"What do you mean, you've lost him?"
John looked round in concern as Lestrade barked into his phone.
"Hopkins, how can you lose a six foot drama queen in a building full of police officers? He's hardly unobtrusive, for God's sake!" Lestrade had sat forward in his agitation and now lurched sideways as the car cornered a little sharply. "Watch it!" he snapped to the driver.
John pushed him upright. "When?" he hissed, and Lestrade held up a hand as he tried to cut through the stream of excuses from the other end of the line. John pulled out his own phone and called Sherlock but it rang out and then went to voicemail. Of course, that didn't mean much - Sherlock only ever answered the phone if he felt like it.
"Nearly two hours ago," Lestrade reported, hanging up on Hopkins in disgust. "There's some story about CCTV footage - we can check it when we get back."
"No message from Sherlock, I assume?"
Lestrade pulled a face. "I suppose it's a bit hard to leave a message without giving away the fact that you're about to do a runner."
"Right." John grimaced. "Look, drop me at home, will you? It's virtually on the way. I'll meet you at the Yard in a bit."
"I thought you were supposed to stay with me?"
"Deal's off," John told him, firing off a quick text saying he'd be at Baker Street in a few minutes. Sherlock was generally more likely to respond to texts than to phone calls, but there was no answer to this one.
"Call me if you find him?" Lestrade requested.
"Absolutely," agreed John. "And ditto."
As they approached 221B, John could see someone knocking on their front door. His first thought was that Peter must have come back early and without his key, but as he got out of the car he saw that it was actually their neighbour, with his blond hair tucked under a baseball cap.
"All right, Tim?" John greeted briskly, hoping to avoid being drawn into conversation. "I think Peter's away, if that's who you're looking for." He raised a hand in farewell as Lestrade departed.
"Really?" Tim looked taken aback. "He'd asked me to give him a hand this afternoon - I've been knocking on this bloody door for five minutes." He pulled a tissue out of his pocket and blew his nose. "And he's supposed to give me Mrs T.'s drill back," he complained. "Typical!"
John had his keys out by this time and he didn't want to hang about. "I'll get him to give you a call when I see him, OK?" he offered. "Might be a few days though." He got the door unlocked.
"Mrs T. is not going to be happy," Tim fretted. "You don't have a key for the basement, do you? I could just nip down and get it."
"Sorry," said John, edging into the building.
"I might leave him a note," decided Tim, still standing in the doorway. "Have you got a pen?"
John made a show of patting his pockets, but was already retreating towards the stairs. "Look, there's one on the hall table." He pointed to it. "Knock yourself out; I've just got to collect something." He ran up to the flat, but there was no sign of Sherlock, and a quick check round revealed no indication that he had been home since they left that morning.
"I'll just leave the note here," Tim's voice wafted up the stairs. "Thanks, John. See you."
"Bye!" John yelled back, hearing the front door bang.
He went up to his own room and retrieved his gun, tucking it into place at the small of his back, then headed back down to the living room where he stood for a moment in the familiar space, trying to see things through Sherlock's eyes. What on earth had made him break his word and why hadn't he phoned, or at least texted? He could hardly have been taken by force from Scotland Yard. Had someone got in touch with him, perhaps made threats? He made a mental note to ask Lestrade to check Sherlock's phone records, although that was probably already in hand.
His gaze fell on the skull, thinking of the way Sherlock rolled his eyes now every time John looked at it. He walked over and picked it up. No drugs. He shook his head at himself and set it down again, catching a glimpse of his grim face in the mirror as he turned to leave. Where are you, you mad bastard? He ran back down the stairs and went out to hunt for a taxi - they were always much more elusive when Sherlock wasn't with him.
oOo
"Wake up, wake up!"
Sherlock groaned, automatically trying to move away from whatever was nudging into his ribs so forcefully. He heard a gasp, then there was a sudden weight against the right side of his chest.
He blinked, forcing his brain back on-line and peering down at a mass of dark curls, then the weight was gone as Sally raised her head and looked at him. She had clearly been crying, there were mascara tracks all down her face, and her right eye was swollen and half closed. The tape over her mouth must have been reapplied but she had managed to mostly dislodge it. Her cheek was red where she had rubbed it against... he looked down, noting traces of adhesive on his shoulder.
"Never mind your bloody jacket, get your brain in gear," she hissed.
Sherlock quickly took stock. As far as he could tell, he was in an identical position to that which Sally had been in when he walked into the room, except he was on the side nearer the door. He was flat on his back, there was tape over his mouth and his arms were tethered over his head. He tested the restraint but it was solid. He tipped his head back and saw that Sally's wrists had also been reattached to the headboard, but she had managed to squirm round and was now kneeling on the bed next to him.
"This is the first time he's ever left me and he won't be gone long," she muttered. "He even comes with me to the bloody toilet!" Her face paled. "Oh God, he'll probably make us all go together now..."
"Mmmph!" complained Sherlock urgently and she refocused.
"Right. Sorry. He might just kill us before then, anyway." She closed her eyes for a moment. "Oh, God... Right. Deep breath. Come on, Sally." She eyed the tape over his mouth, then her gaze moved up to meet his and she shrugged. "No other way."
She started to lower her head, but then halted abruptly. "You have to be quiet," she warned, and the fear in her voice caused Sherlock's eyes to narrow. "You don't know what he's..." She broke off. "Promise me."
He nodded impatiently and she frowned but carried on; he felt her teeth grazing his cheek as she tried to pick at the edge of the tape without success. After a few attempts, she sat up again.
"It's too stuck down. He keeps re-using the same strip with me."
Sherlock rolled onto his side to give her a better angle and she tried again at the other end, exhaling in relief as she managed to get the corner raised enough to grip it firmly in her teeth and tug it back, then she sat up, pulling the tape completely off before dropping it over the side of the bed.
"Are you all right?" he asked quietly, peering round at the long narrow scarves binding them to the headboard.
She nodded. "I don't know how long you've been unconscious, probably only a couple of hours but I could be miles out, it's hard to keep track. He said it should be another hour before you woke." She giggled suddenly. "Guess you put all those drugs to good use." Her giggles died away in a hiccup and she looked stricken.
"You're doing well," Sherlock told her. "Stay with me."
She gritted her jaw and nodded. "Sorry. I feel like I've been here with him for ever." She took a few deep breaths. "Will you...?" She leaned forward and he bit into the end of tape that was hanging from her face while she sat up again. "That's better."
Sherlock spat out the tape and finished examining their restraints, discerning that they would not quickly be unfastened. The headboard was old, solid wood and they were secured to a thick pole which ran along the base. He tensed his muscles and pulled, but to no avail.
"Tell me what you can." He tried to sound reassuring, though he felt a little out of his depth with a Sally who wasn't shooting venom at him.
She inhaled deeply, throwing a nervous glance towards the doorway before wriggling back down until they were lying facing each other.
"Well, he injected you with anaesthetic and you went down pretty quickly. He wasn't kidding with the 'out in seconds' thing," she said. "I got off the bed and tried to support you, but you're heavier than you look - you fell back against the wall, then just kind of slid down it. Do you remember this?"
"I remember you calling my name... then nothing."
She nodded. "By that time, he'd crawled out from the other side. He made me help get you onto the bed." Her face grew pinched.
Sherlock frowned as his gaze moved to her swollen eye. "You tried to fight him."
"I'm a police officer," Sally said by way of reply, then her shoulders sagged. "It didn't do any good. He tied you up and..."
"Skip ahead," Sherlock instructed. "Why and when did he leave?"
Sally swallowed. "He got your phone," she nodded to his coat which was draped over the chest of drawers, but Sherlock didn't look round - he'd already noted everything in the room. "He switched the ringer back on and listened to your messages, but didn't seem bothered. Then there was a text a few minutes ago and he just re-tied me, stuck the tape back on my mouth and dashed off. But he said he wouldn't be long." She looked at him hopefully. "Does D.I. Lestrade know where we are? Will they be coming?"
Sherlock pursed his lips and Sally's mouth fell open.
"You came here on your own? You're supposed to be clever!"
"I could say the same thing to you," Sherlock snapped. "Well, the first part," he added.
She glared at him.
"Hold that thought," he instructed. "We're less likely to be used as leverage against each other if we appear to be enemies." He gave her a small, slightly rueful smile. "Shouldn't be a problem for you."
She opened her mouth to protest but he carried on. "Have you had contact with anyone else? Have you seen Moriarty?"
There was a sudden stifled cough from the doorway, and a voice asked, "Who's Moriarty?"
Sally's eyes widened in alarm but Sherlock blocked her out. Mid-cough and muffled behind a hand, the voice was too hoarse to be recognisable, but the tone had held a note of genuine puzzlement which threw him completely off balance. He frowned in concentration as everything realigned and he pushed his mind past the drug-induced sluggishness, wanting to know what he'd be facing before he turned around.
He took Moriarty out of the equations in his head and viewed what remained as a new and discrete data set, removing the bias from his previous conclusions and slotting the evidence into place. The gaps in the puzzle abruptly assumed familiar shapes and Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, his expression pained. Damn, John had been right all along: this obsession had clouded his judgement from the outset.
"Hello, Tim," he said, and rolled over.
"Better late than never, eh?" Tim replied, moving swiftly round to Sally's side of the bed. Sherlock twisted to keep him in view as he grabbed a handful of her hair and tipped her head back, then there was a flash of steel as he brought a blade to her throat. He held Sherlock's gaze. "Stay quiet," he warned and Sherlock's eyes widened in understanding.
"The text was from John. He's here." He listened hard, but no sounds from upstairs reached the basement.
"Well done. Now shut it," Tim snapped and Sally bit back a whimper as his grip tightened painfully. She couldn't see what he was holding, but she could feel it cold against her skin. Her eyes rolled as she tried to focus on Sherlock, but she could barely see him with her head at this angle. She found herself staring at the wall instead and suddenly knew where she was, her mind flashing back to the previous week and Peter emerging from the basement at 221 and offered her a paint-spattered hand to shake. The wall was the same colour.
"Don't worry, he won't risk it," Tim murmured to her. "You're both tethered, I could stab the pair of you before John even got the door open." He smiled, bending lower over Sally but keeping his eyes on Sherlock. "He knows I'm going to kill you anyway, but he won't sacrifice his life for such a small chance to stop me. He'll wait for a better opportunity."
Sherlock kept his face impassive and his mouth shut as they all dimly heard footsteps on the stairs and then the front door slam. Sally bit her lip as silence fell on the house once more and Tim released her and straightened up, moving to the foot of the bed.
"Those are hairdressing scissors," Sherlock observed, looking at the weapon in his hand. "They're expensive and specialised and can quite likely be traced to you."
Tim smirked, twirling them rapidly on his fingers as Sally tried to focus on them. "Oh, indeed," he agreed. "They are very expensive. Molybdenum steel, convex blades with razor sharp edges... over three hundred pounds these cost me. That's why I put in an insurance claim when they went missing a few weeks ago." He raised an eyebrow. "I wonder who could have taken them? Perhaps a neighbour?" Sherlock grimaced.
"Hairdressing scissors," Sally echoed, following the motion of the blades as Tim now rhythmically flicked them open and closed. "Why...?"
"He's a hairdresser," Sherlock interrupted. "Obviously." He was watching Tim closely, noting the way his mouth twitched at the rudeness to Sally. "The perfect place to gather gossip," he continued. "I'll bet that in every office where a victim worked, there'll be someone who had their hair done by Tim, or at least at the same salon. It's an invisible link," he conceded. "We could have dug into the victims' lives for years and never found it."
"But why suddenly start killing people?" Sally asked.
"Why don't you explain it, Sherlock?" Tim invited, his tone dark and angry. "You're the one who knows everything, after all."
"His husband left him," Sherlock told her. "Found another man."
"Adrian didn't find anybody!" Tim hissed. "That bastard lured him away from me." His knuckles were white where he clutched the scissors, but he gradually calmed himself.
"The fifth victim," Sally said suddenly. "In her last phone call... she said she might wash her hair - even though it was late in the evening and she'd already had a bath. I thought that was strange."
"Pity you didn't say so," snapped Sherlock.
Tim curled his lip. "I had to spend a long time with that one," he said. "She thought she was so clever."
"Why is Sally still alive?" Sherlock asked bluntly.
"You bastard!" Sally kicked his leg and Tim laughed.
Sherlock ignored the blow. "If you lured her here last night..."
"I didn't come here," Sally interrupted. "I went next door. He said he was Mr Turner and I'd heard that name mentioned..." she frowned, "... I think by your landlady. Anyway, it was familiar."
Sherlock kept his attention on Tim. "So you..."
"Oh, for God's sake, we'll be here all day," said Tim. "I drugged her tea, then brought her round here when you and John went out. I was going to chance it while your TV was on, but you made it easy." He looked for signs of chagrin on Sherlock's face and seemed annoyed not to find any. "She was still semi-conscious, I could have played the 'drunk girlfriend' card, but there was no one about, so I didn't need to."
"I don't remember that at all," said Sally blankly.
"Orally administered drug, slower to take effect, but no, you wouldn't," Sherlock told her. He looked back at Tim. "So why didn't you kill her last night?" he asked. "You've obviously been trying to frame me all along; you'd counteracted my alibi by getting her in here. You could have killed her and walked away. To keep her alive... it doesn't make sense."
Tim stared at him for a moment then rocked back on his heels and whistled. "So that's why you came charging in here so carelessly! You thought she was dead!" He started to laugh, his mirth increasing at Sherlock's frustrated expression. "Oh, this is too good." His sniggers turned to coughs, until he had to bang on his own chest to recover himself.
"I'm afraid I had to change the rules," he said eventually. "When you didn't get arrested yesterday, despite the ID, the witness and the wig..."
"The wig!" Sally exclaimed, turning her head. Sherlock shrugged and she kicked him again.
"Oh, you two are priceless," Tim observed. "It's almost a shame to kill you. I think leaving you tied up together might be a better punishment."
"Yes. Why don't you do that?" Sherlock drawled.
"Punishment for what?" demanded Sally. "I get that I fit your bonkers criteria, but if you think he's shagging some married..." she paused, "... person, then you must be completely cracked. He's probably never had it off in his life."
Tim's eyes narrowed. "And are you offering to help him with that?" he asked. "Because I'd advise you to mind your manners otherwise."
Sally's face paled. Tim smirked and walked around to Sherlock's side of the bed, carefully keeping out of range of his feet. "What do you think, Mr Holmes?" he asked. He flicked his scissors open again and trailed the edge of the blade down Sherlock's jaw, though angling the cutting edge away. "Would a blowjob from a whore be your last request?"
Sherlock could feel Sally trembling next to him as the courage she had gained from his presence abruptly deserted her.
"Tell me about Neil Benson," he said, knowing that the name of the 'odd victim out' would be a distraction.
Tim's hand fell away as his face darkened and he stepped back. "That was an accident."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "How do you accidentally incarcerate someone for over twelve hours and then stab them to death?" he enquired.
Tim turned away, swearing loudly, and Sherlock took the opportunity to glance quickly at Sally. "Fight me, not him," he whispered. "You're doing well." She stared at him blankly for a moment, then nodded. He turned back just as Tim wheeled around.
"They regularly spent the night together," he complained. "The whole office thought they were having an affair. It's very odd for a male member of AA to have a female sponsor. How was I to know that's what she was?" He sounded outraged.
"But you still didn't kill him until Sunday morning," Sherlock murmured. "Did you not want to believe his explanation?"
Tim barked out another laugh. "Honestly, I'm beginning to wonder what all the fuss is about," he said. "Your deductions are shit." He moved back to the foot of the bed, two pairs of eyes tracking him.
"He didn't tell me anything - I worked it out from the sobriety chips and all those photos."
Understanding dawned, but Sherlock went through it for Sally's benefit. "The victim was a Christian who was devastated when his wife died," he explained. "Only fear of going to hell and never seeing her again kept him from suicide."
Sally took a moment to grasp that, then turned a shocked face to Tim. "You mean he wanted you to kill him?"
Tim shrugged. "He was afraid I wouldn't go ahead with it if I knew the truth," he said, running a hand through his hair. "It was a while before I worked out that something was wrong, then longer before I got my head around his motivation... but of course, I had to kill him." He looked genuinely regretful.
"He could identify you," Sherlock acknowledged. "You had no choice."
"Exactly!" cried Tim, then he froze and his eyes narrowed. "Don't humour me, you emotionless bastard."
He glared at Sherlock. "I'm going to bleed you dry, but I hadn't planned on starting just yet. Don't make me change my mind."
Sally looked between the two of them nervously. "I thought your plan was to frame him," she said.
Tim gradually pulled his gaze away from Sherlock and looked at her. "Oh, it is," he replied. "But after what happened yesterday there seems no chance of getting him arrested. He probably knows too many people's dirty secrets." He curled his lip, looking at Sherlock again. "But I don't think people will worry so much when you're dead."
He straightened up, the scissors a blur as he twirled them between his fingers. Sally found it oddly hypnotic, and forced herself to look away. "But I still don't understand why you want to frame him in the first place," she queried, careful to keep her tone polite this time.
Tim huffed out a breath. "What about you?" he asked Sherlock. "Are you going to get anything right today?"
"You blame me for Adrian," Sherlock replied. "You're enraged that he left you, but you still love him. So you've focused your anger on people like the man who 'lured' him away, and on me because I was the one who told... " He broke off, watching Tim's expression carefully. "No, that's not quite right, is it?" He frowned, pushing himself up the bed until he was half sitting, his head resting back against his bound hands.
"You already knew. You knew he was having an affair but you said nothing."
"It would have blown over," Tim insisted, walking round to Sherlock's side. "It didn't mean anything, he still loved me. Adrian always loved me. He would never have left." There were tears in his eyes.
"But I brought it out into the open," said Sherlock slowly. "He felt he had to choose. And he didn't choose you."
Without a word, Tim raised his arm and the scissors flashed down towards Sherlock's throat, diverting at the last possible moment to thud into the headboard beside him.
Sally cut off the scream she hadn't been able to hold back and he switched his stare to her, tugging the blades free. "I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I'm sorry - I didn't mean to." She could feel her heart racing from the shock and tried to breathe steadily, her eyes darting between Tim's murderous expression and Sherlock, who was white-faced but appeared unharmed. He turned his head towards her and managed a hidden half smile, but she could see a trickle of blood running down the side of his neck.
"It's not wise to provoke me." Tim repeated the warning he had given her hours ago.
"I don't think..." She swallowed and tried again. "I don't think he's deliberately trying to provoke you," she said, hating the tremor in her voice. "He's that rude to everybody."
There was a tense pause, then Tim laughed and turned away.
"Well done," Sherlock mouthed and Sally gave him a wobbly smile, erasing it quickly as they both looked back towards Tim, who was now pacing up and down the room. She caught movement out of the corner of her eye and realised that Sherlock was trying to unpick the knots now that his wrists were out of sight. His arms stilled as Tim moved back to the foot of the bed but she had no doubt that those long fingers were still working away.
Tim's gaze ran over both of them. "Eeny, meeny, miny... moe," he said, looking from one to the other. He smiled at Sally. "You're looking a little dishevelled, Sergeant Donovan," he said. "I think it's time you had your hair done."
oOo
John supposed he should feel awkward walking into Scotland Yard with an illegal firearm tucked into the small of his back, but he really didn't. If Sherlock was in trouble, then John was damned well going to get him out of it and experience told him that the sort of trouble Sherlock got into was often the sort where possession of a deadly weapon was a deciding factor.
There had actually been a dual purpose in fetching it, the second being simply to see if it was there. If Sherlock had been knowingly going into a dangerous situation, then he would probably have taken the gun. The fact that he hadn't was either good... or very, very bad. As he hadn't been in touch, John was leaning heavily towards the latter assumption and was glad of the familiar weight against the base of his spine.
He found Lestrade in the incident room with a group of other officers, all crowded round a monitor and watching what looked like footage of an Underground ticket barrier.
"Well, that's clearly Sally," Lestrade announced, sitting back in his chair. "So, what was he on about?"
"Er, I think it was just a ruse, Sir," Hopkins volunteered from his seat in the corner. "To get me out of the way." He noticed John in the doorway and his face paled.
Lestrade turned on him. "Seen and not heard," he said emphatically, with the air of a man repeating himself.
Hopkins subsided and Lestrade spotted John. "Come in, come in," he invited. "See if you can make sense of this." He brought John up to date.
"Well there's no sign of him at the flat," said John. "And obviously Sally never reached us, if we were where she was headed."
"Jamieson! Check CCTV footage for the area around the Baker Street Underground station between ten and ten-thirty last night," Lestrade instructed one of the officers. He looked across to Hopkins. "You! Go and help. See if you can find out where she went, or at least in which direction."
"Yes, Sir." Hopkins edged towards the door but then stopped, looking completely miserable. "I'm so sorry, Doctor Watson," he said. "I feel terrible."
"Why?" asked John. "Because you were out-smarted by Sherlock Holmes? You're hardly in the minority with that one."
"But I was supposed to..."
"You can't really contain Sherlock," John told him. "Or even keep up with him - he's not like ordinary people." He shrugged. "All you can do is follow."
Hopkins looked pathetically grateful and John clapped him on the back. "So, let's find him, all right?" he said, steering the lad to the door. "Yes?"
"Yes, Sir!" Hopkins straightened his shoulders and marched out, determination in his stride.
John turned back round to see Lestrade regarding him curiously. "What?" he asked.
Lestrade shook his head. "Sorry," he said. "It's just we always see you..." he searched for the phrase, "in something of a supporting role with Sherlock."
John rolled his eyes. "You can say 'sidekick'," he said. "I know what I am."
"What I was going to say is that you're actually a damned fine leader," Lestrade retorted. He nodded towards the door through which Hopkins had disappeared. "I think that boy's just found a new hero."
"God forbid!" John brushed off the compliment, but he looked pleased. "Don't you think you're being a little hard on him?" he suggested. "I meant what I said."
Lestrade sighed. "I don't blame him for losing Sherlock," he said. "That could happen to anyone. But he panicked - it was nearly two hours before we found out and God knows how much longer he would have left it if I hadn't phoned."
"Fair enough," John nodded. "Though that crack about 'having his badge' might have been a factor."
Lestrade held his gaze for a long moment, then sighed again. "Fine... fine," he said. "Let's get on."
It was a while later when the pair of them entered the room where Hopkins and Jamieson were still going through CCTV footage.
"Anything?" Lestrade asked, only to be met with two headshakes.
"It's a wonder London isn't strewed with corpses, the state of this lot," said Jamieson, indicating a group of mini-skirted girls giggling their way across the screen in front of them. "It's November, for crying out loud - they'll catch their death of cold!"
"The common cold is a virus," corrected Hopkins automatically. "You can only catch it from someone who already has one."
The conversation moved on, but John didn't take in a word of it. A couple of minutes later he announced, "I've got to go."
"What?" Lestrade blinked at him.
"I have a date."
"A date?"
"Yes."
"Sherlock is missing, but you have a date?"
"Yes."
"Sherlock is missing, but you have a date?"
John frowned. "I don't have a phone number for her. I have to at least meet her to say it's a no go."
Lestrade was still gaping at him.
"I won't be long," he promised, shrugging his shoulders. "Look, it's not as if I'm being any use here, and I can't let down a lady."
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine," he muttered. "Off you go. Don't you bloody well vanish on me."
"Not much chance of that," John grinned at him. "I'll be back before you know it." He headed for the door.
"Fetch me back some bloody breadsticks, I'm starving," Lestrade called after him.
oOo
"Tell me how it feels to be a mistress."
Sally gritted her jaw and said nothing. This was seriously freaking her out. Tim had made her sit in the upright chair in front of the dressing table and she was staring at her own reflection as he contemplated her hair, pulling it back from her face and then letting it fall again. She could see Sherlock in the mirror and widened her eyes at him, not knowing what she should do.
"Is anyone supposed to believe that I would go through all this rigmarole?" Sherlock asked loudly, still tethered to the bed, his efforts at unfastening the knots having come to naught so far.
Tim glanced at him via the mirror. "No one will guess this part," he said. "This is just for me."
"Oh, really? So the clear 'chair' indentations in the carpet in the last victim's room were meant to go unnoticed, were they? The ones in front of the wardrobe which had a full length mirror inside the door?"
"I'm going to be so happy when you are dead," Tim told him, with a smile. "And I can't imagine I'll be the only one. Do you really think anyone gives a shit about you?"
He turned his attention back to Sally. "Tell me all the bad things," he invited. "What annoys you the most about being 'the other woman'?"
Sally tugged against her restraints again, but to no avail. Her bound wrists were on the other side of the chair back, so she was effectively attached to the seat.
"Is this what you do then?" Sherlock distracted him once more. "Try to convince them they're better off dead?"
"God, do you never shut up? It's no wonder you have no friends."
Sherlock subsided.
"Why do you want me to talk about this?" Sally asked. "I would have thought it would just make you cross." She was trying to moderate her language as well as her tone.
"That's it, isn't it?" Sherlock interjected. "You want her to wind you up."
"She's going to be hard pushed to wind me up more that you are," Tim snapped. "Maybe I should do you first?" He smiled unpleasantly. "Especially as you'll take so much longer." He tipped his head to one side, looking pensive as he considered his options. "No," he decided at last. "I'll stick to the plan." He raised the hand holding the scissors and pointed them at Sherlock's reflection. "But shut it," he warned. "Or I'll tape your mouth again."
"Now, my dear," he resumed, refocusing on Sally. "My, my, we've been skimping on the conditioner lately, haven't we? We'll have to do something about these split ends." He produced a newspaper from a drawer in the dressing table and spread some sheets under and around the chair. "I doubt your lover boy will be as observant as this one," he said, nodding towards Sherlock. "But better safe than sorry, eh? I suppose your hair might catch his eye, since he'll be used to picking it off his collar."
He pulled a wide toothed comb from his back pocket and got to work as Sally watched in the mirror, feeling increasingly sick. His hands stilled and she raised her gaze to meet his reflected stare.
"Talk." His voice was soft, but his expression was anything but.
Sally swallowed nervously. "To be honest, I prefer having my weekends free," she said. "I don't have time for a 'proper' boyfriend."
Tim didn't say anything, so she carried on. "He's convenient, but I'm not in love with him or anything. The last thing I want is for him to leave his wife."
She jumped as Tim threw the comb down angrily. "My God, you're the worst victim I've ever had! Are you deliberately trying to spoil this for me?"
Sally had no idea how to respond to that and so she kept her mouth shut. After a moment, he snatched the comb up again and started attacking her hair more aggressively. "Almost every day I get someone in my chair whining about how used they feel, that they can't phone their lover whenever they want, that they don't get taken out to nice places." His voice dropped. "You've no idea how many times I've smiled and chatted, and cut their hair, while fantasising about plunging my scissors into their hearts instead."
He was trimming as he spoke and Sally tried not to flinch at every click of the blades.
"It got to the point where sometimes I thought I'd actually done it. I would look in the mirror and watch their dying gasps, see the horror and shock on their faces as they looked down at the weapon sticking out of their chests." He smiled fondly in reminiscence. "But I never did, of course," he added. "Wouldn't do to kill my own clients."
"Bad for business?" Sherlock suggested, snapping Sally out of the horror-struck daze into which she had fallen. She drew a deep breath and tried to compose herself.
Tim ignored the interruption. "It wasn't difficult to find substitutes," he continued. "All I do all day is listen... and how people love to talk." He tutted as he came across a knot in Sally's hair and started teasing it out. "Do you have any idea what a strain it is to be so fucking nice all the time?" he asked. He looked up, catching Sherlock's eye. "I know you don't."
Their gazes held for a long moment, then Tim started working again, although he seemed to have abandoned Sally in terms of gearing himself up for the kill and was now focused on Sherlock.
"I'm so looking forward to the news reports," he said. "Of course, it would have been better to see you get put away. I've spent a lot of time imagining how a posh pretty boy like you would manage in prison." He leered at Sherlock via the mirror. "I bet you wouldn't be so pretty when you got out." His smile turned Sally's stomach.
Tim sighed. "Still, sometimes you just have to make the best of things, as Adrian used to say." He didn't seem to find anything ironic about this statement. "'Sherlock Holmes found dead near the body of his last victim'," he quoted an imaginary headline. "'Policewoman takes down her own killer'." He fluffed up Sally's hair a bit before stepping back to admire his handiwork. "You might even get a commendation, my dear," he added, meeting her eyes for a moment.
"How exactly do you plan for Sally to kill me?" Sherlock enquired. "Assuming you've thought that far ahead."
Tim shrugged. "Oh, let's keep it simple," he replied. "She manages to grab the scissors at some point and stabs you with them. Unfortunately, the blow is not immediately fatal and you manage to get them back and kill her, just like you did all those other people. However..." he started imitating a movie trailer, "...it turns out that our heroine managed to hit a major blood vessel, so the evil villain dies from blood loss before he can make his dastardly escape! Although sadly," he sighed, slipping the scissors into his pocket and putting his hand over his heart, "he still outlived the brave policewoman who would never know how many lives she had saved."
He dropped his hand and resumed his normal tone. "I'm thinking femoral artery," he added matter-of-factly. "So, I'll stab her over here on the chair, then wait until she's dead..." He glanced up. "Don't worry, it doesn't take long. I know you don't like being bored." He made sure all the trimmed bits from Sally's hair were on the newspaper, then started collecting up the sheets. "Where was I? Oh, yes... So then I'll stab you in the upper thigh - don't worry about that either, I googled it so I know what I'm doing." He pulled a plastic carrier bag out of another pocket and squashed the papers into it.
"And do you anticipate I'll lie here quietly while you attempt to locate a particular blood vessel?" asked Sherlock, raising an eyebrow. Sally hoped he was making use of this time to unfasten some knots, because she wasn't making any progress with hers.
"God, I hope not!" Tim replied. "I'm looking forward to you fighting me with everything you've got - which admittedly isn't much as your arms are tethered and I'm at least as heavy as you are, so I pretty much just have to sit on your legs. But still..." He smiled as he tied the handles into a knot, then threw the bag out into the hallway, moving to stand over Sherlock again and looking down at his face.
"I want to see some genuine emotion in those eyes as I kill you... that will be an image to keep me warm on long winter nights." His eyes glazed over a bit and Sherlock contemplated kicking him, but the odds of landing a blow sufficiently incapacitating to give them time to escape were negligible.
Tim blinked and refocused. "Anyway, once you've lost a fair amount of blood, which shouldn't take long according to Wikipedia, I'll cut your wrists free and you can stagger about a bit if you like - that should look nice and dramatic."
"You're mad," whispered Sally.
"He's mad if he thinks his plan will work," Sherlock agreed. He raised his eyebrows at Tim derisively. "Why on earth would I go around killing people with hairdressing scissors? Do you really think anyone will believe that?"
"Do you really think anyone will care?" Tim retorted. "The pressure on the police will be enormous - are they going to keep the case open with a prime contender right here? They already know you're a freak."
Sally winced at the word but Sherlock ignored it. "My wrists show clear signs of being bound and there is a hypodermic puncture mark on my calf," he pointed out. "Even Anderson would smell a rat."
Tim laughed. "I don't think anyone's going to be surprised to find injection marks on your body!" he said. "And half of them will think you tied yourself up for some sort of experiment, and the other half will assume you're even kinkier than they thought you were. No..." He shook his head. "The only person who might be both willing and able to work it out would be you, and guess what? You'll be unavailable. Forever."
He smirked, looking supremely self-satisfied. "There's plenty of evidence already, your alibis won't count for much once you're dead and the phone the good Sergeant called me on last night is in your coat pocket." He was ticking the items off on his fingers. "I think my work here is almost done."
"What about all the other people you'll be hurting?" Sally asked suddenly. "Like Mrs Hudson. She'll be devastated." She had seen how fond the landlady was of both 'her boys'.
"You are joking?" Tim turned to look at her. "He treats her like a skivvy. Do you know he expects her to do his laundry?" He didn't wait for an answer. "I would think it would be a relief for her to find a tenant who pays the going rate and doesn't shoot holes in her walls."
He moved into place behind Sally, the scissors in his hand again. "And without him in the way, when John manages to find a nice woman - which he will without this selfish bastard interfering with every relationship he tries to build - she'll be able to move in with him and Mrs Hudson will have a proper family living here at last."
Sherlock had fallen silent and Sally couldn't tell if this was getting to him or not. A week ago, she would have found the idea ludicrous. "What about John?" she asked. "You can't deny..."
She broke off with a gasp as Tim stepped right up behind her, bringing his free hand up to her forehead and pulling her back against his chest. His lips were parted and his eyes wide with anticipation. She could see the flash of silver out of the corner of her eye as his hand swayed to and fro.
"Don't!" The word spilled from her mouth and she squeezed her eyes closed, unable to stop the hot tears escaping. "Please, don't."
There was a creaking noise from the bed and she opened her eyes, taking a moment to grasp what the mirror was showing her. Sherlock had somehow twisted himself around and was now sitting facing the top of the bed, bent nearly double with both feet braced against the headboard on either side of his bound wrists.
"Stop that!" Tim saw what he was doing. He flicked open the scissors and brought the cutting edge to Sally's cheek. "Stop... or I'll kill her slowly. I could torture her for hours."
Sherlock didn't look round. "What do I care?" he demanded, breathing hard as he strained to break the wood, or the scarf, or simply to force his hands through the ties. "She hates me." The tendons in his neck stood out as he pulled.
For a long moment Tim just stared, then he laughed. "You are one cold blooded bastard," he acknowledged, lowering the blade. "Fine. Struggle all you want - that's a good old-fashioned headboard in solid English oak, you'll never break it." He held Sally in place as he watched Sherlock's efforts.
"So," he continued. "John Watson." Sherlock ignored him. "Oh, you think he cares about you, but he doesn't," Tim said. "Not really." He started rocking slightly onto the balls of his feet. "How could he? John's a good man. Why would he care about someone as cold and emotionless as you?" He was working himself up to strike.
Sherlock studied his wrists now that he could see the bindings more clearly. They were wrapped together, so if he got one hand free there would be enough slack to release the other.
"John's still impressed with you right now," Tim went on. "You've dazzled him, but he's not an idiot. Once you're gone, he'll remember the constant put downs and how poorly you treated him."
Sherlock spared a second to assess other options but there was no choice; he had to get a hand free.
Tim was still ranting. "He'll be able to come home from work and not immediately be sent out again on ridiculous errands for someone who's slobbed around in their dressing gown all day."
Right hand, Sherlock decided. It was perhaps unlikely that he'd still manage to hold a bow, but he would definitely never play the violin again if he smashed the left one.
Tim's hold tightened on Sally's head and she screamed, figuring there was nothing left to lose. He moved to cover her mouth instead, glaring at her in the mirror.
Sherlock gripped the pole he was tied to and pulled himself forward, then placed the palm of his right hand flat on the solid part of the headboard, tucking his left leg under him. He bent his right knee as far as possible, pulling his leg up against his chest. The position was cramped and allowed hardly any room to build momentum with his strike, but it was still the best - the only - chance he had. He took a deep breath, focusing power in his thigh... and heard a noise that he recognised. Without a second's hesitation, he slammed his foot down with as much force as he could manage... just to the right of where his hand lay.
The impact was shockingly loud and Tim wheeled round as Sherlock began repeatedly kicking at the wood of the pole. He laughed. "We've been hammering nails and moving furniture down here for a week," he pointed out. "No one will take any notice of that." He turned back around.
After a few more kicks Sherlock desisted, his chest heaving as he got his breath back and shot a glance at Sally, who was now crying openly. He tried to catch her eye but she seemed hypnotised by the movement of the scissors as Tim's rocking intensified, his hate-filled stare fixed on Sherlock's reflection.
"You don't have friends because you're incapable of being one," Tim snarled. "You play your damned violin at three in the morning, whether people are asleep or not." He drew his arm back and Sally squeezed her eyes shut, struggling to breathe with the hand over her mouth. "Why should you care if your so-called friend has broken nights, or if he needs his rest? I've heard the yelling - he has nightmares, you know!"
There was a click from the doorway. "That's why he plays, you idiot."
Tim's head flicked round with an expression of complete disbelief on his face, and for a long moment he just stared in shock, but then his brows drew together and his fingers tightened.
Sally whimpered as the muscles in his arms tensed to strike... and John's bullet took him right between the eyes.
REQUEST
Can I ask that, if you leave a review, you please DO NOT NAME THE KILLER?
I've put a 'Spoiler Warning' on the summary, but lots of people do look at the reviews before deciding whether to read a story, and it would be a shame if they know 'whodunnit' right from the start. If you say 'I knew it was him all along...' I will know who you mean ;)
Final 'Aftermath' Epilogue will be up next week and should tie up the loose ends I just couldn't shoehorn into this already over-inflated chapter. Thanks for reading!