A.N. I am SO SORRY! I did not mean to update so late, I've just been overwhelmed by schoolwork with three essays and three midterms. I still have one more midterm coming up next week but I really wanted to get another chapter done for you very patient people so here it is. Again, I'm so sorry.

Thank you to everyone who keeps reviewing. I received so many uplifting reviews from the last chapter: moonprincess002, Kiraclara, VMM, Ellie, and SketchbookPianist. I can't express how very appreciative I am of your kind words. And now, onto the story.

Chapter Thirteen:

Sherlock was talking to the empty air, muttering words under his breath. John had long since left, though he had taken no note of it, and so he continued to speak as if to the good doctor, only for Mrs Hudson to walk in on him an hour after John's departure carrying a tray of tea and biscuits.

"….more than just a vengeance. There's another connection, one we're not seeing. Think on it, John, for a moment. These are elevated women in society. You said, Lestrade said, and I have thought it, that only the maid might fit the bill, considering her past life, but the other three would not have wanted to join so easily unless there was something else, something we're not seeing."

"John popped out a while ago now, Sherlock. You talking to yourself, again?"

Sherlock's head shot up as he looked to Mrs Hudson. "You're carrying a tray. I'm not hungry."

"John told me to come up in an hour to check on you. Said you'd been comatose and weren't eating. I have a meat pie in the oven. I'll bring that up when it's done."

Sherlock did not like the prospect of being fed, but said nothing more as he glanced at his phone. Five missed calls. Seven messages. He would not bother looking at them for now. Lestrade had called him yesterday, to tell him that Paige was still refusing to comply with him and was demanding her own release despite the danger surrounding her. She was not willing to consider it, not willing to believe it.

"Let me talk to her again," Sherlock had prompted him, but Lestrade had coolly refused, telling him to stay away from her and to use his time to figure out when the murderer would strike again.

"He won't," Sherlock had insisted. "Not until she's dead."

Lestrade had hung up then, evidently still frustrated with the detective. He needed time, and Sherlock would give it to him while he worked on forming a better idea of the connections between the women. He was stumbling on some new thought now, a thought bigger than just the connecting call girl link he was certain still existed. There was something else, something darker than just a glean into the oldest profession in the world. Moriarty knew these women specifically, he just had to find out how."

"Are you ignoring me then?" she chided him as he failed to pay her any heed. "I don't care if you're busy. You haven't eaten in nearly two days, wrapped up in this horrid case. I might only be your landlady, but that doesn't mean I don't care about your wellbeing. You boys are always running off after the dangerous ones. I always worry that one of you won't come home."

Sherlock sighed resignedly and reached for a cup of tea as tears began to crystallize in Mrs Hudson's eyes. She was really too emotional sometimes. "Thank you Mrs Hudson." He took a sip, and then gestured to the chair that John normally occupied. "Won't you sit for a while?"

She beamed broadly and helped herself to a biscuit and a cup before settling herself down. "John's doing very well with that lady friend of his."

"Indeed he is, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock mused for her sake. Inside, he grumbled at the simplicity of such pleasantries. In truth, he was not too pleased by John's incessant need to spend time with that woman. They had a case; he needed his blogger to bounce ideas off of. Mrs Hudson would have to do for today. "But let's talk about something more generic than John's love life. You've heard enough about this new case."

"Jack the Ripper the 2nd," she said. "I read about it in the paper. Three women dead and another in the hospital. It's just dreadful," she said in sharp disdain. "Sometimes I can't believe that I live in such a world."

"Oh, but you must believe it Mrs Hudson, you must," Sherlock told her sharply. "But I think our problems will be done with soon," he said, though this was pure conjecture.

Mrs Hudson took a sip, her eyes open wide in excitement. "Do you have a suspect?"

"I do," he agreed. Though Lestrade thinks him dead. "But it is not good enough to have a suspect. I need to know why these women. The press won't release it, because it's not fact, but all three women are call girls." He watched her eyes grow even wider in horror at the mere thought. "That's why the title…"

"How terrible!" she exclaimed. "Hardly decent this whole affair."

"Indeed," he concurred absent-mindedly, throwing it aside. "Unfortunately, I can't seem to be able to determine which group of girls it is, or why?"

"Do you want my opinion?"

Sherlock nodded, glad to have pulled her into conversation. He had been trying to answer a question for the past few hours, a question he could not conceive of himself. "You're a woman Mrs Hudson. Tell me, why do women have affairs?"

She could speak from experience. "I was watching a show the other day about this sort of thing. One woman was saying how she knew her husband was cheating so she decided to do the same thing. There was another who said it was just for the thrill of the secret. Another that she wasn't being pleased enough. Then of course there was this girl who was quite unlike the others. She said she had the affair because he promised to love her more than her boyfriend could, and that he was gentle and more of the man she wanted. It was only later she found out he was a lying—forgive my language—bastard only after her money."

There was something in there, something he could use. He forced himself to see, letting the words roll through his mind. The thrill of the secret. Only after her money. But all of this again was just pure speculation on his part and could hold no truth. He needed Paige to speak, and he would achieve it.

Forgetting then that Mrs Hudson was siting before him, he reached for his phone and ran through his messages. As he expected, four of the seven were from Mycroft. He needs to get a life. Two were from John reminding him to eat and telling him that he would not be back till later that night. Too much Sarah. The last was anonymous.

Flexing his fingers, he pulled the message up.

How do you catch a dead man?

How do you make him talk?

How do you protect a woman

who desperately wants to be caught?

What secrets are there for you to find?

What do you seek from my mad, mad mind?

How do you catch a dead man

When you alone believe what others do not?

-JR

chapterthirteen

John was not on his way to see Sarah as everyone seemed to believe. He had not said that she was his destination of choice, though he had never said otherwise either. It was better that they believe he was with her, then for Sherlock to know that his actual target was the detective's older brother.

Mycroft had sent him three texts in the past day, the last one coming with an urgent edge, nearly begging him to come, stating that it was somehow involved with the case. He could not know what knowledge Mycroft possessed on the topic, but he could not ignore the man's numerous messages anymore and so he was on his way to the man's house, a building he had never seen before, a building he was not quite sure he wanted to.

It was bigger than he had imagined; an intimidating infrastructure of magnanimous stature. In a section outside of London, it fit well into the wealthy atmosphere where many lawyers and such business officials resided.

Three stories tall, it seemed too large for one man. He did not know if Mycroft was married—was almost certain he was not. In what scenario had he and Mycroft ever sought to exchange life stories? He could think of none, nor did he really relish in the thought of learning about the Holmes' boys childhood tales.

A butler answered the single ring, looking far too caricature for the title as he was decked in full suit and tails and looked rather like the Michael Caine version of Alfred.

"May I help you, sir?" he asked, his voice deep and low.

"Umm, yeah," John stated, shaking off this surprise. It was as though he was walking into some novel. "I'm John Watson. I have an appointment with Mycroft Holmes."

The butler nodded. "The master of the house is expecting you, sir. He's in the Study. Please follow me."

John suffered a new wave of insignificance as he entered the striking hall adorned with chandeliers and thick rugs. It was the largest house he had ever entered, the largest house he ever hoped to enter.

The portraits of well-dressed men lining the walls gave John the sense that this might just have been the house where Sherlock had grown up. Either that, or Mycroft had bought this off some rich aristocrat and was too fond of the historic men lining the walls to take them down.

The butler stopped before a door on the right and knocked twice upon the chestnut frame.

"Come in."

He stepped forward, pushing open the door. "Mr John Watson has arrived.

"Let him in." Mycroft's voice held no urgency or emotion as John stepped tentatively into the room. He felt strange, trespassing on Mycroft's personal space like this. In fact, it seemed rather unlike Sherlock's brother to allow such an intimate meeting. And yet, stepping into the Study, he felt he knew no more of the man than he had before. If anyone were to walk into his own room—especially someone like Sherlock, though it was highly suspect that anyone existed in the world exactly like Sherlock—they would have gleaned his personality in a quick moment. But here he gained nothing, except the overwhelming sense that the cold exterior Mycroft persisted on displaying was in fact the type of person he was.

"That will all be, Alfred."

John bit down on his lip to prevent the exclamatory laugh wishing to free itself. Was Mycroft aware of how sinisterly stereotypical his butler was? Had he even done it on purpose?

As Alfred—John had a difficult time of thinking on it without amusement—left the room, he presented exactly that question. "Did you put up an ad looking for an older man with the name Alfred to be your butler, or did you just force the name on the poor bloke?"

Mycroft stared at him blankly, evidently confused by the question posed. "What trivial matter bothers you now, John?"

"Nothing," he muttered. Pop culture was vastly wasted on the Holmes' boys. His eyes scanned the room again, but only the marble busts of Thatcher and Churchill could remind him that Mycroft was a man of politics through and through.

Mycroft fell to silence as he perused a hefty pile of papers before him. "I'll only be a moment," he told John inattentively, waving a hand at the chair opposite him.

John settled in. it was not a particularly comfortable chair—no doubt a measure to ensure that one did not overstay their visit. "You were the one who asked me here. It sounded then as if a moment was too much to ask for."

Mycroft's eyes met his over the sheet, his gaze piercing. Setting it down upon the others, he crossed his hands beneath his chin, his eyes never straying from John. "I have been trying to get in contact with my brother for over a week. He has been most unkind in his avoidances, John. I would not have bothered you otherwise."

John nodded. He knew that to be the truth. Mycroft never turned to him unless chasing Sherlock proved futile. John was far more susceptible to rendezvous such as these. "And what is it that you've desperately needed to tell him?"

There was a brief pause in which Mycroft seemed to carefully consider his next slur of words. "This case he's been working on, the one that has him baffled, I have important information to share with him on it that might prove helpful."

Baffled, John stared at the man before him. "And Sherlock wouldn't meet with you to discuss it?"

"He doesn't believe I could possibly have anything of any value to share with him. He's rather stubborn that way.

"I'd say it was an inherited trait," John mused in a tone of severity, incurring a slightly displeased glance from Mycroft. "You know it's true."

Mycroft did not bother with a response. "That's hardly the point, John. Sherlock has to listen to me. This case is bigger than he knows."

"Tell me."

There was a hesitant expression on Mycroft's face as he leaned back, giving John the sudden impression that he had no intention of providing him with any evidence.

"You're not going to tell me? Why am I here then?"

Mycroft sighed heavily as he stood, and moved to a small wine cart. "Do you want a scotch?"

"No," John replied, trying to keep his frustration at bay. "I want to know why I'm here."

Pouring himself a glass, the older Holmes' brother turned to John with tired eyes. "Because I need you to convince him that he needs to see me. I need to be the one to tell him; I don't need a messenger. I just need to talk to him face to face. He trusts you, listens to you. If you tell him it's important, he won't refuse."

"But I don't know that it is important because you won't tell me. I promised myself I would not become a pawn in your game. I'm not here to mediate. When he's ready, he'll come to you."

Mycroft rubbed angrily at his forehead. "He won't come, though. Not without your help."

"I'm not going to lie to him."

"It's not a lie," Mycroft countered him in sudden anger. His nostrils flared as he momentarily lost his patience. "And, in any case, it's not as if he's never lied to you."

John felt the sting of this attack. He did not wish to deal with this issue. It was not that he was ignorant to Sherlock's abounding lies, but he was not Sherlock. "What the hell is wrong with the two of you? You're brothers aren't you?"

"Can you boast a better relationship with your sister?"

It was a far point, and John temporarily fell to silence. I can't. "But Harry and I at least talk about life. You two avoid the discussion. You only meet when you need each other. It's a draining relationship."

"You have no idea," Mycroft concurred, falling back into his chair. "Will you not help me, John? I just need him to listen for even half an hour. I worry for him."

"You have a poor way of showing it," John commented, though he was slowly coming to terms with the fact that he would not be able to leave this house without agreeing to Mycroft's demands.

"And you're rather poor at hiding it."

Mycroft's short reply did not cause John as much harm as Mycroft had intended. "He's my friend. I would be lying if I said I didn't care about him and worry about him," John told him in a deeply grievous voice.

"Then you will convince him to speak to me."

John hung his head. Yes, he would. "You can promise it's important?"

Mycroft nodded, smiling as he sensed victory. "That I can."

"Then there's no point in wasting time. Come back with me to 221B. I know for a fact he's there right now."

"No…" Mycroft's features faltered. He had not expected such rapidity of fulfilment.

"Why not?" John said, standing then. "You said it's urgent. Your brother's going to destroy himself looking for a man who's supposed to be dead. Seems like there's no time like the present."

Mycroft gaped slightly, though he soon managed to regain his control. "Indeed, I'll just have Alfred pull up the car."

John stifled a laugh as Mycroft reached for his coat.

It was impossible that he was the first person to see this irony. Now to see if Mycroft had a secret cavern beneath his mansion.

chapterthirteen

Sherlock heard the door open, but made no move to stir from his lethargic state. He recognized the assured footsteps of the doctor upon the welcome mat. A smile grew upon his features. The date had not gone so well. Then, there came a sound of second pair of feet, equally, distinguishable, and his smile faded to a frown.

He sat up, suddenly alert. What was Mycroft doing with John? And why was John just letting him in? He could hear them ascending the steps, John's feet falling heavily on each step, Mycroft's cane digging in which each of his.

Standing then, he swept to stand in the doorway, allowing his frame to fill the space just as the two men stepped into view.

"You're not welcome here, Mycroft."

John glanced uneasily at his brother before turning back to him. "He's here at my request, Sherlock," the doctor told him firmly as they both came to stand before him.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed angrily, his gaze shifting swiftly from brother to friend. "What has he threatened you with this time, John?"

Mycroft sneered. "You have a poorly conceived idea of who I am, dear brother."

"I think not, Mycroft," he returned crisply, not tearing his gaze from John's face. He was reading the doctor. There was a reason for him bringing Mycroft here, one that did not sit well with him. The evidence was written so very clearly on his face and in his shifting mannerisms. "John's expression says everything."

Both eyes flashed in John's direction and the doctor shifted, discomforted by this sudden attention. Ignoring Mycroft, John let his gaze fall to Sherlock, his eyes imploring, almost desperate. "He says he has information about the case, Sherlock. Won't you just hear him out? Please?"

Sherlock was hard pressed to ignore John's rather unpleasant pleading. He seemed anxious for him to agree, but the gleam in his eyes proved that he had no better idea of what Mycroft had to say then he did. In this subtlety he found himself unwilling to acquiesce to it. "I don't think I will."

Mycroft was not impressed by his unwillingness to participate in this discussion, his eyes narrowing in disdain. "I have travelled all this way…"

"Yes, and it is always such a pleasure to see you," Sherlock interjected mockingly. "I'm sure Mrs Hudson would gladly send you off with some of her sickeningly sweet baked goods." Considering this poorly conceived attempt to converse done, he began to turn, but Mycroft was not quite won over. His hand shot out, stopping his brother in his spot.

"I will not be turned out again, Sherlock," Mycroft hissed. "Stop acting like a child and start to realize that I might be more aware of what's going on then you."

"I will never believe that."

"But it's the truth."

"I doubt it."

"Okay," John cut in then, nearly shouting as his patience wore dangerously thin. Taking a breath, he relaxed his tone. "Why won't you just listen to him, Sherlock. What's a few minutes of your time? If he knows nothing he can leave, and you can feel superior. And if he's right…well, you get the feel like the rest of us do."

Sherlock kept a penetrating gaze on John, allowing seconds to slide by as he hesitantly considered the doctor's words. There was annoyance in his voice—no wonder. He would be annoyed to be called to his brother's house only to be forced to lead him back to the home he'd just left. It annoyed him enough to just see Mycroft leaning against his cane, acting smug, as if certain that John's words were persuade him to reconsider his previous disdain. Therein lay the true conflict. Nothing would please him more than to send Mycroft on his way, unattended to, but doing so would require pushing John's counsel aside. It seemed a peculiar situation to find himself in, one that should not have taken much thought, and yet he was now pondering it, considering it. After a few seconds of minute concern, his decision was the same.

"I'll ask you to leave, Mycroft."

"Why?" It was John who spoke up against this decision, his expression confused. "He's right here. Why won't you just listen?"

Sherlock frowned. There was a rather good explanation for it, a past memory that would not fade, and one that he would not grant John the pleasure of knowing. He would rather keep it sunk for now, and he trusted Mycroft to do the same. Indeed, Mycroft's head was downcast now, as if he too reminisced on the disastrous event. "Because I do not take advice from my brother." Done with the short reply, he placed full attention on Mycroft. "I will ask you to leave only once more and not to bother me any more on this matter, or John. Is that understood?"

Mycroft glowered, but did not argue this. He was disappointed, and the look on his face gave Sherlock a great sense of satisfaction. "You should not let the past decide the future, Sherlock," he said then, as he prepared to leave. "I will not call on you again and in time you will see that your stubbornness will be your downfall. John," he added in curt farewell, obliging the doctor with a short nod before descending to the floor below.

John waited for the door to close behind him, before turning to Sherlock. "Would it really have been such a crime to listen to him?" he asked sharply.

"More than you know," Sherlock replied as he returned to his seat on the couch, flipping open his laptop as he did. As he did, he threw a quick glance at his mobile, only to see that two new messages awaited his attention.

He opened the first as John walked into the kitchen. It was from Lestrade.

No new murders. You still can't come.

A rather pointless text. He deleted it angrily and moved onto the second.

The dead don't speak

Nor do the living

When Sherlock Holmes

Comes a calling

Here's a wee riddle

To make pass the time

To lend you some insight

To this well-conceived crime

When one's not like the others

Who've been left out to die,

Why chase them at all

Unless to make someone cry

- JR

Frustration gripped at Sherlock as he pushed it aside. He bent his head, his hands squeezing at his hair as a blind rage pushed through him. Why the riddles? Why the hushed words? Why? He hated the taunting. It made his head burn, it made him feel as if he was on fire…

"Sherlock?" John was standing beside him then, his hand gripping the phone, his eyes having already perceived the message. "How many of these have you gotten?"

Sherlock wrenched the device from his hand and stormed into his room, slamming the door behind him. He did not want to speak to John now. He needed to get back to that hospital, to talk to Paige. She was the key to this puzzle. If Lestrade would not listen to reason, he would be forced to take rather extreme measures.

John pushed through the room without bothering to knock. "Have you told Lestrade about it?"

Sherlock threw him a withering look. "Are you really so daft that you can't comprehend a slamming door to be a wish for silence?"

If John was injured by this sharp retort, he did not show it. "If you won't tell Lestrade, at least tell me. We're in this together, Sherlock. Why do you always seem eager to forget it?"

Sherlock sighed heavily. "I do not forget it, but there are some things better kept to myself. Now grant me some peace. Please." He added this gesture in hopes that it would better persuade John to drop the matter entirely.

He was not successful in his attempt. John had taken up some stony resolve that refused to fall. He would not be easily swayed to leave. In truth, it impressed Sherlock to see some backbone in the doctor, but at the moment it was more aggravating than anything. Finally, he chose to use John's determination to his advantage. "If you can persuade Lestrade to let me see her again, I promise to divulge all I have kept previously private."

"Lestrade can't be persuaded," John told him quietly, not acquiescing to this request. "You'll tell me now."

"You can't force me."

John was silenced by this for a brief interlude. "Perhaps not," he conceded, "but I can ask you to, as a friend, show me the grace of honesty I've shared with you."

Sherlock was saved the trouble of responding to this as his mobile buzzed now, signalling an incoming call. The name blazoned across the screen made his entire being shiver with anticipation.

"Will you let me come?" he asked before the caller could speak.

Lestrade paused, stumbling now as he was taken aback by Sherlock's quick question. "No…well, yes…Sherlock, she's gone."

A.N. Cliffie again. I'm terrible with that. I hope this chapter was okay, it was a little rushed, I just wanted to get it out. It's not that big of a chapter, just setting up some new conflicts and new ideas and new plots that will be explored more carefully in the next two or three chapters. Leave a review to let me know what you think.

Next chapter: Sherlock and John begin a search that leads them to discover rather interesting facts about the missing Paige.