Too many people, again. There was no way to shut down the entire Castle nor was it practical – they had no idea for whom they were waiting and restricting or denying entry could too easily remove their contact.

Not that it would be the killer – but he could be here.

Sherlock repressed a growl; there were far too many people, both tourists and police officers. He felt confined and conspicuous even standing with John apart from the police, watching the crowds. He could identify all of the officers including the ones in plain clothes. If he could do it, chances were their killer could. The man was a professional.

He was looking for someone in his mid-forties, probably around John's age. Ten years ago, the man had been skilled enough to snatch a ten year old girl right off the street and leave no trace that could be tracked to a location: no tire tracks, no appearances on any CCTV camera, no fingerprints on the girl's jacket or backpack. Ten years ago, he had known precisely what he was doing which suggested a man who had been at least in his mid-thirties back then, having had enough time to gain the necessary experience to work efficiently and expediently.

But he could take his pick of men in their mid-forties, both tourists and police officers alike. It made for a frustratingly substantial sample and Sherlock's eyes flitted over all of them, ignoring the women and the younger men and the children. They were irrelevant.

He resisted checking his watch – two minutes ago they'd had seven minutes, so now they would have five. He could feel each second slipping by toward a resolution that wouldn't come because even if their killer was here, he was not going to reveal himself. What would he do, walk up to Sherlock, identify himself and present his wrists to be handcuffed? He'd gone nearly ten years utterly unidentified. He had no reason to stop now. Prison wasn't a reasonable prospect for a man like him, nor would it be desirable for his employer to see him in prison. Sherlock suspected that loyalty purchased at a price could not match the prospect of early freedom if he turned over the man who'd hired him.

That wasn't going to happen, however, because this man had no intention of being found.

Beside him, John was tense and tired, standing rigidly, his bearing almost hyper military. He'd barely slept, snagging perhaps forty-five minutes sometime in the middle of the night in the barracks at St. Leonard's, but he'd been too wound up to stay asleep any longer. He would pay for it when this was done in utter exhaustion once the adrenaline had worn off, Sherlock knew, but that required little more than somewhere for him to sleep. He'd be fine, at least physically.

The set of the jaw and the glint in his eyes was really the only good indication of how truly angry John was just beneath the surface. It sat ill with Sherlock and made him angry as well, which was unproductive. The killer wanted them to feel frustrated and useless. They were useless, waiting here for a man who wouldn't show up, for information they'd never receive.

Did he know about John's connection to the war monument? Did he have any idea of the good friend from Edinburgh whom John had lost the day he'd also been shot? Was that part of this? The possibility made Sherlock livid which was extraneous at the moment and it made him even more irate that he couldn't properly contain it. Right now, he needed to focus. John was making it difficult to do so properly because John was upset – although trying to restrain it for Sherlock's sake.

If this was any attempt to hurt John, the killer would regret it a hundred fold. It didn't matter how long it took, if this was deliberately aimed at John's loss, then Sherlock would find him and repay the favour. Repeatedly.

He met Kipling's eyes and repressed a growl; the CI had brooked no argument about being there, about overseeing everything, but he'd sent Anderson to Greyfriar's and that sat poorly with Sherlock. She should be there with them at the war monument. He needed her – he knew her and she was reliable. She was also deeply invested in the case and a good officer. Another set of eyes as sharp as hers would be useful.

Three minutes.

He scanned the crowd again, resisting the urge to take John's hand. He didn't need the distraction and told himself he didn't need to use it as a crutch for grounding. He was perfectly able to ground himself when he needed to. And, given how tense John looked, he'd probably break all of the bones in Sherlock's hand if Sherlock touched him unexpectedly.

There were too many people, too many variables. What if he was one of the police officers, or posing as once? Sherlock's eyes swept over all of them, but none of them looked out of place. But how to tell? The man was a professional, he could be anywhere, anyone. He refocused on the tourists – an American man was taking a picture of the monument, backing himself up carefully to get as much of it in the frame as he could.

Another problem. He could be from anywhere. Why assume he was English just because the letters had been posted in the UK? He had obviously been here around Kelsi's abduction, at least, but he could be from anywhere in the world. In a city like Edinburgh, he wouldn't stand out. American, Australian, German, Indian, Iranian, Algerian, anywhere, anyone. He had a good understanding of European folklore, but that could be learned. And it was likely not entirely his idea anyway – whoever had hired him undoubtedly worked in the British government in some capacity and was therefore most likely British. The employer could arrange the messages and simply have his man send them.

Too many variables. Not enough data.

Sherlock sucked in a deep and silent breath.

One minute.

He saw Kipling shift impatiently several metres away from them but ignored it. Sherlock scanned the crowds again, looking for someone who stood out. Or someone who didn't. The problem was, there were plenty of people to choose from in both categories.

He very rarely cursed, not seriously, even to himself, but John was sometimes fond of using his army curses if he was really angry or upset. Sherlock remembered a few of these and used them now.

He thought about the gun in the holster they'd given him very early that morning and itched to use it. Mycroft probably wouldn't approve, but he had arranged for them to have weapons, after all. Perhaps, in some way, he'd wanted them to have to use them.

John stiffened more and Sherlock heard the soft gasp at the same that he felt the shudder of shock and denial run through John's body. He snapped his eyes to his husband, then followed John's gaze to a man standing near the monument, looking at it almost thoughtfully, with sorrow and regret – the same expression John himself had worn.

He was taller than John, five-foot-eleven, closer to Sherlock's age, maybe within a year on either side, shortly cropped medium dark hair and brown eyes that, for the moment, were distant as he looked into memory. He'd been in good shape once but had lost it, former muscle mass disappearing or atrophying somewhat so that he was thinner than he should have been, slighter than the man he'd been when he'd been overseas. His face was unremarkable, Sherlock thought, pleasant but not striking, just a normal man. His clothes were plain if somewhat shabby, a pair of faded jeans and a while polo shirt that was second hand or old enough it should have been replaced, given the faded and uneven texture of the material. He was wearing old trainers as well – or at least one. Because the right leg of his jeans was gathered into a knot below his knee where the rest of his leg should have been. He was on crutches, moving in a way that suggested he was used to them.

Sherlock remembered John as he'd been when they'd first met – cane in hand, favouring his right leg, his clothing also a bit on the shabby side because he could not afford much on his pensioner's salary. An injured veteran, recently returned from Afghanistan.

And now another injured veteran, more recently returned from overseas. Sherlock wondered if John could judge how long the man had been on those crutches – he himself had no good idea. That sort of detailed medical evaluation was why he had John in the first place.

The injured man stared at the monument for a few more minutes and Sherlock and John kept watching him. Sherlock could feel the rage radiating off of John like heat, see the tension that defined his muscles.

Finally, the veteran withdrew his gaze from the monument and glanced around, his eyes landing on Sherlock. He looked puzzled for a moment, as if he trying to figure something out, then seemed to realise that Sherlock was the man he was looking for. He turned, manoeuvring on his crutches, and Sherlock held a hand up to Kipling, who had started to move as well. This clearly wasn't their murderer, unless he'd managed to become a professional killer then a soldier then an amputee in the space of ten years. Not impossible, but unlikely. The man they were looking for wouldn't put himself in harm's way like that.

Sherlock held his ground even though he could tell John disliked it and waited for the man to approach him. At the barest of signals for Kipling, the officers kept still, watching and waiting. The man moved slowly but assuredly on the crutches; this wasn't a new injury.

"Sherlock Holmes?" he asked. His Scottish accent was slightly more distinct than most of the others Sherlock had heard in the city and he pegged it as a variation from a slightly lower economic status, perhaps slightly less education. It was less urban, less smooth, and he heard John gasp again. Sherlock doubted this man sounded anything like Jamie had – he didn't actually look like Jamie, which Sherlock knew because he'd accessed Jamie's files upon first learning about him – but the connection was still there.

"Yes," Sherlock said, nodding once, a brief movement only.

"Yeah, he said to look out for 'tall, dark and handsome'. Thought that was something only fortune tellers said. Wanted me to give you this."

He held up an envelope, which Sherlock took carefully.

"Who told you this?"

The man shrugged one shoulder.

"Bloke in a pub. Paid me a hundred quid to come here and give this to you. Said it was important, that you'd understand. A hundred quid is a hundred quid."

Sherlock felt the anger flare through John – the other veteran needed the money that badly.

"Describe him," Sherlock ordered.

"'Bout my height, black, shaved head, maybe one eighty, one eighty-five, decent looking, I suppose, no scars or other distinguishing marks. Just a bloke."

"When?"

"Two days ago. Well, the night before last, anyway."

"Where?"

"Murray's Pub, down in Oxgangs."

Sherlock felt John close his eyes.

"Thank you," the detective managed, rather stiffly.

"Police?" the veteran asked as Kipling and some of the other officers moved in towards them.

Sherlock nodded.

"I'm afraid they're going to have quite a few questions for you."

The man shrugged again.

"Fine. I don't know anything. I don't even know what that says."

Sherlock tore it open just as Kipling reached them, ignoring the CI's glare, ignoring the voices of another inspector who drew the veteran aside and began talking to him. John was focused on that for another moment but Sherlock sensed his attention redirected as he withdrew the letter.

Kipling's phone rang, cutting a startled swath through their tense silence, and he pulled it out, answering it quickly.

"Anderson, what is it?" he demanded and Sherlock's eyes shot up, letter still folded and held between his thumb and forefinger. There was a moment's pause, then Kipling scowled and pulled the phone away from his ear, putting it on speaker.

"We got the contact here," the inspector said on the other end of the line and the tension in her voice mirrored that in John's face – she was livid and reaching her limit. "A nineteen year old girl, a student. She's– well, not that tall, long brown and very curly hair, hazel eyes, freckles."

Sherlock pulled out his phone and thumbed through the files he'd scanned and saved to it until he found the file photo of Kelsi Murray.

"She's what Kelsi would probably look like today," he said quietly.

"Yes," Anderson snarled from the other end of the line.

Someone sent there to make her angry, someone sent here to make John angry, which would make Sherlock angry.

He knew where they'd go.

He felt a snap of bright rage and managed to restrain it.

"Did she say who gave it to her? A description?"

"Yes, we already asked. Tall white man, blond hair, looked Dutch but didn't have an accent, she said. Young – well, I say young, she said older than her. Put him at maybe twenty-five, but I don't really trust her judgement. Anywhere in his twenties."

"That wasn't him."

"I doubt it. Too young."

Sherlock nodded and filled her in quickly on their deliveryman here and his contact and he heard Anderson huff out an angry sigh.

"Well, we got a letter off of her, too," she said.

"What does yours say?" Kipling demanded, glaring at the phone in his hand.

"It's a picture of a ruler and some trees," Anderson replied with obvious distaste.

Sherlock unfolded his. Then he sucked in a deep breath and held it hard, extending it to the CI who cursed.

"What?" Anderson demanded.

"So's ours," Kipling replied.

She was there in less than ten minutes while they were still arguing over meaning.

"It's the same pattern as his early letters!" Sherlock snapped as Anderson strode up to join them. "It's a word puzzle, not a story."

"Okay, but what's it mean?" Anderson asked, passing her letter to Kipling who held each of them side-by-side and frowned, shaking his head. He passed them without comment to Sherlock, who did a quick evaluation – yes, the same drawings made by the same hand, but one was not traced from the other. There were enough small variations to indicate they had been done individually, but probably at the same time. They meant the same thing.

"I don't know, not yet. Think, think! A centimetre ruler and trees. They're words, so we need synonyms! John, you do crosswords, think! Ruler and trees, what else could they be?"

"Forest, woods," John said.

"Ruler could be measuring or measure or distance," Anderson added.

"Or monarch or sovereign or leader," Sherlock replied.

"Or straight or line," Kipling sighed. "And the trees could be pines or spruce – they look like a little kid's version of a Christmas tree, just triangles with rectangles attached to the bottom. So, maybe that's it? Christmas tree? There are too many choices."

"And none of them make sense together," Sherlock said, running through each possible combination they'd listed in his mind and dismissing each – they were nonsensical.

"Think, think," he muttered again, this time to himself.

"Is there some measure of lengths of wood?" Anderson asked, then her mouth twisted in distaste. "For coffins?"

Sherlock pulled out his phone and called up the browser. Beside him, John shifted, glancing about.

"Law?" he said.

"What?" Sherlock asked, derailed from his search.

"Ruler, rule, a rule, law," John said.

"Law forest?" Sherlock enquired.

Kipling's eyes snapped to him suddenly, bright with suspicion.

"Law Park?" he replied.

"Where is that?" Sherlock demanded.

"It's the eight hole at the Murrayfield Golf Club."

Anderson gasped and Sherlock froze, hearing John curse softly beside him.

"Let's go," the Chief Inspector said.

With clearing the golf course and calling in canine and forensic teams, it took hours. Sherlock joined the search without a word and Kipling said nothing about it, assigning him and John to the same search team that Anderson was in, probably so she could keep an eye on them. It wasn't the first time Sherlock had done this, although he disliked the tedium of it. He didn't ask if John had ever conducted such a search – having been in Afghanistan, he'd done this or at least something similar. Sherlock put the image of John in uniform with his rifle on a search and rescue mission in the blazing desert heat from his mind because it was distracting and unsettling.

One of the canine units found it, in a wooded area along the edges of the fairway. The search was called off and the three of them were running over to join Kipling before their party was even properly disbanded. Sherlock stood just inside the tree line, next to John, keeping out of the way.

"Fucking bastard," John said softly under his breath. Sherlock touched his hand momentarily and felt John relax somewhat, but the tension was still there. He felt it himself, transmuted into anger at the arrogance of the man who'd killed her and buried her here. He had the gall to choose this particular hole, using the name itself as a hint. Law Park. Her father was a lawmaker and the people searching for her were law enforcement.

Anderson was digging, the sleeves of her blouse rolled up past her elbows, the white fabric already smeared with dirt. There was a streak on her cheek and her skin glistened with sweat. No one had protested when she'd taken the shovel from the hands of a constable and set to work. When it came time for brushes, she tossed the shovel aside and accepted one from Kipling, moving with calm assurance that was stretched over anger and impatience, keeping her focused.

Then she sat back on her heels and tilted her head toward the trees and the sky, closing her eyes and setting her jaw. From where he stood, Sherlock could see the flash of a faded red-and-black plaid skirt against the dirt. The bodies of the other officers who were digging obscured the rest.

"It's her," Anderson said.

Sherlock didn't need to be told.

They stayed until what was left of Kelsi Murray was exhumed and transferred carefully to a body bag, then Anderson hauled herself away, wiping her hands uselessly on her trousers, smearing the dirt around rather than actually getting it off. She joined them, her face alternating between dirty streaks and pale ones where sweat had trickled down and cut clean lines. Her eyes were red-rimmed; it wasn't just drops of sweat that had striped her cheeks.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

"It's only half the puzzle," Sherlock replied, his voice low, bordering on a growl.

Anderson hesitated, then nodded, a hard light in her green eyes.

"I know," she said, her voice still quiet and level but from exhaustion and sorrow, not actual calm. "The case will stay open. I'll keep looking."

"You won't find him. And he's got what he wanted. You'll have to call James Murray and he'll have to come up. He'll miss the vote on Monday."

"I know," Anderson said softly. "It's– I know. All of it. But I'll keep trying. I'll do what I can."

Sherlock bit down on an impatient retort when he felt John touch the inside of his wrist.

"At least we can put this part to rest," she said, shifting so she was able to turn her head and glance back at the pit she'd help dig and the various officers that were still swarming around it, working to cordon it off and secure it.

"It's not enough."

"It's all we've got right now."

Sherlock sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, forced himself to hold it, then release it slowly.

"You'll have to come down to the station," she said. "This is going to take ages to sort out. But at least you can shower and grab some sleep in the barracks. And return your guns. Kipling wants me to remind you very firmly to return your guns."

Sherlock grunted; that hardly seemed like a necessary detail at the moment.

Anderson ran a hand over her face, smearing the dirt streaks even more. She looked away from them to where the girl's body was being loaded into an ambulance under the strict supervision of the medical examiner and two other inspectors. For a moment, she didn't breathe or move, then exhaled a deep sigh.

Ten years, Sherlock thought. Ten years of her life on this. For an outcome she must have predicted but had clearly not wanted.

"All right," she said as if making a sudden decision, giving her head a shake and turning back to them. "Let's go."