ғʀɪᴅᴀʏ 11:28 ᴀᴍ

An hour ago Lestrade had alerted Sherlock and John about another body. Margaret was still asleep when Sherlock rushed out earlier and over to John's, hustling the man into a cab and over to the crime scene.

The body was found in an alley, obscured from street view as it was far in, propped up against the side of an overflowing dumpster. No cameras were mounted around, thus making identifying their killer harder to find, assuming no evidence linking back to him could be found on the corpse like the other victims.

"Well that's–" John coughed, covering his mouth at the rancid smell and stumbling back a few steps.

Sherlock brought his collar up over his nose, eyeing the already decomposing body. "It's been here for a few days. You said she was found this morning?" He asked Lestrade, who stood off to the side.

The man nodded. "One of the homeless wandered down here. We already got their statement."

"I'd like a copy of it." Sherlock stated, then moved his eyes to observe the corpse. Like with the victim from Llansannor Dr, there were distinct marks on the ankles where it appeared cuffs had been. He noted the feet were unharmed, not broken in with a hammer. The jaw was hanging open slightly, dry blood caked to the woman's chin caught his attention, and he acquired a glove from Lestrade to gently pull it down.

His brows knit together with curiosity. "She's missing her tongue."

John arched his brows. "Her tongue? What is it with him and cutting people?"

Lestrade pressed his lips together, glancing around to see if anyone was near, suddenly looking uncomfortable. He started, drawing the pair's eyes to him, "Look, we haven't been able to create a profile on this bastard. This is his eighth victim and they just keep getting worse." He paused to nod at passersby who came to move the body to the morgue. He continued, "What I'm trying to say is that I'm thankful for what you're doing on your end."

Sherlock nodded stiffly. "Yes. Of course you can take all the credit, Gerald, your team is doing fine work."

John opened his mouth to correct the man but shut it when he saw Lestrade wasn't bothered. Instead, Lestrade grinned even if it wasn't the response he was looking for.

"Right."

They stood in silence for a second until Sherlock announced. "Time to go John."

John watched as Sherlock's form retreated down the street, already hailing a cab. He hurriedly turned to Lestrade and rushed out a goodbye. He slid in the backseat just in time to hear Sherlock tell the driver,

"Baker Street."

They rode in a comfortable silence back to 221B, arriving near half past twelve. John paid the fare and met up with Sherlock who was waiting on the sidewalk.

"What do you think?" Sherlock questioned.

John angled his head to look at his companion. "About what? The murders?" He received a nod. "I think whoever is doing them is messed up in the head."

Sherlock's eyes rolled as he reached to open the door. "Yes. No normal person would go out killing and torturing eight people, John. I was asking about the bodies. Did you notice anything?"

They had entered the foyer. Sherlock made to go up the stairs while the other lingered down, hoping to catch Mrs Hudson to see if she had any scones even if it wasn't tea time yet. He was hungry.

John turned back to Sherlock, knowing the answer to his question. "I gave the body a once over. It has a lot of similar markings as the last victim so I assume that the same killer did it. Although it looked like the killer showed restraint; not breaking the feet and there's less physical trauma."

A ghost of a smile appeared on Sherlock's face. "Very good. But, perhaps it was not restraint only the last was was extremely violent simply to send a message."

A challenge to Sherlock Holmes.

A loud thump from the room over disturbed them. Confusion flashed across their faces and the pair hastened to see what it was.

Mrs Hudson kneeled on the floor, her back to them.

"Oh Mrs Hudson!" John exclaimed, rushing over to help her stand "Hold on one second." His arms looped around her bent elbows, pulling her up and—

"Bloody hell!" John swore in shock as he turned the woman around.

Blood poured out of multiple stab wounds in her abdomen, her skin was already an unhealthy pale and suddenly her legs buckled underneath.

Sherlock caught Mrs Hudson before she could collide with the floor. The man cradled her head in his lap, gripping her hand as it drifted up, tugging weekly on his shirt.

John stood above in a daze; eyes flickering to the blood pooled on the floor, his mind running over the possibilities of her survival, which were very low. She had lost a lot of blood and with multiple stab wounds gushing the liquid out, she would bleed out before they reached a hospital.

"John!" Sherlock yelled. They met eyes. Both knew it was too late but none could bear to say it aloud, none could bear not to try and save her.

John got to work, slipping off his shirt and advising Sherlock to keep pressure on the wounds with the makeshift bandages. The bleeding wouldn't stop and it seemed Mrs Hudson was slipping away faster by the minute. He couldn't recall if it was him or Sherlock who called 112, but emergency responders flooded the apartment later on.

Mrs Hudson was already dead.

The two men who were covered in blood gave statements, then the Yard took over and opened an investigation into the murder. Lestrade arrived, urging both of them to leave while the Yard did their work, not allowing them to interfere after what they just went through. The body stayed in the house until forensics had done their job, it wasn't until late that night that it was moved to the morgue.

After a day he'd rather forget, Sherlock trudged upstairs to his flat. John had already gone home, the man barely spoke a word.

Sherlock pondered over who could have killed Mrs Hudson and the only liable conclusion he'd come up with was his enemy; the killer. But to murder her randomly, and so out of his already random pattern, only turned him into even more of a conundrum. He would throw himself back into work tomorrow, but now he wanted to sleep.

Opening up the door he was faced with an empty couch. His lips pressed into a slight frown as he wondered over Margaret's whereabouts.

Likely at another pub.

He dismissed her well-being and headed towards his room, although something caught his eye. It was a cream colored envelope, propped up on his windowsill. Cautiously, he made his way over to the strange object. The police hadn't searched his flat — he made a good argument about it, he hadn't thought the killer would have paid him a visit.

The letter was opened and its casing discarded. Inside was a thin piece of paper, with a sniff he found it to be odorless. On it read,

Soon.

Sherlock was momentarily confused, then it clicked. With unsteady hands he pulled out his phone, first dialing John. It went to voicemail.

"John I know you're around, don't go getting yourself shit faced drunk. I need you. Come back to the flat please."

He paused before making his next call. Both to consider if he really wanted to inform his brother of this and to examine the damning text another time. He inhaled deeply, holding the phone up to his ear as it rang.

To no surprise, Mycroft answered.

"Hello?" Sherlock was silent, turning words over in his mind which prompted Mycroft to say, "Who is this?"

"Me. It's Margaret, she's gone." He put bluntly.

There was shuffling on the other end, a moment's pause before, "Gone? What do you mean?"

"I mean she was taken, kidnapped. Did you understand that?" Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft went quiet on his side. "I'm coming over." Then he hung up. Sherlock blanched at the thought of Mycroft visiting now.

He drifted over to his chair and sat in it, enjoying the familiarity that came with the fabric. By the time Mycroft came, two hours later, he was still sitting unmoving in that chair.