Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock (the show or the original works by A.C.D.) or any of the characters; I only own my OC Ana.

24. It's Not Flirting

Sherlock and Ana popped out of the cab they'd caught, making their way down the neatly kept street, looking for the address John had given them. They were on their way to Kenny Prince's house after realizing just how much he'd been humiliated by his sister on her show and that he wasn't exactly devastated his sister was dead; the logical solution to come to was that he was the murderer––and it would seem John thought so as well. So that was why they were on their way to some posh looking house ready to pass themselves off as professional photographers. Or, rather, a professional photographer and his assistant. Ana was shouldering a camera bag while Sherlock held the actual camera and a tripod bag. Once they arrived at the door and knocked, it took only a second before a man in a designer purple shirt opened the door. Sherlock smiled brightly.

"Hi, we're here to––"

"I know why you're here," the houseboy sighed, shutting the door. He looked thoroughly unamused at their arrival, even giving Ana an appraising once over with a distasteful look on his face. Sherlock watched as he glanced between them, his frown deepening. "Just follow me, and, please, don't scuff the floor." Sherlock and Ana glanced down to stare at the shining white floor beneath their feet; there were no scratches in the tiling and it literally looked so clean Ana was sure that anyone could actually eat off of it. Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly as he glanced up at the houseboy who looked exasperated that they hadn't started to follow him.

"Sorry, just admiring the tiling work," he laughed, before sweeping his arm forward to let him lead the way. The houseboy rolled his eyes and nearly sneered at Ana as he led them through the kitchen. Ana leaned towards Sherlock as they walked behind the man in the silk shirt.

"What was that look about?" she whispered. Sherlock's lips twitched up to the side slightly as he leaned down to be closer to her.

"He thinks you're too young to be my assistant," he said quietly. Ana snorted in disbelief.

"How old does he think I am? I do not look 'too young' to be someone's assistant."

"He also happens to think that you slept with me to get your job."

"What?"

"Ah, Mr. Prince, isn't it?" Sherlock questioned brightly as they entered the impeccably clean parlor that smelled faintly of cleaning products. Ana gaped at him, eyes wide and mouth dropped open before John gave her a pointed look. She snapped her mouth shut and glanced uncomfortably at the houseboy, Raoul, who returned the glance with a downturn of his lips and an arched eyebrow before he disappeared into the house.

"Yes," a man with greying hair and a purple shirt responded. He was turning away from a spotless mirror, dropping the hand he'd been using to straighten his short hair with as Sherlock strode towards him.

"Very nice to meet you," Sherlock said as they shook hands, his eyes trained on the man's face intently.

"Thank you." Kenny put on a rather melodramatic face that was probably meant to represent sorrow but came off more like he had a bad stomach ache.

"So sorry to hear about––"

"Yes, yes, very kind." Sherlock nearly had to pry his hand out of Mr. Prince's as he turned towards John and Ana. "Shall we, uh…" The older man began to fix his hair again, flitting about the room to turn back to a mirror.

"You were right; the bacteria got into her another way," John said as Sherlock and Ana began to pull out the camera and whatever else they needed to look like authentic photographers.

"Oh, yes?" the detective asked with a slight smirk. Of course he was right. When wasn't he? John's face went rather stiff as he nodded once.

"Yes."

"Right, are we all set then?" Kenny Prince asked. Sherlock was fixing the flash settings on the professional camera he held, so Ana turned towards the man and smiled as convincingly and bubbly as she could.

"Yes, we are. If you would just… stand by the, uh… mantlepiece, that would be lovely. The light seems to be at it's best there," she told him, stepping forward. Kenny draped one arm across the top of the ornate mantlepiece, adjusting to the instructions that Ana gave him. He put on what must have been his best modeling face, but, much like his other faces, seemed far too artificial. So Ana stared at him for a moment with her mouth hanging open before she forced her smile back onto her face. "That's… that's… perfect."

Sherlock strode forward and snapped one picture. And then a second and a third, the flash bright and blinding, each photo closer and closer to the man's face. Ana shouldered the camera bag again, knowing that wherever he finished doing what he was doing, they would probably need to take their leave as quickly as possible. She and John watched as their flatmate continued to snap away, the flash continuing to light up the already whitewashed room.

"Not too close," Kenny insisted. "I'm raw from crying." Ana rolled her eyes at his comment. He looked like he hadn't cried in years. After snapping four or so more photos, Sherlock heard a cat yowl down by his feet; looking down he spotted a hairless cat at his ankles.

"Oh, who's this?" he questioned.

"Sekhmet, named after the Egyptian goddess." Sherlock forced himself to look interested as he nodded and stared down at the pink skinned animal that slowly strutted across the hardwood floor towards her owner.

"How nice. Was she Connie's?"

"Yes, little present from yours truly," Kenny confirmed, bending over to pick up the cat. John, who moved to do the same, straightened up and gave Sherlock and Ana a frustrated look.

"Sherlock, light reading?" John questioned tightly.

"Oh, uh…" Sherlock held out his hand and Ana handed him the hand-held flash, which he then thrust into Kenny's face and let the light blind him. The man squinted his eyes and jumped, caught completely off guard.

"Bloody hell, what are you playing at?" he exclaimed.

"Just need some extra lighting, nothing too serious, we just want the best photographs!" Ana said with a false laugh and smile, watching on while John rubbed the cat's paws. Sherlock continued to fire the flash, blinding Kenny continuously so John could sniff at his own fingers, trying to catch any scent that would have lifted from Sekhmet's paws.

"You lads are like Laurel and bloody Hardy. What's going on?" the older man asked as he blinked rapidly.

"Actually, I think we've got what we came for," John announced pointedly. "Excuse us."

"What?"

"Sherlock, Ana?"

"What?" both asked at the same times, making their way after the doctor.

"We've got deadlines!"

"But you've not taken anything!" Kenny exclaimed

"Oh, I promise you we have!" Ana called out over her shoulder, stepping around Raoul as they bolted for the front door. "We'll be in touch!" Sherlock handed over the camera, which Ana then tucked away, the two listening to John chuckle as they quickly strode out the door and away from the house.

"Yes, oh yes!" he laughed. Sherlock, looking amused stated,

"You think it was the cat. It wasn't the cat.

"Yes. Yeah, it is. It must be. That's how he got the tetanus into her system. It's paws stink of disinfectant," John told them both as they began to walk along the street. Ana held up a hand and grabbed John's attention, giving him a chance to look at the confused look on her face.

"We came out all this way to investigate… a cat?" she asked flatly. "I was silently ridiculed by a man in a silk shirt because of a cat?"

"Well, it makes sense doesn't it? You have to admit it does," he replied with laughter still in his voice and a proud look still on his face.

"A lovely idea," Sherlock said with a smile.

"He coated disinfectant onto the claws of her cat. New pet, bound to be a bit jumpy around her. Scratches are almost inevitable. She wouldn't have––"

"I thought of it the minute I saw the scratches on her arm, but it's too random and too clever for the brother."

"He murdered his sister for money."

"Did he?"

"Didn't he?"

"No. He wants revenge."

"Revenge? Who wanted revenge?"

"Raoul, the houseboy."

"Wait, the houseboy? I–I'm with John, I thought it was Kenny," Ana commented, her thumb pointed back in the direction of said man's house. "I mean, his sister humiliated him on public telly. If that doesn't spur revenge, I don't know what does." Sherlock sighed heavily and gave a slight shake of his head.

"Yes, Kenny Prince was the butt of his sister's jokes week in, week out. Virtual bullying campaign. Finally, he had enough, fell out with her badly. It's all on the website. She threatened to disinherit Kenny, Raoul had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle so––"

"Wait. Wait a second. What about the disinfectant, then, on the cat's claws?" John asked, stopping them all in the middle of the road.

"Raoul keeps a very clean house," Sherlock stated simply. "You came through the kitchen door, saw the state of that floor, scrubbed to within an inch of its life." His mind flicked back to the spotless white tiles in the kitchen, which looked like they'd just been installed; they shone so brightly it was clear the houseboy had cleaned it every single day. "You smell of disinfectant. Even Ana smells of it and she was only in the house for less than ten minutes; at least she still smells faintly of her favorite perfume." Ana blinked and lifted the hem of her jumper up to her nose, sniffing gently at it. "No, the cat doesn't come into it. Raoul's internet records do, though." A crease formed between his brows. "I hope we can get a cab from here." Sherlock immediately strode off, looking an extremely put out looking John beside a bewildered looking Ana.

"He just has to do that, doesn't he? Make us feel like idiots," John questioned as they followed their flatmate. Sighing, Ana ran fingers through her hair as they began walking again, staring at the back of Sherlock's head.

"It's in his nature. And, unfortunately, I'm about to make myself feel even more idiotic." She jogged forward to fall into stride with the detective, walking in silence before she looked up at him. "Raoul. Just… how? Why?" Ana asked Sherlock, who already knew exactly what she was asking about. He gave a slight, giddy smile at being able to explain his earlier deduction.

"Ah, yes, I wondered when you would ask about his judgement. When he opened the door, he gave you a once over, and that was when he noticed the lack of wrinkles or age lines on your face. He came up with the notion of a woman who, perhaps, just exited university. Then, as he looked you over again, his eyes lingered on your hips and breasts––mostly the latter––and he came to a simple conclusion. Since he thought you too young to have a job such as a professional photographer's assistant, he figured I must have been attracted to your youth and found your figure pleasing, slept with you then given you a job as my close assistant; a conclusion made apparent by the pointed looks he was flashing between us," Sherlock explained easily. Ana scoffed audibly and rolled her eyes.

"I feel insulted," she admitted as John listened in with eyes widened. "Absolutely insulted––slept my way into getting my job? Ridiculous…"

"Most certainly," Sherlock agreed. "He assumed I'd been blinded by your beauty and your figure. That it was what you had relied on to get what you wanted. Any other man would have been able to notice you're far too smart to use seduction or sex to manipulate others; and even if you opted to use such tactics you'd be competent enough to not get caught."

"Thank you…?"

Sherlock sighed as she seemed to miss the point of what he was trying to say. She and John often seemed to do that. Misconstrue what he told them and think of one thing when he meant another.

"I mean to say that he was utterly wrong. Besides the obvious reasons that discount his assumptions, you would never use your beauty or sexuality to reach your goals. You have your cleverness for that, your cunning… your ability to perceive people and situations. And if any man is not able to see those aspects in you then they are not worth thought or attention," he told her in his typical monotone, eyes cast into the distance.

Ana stayed quiet for a moment and pushed her hands into her pockets feeling, as she said earlier, more idiotic than she had when he had explained Raoul's murder incentive. And she tried to pass off the pinkness she felt rise to her cheeks as the cold getting to her not because Sherlock had mentioned 'her beauty.'

"Thank you…" she said, ducking her chin. She then gestured to the street and stuttered out a few words, wincing at her own embarrassment. "Um I'm… I'm gonna hail a cab." Sherlock watched with furrowed brows as he stopped at the curb and watched Ana walk a little ways down the pavement to flag down one of the taxis. John stopped beside the taller man and stayed quiet for a long moment.

"She's acting that way because you called her beautiful," John explained, having noticed the confused pull of his brows and lips. Sherlock's eyebrows pulled together further and he looked down at him, blinking his ice blue eyes.

"Really?"

"Yes. You complimented her, and she took it to heart. And not only did you call her beautiful, you called her smart and intuitive. If I didn't know any better I would say you were flirting with her," he replied with a smirk.

Sherlock gaped for a brief moment before his face went decidedly impassive, clearing his throat for lack of anything else to do. Flirting with Ana? He was merely pointing out fact, things that any competent person would be able to see about her. That… that hardly constituted as flirting… right? Then again… she had been blushing, had seemed genuine in her second mention of thanks… But he truly was just stating fact. Ana had fine, delicate features that he, yes, found pleasing to the eye and she was one of the single most caring people he'd had the fortune to meet. It was fact. Mere fact.

"That… that wasn't flirting," he tried to reason as he and John made their way towards the cab that Ana had caught. John smirked and shook his head.

"Yes, it was."

OOOO

There were few evenings that Ana could count as feeling as utterly nerve wracking as the one that followed the discovery of Raoul being the murderer. She had picked up the evening shift at the Fox in attempts to remedy her string of absences, but her mind was on anything but customer satisfaction. Her phone had buzzed to let her know that they only had one hour left to solve the bomber's puzzle or whatever one could call it, and she had no way of knowing what was currently happening. She'd gotten a text from Sherlock saying that Raoul had murdered Connie with botulinum toxin which had been mixed into Connie's botox injections. He had stocked up on botox purchases and gradually poisoned the woman till he gave her a fatal dose; the detective also informed that the bomber had set up her death––he mentioned a mistake but hadn't gone into detail about it.

Every time she finished placing or taking an order, she sneakily reloaded Sherlock's blog on her phone, checking for any updates. Finally, with forty minutes till their last hour was up, the blog yielded a new post:

Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox.

A relieved sigh left her lips. Finally. It was done. She shut off her phone and thought that she could let the evening slip by easily and go back home and get a good night's rest. Unfortunately, it seemed like fate had different plans for her. It was nearing the end of her shift, an hour since Sherlock updated the blog, and Ana found herself serving a rather familiar face.

"Oh, wow, Ana, is that you?" asked the pleasantly surprised voice of Molly's boyfriend. Ana blinked at the man seated by the window, discovering that she was, in fact, about to take the Irishman's order. He was wearing a well fitted black sweater that was pulled over a white button down, and his thick tan coat was slung over the back of his chair, and he looked rather charming; their first encounter lead her to believe that he was a particularly shy man, but with the way he was smiling at her so brightly, she thought that, perhaps, she had been wrong in her assumptions. "Oh, hi!" she said in surprise. "Jim, I didn't expect to see you here." He laughed and shrugged stirring a straw through the ice in his drink. He glanced down and then back up at her, shrugging a second time.

"Well, you know, after a long day at work it's nice to just have some time to unwind," he told her. Ana nodded and gave a knowing look.

"Yeah; unfortunately for me, unwinding after work usually entails a long walk home, where I just… collapse into bed and fall asleep. It's a downside to working the evening shift at a pub," she told him. He hummed his understanding before gesturing about the room.

"You know, I'm surprised I didn't run into you here the other night when I was out with Molly," Jim commented. Ana smiled and laughed, glancing around the busy pub, briefly glancing over the faces of the patrons.

"Yeah, I think I missed my shift that night. My, uh, second job was calling…"

"Oh, that's right, you work with Sherlock, don't you? Well, that's a stupid question, of course you do. Are you working a case now?" Jim inquired. She made a conflicted face and he chuckled, throwing his hands up in playful surrender. "Right, right, you probably can't talk about it, can you? All secret and what not." He laughed and put a finger to his lips as though it was going to be their little secret he'd even asked in the first place. Suddenly, his brows then drew together in a concerned look, a new thought having occurred to him. "By the way, how are you doing? I heard that first explosion was right across the street from your flat; Molly was very concerned for you and Sherlock and that other bloke." Ana's smile dropped as her heart began to thrum nervously. She shakily tucked away her order pad and cleared her throat, hands falling to her hips.

"Um… did–did you just say 'first explosion,' as in there's been another one?" Ana asked slowly. Jim's lips pulled into a frown.

"You… you mean you don't know?" She quickly shook her head, a frantic look overcoming her eyes. "Not but an hour ago, there was another blast. It was at some high-rise somewhere in the city… police were flying through the streets by the time I got out of Barts," he told her. He watched as she exhaled shakily and as her face paled at the news. His lips twitched slightly as he looked up at her from under his eyelashes, just watching as she grabbed at the corner of his small table almost looking as though she had been kicked in the stomach. "Are you alright?" His voice was low, seeming as though he were quietly asking about her well being, but Ana missed something in that deep tone of voice, mind too focused on what she'd been told.

"I… I…"

"Hey, are you okay? Do you need to take a seat? By all means, sit down. No one else is sitting here."

Ana quickly sat down in the seat opposite of Jim's and dropped her head into her hands for a long moment, trying to get rid of the lightness that had rushed to her head when Jim had confirmed her fear. She heard something scrape across the table as she scrambled to yank out her phone, and she glanced up to see that Jim had slipped his glass of water towards her, leaving a trail of condensation on the sticky tabletop.

"You should drink something, you look faint," he insisted, eyes locked on her intently in concern. She waved off the offer as her mobile finally restarted and loaded her texts. "I insist, you look really pale."

"No, no… I'm fine…" Ana dismissed as she clicked into her texts. Sure enough, there was one from John that read two simple and heart wrenching words.

We lost.

"But he was right…" she whispered to herself. "He had to have been right…" She looked up at Jim and offered an apologetic look. "I–I'm sorry, I need to go. I can send someone else to––"

"Go, I'll wave down another waiter," Jim told her, gesturing for her to take her leave, with a worried crease apparent on his forehead. As she jogged off, he watched her with a calm face, blinking slowly at her retreat. "Keep safe, Ana…"

OOOO

"The explosion, which ripped through several floors, killing twelve people––"

"Old block of flats…" John commented.

"––is said to have been caused by a faulty gas main. A spokesman from the utilities company…"

"He certainly gets about."

"Unfortunately it seems that way," Ana said as she leaned back in the chair she'd pulled away from the living room table. She scratched at her head and glanced out the window, which had been replaced the previous day while they were all out trying to save the old woman.

"Well, obviously I lost that round, though I technically did solve the case," Sherlock casually commented with a bit of an edge to his voice. He muting the telly with an aggressive click of a button. Ana shot a look at the back of his head and reminded herself to give him another talk about timing, and about one of general sympathy. "He killed the old lady because she started to describe him. Just once," he held up a single finger as he cast his soft gaze into the corner of the room, "he put himself in the firing line."

"What do you mean?" John asked curiously.

"Well, usually he… must stay above it all. He… organizes these things, but no one ever has direct contact.

"Hmm, what, like the Connie Prince murder? He–he arranged that? People come to him wanting their crimes fixed up, like booking a holiday?"

"Novel…" Sherlock whispered, a look of admiration crossing his face.

"Pardon?" Ana asked in confusion.

"Huh…" John grunted as he looked to the telly again, spotting a news story on the arrest of Raoul de Santos. As he watched the news story briefly, Ana was peering at Sherlock, who was staring at the pink phone that sat on the arm of his chair. He was rubbing his fingers together in thought as he murmured,

"Taking his time this time."

"Anything on the Carl Powers case?"

"Nothing. All the living classmates check out, spotless, no connection," Sherlock said, drawing his hands together.

"Could… the killer have been older than him? You know, a couple grades older? Or maybe even someone not in his school?" Ana asked, crossing her legs.

"The thought had occurred."

"So why is he doing this, then, playing this game with you? Do you think he wants to be caught?" John asked. There was a pause as Sherlock pressed his lips to his steepled fingers, deep in thought.

"I think he wants to be distracted," Sherlock decided. John let out a dark chuckle and pushed himself out of his chair. Well, that certainly sounded like someone he knew.

"I hope you'll be very happy together," he muttered darkly. Sherlock's head turned to stare at John's back.

"Sorry, what?"

"There are lives at stake!" John snapped from the doorway to the kitchen. "Sherlock, actual, human lives. Just so I know, do you care about them at all?"

"Will caring about them help save them?" the dark haired man asked monotonously.

"No."

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."

"And you find that easy, do you?"

"Yes, very. Is that news to you?"

"No, no," John laughed, bracing his hands against the back of his armchair. There was a disbelieving smile on his face and anger shining in his eyes. Understanding washed through Sherlock's mind.

"I've disappointed you." He glanced back at Ana, who had her arms crossed defensively over her chest, and was watching him with a much more plainly disappointed look on her face. "Both of you."

"It's good, it's a good deduction, yeah," John agreed.

"Sherlock, you can't believe people who tell you that you're a heartless machine; you must feel at least slightly upset when you can't save one for reasons other than just being unable to solve their case," Ana commented, earning a flat look from the man in response. "You aren't a robot."

"Don't make people into heroes. Heroes don't exist and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them." There was a tense moment of silence before the phone on Sherlock's chair made a dinging sound. "Excellent!" Ana and John both sighed in exasperation as the man distracted himself with checking the phone.

Beep. Beeeeeep.

"View of the Thames," he announced, looking down at the picture on the screen. "South Bank, somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo. Ana, John, you check the papers, I'll look online." Sherlock looked to his two flatmates and found John still bracing his hands against the back of his chair with his head hung, and that Ana was looking off towards the door with a fist pressed against her lips. "Oh, you're both angry with me, so you won't help." John shrugged as Ana stood up and moved to grab half of a pile of newspapers from the coffee table. Sherlock's eyebrow twitched upwards as he watched her move back to the table. "Not much cop, these caring larks."

He then looked to his own phone and began his online search.

Thames

+High Tide

+Riverside:

Tide Times

Thames Water Quality

London Bridge

As he tapped at his phone, John shook his head and joined Ana in her begrudging search of papers. Sherlock was Sherlock and he supposed they had to accept that. He was the high functioning sociopath of 221b Baker Street and that would never change. So he supposed he'd just have to soldier on, just as he'd done before.

Sherlock's next search was:

Local News:

Greenwich

Waterloo

Battersea

He selected Waterloo and got:

02:16– High tide

04:00– Police Report

07:45– Water quality inspection

"Archway suicide…" John muttered.

"Ten a penny," Sherlock quickly replied. He then selected the local news for Battersea––no new reports.

"Two kids stabbed in Stoughton," Ana read out loud. Sherlock ignored them and looked through the Thames Police reports.

"Ah, man found on the train line––Andrew West," John said.

"I think you should let that one lie for a while," Ana murmured to John, tossing another newspaper aside.

"Nothing!" Sherlock hissed as he hit a button. He raised the mobile to his ear as the phone dialed. The moment the other end of the line picked up, Sherlock began to speak. "It's me. Have you found anything on the South Bank between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge?"

Sighing, Ana tossed down the newspaper she held and stood up before she crossed into the kitchen. John soon followed and leaned up against the counter as she poured herself a steaming cup of tea; he watched as she rubbed at her eyes and shook her head, clearly distracted by one thing or another.

"How are you?" he asked. Looking over at her friend, Ana gave a limp shrug, shaking her head again.

"Pissed off and bloody angry at the fact the bomber killed twelve people… and down right questioning why I fell for a man that gives me emotional bloody whiplash," she muttered, drawing her mug up to her lips. John chuckled deep in his chest, looking over to Sherlock, who was smirking into nothing as someone, presumably Lestrade, told him something he quite liked.

As much as Sherlock would like to deny it, John saw the way he acted around Ana. How he watched her from the corner of his eye, how his brows creased when he watched her shake out her hair or laugh or smile brightly at him because of something he'd said, and the look of appreciation in his eyes whenever she complimented him or made a correct guess. It was like the cogs of his mind froze up when he looked at her, made him confused as to why he couldn't just see her as a string of deductions like everyone else.

"Trust me, you might just be doing the same thing to him," John murmured, scratching at the back of his head.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing."

"John! Ana! We have a cab to catch!"

OOOO

Ana soon found herself stumbling over the rocky shore of the Thames with cold hands shoved into her pockets and wishing she'd brought along a scarf. Of course, when Sherlock had called Lestrade, they'd gone and checked the area between the two bridges and, sure enough, a body was found. The air smelled of lowtide and the body of a rather pudgy man in a white shirt and black trousers was layed out across the rocks. Sherlock was tugging on latex gloves as they walked towards Lestrade, the wind nipping at their faces unpleasantly.

"Do you reckon this is connected, then, the bomber?" Lestrade called out from where he stood.

"Must be. Odd, though; he hasn't been in touch," Sherlock said as forensics buzzed about the area surrounding the body, clicking their cameras.

"We must assume that some poor bugger's primed to explode, yeah?"

"Yes."

"Any ideas?" Lestrade inquired in reference to the dead man sprawled out across the shoreline.

"Seven. So far," Sherlock replied simply. The DI scoffed in disbelief and shock.

"Seven?"
"Haven't you learned that he isn't modest with this sort of thing?" Ana asked, crossing her arms as she stared down at the body. Lestrade snorted and smirked at her.

"Trust me, it's a lesson I learned long ago."

Sherlock quickly leaned down and pulled out his pocket magnifier; he began to examine the man, looking over every aspect of his face before he moved to looking over his clothing, which was soiled from being in the river. Moving to the man's feet, he pulled off one of the black socks and took the magnifier to the man's toes and sole. As Sherlock backed away and began thinking things over, eyes flicking over every nearby object, John nodded towards the body. Lestrade swept a hand forward in a 'go ahead' sort of gesture. John began to do a typical doctoresque examination while Sherlock whipped off his gloves and pulled out his phone.

"He's dead about twenty-four hours, maybe a bit longer. Did he drown?"

"Apparently not," replied Lestrade. "Not enough of the Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated."

"Did someone strangle him?" Ana asked, crouching down by the man's head. She glanced up for a confirmation from the DI, which he gave with a nod. Willing what she learned from university back to mind, she tilted her head and fixed her gaze on the throat of the body. She pushed aside the collar of the man's shirt with her pinky, staring at the unmarred flesh. "So no to strangling…" Her eyes drifted up to the dead man's face, where a number of bruises were apparent around his nose and mouth. "But yes to asphyxiation… John, did you see this?"

John slowly nodded as he pointed to the marks.

"That's quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth… More bruises here and here…"

Sherlock's head snapped up, mind flashing back to the examination he'd done of the man's face. The bruises by the nose, mouth, and temples were shaped remarkably like…

"Fingertips."

"He's… late thirties, I'd say," John continued as he and Ana stood back up. "Not in the best condition."

"He's been in the river a long while. The water's destroyed most of the data." A smile rose to Sherlock's face. "But I'll tell you one thing… that lost Vermeer painting's a fake."

"What?" Lestrade mumbled, utterly confused.

"We need to identify the corpse, find out about his friends and associates."

"Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, what painting? What are you on about?"

"It's everywhere, haven't you seen the posters? It's all over the internet as well, I saw the museum's sight pulled up on Ana's laptop. Dutch Old Master. It was supposed to be destroyed centuries ago, now it's turned up, worth thirty million pounds," Sherlock explained. Ana's mouth dropped open and she gaped at the detective in awe.

"Wait, it's a fake?" she asked in shock. He turned to her with a nod.

"Oh, yes, it most certainly is."

"How on earth did they––"

"Enough! What does this have to do with the stiff?" Lestrade asked, nodding to the body. Sherlock grinned at Ana and then at the other two men, excitement brimming in his eyes. Clearly whatever he was about to say brought him a boyish sort of glee that they were all sure should probably concern them.

"Everything. Have you ever heard of the Golem?"

"Golem?" Lestrade asked in confusion.

"It's a horror story, isn't it?" John inquired. "What are you saying?"

"Jewish folk story, a gigantic man made of clay. It's also the name of an assassin: real name, Oskar Dzundza, one of the deadliest assassins in the world. That," Sherlock pointed to the man's bruised face, "is his trademark style." Ana winced and subconsciously rubbed at her temples.

"That looks so painful…" she murmured. Lestrade's brows flew upward in disbelief.

"So this is a hit?" he asked.

"Definitely. The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands."

"But what has this got to do with that painting? I don't see––"

"You do see, you just don't observe!"

"Alright, alright, girls, calm down!" interjected John, who looked like he had the starts of the headache coming on. The comment shut both the detective and the DI up, the two shifting awkwardly for a moment. "Sherlock, do you want to take us through it?"

"What do we know about this corpse?" asked Sherlock after a moment. "The killer's not left us with much, just the shirt and the trousers. Both pretty formal, maybe he was going out for the night. The trousers are heavy duty, polyester, nasty, same as the shirt. Cheap. They're both too big for him, so some kind of standard issue uniform. Dressed for work then. What kind of work? There's a hook on his belt. For a walkie-talkie."

"Tube driver?" suggested Lestrade. The guess earned him a look from Sherlock, one that silently read 'idiot.'

"Security guard?" John questioned, adding in his two-cents.

"More likely. That'd be borne out by his backside."

"Backside?" Lestrade again spoke, jolted out of his thoughts by that single word.

"Flabby. You'd think he led a sedentary life, yet the soles of his feet and the nascent varicose veins in his legs show otherwise. So a lot of walking and a lot of sitting around. Security guard's looking good. And the watch helps too. The alarm shows he did regular night shifts."

"Why regular? Maybe he just set his alarm like that the night before he died."

"No, no, no, the buttons are stiff, hardly touched. He set his alarm like that a long time ago, his routine never varied, but there's something else. The killer must have been interrupted, otherwise he would have stripped the corpse completely. There was some kind of badge or insignia on the shirt front that he tore off, suggesting the dead man worked somewhere recognizable, some kind of institution." A knowing look crossed Ana's face.

"Like a museum," she said. With a smirk sent her way, Sherlock held something up.

"Found this inside his trouser pockets," he said, letting everyone look at the crinkled up piece of paper. "Sodden by the river, but still recognizably…"

"Tickets?" John asked.

"Ticket stubs. He worked in a museum or gallery. Did a quick check. The Hickman Gallery has reported one of its attendants is missing, Alex Woodbridge. Tonight they unveil the rediscovered masterpiece. Now, why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? Inference: the dead man knew something about it, something that would stop the owner getting paid thirty million pounds. The picture's a fake," Sherlock concluded. Ana and John gaped at him in their typical stupor of awe, shaking their heads once more at how easily he was able to pull together seemingly miscellaneous details and make sense of them all in a bigger picture.

"Fantastic," voiced John.

"Brilliant as always," Ana laughed gently.

"Meretricious," shrugged Sherlock, still looking slightly put off about their previous argument.

"And a happy New Year!" joked Lestrade. They were all quiet as the joke fell flat, everyone looking towards the rocky shore beneath their feet or to the late Alex Woodbridge.

"Poor sod…" muttered John.

"I'd better get my feelers out for this Golem character."

"Pointless, you'll never find him, but I know a man who can," Sherlock told him bluntly.

"Who?" Ana gave John a look and mouthed the next word that then came out of the consulting detective's grinning mouth.

"Me."

The three caught a cab after climbing back up to street level, all three of them still rather quiet. Sherlock stared at the pink phone with a crease between his brows and a frown tugging at his lips. They carried on their silence as he tapped his fingers against his leg, as John stared blankly out the window, and as Ana absentmindedly braided her hair over one shoulder. The past few days of nearly non-stop working and running, investigating and sleepless nights were all catching up to them, including Sherlock, who probably wasn't likely to admit it. Their spat earlier that day had been brought about by tensions that had come from the case, come from tired minds and irritable senses of reasoning.

"Why hasn't he phoned?" he asked. "He's broken his pattern. Why?" When neither of his friends answered, a thought suddenly occurred to him, leaning forward, he spoke to the cab driver. "Waterloo Bridge."

"Where now, the gallery?" John asked.

"In a bit."

"I was doing reading up on that painting when news first came out that it had been rediscovered and… the Hickman is a gallery meant for contemporary art, not old classics. Why would they want, and how did they get a hold of, an Old Master?" Ana asked Sherlock, turning to look at him, her chin level with her left shoulder.

"Dunno. Dangerous to jump to conclusions. I need data," he responded flatly as he folded up a bank note around a swatch of paper torn from a pocket notebook. There was another few moments of silence before he spoke again. "Stop! Can you wait here? I won't be a moment." Sherlock jumped out of the cab once it pulled over and then easily leapt over the railing on the pavement's edge. His legs cleared the rail effortlessly, leaving John and Ana to clamour out of the car muttering his name, wondering if they should follow. Sighing, Ana hoisted herself up to sit on the rail and the swung her legs over, following Sherlock at a jog.

"I swear to god he'll get us killed one day…" she muttered to herself. John had a little more trouble getting over, having to accommodate for his bad knee, but was soon after Ana, the Baker Street trio making their way towards the water's edge.

They soon found themselves under the the Waterloo Bridge, subjected to the cold wind drifting off the Thames. A young homeless woman sat on one of the cold stone benches, a large bag at her side and a ragged cardboard sign tucked just under her leg.

"Change? Any change?" she asked.

"What for?" Sherlock inquired.

"A cup of tea, of course," she replied simply. Sherlock stopped in front of her and then extracted the bank note he'd folded up earlier.

"Here you go––fifty." And with that, he began to walk off again.

"Thanks."

"What are you doing?" John asked Sherlock.

"I think he's playing good samaritan… which still confuses me," Ana admitted as they began walking again.

"I'm investing," corrected Sherlock. As they got back to the cab, he stopped in the door and looked at his flatmates. "Now we go to the gallery. Have either of you got any cash?" Ana dug around in her pocket and held up what she had, which was definitely enough to get them there. With a satisfied look, he climbed inside and the next leg of their journey began.

When they finally pulled up to the gallery, Sherlock climbed out and Ana followed, but when John moved to do the same, Sherlock shook his head.

"No. I need you to find out all you can about the gallery attendant. Lestrade will give you the address.

"Oh. Okay," John murmured as he shut the door. Sherlock put his hand on Ana's back and steered her towards the alley that led to the back entrance of the gallery.

"I'll need you to babysit my clothes for a bit," he told her as he began to unwind his blue scarf with his free hand. Blinking with widened blue eyes, Ana gaped up at him.

"Excuse me?"

Afterword: Well, sorry for the late update, but I wanted to make this chapter REALLY long, 'cause I plan on finishing up The Great Game in the next chapter! I've spent too long on this episode and don't want to make you guys wait much longer to get into the really flirty bits of this story :P All that will start… well… next chapter :D

REVIEW REPLIES!

Gwilwilith: Thank you! I'm really glad you liked that chapter and I'm doing even better now!

Skylar Winchester: And Sherlock will continue to show his feelings for her on a rising degree… and he may just start noticing it a bit more ;) I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!

Fuchsia Grasshopper: My recovery has gone perfectly and I'm back to using my arm as normally (and more safely) as before the surgery. And you're right––Ana's half of the problem has been done and admitted… but with Sherlock's end? Definitely trickier. Hope you keep on reading! Thanks again!
Neeky-chan: I'm glad you've been enjoying the story! And I'm glad you like the Doctor Who references; I can't help myself. They just… happen XD I'm sure you'll enjoy all the shows when you get around to watching them! Hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thanks again!

AnimeWriter45: Dear god your review made me happy! I can't believe that you think this is the best OC story you've read that… makes me so incredibly happy! It also makes me glad you enjoy the way I write the scenes from the show, I often think I glance over things that I should have described more; I hope you enjoyed the new chapter! Thanks again!

And thank you to those who have added this to their favorites/follows, it means a lot to me!

Well, I hope next chapter will lead us to the conclusion of The Great Game and the reveal of Moriarty! I've been looking forward to writing some of the scenes that I've had planned for the Season 1 finale… Oh, have I got plans! I hope you guys keep on reading! And thank you so much with putting up with my horrible updating schedules! Thanks again you guys!

~Mary