Sherlock's mind numbed as he stood there with smoke from his gun rising above the barrel. A sigh of relief was the only thing that came out of his mouth. Despite what he thought, Sherlock did not shoot him. Instead, an ignored vase on the side table was the one that got the bullet, not the apparition of the deceased Jim Morarity.
The only thing in the flat was Sherlock and his smoking gun. "I didn't shoot him," he muttered under his breath. "He didn't win, I won."
His mind snapped when a worried Mrs. Hudson burst her way into the flat. Sherlock came up with the only excuse that made sense. "It went off in my hand," he only said as he sat the gun down on the kitchen table. Yet, it was not the reason why Mrs. Hudson came upstairs. At least, not the only reason she came upstairs.
"Mister Sherlock Holmes, what in hell are you doing up here, it's ten in the bloody morning!" Mrs. Hudson scorned him harshly. "First you've gone ragged and now you're shooting up your flat, again?"
Sherlock stood there bemused over the revelation that it was 10 AM in the morning.
How long was he standing there with a gun in his hand and how long did it take before he shot it?
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock sheepishly apologized. Mrs. Hudson exhaled as she shook her head at him.
"Have you not heard me calling for you?" Mrs. Hudson asked him. "I've been calling your name for god knows how long. I was about to head upstairs when you fired that damn gun of yours!"
Sherlock took a deep breath and bowed his head. "I'm very sorry, Mrs. Hudson. Please, I did not mean to startle you. What is that you wanted?" he hobbled around the flat, trying desperately to get his bearings about the situation he dealt with. Mrs. Hudson did not help in the matter when she then told him, "Mary phoned me. She tried to get into contact with you, but God knows what you have been doing up here. John never made it home last night, she was wondering if you knew where he gone."
"John was at Oxford, testing our blood, hasn't she called Molly?" Sherlock blinked several times as he listened to Mrs. Hudson. He quickly stopped when Mrs. Hudson replied with, "She did, actually, but Molly said he left Oxford around midnight and hasn't called or texted her back."
Sherlock turned around sharply to look at Mrs. Hudson dead in the eye. "What do you mean?" Sherlock stared at her. Mrs. Hudson slowly repeated, "He left Oxford around midnight, no one's been able to find him."
"Did Molly say anything else; did John find anything in our bloods?" Sherlock hobbled around the flat, grabbing for his belongings, muttering under his breath. He overheard Mrs. Hudson, "She said it had the genetic markings of LSD."
"LSD," Sherlock stopped as he reached for his phone. LSD was something that never crossed his mind before; it surprised Sherlock that he never considered LSD. Of all things he failed to notice, LSD came shockingly close.
How could he not consider it beforehand, the evidence was clear as day, he had everything in his grasp to prove that he, John, and Alice drugged with the drug?
All slipped away when his flat burglarized and his key witnesses dead, to top it off, Lestrade in the hospital from a gunshot wound. All because Sherlock failed and it drove him up the wall that he failed to catch it in time.
Then, it came to him, something else that surfaced from the nether of his mind. Sherlock would have considered the possibility of LSD being the reason for this madness, the reason he seen his deceased nemesis, and the reason for Alice's behavior, had he not been drugged the first time.
When Alice first came to the flat and handed Sherlock the American bills, Sherlock was not wearing gloves; he never considered a reason to. Touching the bills allowed the LSD that the bills seeped with to absorb through his skin. Skin contact allowed the LSD to traverse his body and slowly affect it, because of Sherlock's high-strung metabolism and his own personal history; it took more than skin contact to cause the effects.
It took but a single trail of thought and twisting it around on itself and causing Sherlock to see and hear his deceased nemesis. Morarity was always dead, Sherlock came to accept the revelation, and his mind however would never let up. Fevered thoughts that it was a mere trick and that Morarity planned ahead, waiting for the right time to reappear trickled through Sherlock's mind until that was all he obsessed about.
It came to no surprise someone knew about Sherlock and Morarity's battle. It was in the paper, news, and on the Internet, anywhere that had a news outlet, their battle broadcasted. It also meant it broadcasted Morarity's suicide.
"Of course," Sherlock muttered under his breath.
He looked through his texts to find texts from Mary and found one message from John. A simple text with a photo attached, Sherlock looked at them. The text simply read as:
For why does the bell stop chiming?
The photo was that of a clock face. No details in the photo for Sherlock to pick apart, the only thing in the photo were the clock face, nothing else. As Sherlock stared at his phone, he noticed the dials fixed intentionally at 12 PM.
"Sherlock, what is it?" Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson. He slowly turned to her with a look on his face as it came to him. "Mrs. Hudson, he's got John," he said.
"Who has him, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson flinched and begun to worry. Sherlock looked back at the photo. He chewed on his lip as he said to her, "Frank."
"But, Frank's dead, isn't that what you said, right?" Mrs. Hudson crossed her arms, confused. Sherlock was confused himself, but figured it out.
He exhaled as he shoved his phone into his pocket and shuffled toward the door. Stopping at the threshold, he warned Mrs. Hudson. "Do not let anyone but my brother and the LPD inside," he said as he disappeared down the stairs and out the front door.
Dark clouds covered the skies, giving a look of eternal darkness across the city. The smell of rain was thick as Sherlock noted what today is. The anniversary of Frank Colton's sudden death, the day where it all ended, Sherlock will ensure it one way or another.
Hailing a taxi, Sherlock entered and as he did, his phone blipped. Upon inspecting it, it was an address. Sherlock relayed it to the cabby and the taxi drove away from the curb and interlinked with London traffic.
Sherlock kept looking out the window, watching as the cars and buses went by, and people with umbrellas over their heads. In his mind, he thought about what it all meant. He was not crazy. He was never crazy. The LSD was the reason for the nightmares, the bizarre events that transpired over the course of days. It all made sense, Sherlock was sure.
One could find LSD if one looked hard enough. It came in many forms but the most known version was the tablet that many users could suck down with their choice of liquor and the effects ranging from slow to immediate.
Yet, there was a question. How does one find LSD now?
LSD's uses slowly decreased over the years, due to the political fight against it and the rise of other drugs, and those users could no longer handle the effects.
If the LSD not bought on the street, then it only meant one thing. If someone had the knack and the lab, they could make their own LSD and play with it to their hearts content. Exactly, what he has been doing for so long.
Sherlock texted Donovan and Anderson, imploring them both to look into pharmaceutical thefts, even if someone had a lab they could not get the ingredients from a shop. He condensed the ingredients used for LSD for them to understand while suggesting them to look into any recent breakouts from mental institutions.
Sherlock remembered the letters found at Patrick's flat. Patrick knew something that neither Sherlock nor Alice did because of it. He was under effects from the LSD, slow and steady this time around. He was getting close and hitting two birds with one stone used him to lure Alice to Frank's mock grave.
Frank's body was there where Patrick said, but someone stole it. Sherlock never gave thought until now; the "coffin" was newer. If it had been thirty some odd years with weather and elements, the coffin would have rotted and the preserved stench wafting from it. Sherwood's soil ensured that Frank's rotted body would still be there in its skeletal entirely, but not this scenario.
"I should've known," Sherlock whispered to himself as the taxi stopped at the last stretch of road before it led into the foliage. Sherlock glanced past the seats and saw that the foliage blocked the mud path deep into the enclave.
"Is this the address?" Sherlock inquired. The cabby replied with, "It used to be. Don't know how anyone remembers it; it's been too long since it was decommissioned."
Sherlock instructed the cabby to remain, giving him half the fare before leaving the taxi and walking slowly into the foliage.
Why does the bell ring in noon?
Sherlock checked his phone. It was almost noon. As he stuffed his phone back into his pocket, he noticed a set of footprints, male, size 12. Sherlock was not the only one who came through here.
Sherlock continued into the foliage as the mud path continued to snake around the enclave until he came across the abandoned St. Dismas Cathedral. Abandoned and forgotten due to years of negligence, the cathedral never saw the light of day as the enclave surrounded it. There were talks regarding the cathedral's fate, but they fell through and the cathedral remained. The road that led to it no longer existed. Mud from the rain spread over the pavement and after years became permanent.
Vines, dead and alive, covered the cathedral as Sherlock approached the two large doors. Glancing around, Sherlock listened to the wildlife that made home in the enclave, before he finally opened the doors revealing the decayed innards of the cathedral.
The pews rotted from water damage from the holes in the ceiling and the broken stain glass windows. Weeds grew from the broken stones as dirt layered near the walls. On the podium where the Father would commence services Sherlock found a cheap burner phone, resting carefully where Sherlock would see it. Kneeling down beside the burner phone, Sherlock picked it up.
Upon doing so, it rung with a blocked number, Sherlock held it up to his ear. On the other end, he heard a voice. Male, mid-thirties, and it sent chills down his spine when he heard it.
"For why did the bell stop chiming?" he asked Sherlock. "For why did stop chiming at noon?"
"Where's John?" Sherlock demanded. "I demand to know where he is!"
Sherlock heard shuffling noises on the other end before hearing a familiar voice.
"Sherlock," cried John on the other end. "Help me; it's coming to get me!"
Sherlock froze with horror on his face as he heard his colleague screaming mad on the other end. Screaming at the plague doctor that slowly came toward him with a large knife, pleading for his life and pleading for Sherlock to come save him.
"Sad really," it quickly changed back to the culprit. "He fell to it as easily as the chums did when I spread those American dollars."
"There was no London Crow," Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He heard laughter amid John flaying his arms around, knocking into things.
"Ah, well, you know Mr. Holmes, people these days just don't believe in the unknown anymore. If they do, they are loonies about it. I hate the loonies, do you?" Sherlock heard him. He then shouted at John, "If you don't keep your horror shows down, I will gladly shove a syringe of it up your arse!"
"Leave him alone," Sherlock snarled. He heard more laughter.
"And why should I?" balked the man. Sherlock growled.
In response, Sherlock said, "Because I know who you are."
"Do you?" the man chuckled. "Do you really know who I am?"
"I do," Sherlock affirmed.
He heard chuckling as the man cocked a simple revolver.
"You say you know me, but do you really know yourself?" the man asked Sherlock. "The way I see it, you been getting crazy these last few days. Last, I heard you were shooting up your flat. Shooting an innocent vase that had no quarry with you that sound mighty crazed, even for you Sherlock. Actually, you are the calmest of all people I have afflicted. Not surprised, really, your medical reports are astonishing when you look at them properly. Narcotics must be a treat for you."
"What do you want, you already killed Alice," Sherlock hissed. "What more do you want?"
"You know as well as I do what I want," he heard back. He heard the revolver clicking as the magazine rotated. "Do you know what you want?"
"Let John go!" Sherlock screamed into the phone. He heard laughter as John rolled around on the ground, crying. He then heard, "You have two minutes, detective. If you answer it properly, I might only graze an ear."
Sherlock stood there as his eyes moved around the cathedral. He heard, "You are the Great Detective, aren't you?"
Sherlock scrambled for an answer. He muttered under his breath as his light blue eyes glided throughout the decaying cathedral.
For why did the bell stop chiming?
Sherlock's heartbeat picked up as he struggled to come up with a definitive answer. His eyes stopped when he came across some tied rope abandoned by the walls. Meant to hoist statues of Christ and other saints, it been forgotten. There was a noose at the end of the rope, small and nondescript.
In days of yore, those hung often hung in correspondence with the church bells. They rang during certain points of the day and events, but the answer to the riddle came to an answer.
"He hung at noon!" Sherlock quickly shouted into the receiver. He heard laughter and, "Too late, Mr. Holmes, by a mere thirteen seconds."
Sherlock almost went into panic mode when he heard a gunshot. Thankfully, it was not toward John, but at a wall, a warning shot.
"Just so you know that I'm serious. Look, I get it; he is the only one who understood you when others did not. That is all fun and all, but he is starting a family with Mary. What about you, what are you doing with your little slice of heaven?" he heard him say. "Look, it's obvious what's going to happen. He is going to be a father and cannot come and save your arse when you done something stupid. Eventually, he will leave you for his family. Sure, you could always visit, but Mary is not going to want you bringing work into their home. I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, but the cards are stacked against you."
"You seem to care a great deal for someone who kidnapped and murdered," Sherlock sneered. He heard chuckling as he heard a chair brought up. In the background, John muttered things to himself as he gone into fetal position.
In response he heard, "I did what I have to do, just like you. Even if a few people have to die and a few others had to drug out of their minds, it is all business. As for you, I honestly do not give a damn about you, your career, or your life history. I have seen this happen before, unbelievably. With no real friends to call upon and families all but gone, you work yourself tirelessly to find some sort of meaning in your pathetic life."
"So what happens if I meet someone?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "What if they understood my position?"
"Then work comes in between you two. You cannot get away from work, even at home. You tried to find time to spend with them, but work encroaches on it. Eventually, they leave in heartbreak and bitterness, because it consumes you. In their haste, they forgot to tell you the one important thing that could've changed everything," Sherlock heard pain in his voice. "Eventually they'll settle down somewhere nice, far from London, and try to eke out a living with small-time jobs. Yet, the bills get high and they cannot afford to pay anymore, so they'll lose their only home and have to live on the streets. You learn so many things on the streets when society turns its back on you."
It all made sense to Sherlock now.
Sherlock snapped back when he heard, "So, now you know what I want?"
"You wanted the people who took him away to pay," Sherlock summed.
"Alice and the HA people never saw it coming. I did have to put on an act to get near and around them. I also had to pretend I was a loony to get some of the things I needed. It wasn't hard doing, all I had to do was set fire to a constable's house," the man sighed as Sherlock overheard the rattling of glass and a bottle, the sound of a drink being poured as the man shouted at John to keep quiet. "You know how it goes, they toss you in and you shuffle around while doctors poke you with needles. Once I broke out, I had to rummage through the old police station and find some of Alice's things. Amongst them was his old badge. Of course, it was different when I found it. I actually cracked it myself. I am sure because you work with the LPD you know the tradition that accompanies the discipline following the discovery that an officer of the law broke conduct or committed a heinous act. When an officer disowned, they hold a mock ceremony. In this ceremony, an appointed man or woman cracks the badge right through the center. They then show this cracked badge on the walls of their department as a warning and reminder. It's quite fascinating."
As Alice said to Sherlock, Frank led a private life. He always worked and never had time for anything else. Even then, no one really knew what he was doing when he was not working. Whom he met with or where he went, it was a mystery. Now it was all clear for Sherlock.
The timeline lined up. His birth corresponded around the time Frank worked to bring down the Hilton Association and Alice's eventual betrayal. Frank met a woman, her identity unknown to Sherlock; it appeared that while Frank genuinely cared for her, work prevented him from leaving. On days when he was not working, he spent a great deal with her, eventually leading to the conception of Frank's only child.
"Should I call you junior, is it proper?" Sherlock asked him. "Or would you prefer something else?"
"Junior's reserved for family, do call me Frank, though," he heard.
Sherlock nodded before saying, "You wanted Alice to find me. You wanted me to solve this case. The reason was so simple; you knew eventually I'd bring him back to where your father was buried."
"Correct," Frank, grinned as he checked on John who sobbed quietly in a corner. "And I suppose you're going to ask me how I knew where he was buried."
"Enlighten me," Sherlock only said.
Frank chuckled as he said, "Me mum was always quiet about him. You know how it goes with these things. She did not mention anything about his work or what he did, not even, how he died. I reckoned that she was simply trying to protect me, mother's guilt. It did not take long before I found what I wanted to know. Frank went missing, didn't come back to his flat, grandma dies from a heart attack in her sleep, and the lovely Galahad Police Department had no idea where he gone or where to even find him. His belongings sold because he had no next of kin because he never brought up me mum or me. Things get quiet. I found out where he was buried by a former associate of his, forget his name, but all I done was blow powder into his face and he told me many things. Thanks to him, I found Patrick. Used his religion against him and lo and behold I got my father's body back."
Frank set fire to a constable's house, likely someone Alice knew; just they would place him into a mental institution. There he stole what he needed to go after the rest of those responsible. When he had enough, he broke out, changed his name, and hid amongst the crowds. With his street knowledge, he knew how to lure people with his drugs. That was how he got to Wallace and the others. Frank took the American dollars Wallace had and laced them with LSD. Frank gave Wallace the LSD to torment Alice. LSD was how Frank managed to murder his loose ends. It also explained Lestrade. Frank placed the anonymous tip, lured Lestrade, and when he was under the effects of the LSD, Frank took the translations.
"What was in the journal, Alice said your penmanship was horrendous," Sherlock questioned him. Frank's answer was a simple one at that.
"I made it when I was in the loony bins, thought it added to the charade. In actuality, I cannot write Gaelic well. Me mum forced jolly o' English on me. So I've been learning it as I went," Frank shrugged as he looked at John rocking back and forth.
Sherlock gritted his teeth. He demanded. "Where is John, I answered your riddle, tell me where he is!" he shouted into the phone.
"No need to shout, good sir," Frank rolled his eyes as he cocked a different gun. "Fair is fair, you answered my riddle, 'tis good showmanship if I keep my word. Do know if you can hear this, it'll be your clue."
It was a shotgun and Sherlock listened.
The shotgun was loud on the speaker and faintly Sherlock heard it in the distance. Another shot and Sherlock knew where to go from there. The phone call ended and Sherlock ran towards the direction of the shotgun.