After a long night of trying and failing to sleep dreamlessly, Emili decided to just stay awake after five AM, having flashes of dark cloth and red-splattered yellow walls in her dreams. She didn't need a therapist to understand what was keeping her up.

At about nine, she slid her bare feet into bright green house slippers and covered her mouth in a wide yawn before padding out of her apartment. She drew her door closed on habit, but didn't think to twist the door lock – she was just going downstairs for a few minutes. Like she knew it would, one of the stairs towards the top of the steps creaked underneath her weight as she walked down to 221B.

She knocked hard on the door. She knew John had plans – he'd sent her a text to tell her he wouldn't be home - and Sherlock was very rarely asleep while there was sunlight illuminating the parlor. Her right hand ached with a cramp from holding a pen for the last hour, so she worked her thumb hard into the muscles and tendons in her palm.

No one came to the door, and no one said anything. All things considered, Emili had probably already stumbled upon the most unpleasant sights she could see in a man's apartment when she opened Sherlock's freezer or his half of the cupboards, so she tried the door; unlocked. She pushed it open and walked inside, looking around curiously.

Sherlock was sitting in front of his laptop at the kitchen table, which was, for once, free of any sort of science equipment. Emili's stomach growled quietly. She crossed to the sofa and collapsed down in the corner, kicking off her slippers and curling up into a small little mass of pink and green.

"I said," Sherlock said firmly, "Could you pass me a pen?"

Emili startled. "When did you say that?" She asked in confusion.

Sherlock didn't look away from his computer. Sometimes Emili thought it was impossible to startle him, and she envied him his calm composure. "To John, about an hour ago."

Em tangled a hand in her long, untied hair as she pulled it away from her face. "John had an appointment at seven this morning to meet with the manager of a health clinic," she relayed, shocked that Sherlock hadn't known. How did the man who seemed to know everything completely miss that his roommate wasn't even in the building? "Did you really not notice he wasn't here?"

"His lack of correct deductions seems to have very little difference whether he is or isn't, so it's no surprise that his absence left little impact." Her brother promptly answered.

The girl blinked, frowned, and sighed, dropping her hands into her lap. "Okay," she said, processing and trying to come up with a response. "Wow. Future reference, that's rude."

Rude was not the first word that came to her mind, but throwing insults wouldn't get her anywhere. To be honest, she wasn't sure that pointing out unacceptable behaviors was going to get her anywhere, either, but Emili wanted to believe that, even if it was for purely selfish reasons, Sherlock preferred to not offend his friends. He got upset when no one was willing to indulge him, so it stood to reason that he'd like it if they weren't pissed at him most of the time.

Instead of replying to her comment, or even appearing vaguely apologetic towards the man that wasn't there, Sherlock shifted gears and started questioning after a completely unrelated subject. "How's your maths doing?" He enquired.

She cocked her head. "How'd you know?" She asked his back plainly, reluctantly admitting that she was still impressed and intrigued by his abilities.

Sherlock clicked his tongue like it was obvious. "Ink stains on your hand. They weren't there last night and the only class you use a pen for is maths." Emili picked up her hands and turned them over. There were marks from the nub knocking against the side of her index finger. "Are you finished?'

She thought back to her open notebook and the online module. Logarithms weren't going to solve themselves, but aside from being a little bit time consuming, she understood the concept. "I can be," she replied slowly. She could always come back to them later. She still liked how free her schedule got to be with the online education.

"Excellent." Sherlock sat back in the chair, his spine still straight, and turned the computer slightly to his right. "Come look at this."

It occurred to the teenager that Sherlock didn't seem as if he had expected any other answer, and so she briefly questioned whether or not encouraging his apparent belief that she had no higher priorities was a good call on her part. She decided that if it got to that point, she could always put her foot down. In the meantime, what high schooler didn't put off their math homework?

After sighing with effort and getting up under protest, she approached the table to see what was so important. When she got closer, Emili could see that it was John's laptop again, not Sherlock's. So much for password protection. The laptop was opened to an internet article from a London news bulletin. Sherlock folded his hands under his chin and closed his eyes in thought. Sending him a cynical glance, Emili bent down by his shoulder and read.

Ghostly Killer Leaves a Mystery for Police was the bolded headline. Underneath it was a small profile photo of a slowly but surely balding man in a vest with a crooked smile and a faraway look in his eyes. An intruder who can walk through walls murdered a man in his London apartment last night. Brian Lukis, forty-one, a freelance journalist from Earl's Court, was found shot in his fourth-floor flat, but all his doors and windows were locked and there were no apparent signs of a break-in.

The article went on to directly quote one of the investigators on the scene, but Emili skimmed over that and stood up straight again. She absentmindedly put a hand on the back of Sherlock's chair, gears in her brain speeding up with an engaging challenge. Putting the image of Van Coon's corpse out of her mind, she pictured the scene again: locked doors, no forced entry, death by gunshot wound.

"It's the MO," she stated, hesitant to immediately believe that they were related. It seemed like an awful coincidence, but when she stopped to think about it, London was a large city, and there were plenty of other reasons why there might not have been forced entry. It could've been any number of situations that went wrong. Maybe, like she had told John, the killer had twisted locks on their way out, like she had done to keep Liza out of her bedroom. And there were plenty of illicit ways to get ahold of firearms, and no one could say that they weren't efficient weapons.

"Happened last night." Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He reached for the computer and gently pushed the screen down. "Journalist shot dead in his flat, doors locked, windows bolted from the inside, exactly the same as Van Coon. He's killed another one."

One thing Emili knew about Sherlock was that, although he could be a little obsessive, he was also empirical to a fault. He would argue with police to his last breath, but only if they were incorrect. She thought of a way to voice her concerns over whether or not the murders were actually related in a way that wouldn't send him on an offensive tirade about her intellect or memory.

"Don't we have to find that message somewhere Lukis was to be sure?" She suggested thoughtfully.

The yellow spray paint was what had tied the crime scenes at Tower 42 and in the apartment together. The reason Van Coon had died had to do with the symbol. If the same killer had taken the journalist's life, then he was either a spree killer or they were murdered for the same reason. The scenes were too organized and methodical to be part of a spree, which left only the graffiti to connect the pieces.


The police had already found the crime scene in Lukis' apartment, so there was no chance of sneaking in unnoticed until it was cleared out and abandoned by law enforcement. If Sherlock hoped to get any trace evidence, they couldn't afford to wait that long. Emili was more concerned with losing time, because if someone had killed twice already, the only thing really standing between them and a third body was how quickly someone did something to stop it.

Without time to waste or a badge to flash, they had to resort to the only person they knew was available who had the authority to get them into the crime scene. Emili still hopefully looked around, seeking out Lestrade with her eyes, but she couldn't find the older detective inspector between the front entrance and Dimmock's desk.

Dimmock, unlike Lestrade, did not have his own office. He sat at a public desk near other inspectors', a cup of something hot on a folded paper towel by his computer keyboard. He stalked back to his desk with two independent investigators chasing him step for step.

Sherlock brandished a physical copy of the journal article from a newspaper stand. "Brian Lukis, freelance journalist murdered in his flat, doors locked from the inside," he summarized roughly.

The brunet sighed as he turned around and sank down onto the padding of his office chair and crossed his right leg over his left. Adamantly, he refused to look at Sherlock or the paper being held out to him. Dimmock woke up his computer and held his hands over the keys, fingers twitching the move.

"Even you can't just say it's coincidence," Emili pushed for a reaction, increasingly frustrated with Scotland Yard. Weren't they obligated to follow all possible leads? It was public safety at risk! "It's the exact same."

Dimmock swallowed and blinked, yet his eyes remained stubbornly glued to his computer. After a second, he paused, opened his mouth, and licked his slightly-parted lips in preparation to say something.

Sherlock didn't give him the chance. "Inspector, do you seriously believe that Eddie Van Coon was just another city suicide? You have seen the ballistics report, I suppose?" He slapped the newspaper on top of Dimmock's hands and dropped it over the man's fingers. He was forced to look at the headline as he moved it out of the way.

"Mm-hmm," the detective confirmed unhappily, his shoulders stiff.

Em saw their persistence wearing away at Dimmock's refusal to acknowledge them and knew that if they kept at it, he would crack. She put her hands down by his coffee (she was secretly delighted to have met another person who didn't first go to tea) and leaned over onto his desk invasively.

"And the shot that killed him," Sherlock coached, rolling his eyes in annoyance as he had to walk Dimmock through it. "Was it fired from his own gun?"

With a very sour expression, Dimmock crossed his arms and tucked his hands underneath his upper arms. He bit on his tongue while glaring mutinously up at the black-haired man, but shifted his shoulders gradually and looked away to mutter, "No."

"No," Sherlock repeated, marginally appeased. "So this investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as gospel."

Her head snapped up to stare at Sherlock, her mouth parted in shock and disbelief. Dimmock was similarly taken aback by the callousness and arrogance of the statement, and for a second, both of them just looked up at Sherlock as if he had lost his freaking mind.

"Wow," Emili eventually said, her face one of distaste. "That escalated…" she sent another warning, long look at her brother. He didn't seem at all repentant, just questioning as to why she was objecting to him. She turned her stare back to Dimmock and splayed her fingers on the desktop. "Just like the body count will continue to do if you don't start listening!" She urged. "There's a reason Lestrade told you about us. It's because we're worth paying attention to."

Her voice had gentled. Emili was trying to appeal to something other than hard logic, because Dimmock was proving to be the kind of man who didn't want to admit that he was wrong. She thought that maybe pointing out they had the confidence of a senior DI might win them a little more trust – maybe even some recognition, because a man more experienced than Dimmock wouldn't put stock repeatedly in the words of lunatics.

Sherlock ruined it, of course, and Emili wasn't sure why she hadn't predicted he would. "And I've just handed you a murder enquiry," he aggressively stated, pointing at the newspaper as his proof. "Five minutes in this man's flat."


Not for the first time, Emili wondered at how nice it was to have police escorts. All it took was for Dimmock to show his badge to confirm that he was who he said he was, and Sherlock and Emili were permitted up into Brian Lukis' apartment. Sherlock snapped on pale blue latex gloves to keep his fingerprints off of things (Emili would just as soon not touch a ton, but was given a pair anyway by a nice-looking man with freckles and a smile who manned the CSI equipment).

Dimmock pushed the master key into the keyhole of the door, twisted it around to the left, and took it out again before opening up the apartment. Sherlock brushed past, knocking the door open wider with his shoulder on his way. Dimmock only seemed a little surprised, and Emili felt a little ditched. She pranced after Sherlock with a lighthearted skip in her step, a forced bounce. She tried not to think too hard about how there had been a body in the apartment some hours ago.

"What are we looking for?" Dimmock questioned as he pulled the door shut to preserve the scene, slipping the key surreptitiously into the pocket on the inside of his grey blazer.

Lukis' apartment was a stark contrast to Van Coon's. The trader's had been immaculate, almost unlived in, with the exception of his kitchen and his liquor collection. Lukis' furniture looked like he'd never heard of a vacuum, and had no sort of organization. Although it was on the pricier side of London housing, there was a lingering scent that reminded Em of burned eggs and old lunch meat. She couldn't see the coffee table for all of the miscellaneous junk on it, ranging from opened mail to empty beer and Aquafina bottles.

A skylight on the right side of the apartment looked in at the living room. A grey suede couch had a black laptop slid towards the back of the cushions, a pair of socks near it for some reason that escaped the American, and various travel magazines. One cushion was clear, and it was just large enough for an adult to sit. As she moved further into the apartment, Dimmock just a few feet behind her, her nose also caught the mildew-y draft coming from behind closed closet doors. She pinched her nose shut and veered towards the desk shoved into a corner, table lamp still turned on above it.

"Anything that could connect this crime scene to Van Coon's apartment." Emili answered after a beat, having waited for Sherlock to give some input. When he failed, she resolved to replying to the questions. Sherlock's back was to them as he studied the door wide open to the bedroom and gradually stalked inside. Her stomach turned and she promised herself she would stay out of there. "Inconsistencies in the suicide theory that you seem to enjoy…" She caught herself giving Dimmock a fish-eyed glare. "God, what is it with Scotland Yard passing murders off as suicide?"

Emili believed Lestrade was a more than decent detective, and she wished that more people had his willingness to be proven wrong and to adapt to facts. She also wished that more of the officers had his patience with her and politeness towards John. Even so, she couldn't just forget that he had been the one to decide that Jeff Hope's murders were actually voluntary suicides, and Emili had almost lost her life while trying to stop the rampant serial killer.

Part of her knew it was her fault that her life had been in danger to begin with. She'd gotten into a cab with a stranger, only knowing that he was a killer, because she wanted to play hero. She had wanted to save someone's life, not realizing that she was the next target. She was incredibly lucky that Sherlock and John had thought to trace the fourth victim's phone and saved her life. Sometimes she still wondered what might have gone differently if the police had been more prepared to believe that there was a real threat other than Sherlock's possible drug habits.

While she stretched out her gloves to pull up over her hands, Dimmock put his hands on his hips and stood by her, making sure she didn't do anything she shouldn't. "What is it with you and thinking you're better than the police?" He returned, having an easier time finding his voice than he had at the last crime scene. Emili sighed and rolled her eyes as she touched slippery magazine covers through latex, moving them away so she could pick up the datebook underneath. "Shouldn't you be in school?"

She flipped the book open, but accidentally to the wrong month. "Online school," she retorted quickly, turning the pages. "I choose my own hours, which means you can't get rid of me that easily."

"Got rid of the short one," Dimmock commented, looking around with vague interest as if only just then realizing John wasn't accompanying them.

"Dr. Watson is working," she said curtly, closing the datebook. Unless root canals or dinner with his mother were code for something else, she doubted there was much they couldn't get from his boss. Most of his dates were publications and due dates for rough and final drafts of articles.

Just by looking around, Emili could take a pretty good guess at the kind of lifestyle he lived. With his journalism, he made enough to keep his nice place, but it was tiresome work that he had trouble focusing on. The messy apartment, the scattered magazines and books, the computer right where he might have sat – it was like he'd sit or pace for hours trying to come up with content that someone would be willing to pay him for publishing rights to. She almost felt bad. She couldn't imagine having her writing assignments critiqued as harshly as journals or newspapers would've critiqued Lukis'.

Unexpectedly, Sherlock's lower voice called both of them for attention. "Em, come here," he instructed.

The teen and the detective both twisted to look and see. Sherlock had pulled open the closet doors, exposing an electric dryer and a washer that had one of the dials broken off. A pair of pliers was on the top, used to twist the thin prong to set the timer. On top of the dryer was a brown briefcase, opened up to show messy, rumpled clothes. Sherlock was kneeling before the dryer with interest, his arms in front of him.

She lowered herself into a curious crouch at Sherlock's left side. He held his hands towards her, cradling a black paper flower in his palms. A little less than half of the petals were abused and bent out of shape, like they'd been crushed by a suitcase or the closed closet doors. The shadow from the third person fell partially over the pathetic-looking flower when Dimmock leaned over between them.

"A piece exactly like this was found with Van Coon," Emili murmured softly to Sherlock, still not sure that she wanted Dimmock to know. If Sherlock had kept the origami for his own observation, then she didn't want him to get in trouble. "Remember?"

Sherlock looked at her like she asked something incredibly stupid. She sighed and nodded and resisted the twitching urge in her hand to do something rude with her fingers.

"It's origami," Dimmock stated, disappointed. "I'm sure lots of people make those."

Emili picked herself up from the floor, rising to her feet with her hands on her knees. Her hair swung forwards, tickling her cheeks, and she had to consciously stop herself from getting hair on her gloves from the impulse to fix it. "It's not just origami!" She objected. "It's a serial killer's signature." Sherlock stood, too, placing the black flower on the top of a shirt that was half-folded and half-balled up. At least now Emili knew where the icky smell was coming from – the dirty laundry. "Which you would know," she stressed, "If you knew how to rule something as murder!"

Sherlock flew across the room. "Four floors up," he interrupted them. Emili ceased picking on Dimmock, biting the inside of her cheek. "That's why they think they're safe." The way he was starting to pick up speed told Emili that he wasn't speaking to them, but to himself. She still gestured with her hand for Dimmock to listen. She often got more out of his rambling than she did out of his hasty and impatient direct communication. "Put a chain across the door and bolt it shut, and they think they're impregnable." He stopped cold in the middle of the living room, staring with his head tilted back at the skylight. "They don't reckon for one second that there's another way in."

Hold on, Emili almost protested, are you implying that the climber scaled the building and came through that little rectangle? The skylight was large enough for a small adult to slide through – definitely herself, possibly John, definitely not Lestrade - but it was at such a steep angle that she doubted anyone would be dumb enough to try.

Before she could ask, Dimmock unfolded his arms, turning around and shuffling on his feet. "I don't understand," he objected, his eyebrows furrowing and his jaw tightening.

Sherlock's voice hardened. "You're dealing with a killer who can climb." He ripped the desk chair away from the desk, and even though there were pads at the ends of the feet to help it move, he ripped it over so hard that it bounced on the carpet for a second before he put his weight on it, stepping up to stand by the wall under the skylight.

Her brother pressed hard on the window latch. It didn't really have a safety mechanism, but she heard something make a small squeak before it was finally forcibly unlocked. Then, with a careful press against the lower side of the panel, Sherlock pushed it partway open, the London street noise magnifying and a small rush of cool, crisp air wafting in. His dark hair ruffled.

"What are you doing?" Dimmock questioned again, not following along. He looked more cross the longer he spent in confusion, and as Emili could see his patience waning, she could also see the tightness in his face that suggested he was about to demand that they leave the crime scene, even though they had probably had only four of the promised five minutes.

Sherlock ran his hands along the edge of the window, feeling at the outside of the windowpane for an indication that it could be opened from the side of the building. "He clings to the walls like an insect," he called down to Emili. His right hand stopped moving as he found something. Em guessed it was a lock or latch. "That's how he got in."

That was a nice theory, but even Emili doubted him. It was an awful lot of climbing, and at a big risk. Falling from this height, not to mention the height of Tower 42's Shad Sanderson office, could pulverize a person. She was healthily cynical, but didn't appreciate that Dimmock wasn't really considering the possibility. She was a sixteen-year-old, in no way obligated to believe what she was told. Dimmock was an adult in the law enforcement service, and was therefore legally bound to heed due diligence statutes, which included pursuing leads, even if they seemed unorthodox.

"What?!" Dimmock declared louder, shaking his head incredulously.

Emili sent him an annoyed glare. "Are you always this confused?" It was the third time he had said something indicating that he wasn't following along in the last sixty seconds.

Sherlock drew his hands back inside and pulled the window shut gently. When the seal reconnected, the noise from outside muffled itself as if she had put on headphones, and it made a quiet, subtle thunk noise. "He climbed up the side of the walls, ran along the roof, and dropped in through this skylight."

"You're not serious!" Dimmock objected, scowling distastefully. He put his hands on his hips sassily and sneered. "Like Spiderman?"

Emili said, "That would be ridiculous." For just a second, the detective looked relieved that someone was being sensible, until she added musingly, "More like Jessica Jones."

Sherlock hopped off of the chair and, impressively, hit the floor walking. "He scaled six floors of a Docklands apartment building and jumped the balcony to kill Van Coon."

Dimmock's mouth moved, but no sound came out until he threw his hands down and yelled at Sherlock's back, "Hold on-!"

"And, of course, that's how he got into the bank. He ran along the window ledge and onto the terrace." Sherlock stopped beside the washer and dryer again, and picked up a new-looking book from the suitcase. He turned it over, looked at the back for a few seconds, and then dropped it back onto the messily packed laundry. "We have to find out what connects these two men."

Sherlock reached for his wrists and started stripping off his gloves, ripping them off of his hands, balling them up, and tossing them into the open trashcan beside the door. He pulled open the apartment door and left it wide open when he left, taking a sharp turn.

Emili sighed. Does he assume I'll follow, or does he forget I'm supposed to be with him? … Which is less insulting?

Dimmock pushed his hands into his pockets, rocking on his feet, bewildered. "How does he do that?" He asked, scuffing a shoe on the patch of tile he stood on. The detective sounded both infuriated and grudgingly awed.

"Amazing, isn't it?" Emili agreed thoughtfully. Sherlock and Mycroft were hands-down the sharpest people she had ever met, and she still wasn't sure how they handled their intellect without going insane. She couldn't imagine being overwhelmed with as much information as they processed at any given time. Then again, that sort of explained why Sherlock had had a drug issue. "Maybe all of us would be more like that if we weren't so focused on the superficial, and the trivial, and Keeping Up with the Kardashians." Emili still didn't know if Sherlock had excellent focus or an extreme attention deficit, but the world might be a safer and less confusing place if everyone had his talents.

She didn't realize she had started to zone out while thinking until Dimmock touched her shoulder, giving her a gentle shove on her upper arm for her attention. "Keeping up with who?" He asked curiously, his tone impatient like he'd asked more than once.

Aside from the immediate disbelief that he had had to ask, Emili stared at him, wide-eyed, for a very long moment. She finally answered, "Do yourself a favor and protect yourself; don't ever Google what I just said."


There were three levels in a simple cult hierarchy, Emili reflected as she trailed along behind Sherlock, dragging her eyes over the spines of books in the Kensington Municipal Library. The highest level was the leader. There was typically only one leader at any given time in a cult. Said leader was charismatic, sympathetic, and attractive more often than not, but all of those traits tended to hide sociopathic tendencies. Just underneath the leader was a small swarm of 'true believers.' The true believers would hail the leader's preaching as their truths, and would place their cult's values above any of their own personal needs. The believers scared Emili the most, honestly – the leader was just one person, but an entire group of obsessive worshipers had power. Just ask the KKK, or Al-Qaeda, or the Nazis, or any other organization that had die-hard members in its uppermost ranks. Finally, there were the followers. Most of the people were followers, dedicated to the cause in that it was a guiding force in their life, but in general, followers would prioritize themselves and their other important values before their cult's demands when it really came down to it – like how a Christian mother might take her children to church weekly, but would cease doing so if the church became a dangerous place.

It might have bothered her that she knew so much about cult structures if it wasn't for how she regularly employed such information in her daily life. No, what bothered her was that she was beginning to feel like one of the followers, traipsing after her leader like she was one of the Lost Boys in Neverland. Sherlock had an irritating habit of not telling her everything unless she put her foot down and made him tell her or risk losing his company, which usually made him surly and sulky for hours afterward.

He hadn't spoken to her for almost ten minutes, but Emili thought it was probably worth it. Now she knew why they were at the library. Although there hadn't been the time for Lukis to unpack his belongings since returning from his journalism-related trip abroad, the book on the top layer of his suitcase had been borrowed from the facility about twenty-four hours ago, if the timeline was right. Like Emili had suggested, they were looking for more proof of a connection between Van Coon and Lukis. So far, the black origami seemed damning, but Sherlock wanted to see if there were any extra clues to be found by retracing Lukis' steps. Why had he been distracted from unpacking if he had had the time to run non-pressing errands to collect reading books?

The fictional books were Emili's favorite, because she liked the organizational system the best. The non-fiction section used the Dewey Decimal System, which she wasn't as familiar with, and it left her looking at the ISBN numbers on the sides of books, trying to get closer and closer to the number that Sherlock had recited without pause from memory.

She got a digit closer and slowed down. They were only off by a few now, and their slot would be coming up. Sherlock covered the right side of the shelves while Emili surveyed the left side, pursing her lips thoughtfully. "It's weird doing this without John," she remarked offhandedly. The doctor had become sort of a safety blanket for Em in the last several months. Although she would go to the Holmeses in a second if she thought she was in real trouble, John felt more supportive and present than anyone else. She didn't want to bother him by being clingy, but she was sure that Sherlock – and likely Mycroft – had both been able to discern it.

Sherlock scoffed quietly while scanning the titles, ISBN codes, and placements. "We can't just stand idly by and wait for his return."

"I know," Emili hurriedly assured, a little bit offended. Surely Sherlock would've realized by now that she wasn't the kind of girl who sat around waiting – for anyone. "I just…" She stopped herself, not knowing how to explain it to a man who was notorious for neglecting emotional connections. She didn't know how to tell Sherlock that John made her feel safe in a way that Sherlock usually didn't, especially since she knew very well that Sherlock was more than capable of physically fighting. Em worried that she was getting a little too attached to the army doctor. "Never mind," she muttered, shaking her head.

Sherlock did exactly that. "The date stamped on the book is the same day that he died."

"So he was here yesterday." Emili slowed to a stop as she saw the ISBN numbers come incredibly close to the one she was looking for. "Hey, maybe they haven't reordered their check-ins yet." It looked like it, going by how many books were empty from the shelves and how many were tilted or upside down after being put back by visitors who had ultimately decided against loaning them out.

Sherlock pulled out books on the other side of the shelves. Even with her back turned, Emili could hear the thud as some of them fell down without the pressure of their neighboring stories. She found the number just one off from hers, and peered into the dark slot. She could just barely see a difference in color, but didn't know if it was shadows or not. It was right at eye-level, so she lifted her hands a little higher than she was used to in a library, pulling the books on either side out of the cubbyhole.

As more light streamed into the space, she could more clearly see the color. It was definitely not shadows. A streak of yellow and a curving slide of the same color became visible. She felt her heart rate picking up and glanced briefly over her shoulder. It was creepy and nerve-wracking, like in a spy movie. She set both of those books down flat on the shelf beneath and took out more, rapidly uncovering the yellow paint that had hidden behind them. She put down the last of the books she'd removed and took a step back. It was exactly like the sign at Shad Sanderson.

"I found it!" She called to Sherlock, her body stilling like stone as she stared.