Three Hours Remaining
'Connection. There must be a connection!' Sherlock growled, pacing in front of the wall, which he had covered with paper clippings, notes and photographs, joined together by pinned string, indicating their connection. Lestrade stood behind him, watching his friend's urgency with some sympathy. Florence had pills in her hand, painkillers. She downed them with a glass of cold water, and winced. 'Carl Powers. Killed twenty years ago. The bomber knew him; admitted that he knew him. The bomber's phone – in stationary from the Czech Republic. First hostage from Cornwall, then London, then Yorkshire, by the sounds of her accent. What is he doing? Working his way around the world? Showing off..?'
'He's playing with you, Sherlock. Confusing you.' Florence said, her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose in pain.
'Clearly.'
Florence's phone rang from the coffee table in front of her. She reached down, but Sherlock got there before her, fixing her with a glare. He answered it, and switched it to speakerphone.
'You're enjoying this, aren't you? Joining... the dots.' the woman said, her voice trembling as she sobbed. 'Three hours... boom, boom.' she cried out, and the line went dead.
After about an hour of Sherlock saying or doing nothing but staring at the wall in his prayer position, he got his phone out and started talking to someone. This time he didn't put it on speakerphone.
Mrs Hudson appeared with tea, and after she had placed the tray on the coffee table she moved to look closer at the wall.
'Great. Thank you. Thanks again.' Sherlock said into the phone, walking past Florence and towards the fireplace. Her headache had almost cleared, and she could now look at things without every stream of light making her want to sleep.
'It's such a shame.' Mrs Hudson was saying, and Florence listened in on their conversation, stepping towards them. Her arms were crossed over her chest, as the top she was wearing clung to her skin, and she didn't like that much. 'I liked her. She taught you how to do your colours.'
'Colours?' Lestrade asked, turning to look at her.
'You know...' her arm swept downwards in a gesture towards her clothes. 'what goes best with what. I should never wear cerise, apparently. Drains me.'
Sherlock ended his conversation, and Lestrade turned to look at him. 'Who was that?'
'Home Office.' Sherlock said casually.
'Home Office?' Lestrade repeated, surprised.
'Well, Home Secretary, actually. Owes me a favour.'
'She was a pretty girl, but she messed about with herself too much. They all do these days. People can hardly move their faces. It's silly, isn't it?' she turned to Florence as Lestrade smiled at her awkwardly. 'Don't you go doing that to yourself. Your pretty face doesn't deserve that sort of treatment.' Florence smiled, and laughed slightly at the compliment.
'Don't you worry. I can't stand needles.' she said, and Sherlock frowned slightly at her. She shook her head very slightly.
Mrs Hudson, seemingly unaware of their little communication, turned to Sherlock. 'Did you ever see her show?'
'Not until now.'
He opened his laptop and a video started playing – Connie Prince's makeover show. She was talking to someone – Florence didn't know who – and appeared to be hitting him quite hard on the back as she encouraged him to literally strip.
'That's the brother,' Mrs Hudson said, her smile fading into a look of dislike. 'no love lost there, if you can believe the papers.'
'So I gather. I've just been having a very fruitful chat with people who loved the show. Fan sites, indispensable for gossip.' Sherlock said, and they watched as the brother smiled falsely at the audience, as Connie Prince continued to hit him on the back.
Sherlock's phone buzzed quietly in his pocket. Lestrade looked at him, his expression inquisitive. Sherlock got out the phone, and glanced at the caller ID before answering it, shaking his head slightly at Lestrade.
'John.'
'Hi. Look, get over here quickly. I think I'm onto something. You'll need to pick up some stuff first. You got a pen?'
'I'll remember.'
Florence had opted out of the next leg of the case. Sherlock had put up a fight, reminding her of her first night, but her head had begun to hurt again, and she was tired. He had grudgingly left, placing her phone, with his number on it, on the coffee table in front of her.
She drifted in and out of sleep, her dreams fitful. She dreamed about her friends – of Arthur, and James, and Michael. She dreamed of their drugs, about how much she wanted them. She dreamed of how much she missed them, but of their anger when she inevitably returned. She abandoned them. She got scared, took the drug when she wasn't supposed to and woke up in a different life.
She dreamed about that different life, the old life, the one she had with Sherlock. She dreamed of their adventures – or what they thought were adventures, but were really just cycling around St James' park, or exploring abandoned factories. The factories that she would be living in not four years later, always with that gnawing anxiety that came with being chased.
The only dream she vividly remembered was being alone in a black space. The space didn't really have any boundaries – it was just a lot of space. Her gaze travelled around the space – she was frightened. She didn't like the dark. Not since she was attacked.
She could hear voices, and she ran towards them, as fast as her feet could take her. But, since it was a dream, her mind didn't let her run towards them, and she was running slower than she could walk. She screamed out in frustration, and the voices stopped.
'Florence?' one of them said, and she called back. 'Florence, Florence!' the voices said, their voices becoming more frantic, and closer. She recognised them, but couldn't place them.
The voices got louder and more urgent and suddenly it sounded like they were mere inches from her ears. She spun around, expecting to see a face, but before she could see it she was awoken abruptly.
'Flo?' Sherlock said, his voice gentle. Florence opened her eyes, to see his expression worried. He cracked the tiniest smile. 'I thought you were dead.'
'So instead of checking my pulse like a normal person, you woke me?' Florence smiled slightly and rubbed her eyes with her palms.
'That, and we're about to go over to Scotland Yard, hand this file in, and solve this case. You coming?'
'Yes.'
'Raoul de Santos is your killer. Kenny Prince's houseboy. Second autopsy shows it wasn't tetanus that poisoned Connie Prince – it was botulinum toxin.' Sherlock placed the file on Lestrade's desk triumphantly, and continued. 'We've been here before. Carl Powers? Tut-tut, our bomber's repeating himself.'
'So, how'd he do it?' Lestrade asked, beginning to walk towards his office.
'Botox injection.'
'Botox?'
'Botox is a diluted form of botulinum. Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the Home Office gave me the complete records for Raoul's internet purchases. He's been bulk ordering Botox for months.'
Florence noticed that John's expression was hardening, and she stared at him, questioningly.
'Bided his time, and upped the strength to a fatal dose.'
'You sure about this?'
'I'm sure.'
'All right. My office.' Lestrade said, and Sherlock began to follow him into his office before John caught his arm to stop him. Florence watched from the side.
'Hey, Sherlock.' he said, and Florence could sense the danger in his voice. 'How long?'
'What?'
'How long have you known?'
'Well, this one was quite simple, actually, and like I said – the bomber repeated himself. That was a mistake.' he moved to walk away again, but this time Florence ran to catch his arm, and pulled him round to face her.
'But the woman, Sherlock!' she exclaimed, her face anguished. 'she's been there the whole time. Terrified. Crying her eyes out, for God's sake. Think of the fucking damage that would have caused her – no water, no food – and that constant loss of bodily fluid? All for what, so you can out-fucking-smart the bomber?'
Sherlock's expression hardened, and he leaned in towards her, his eyes boring into her very soul with intensity. 'I knew I could save her.' he growled, but Florence stood her ground. Her eyes turned the same kind of dangerous Sherlock had seen in the hospital, not four days before. 'I also knew that the bomber had given us twelve hours. I solved the case quickly – that gave me time to get on with other things. Don't you see, Florence? We're one up on him.' he said, and turned swiftly into the office.
:)))
