"I just don't see what he sees in him," I confided in Bartholomew. He replied with a heavy sigh. "I'm not saying it should be me in his place but given Greg's long list of failed lovers, I fear Sherlock will just be another victim of a serial romance."
Bartholomew looked at me as if to say, "You're worried that Greg is far too similar to yourself and that if you were involved with Sherlock in such a way you'd come up with reason to end it."
"Am I projecting?" I asked Bartholomew and before he could respond, Rosie entered the room.
"I've had a bad dream."
"You haven't been asleep long enough to dream." I had only just sent her to bed five minutes prior.
"Where's Sherlock?"
I didn't know precisely how to answer. "He's on a case." That sounded so wrong.
"Why's he gone without you?"
Sherlock arrived home just in time for me not to have to suffer through Rosie's interrogation but he was so self absorbed that he wouldn't put Rosie back to bed. By the time I had gotten her to bed a second time, I was severely cross.
"You know, most people would binge watch a show on Netflix but, oh no! You have to be off having tantric sex with the police!"
"People's lives are at stake!" He argued.
"That is my point exactly! There's no time for this nonsense. You don't even know Lestrade's first name! Why should you two even be together? It doesn't make a lick of sense!"
Sherlock just went about ignoring me but I wasn't about to give up being heard.
"Last I checked it's Holmes and Watson not Holmes and Lestrade."
"You're jealous," he noted.
"Ever since he's come out of the closet you've been acting so bizarre."
"John, if you haven't noticed: I'm gay."
"But you're not though. You don't like men. You don't like anyone!"
"I like you," he said.
"But you don't like like me. There's a difference."
He remained silent.
"We work together because the feelings between us are mutual," I told him. "We don't require physical intimacy for us to function as a pair. Why can't you be satisfied with what we have? It's never bothered you before… or has it?" I asked.
Silence.
"Are you acting out because of us?" I asked, not quite sure I was ready for the answer.
"No, it's not that."
"Then what is it?"
"A lottery…"
"A what?"
"A lottery, John. Don't you see it? And not one by chance either…"
Sherlock pulled out a pen and paper. "The contestants buy their way into the scheme, not with money but with ritual sacrifice."
"I don't follow…"
"It's a pyramid scheme, only instead of recruiting another two of their friends, they kill off two people." He drew out a triangle on the paper. "At each level they're paid a set amount and the more sacrifices they have-"
"The more they'd be paid? But where does the lottery come into play?"
"They'd still need volunteers to act out the crimes. While others continue to live out life in the lap of luxury, some are chosen to commit the murders."
"So you buy your way in by choosing two people to be killed. Then you get to keep the flow of money unless you're called upon. The more people there are involved, the less likely it is that you'd be the one to have to carry out a murder yourself… who would do such a thing?"
"Someone who benefits from death. Who would get paid directly for a person's untimely demise?"
"A coffin maker?" I guessed.
"Or rather, an undertaker. One who's preparing his own bodies for undertaking."