Sorry this chapter took so long. I'd honestly hoped to be done with the entire story by now but my car broke down and I've had to take another job to pay for the repairs. I have almost no free time so you'll have to be patient for the time being, I'm sorry.

Many thanks to purpleflames, kie1993, itsbeautiful9, C'estMoiLiz, Bookwormiie, TheDoctorsMistress, LolaWants, 88dragon06, Aimee, Drottningu, PresidentTheAwesome, SerbiaTakesCntrl, PennyParrish, MORE, House Calls, Lili009, KhAel, OfCakeAndIceCream, and She Who Must Not Be Named! It's for you that I chose to write and not sleep.

Enjoy!

Chapter 29


The blackened bodies of Brian Dannelly and Officer Carrow were waiting when they arrived at Bart's. Molly had pulled the gurneys to the center of the morgue, various medical instruments scattered around them like garnish and any notes she'd already made sorted and neatly set on a nearby table.

Unfortunately, her careful presentation was wasted on Sherlock.

The detective acknowledged Molly with a nod before stepping around her for a closer look at the corpses. John smiled at her apologetically as her own faltered and he inwardly admonished his friend. He knew Sherlock was aware of Doctor Hooper's crush and the callous way he often treated her was a point of contention between them. Once, after several pints and a bottle of wine, John had asked him to be nicer to Molly but Sherlock had argued that if he were to change his behavior now it would only serve to further her attachment, ultimately disappointing her even more in the end. It had made a lot of sense at the time, with beer and three glasses of pinot noir warming his belly, but now John saw it for what it was: cowardice.

Well maybe not cowardice exactly, John thought. He didn't think Sherlock was afraid to tell Molly that it was never going to happen, he just didn't want to. A part of him even seemed to like the attention, especially when it afforded him unrestricted access to fresh corpses.

John watched her hover near Sherlock and absently wondered if anyone had told the woman about Alex. He assumed that would eventually fall to him, like everything else.

"If I'd known you were going to stand there daydreaming I'd have left you at home."

He blinked twice as Sherlock's voice broke his reverie and found his friend staring at him with a slightly amused but still annoyed smirk.

"Ah, there you are. Take a look at this."

He gestured to one of the bodies and John walked over curiously, bending at the waist to see where Sherlock's hand pointed.

From shoulder to elbow, barely visible beneath the burns, were four long furrows in Carrow's skin. His back straightened and turned to find Sherlock watching him expectantly.

"Well?"

John sighed. "Why do you insist on doing this? You know whatever I'm going to say will already have occurred to you and then some. It's a waste of time."

"It's no such thing," Sherlock scoffed. "It's beneficial to us both."

"How?"

"It helps you hone your mind and see things in greater detail."

"And for you? What benefit is it for you, other than stroking your ego?"

Sherlock smiled. "It reassures me. It's comforting to know that the person with which I spend the majority of my time isn't a complete berk."

John stared at him for a moment, trying to decide if he was serious.

"Fine," he huffed finally. "The scratches look like they're from someone's fingernails. They are fairly deep, as far as scratches go, and close together so probably made by a woman."

"Interesting. Why?"

"Because a woman's nails would most likely be longer, easier to break the skin, and her hand would be smaller so…" he trailed off and gestured vaguely, waiting for Sherlock to confirm or deny his analysis.

"That's very good John."

"But?"

"But you failed to see that the woman used her right hand, she'd had a manicure two days prior to inflicting the wounds, and her movements were deliberate," Sherlock announced with a flourish and John frowned.

"What do you mean deliberate?" Lestrade asked as he joined them from across the room. "It would have to be deliberate wouldn't it?"

"I mean her only intention wasn't to harm him, she meant to make those marks and to make them noticeable." He rolled his eyes at the confusion on the DI's face. "If she'd been fighting him off they wouldn't be so straight or so deep. Someone held him still so she could do it and I'm sure if you scrape Brian's nails for skin fragments you'll find Carrow's DNA."

"So…"

"Yes." Sherlock pulled the small retractable magnifying glass from his pocket and examined the cuts again. "They are trying to make it appear as though Brian killed him, rather poorly I might add."

"They?" John interjected curiously.

"Yes 'they'. Even if we don't learn anything else it's not a complete loss. Now we know at least two people are involved; one man and one woman. Though I suspect the woman to a lesser degree. Probably a relative of the man. Wife or sister most likely. Possibly a girlfriend."

John stared down at the recently deceased Officer Carrow thoughtfully. "If they are trying to frame Brian, that'd be why Tim Cox was taken from the hospital where he worked."

"Mmmm," Sherlock agreed and fell silent for a long moment.

"Molly!" he barked suddenly, loud enough that both John and Lestrade started. "Where was he struck? The back of the head?" Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock thrust his hand beneath the head, searching for the tell-tell knot.

"Gloves!" Molly squeaked but she was too late, he was already moving to the other body.

As Sherlock approached Brian he was filled with a strange sort of satisfaction. He'd wished the man dead on more than one occasion and he'd even indulged in a few fantasies where he was the one that made it so. Now, looking down at the fire ravaged body, he could almost believe he had.

"Sherlock?"

He turned his head to find John at his side, watching him with an uneasy expression.

"Yes John?"

"Do you know you're smiling?" he asked quietly.

"Not good?"

"I should think not."

Sherlock let his face go blank and walked around the gurney, once again retrieving his pocket magnifying glass. After what seemed an unusually cursory examination it disappeared back into his coat and he turned back to the others.

"He was dead before the fire started."

"How can you tell?" Lestrade asked.

"Blisters."

"Okay, what about them?"

"There's no fluid in them. If they'd been made while alive they'd be filled with protein. And he was struck here, here and here," he pointed to each in turn. "Again, if he'd been alive for the fire the surrounding skin would be inflamed. It's not."

"Is that all?"

Sherlock looked at Molly. "Was there any carbon monoxide in his blood?" He barely gave her time to shake her head before continuing. He already knew the answer. "The fire didn't kill him Lestrade."

"Then what did?" John spoke up from his left.

"Whatever he was injected with. Oh, did I forget to mention there's a small needle puncture at the base of his neck? I suppose it is difficult to see through the damaged epidermis."

Molly nodded her head energetically, ignoring Sherlock's smug tone. "His blood had a high level of potassium chloride."

"That can kill you?" Lestrade asked her but it was John that answered.

"It's normally used to treat hypokalemia but if it isn't diluted or if it's administered to quickly it can kill you. It's the 'lethal' component of lethal injection. Basically, it gives you a heart attack."

The DI scribbled something in his notepad. "Let me get this straight," he began quickly. "He was injected with a drug in such a high dose it gave him a heart attack and killed him. Then someone brought his body to Baker Street?" Sherlock nodded slowly, looking incredibly bored all of the sudden, and he continued. "And Carrow went in when the fire started but was struck on the back of the head and then a mysterious woman scratched his arm?" he finished, his voice laced with disbelief.

"Yes."

Lestrade sighed. "Fine, I'll have someone ask around, see if we can figure out where and when Brian was taken."

"Don't bother. He was abducted while entering or leaving the hospital three days ago," Sherlock spoke casually.

The DI stared at him for a long moment, his mouth set in a hard line.

"Should I even ask how you know that?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the implication. "He's obviously been dead for three days, his metal nametag is partially melted into his chest, and if I'd killed him you wouldn't have found the body."

Lestrade pressed his fingers against his head and stroked the throbbing vein in his temple. He shoved the notepad in his pocket and left soon after, half-heartedly pretending he'd received an urgent text. He offered to drop them at Baker Street but Sherlock declined.

An hour later he was seated on an uncomfortable stool in the lab, deep in thought as he stared at the wall and waited for the DNA synthesizer to finish. He'd spent the better part of the hour rupturing the cells of a small amount of blood they'd found on a shard of glass in order to separate the DNA from the other cellular components. Now he had nothing to do but wait for the machine to spit out the short tandem repeats and hopefully there'd be a match on record.

But he wasn't holding his breath.

Sherlock sighed and briefly glanced at Molly and John across the room. The ever enthusiastic pathologist had offered to help, much to his annoyance, and was now busy measuring carbon atoms in search of any traces of accelerant. He'd collected the samples himself in an odd display of optimism but deep down he knew it was useless. Nothing had turned up at the other locations and he doubted this one would be any different. Not that he planned to tell Molly that. If it kept her busy and out of his hair then his effort wouldn't be for naught.

Despite his best attempts, his thoughts turned to Alexandra. They were easy to avoid when he was working; he'd perfected the art of focusing his mind long ago, training it to remove all irrelevant information when it wasn't needed. But at that moment, eyes fixated on the nondescript wall, it seemed unavoidable.

He blamed biology and the familiar tingle he'd awoken to. It had been a long time, some might say too long, since he'd allowed his body any kind of release and apparently it was taking it's revenge by tormenting him with a constant reminder of the past twelve hours. It was an ache he couldn't describe and not only in his groin where he most expected it but somewhere higher, lodged in his chest. He knew that, more than anything, was where his confusion and worry stemmed from.

What did she want?

Or more importantly, what did he want?

He'd managed to convince himself over the past eight years that he felt nothing for her, save the occasional bout of anger and loathing. He thought he'd forgotten her. Now he wasn't so sure.

He felt eyes on him from the other side of the room and looked up sharply. He met John's concerned gaze and held it for a moment. But when the Doctor took the first step towards him Sherlock snapped awake and shook his head firmly, silently willing John to leave him be for now. He knew his friend still had questions but he wasn't ready to admit that, perhaps in this instance, he didn't have any answers.

John stopped mid-step and his expression hardened, though Sherlock was relieved to see it wasn't in anger. Out of the corner of his eye he saw John mumble something to Molly and put on his coat. After one more quick glance in Sherlock's direction, he left.

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the hard table as a headache threatened to overwhelm him.

He and Alex and been thrown together twice; once out of coincidence and once out of necessity. Neither of them would be in their current situation is she hadn't been attacked. They both should have gone on as they were, ignorant of the other, but instead they'd been forced together again.

Even as the thought occurred to him he knew it wasn't entirely true. No one forced him to allow her into his home. If he'd put his foot down at the beginning John would have caved, of that he was certain. But instead he'd sat passively by and let it happen. It prompted the question, if she really tried to leave would he stop her?

His head began pounding in earnest and he squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't know, and that, above all else, was the most disturbing. If there was anything he was ever sure of, it was his own mind.

With sudden determination, Sherlock pushed himself up, until his back was straight, and crossed his arms. There was nothing for it. He wasn't going to figure this out right now so he'd focus on a problem he knew he could solve.

Shame. Truth. Devil.

He knew it was important somehow. Why else would someone have taken the time to meticulously ensure each word was left in plain view, large and easy to find?

He ran over them in his mind, as he'd done numerous times since that morning, fervently searching for a connection.

Shame, truth, devil - shame, truth, devil - shame, truth, devil - shame, truth, devil…

"What?"

Sherlock jumped and swiveled on his stool. Molly stood close to him and until then he hadn't realized he'd spoken out loud.

"Yes Molly?"

"What were you saying?"

He hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Shame, truth, devil."

"What's that?"

"Messages left at three of the crime scenes."

"But what does it mean?" she asked quietly and Sherlock had to fight the urge to roll his eyes.

"That's what I'm trying to deduce."

He turned away, hoping she'd take the hint and go back to what she was doing. He could still feel her near him after a few minutes though. He opened his mouth to snap at her but when he looked up her thoughtful expression gave him pause.

"It could be… I mean, it's possible," she began slowly, "that if you switch the first two words it could be Shakespeare."

Sherlock blinked at her. "What?"

"If you, um, make it 'truth, shame, devil' it might be referencing a line from Henry IV… no Henry V… no wait… Henry IV part 2 … or is it part 1..."

"Molly!"

"Sorry, sorry! It's not important…"

"No Molly, what's the line?"

"Right, sorry… it's something like, 'Oh while you live, tell truth and shame the devil."

She continued to chatter about a school production but he tuned her out and his back straightened even more. He'd seen that recently. Very recently. Inscribed on the base of a small statuette. Lestrade had found part of it, more specifically one of the 'wings', in the air vent. But that was before the last word had been revealed and he hadn't thought…

Sherlock stood up abruptly, pushing Molly back as he reached for his coat.

"Molly, you are brilliant," he mumbled absently, slightly annoyed when she blushed and beamed at him, obviously pleased with herself despite her confusion.

"Don't get cocky Molly. I would have gotten there eventually."

He brushed past her on the way to the door, phone already in hand and a text to John halfway completed.

Sherlock knew he'd pitch a fit if he wasn't filled in before he confronted Alexandra…


Oh dear, what has Sherlock so keyed up?

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