Part Twenty-Five.

Her fingers danced over the spines of the books and files on the topmost shelf of the bookcase, her eyes flying over the titles until finally, she announced, "Aha! I knew it was here somewhere." She pulled down the file, which her father more or less affectionately dubbed, "Doc Zero", and flipped it open as she walked to the kitchen where Doctor Watson stood behind Sherlock, sifting through other papers. "Here, Dad."

He looked up and reached for the documents, pointing to the newspaper article in the very front of the stack. "Nineteen eighty-nine, a young kid – champion swimmer – came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament; drowned in the pool. Tragic accident." John didn't react, and it didn't seem to surprise her father. "You wouldn't remember it. Why should you?"

"But you do?" John asked as he picked up the article.

"Yes."

"Something fishy about it?"

Sherlock's eyes had drifted to the fireplace as he reflected back to the start of it all, "Nobody thought so – nobody except me. I was only a kid myself, just fourteen years old. I read about it in the papers." His focus shifted again towards the file, and he started going through the photographs and reports. "The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out it was too late. But there was something wrong; something I couldn't get out of my head."

"What?"

Thea sat and nodded to the trainers, at the other end of the table, as she smiled, "The shoes. The rest of his clothes were found in his locker, but his shoes were missing." She looked back at her father. "Apparently, the police didn't think much of it."

"There was no sign of them. Until now," Sherlock noted quietly.

John's eyes were still trained on Thea curiously, "You know a lot about this case for someone who wasn't around when it happened."

She grinned. "Dad used to tell me about it all the time when I was much younger."

"Ah right, 'Bedtime Stories for Children of Detectives.'"

"Beats The Cat in the Hat any day."

Sherlock made a noise of amusement and stood, taking the cause of death report and reading over it as he walked to the trainers. Thea reached for a photograph of the body when her phone began to ring from her pocket. She stood and pulled the phone from her pocket, reading the name.

"Tell him you're busy," her father said, and she blinked up at him.

"Sorry?"

"You smiled. It's Mr Hemingway. Tell him you're on a case."

She pursed her lips and went to answer the call, "I'll tell him anything I damn well please, thank you." Then she turned and walked into the living room, pressing the phone to her ear. "Hello, Hem."

"Thea! I've just heard about the explosion from my flatmate, are you okay?" His voice was slightly panicked, and she couldn't help but be charmed by his concern.

"I'm fine, scrapes and bruises is all. The windows took a beating, though."

She could hear him relaxing. "I'd imagine. But that's good to hear. Did they say what caused it?"

"Erm…" she bit her lip, and thought about how she'd answer. In the past, she would have lied to her boyfriends to keep them from her other life – but something about Hem made her trust that he wouldn't run away from her at the mention of something as crazy as someone had bombed the flat across the street. "It was an invitation."

"Invitation?" He paused and she could hear the thoughts running wildly in his head, "Quite a way to send an invitation."

"You're telling me," she murmured and checked her watch. Six hours and twelve minutes remaining. "It's devolved into a threat, at best."

"Are you in front of a crossbow again?" He was teasing, but there was a hint of earnestness behind it.

"Not yet, but I'll keep you updated if that changes."

"Please do. So it's a case?"

She looked back at John, now pacing behind her father as he sat compiling information, and said slowly, "Well, of sorts. It's unusual."

John had gotten a text alert and pulled out his phone, glancing at it incredulously as he said, "It's your brother. He's texting me now." He frowned at Sherlock and muttered, "How'd he get my number?"

"I should dash, Hem. Murders to solve and such."

"How about dinner tomorrow night? Provided you aren't busy chasing down a killer."

She laughed lightly and nodded, "Yeah, yeah that sounds good. Any place in particular?"

"How about ma maison?" he replied, "I happen to have an excellent repertoire of recipes and the skills to match."

"He writes, he sculpts, and he cooks? My, my, Mr Hemingway. You know how to sweep a woman off her feet," Thea purred, and she watched her father turn his head slightly in her direction as he listened in. "I'll let you know if and when it all works out."

"Alright," he laughed, "Now go save the world."

She ended the call and floated back to the table, where John was defending himself, "What's quaint?"

"You are. Queen and country and such fluff," Sherlock responded lowly.

The good doctor sighed and crossed his arms. "You can't just ignore it!"

"I'm not ignoring it. I'm putting my best man onto it right now."

John seemed appeased. "Good. Right." He looked at Thea, who raised an eyebrow at him. He seemed to realise all at once the implication, "No, Sherlock –"

"Appease him. Ask him about the case and get the details for me. It's important."

Thea pushed him towards the stairs and called up to him as he trudged up to his room, "Who knows? You could solve the mystery all on your own."

She turned back to the kitchen and watched her father pull out his microscope. "I'd say that was cruel but I also don't want Uncle to interfere with the investigation anymore."

"You should have invited him here for dinner," Sherlock said quietly as he scraped different samples from the shoes.

Thea furrowed her eyebrows. "Hem?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. He was refusing to meet her eyes as she sat down again, handing him different tools as he needed them. "Your…partner."

She rested her elbow on the table and put her cheek in her hand. "Boyfriend, Dad. He's my boyfriend." She paused. "But I can ask him if that's alright. He already expressed he wanted to meet you; this might be a good opportunity. But!" she held up a finger at him and narrowed her eyes, though not in a menacing way, "You have to promise not to deduce him."

"I can't turn it off like a switch, Thea," her father said indignantly and stone-faced.

She twiddled her thumbs under the table as she said quietly, "He's extraordinary, Papa. I don't want to lose him." It seemed to catch his attention, and she gazed into the oceans that were his eyes as she continued, "You know I'm not the girl to fall head over heels for a boy. I'm defiant; I like to assert myself and my ideas. I scare boys away. But he's not scared by the danger in my life." She grabbed hold of one of his hands with both of hers. "I'm not asking for a lot. Just that you don't study him. You'd be surprised what you learn when you just shut up and listen every once in a while."

Sherlock scoffed and pulled his hand away as he reached for a slide. "You sound like your mother."

He seemed to have realised what he said, and his hand hovered over the glass as his eyes burned holes into the table. Thea bit her lip as her therapist's words came back to her. "Your father, as brilliant as I'm sure he is, has never healed his wounds from your mother's death." She tried to find the words to ease the pain masked behind Sherlock's eyes, but she imagined no such words existed. But she had to start somewhere. So she took a leap of faith, as if diving into the dark.

"She sounds intelligent." His eyes met hers again, unwavering in the face of grief. "She must have complemented you brilliantly."

He blinked at her and gave a small nod, "So we were told." Then he grabbed the slide and completed the steps necessary to examine the sample. Thea looked at her hands, folded in her lap, and tried to ease the knot in her stomach.

It hadn't accomplished much, but it was a start.

There were three hours left on the clock when Thea awoke with a start, as her father shouted, "Poison!" She had dozed off in his armchair after watching him through the slightly-open screen doors that separated the kitchen from the living room. She stood and stretched as she walked over to him. Mrs Hudson was setting down a mug next to him, with another at Thea's place.

"What are you on about?" Mrs Hudson asked, but Sherlock just slammed his hands down on the table, frightening the poor woman away. Thea sat down in her chair.

"Clostridium botulinum!" Sherlock cried as John made his way up the stairs and into the kitchen. Thea nodded her head towards him and sipped her tea. "It's one of the deadliest poisons in the world!"

"Wait, are you saying that Carl Powers was murdered?" John asked, shaking off his coat and hanging it on the back of another nearby chair.

Sherlock had stood and walked to the window of the kitchen, examining the laces he had hung there. Thea joined him, her hands wrapped around the warm mug. He looked to her, "The boy suffered from eczema. It'd be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later he comes up to London, the poison takes effect…"

She smiled slowly, "Paralyses the muscles and he drowns. Bloody brilliant use of it."

John folded his arms and glanced over the cause of death report. "How come the autopsy didn't pick it up?"

Thea turned to him and gave a short laugh. "It's virtually undetectable. It'd have to be an excessive dose to come up. Nobody would have been looking for it, either." She turned back and examined the shoelaces again as her father pulled up his blog on his laptop. "There were still tiny traces of it on his shoelaces, from where he'd applied the cream to his feet."

"That's why they had to go," he surmised as he typed quickly. She padded to him and looked over his shoulder. FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989). Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221B Baker St. "We get the bomber's attention…"

"…Stop the clock," John finished. He glanced at his watch, and his body relaxed with relief. "The killer kept the shoes all these years."

Thea nodded solemnly. "Which means he's our bomber. But I don't understand," she said to her father, "Who would kill a kid like that?"

He straightened and his eyes glazed over her before moving to his watch. "I imagine we'll find out soon enough."

Then the pink phone rang again, a blocked number lighting up the screen. Sherlock quickly answered it on speakerphone.

"Well done, you. Come and get me."

Thea speed-dialed Lestrade as Sherlock pressed the sobbing woman for her location, which she then passed onto the DI. John was going into the living room, sitting in his armchair by the fireplace. When they ended their phone calls, Thea and Sherlock joined him. He sat in his armchair, and she on the ottoman nearby. They didn't talk, only waited for confirmation.

They had passed the first case.

AN: I love just being able to write freely with TGG - it just comes so much more naturally, and I'm not entirely sure why. I hope you're all enjoying these updates. I know they're pretty quick now, but I am sort of making up for months of silence.

As always, review, favorite, and follow! Thank you so much for reading! Much more excitement on the way!