wouldn't just pick anyone by random. There's something significant about the victims. Cutting the hair, making him smile. I was right! The fork wasn't a message to the model."
"So her profession doesn't matter?" Greg scratched his head.
"No! It matters! Everything matters!" Sherlock snapped. "With a killer this intelligent and organized, no detail is dull. The victims, the murder, the weapon, the feathers, everything, all of it. They're clues! Oh, yes! Brilliant! It's a message! To who? The care he takes, of course the killer is having fun, but it's not just about that. He's probably killed dozens or more people that we don't even know about. But these victims aren't just to fulfill his desire to kill. These are different. Special. Designed to be a message."
"But for who?" Lestrade stepped forward. "If they were meant for someone, then wouldn't the killer have left them somewhere in public, or to be found by the person themselves."
"Precisely, Lestrade," Sherlock smiled. "Surprisingly accurate deduction! The killer is leaving the messages to be found by his intended recipient. I highly doubt any of your lot have gotten on the bad side of a criminal of this scale."
"So it's for you?" Greg finished.
"Correct again," Sherlock said, with only a sprinkle of sarcasm. "You're on fire today."
"Who would want to leave you a message?" Lestrade pressed. "You don't think -?" He let the question fall.
"Oh, I know," Sherlock hissed.
"Moriarty?" Greg shook his head. "Well, what the hell is he up to? This is pretty different from strapping people to Semtex and blowing up a block of flats. Last time he went after you, he forced you off a bloody roof, Sherlock. This seems, subtle, for him."
"Moriarty doesn't care about small or big," Sherlock waved a hand. "He doesn't even want credit. The consulting criminal. He killed Carl Powers and never told a soul. He just wants to play the game. To have his fun."
"And what's his fun gonna be this time?" Lestrade sighed slowly.
"I - I don't know."