Woah, that last chapter was a doozy, am I right? Well, hopefully I can make up for that with a couple of chapters involving a case! I wanted to use something from the BBC series, but with my own little twist; and this is coming from the person who promised 28 chapters. Oh, well, I guess there's no stopping the creative streak once it starts! Hehe!
It had been two months since we had returned home to London and let's just say that we quickly got back into the swing of things, and let's say that there was never a dull moment once the rest of London found out that Sherlock was alive; we had solved the disappearance of a top banker, we had recovered a famous painting, Falls of the Reichenbach, Turner's masterpiece, and no doubt, people would come to the door or stop outside the flat just to ambush us with cameras and notepads, wanting to know how the great Sherlock Holmes managed to fake his own death when there was no possible way he could have survived the fall.
On the bright side, all of this distracted me from my grief, when I wasn't helping with chores around the flat; Mrs. Hudson had insisted that we stay in the country somewhere, at least until things settled down and then reveal the news when we were ready, but Sherlock had said that they would have found out about it someway or another, besides, he had missed her whilst we were galivanting across the continent and that he missed his experiments greatly. He had a hard time getting over the fact that he no longer had his furry science partner.
Winter had slowly come and gone, and the warm breath of spring made its return. The sun was shining a lot more often; therefore, I had often encouraged him to go outside and get some fresh air because we didn't know how long it was going to last; we had planned to go out later and get some fish and chips, but at this particular moment, we were sitting in our favourite room of the flat.
Losing Grandfather wasn't easy for any of us. I had visited my mother over the weekend; she seemed to be doing better than I was, but maybe she was just putting on a brave face for my sake, even though I told her that was unnecessary. John said that people experience grief in different ways; for some, the process takes shorter than it does for others. I knew that for me, I would just have to endure it one day at a time.
I trudged more carefully after our argument, I was afraid that something like that would happen again. Sherlock opened up his arms and brought me down onto his lap, moving a hand up to stroke my hair.
"You know, couples fight once in a while, but it doesn't lessen the love that they have for each other," he said. "And nothing could ever change the way I feel about you."
"Even if we exploded like bombs and I cursed you to the ends of the Earth?"
"No, not even then," he said, leaning his forehead against mine.
"Would you look at that?" said Mrs. Hudson, "you made the front page again, dear." She put down a small tray with a bottle of milk, a sugar bowl, a teapot and two cups and saucers with teaspoons.
I smiled, taking it and then turned to the front page, reading it out loud. "Hero of the Reichenbach! Turner masterpiece recovered by famous Detective! Scotland Yard embarrassed by overlooked clues! A Turner masterpiece worth £1.7 million that was stolen from an auction house ten days ago has been recovered by a certain detective from North London. Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street has been investigating the art crime simply as a hobby, and yet he was able to follow the trail that lead him to the famous work – a trail that Scotland Yard missed completely.' "
Sherlock laughed when I mentioned how Scotland Yard had failed to pick something up once again, and I smiled. "There's more; 'Sherlock Holmes was last night being hailed a hero yet again for masterminding the daring escape of the kidnapped man. Scotland Yard had to secretly bring in their special weapon (in the form of Mr. Holmes) yet again. The case has drawn a huge amount of attention as the nation became divided about the outcome of the kidnapping. Bankers are certainly not the nations sweethearts any more, but Mr. Holmes certainly seems to be.' "
"The nation's sweetheart?" he scoffed, "I am no such thing; I hate being patronized as if what I do makes me some sort of saint."
"Look, that poor banker would never have been reunited with his family if it weren't for you," I said.
"Yes, but saving lives is not something that deserves any special praise or favors. I am just doing my job."
"They're just grateful that you helped them and lot of people would be dead if it weren't for you. You may not be a saint, but you're definitely a hero. You should be proud of yourself."
"Of us," he stated, getting up off the chair and walking over to pick up his violin and bow. He began to play Bach's Sonata No. 1 in G minor. "You're my partner in crime now, so to speak and you haven't even been credited. Shameful."
So that's what he was so bothered about; that my name wasn't added to the article.
"It's not that big of a deal," I shrugged. "Besides, what exactly does a partner in crime do besides accompany you to crime scenes? Am I like John Watson, providing the voice of reason when you need it?"
"You are not John Watson, though you are an excellent voice of reason. I am the brains, you are the muscle."
"Muscle?" I quirked an eyebrow and took a sip of my tea. "You're twice as strong as I am."
"Well, you can't be the brains can you? I'm definitely smarter," he said jokingly.
"I will prove you wrong, make no mistake about that," I replied, smiling.
After we'd spent a quiet morning together, I stood up. "I should go to the market; I promised Mrs. Hudson that I would pick up some fresh produce, herbs and bread. I won't be long."
"I'll be waiting." I threw on my coat and boots, just as I heard one of the stairs creaking noisily and I froze in place for a moment. Sherlock's playing stopped, too. It was quiet and so he shrugged, and couple of seconds later he resumed from a few notes before where he stopped and stood with his back to the living room door, keeps playing until someone pushed open the door and stepped forward into the light, flipping a gun over delicately in his hands. I saw nothing but a malicious grin on his face.
Sebastian Moran.
"Most people knock," he said without turning around. "But then you're not most people, I suppose."
As Sebastian walked further into the room and bent to pick up an apple from the bowl on the coffee table, my eyes never left him, I don't think I even blinked once. Tossing the apple and catching it, he looked around the living room as if searching for a seat. "Johann Sebastian would be appalled. May I?" Surprisingly, he turned to me and I nodded, trying hard not to show my fear. Once he was seated, he took out a small penknife and started to cut into the apple while I began to pour tea into the cups.
"You know when he was on his death bed, Bach, he heard his son at the piano playing one of his pieces. The boy stopped before he got to the end and the dying man jumped out of his bed, ran straight to the piano and finished it." I didn't know what that was supposed to do, maybe I didn't like the tension in the room.
"He couldn't cope with an unfinished melody," said Sherlock, turning to face him. "Neither can you. That's why you've come."
My hands trembled as they picked up one of the teacups, adding a splash of milk and sugar and turned and offered the cup to Sebastian, who sat up straighter and took it. He gazed up into Sherlock's eyes, smiling.
"Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain." He grinned. "You needed Moriarty, because without him, you're nothing. But now you've got me, and you're nothing without me, either. Because we're just alike, you and I."
"How are you alike?" I asked, feeling brave for one moment and he shook his head in disappointment, ignoring my question.
"Every person has their pressure point; someone that they want to protect from harm." He glanced at me as if proving his point.
"So how're you going to do it, burn me?" Sherlock asked with a grim smile as he met my gaze.
"Oh, that's the problem," he said softly. Have you worked out what it is yet?
Sherlock took a sip of his tea and looked across his cup to the other man.
"What's the final problem?" I asked.
"I did tell you," he replied in a sing-song voice, "but did you listen?" He took another sip of tea and then put the cup down into the saucer. Putting his hand onto his knee, he started idly drumming his fingers. Sherlock's eyes lowered to watch the movement.
"I don't know," Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly.
"Oh, that's clever; that's very clever; awfully clever. Speaking of clever, have you told your fans yet?"
"Told them what?" I asked.
"How you survived the fall," he clarified, gesturing to Sherlock.
"No."
"Do you know how I managed to find you?"
"You want me to tell you what you already know?"
"No; I want you to prove that you know it." When neither of us responded, he grinned and it was as if I his icy eyes froze me to the spot. "Your little gypsy friend was very helpful in telling me where you were. Funny how you can get someone to do anything by hurting them in the worst way possible."
No! He did not kill her, did he? He wouldn't have, what importance is she to him?
His smile told me all I needed to know. My eyes widened in fear and anger and before I could gain control of myself, I flew at him, my fists grasped his shirt and I shook him, I was so blinded by my hatred for this horrible man, that didn't even notice when Sherlock held me back.
"Now, now, she isn't dead, and neither is her friend, but we burned her whole camp to the ground."
"Oh, now isn't that sweet," Sebastian laughed, pointing his gun even closer to us. "The mad detective has found someone special."
His grin soon turned sour. "Both of you simply mad together. If I killed both of you right now, I could have the greatest attention in the world. Sherlock Holmes and his lover. I can see the headlines now!" His hands were shaking just as much as mine, but I wasn't letting go. "Wouldn't that be fun?"
"You can't kill me, without me, you're nothing," Sherlock said slowly. "Why are you doing all of this? You don't want money or power – not really. What is it all for?"
"I want to solve the problem – our problem." Raising his head slowly, he glowered across at Sherlock, who bared his teeth slightly.
"Never liked riddles."
"Learn to. Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I ... owe ... you."
He continued to gaze at Sherlock for about six seconds, sealing his promise, then slowly turned and walks away. Sherlock kept his hands on my shoulders, but otherwise didn't move as he left the room, but after a while he moved towards me, and turned me around to face him. Up until now, I didn't realize that I'd been crying. Angrily, I dried my tears and then sniffed.
"Is everything alright?" Mrs. Hudson asked, glancing at Sebastian suspiciously as he passed her and quietly descended down the stairs. "It was quiet up here, so I thought I would check in. Charlotte, dear? Whatever is the matter?"
"Simza," I said, softly as she brought me into her arms. "She's gone."
How many more people do I have to lose before it's enough?
"Not to worry, love. Simza is not dead, but her home is completely destroyed. She's lost people she cares about."
"We'll find her, won't we?"
"She's smart, she'll find us and she'll be perfectly fine."
"I should be going to the market. I would ask you to come with me, but I don't feel right leaving Mrs. Hudson here by herself when that psychopath is on the loose."
"Well, I don't think you should be going out by yourself, either," he said. "Where is Watson when you need him?"
"Not to worry, I can handle myself; the way I'm feeling right this minute, no one would dare to cross me."
When I got back, the front door was standing wide open; I saw that a brown envelope had been left on the doorstep. There was nothing written on the front but the back had a large old fashioned wax seal on it. I peeled open one corner of the envelope and put my finger in to slide it along the edge and sliced the rest of the envelope open. Immediately a lot of brown dust, with some larger chunks of brown something, fell out. As I caught some of the debris and looked at it, confused.
Breadcrumbs?
I ran inside, setting the groceries down carefully before dashing up the stairs, finding Mrs. Hudson sitting in Sherlock's favourite armchair, sipping a cup of tea, and watching Sherlock pace back and forth. Lestrade and Constable Clarke were in the room with them.
"What's going on?" I asked, glancing back and forth between the gentlemen and then going to Mrs. Hudson. "Is everything alright?"
"There was a kidnapping; an abduction." He went over to the window and stood completely still, looking over at London. "The American Ambassador's children, Sarah and Adam, age seven and nine."
The children's mother sat in Sherlock's chair as Mrs. Hudson attempted to comfort her. She handed me a piece of paper, the top of the page the message read, "Hello Mrs. Hargreaves. IF YOU WANT YOUR BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN TO STAY BEAUTIFUL THEN FOLLOW MY INSTRUCTIONS"
"Moran?" I whispered to Sherlock, showing him the paper and he nodded.
"I have no doubt in my mind," he replied. "I recognize the handwriting anywhere."
"They were at boarding school, were St Finbarr's Boarding School," I said, recognizing the uniforms in the photograph.
"Posh boarding place down in Surrey," Clarke replied.
"The ambassador's asked for you personally," said Lestrade.
Sherlock was already heading out of the door with his coat over his arm, but he hesitated momentarily so I could grab my coat and after a second, I followed him.
When we got to the boarding school, a woman was standing in front of one of them, leaning against the bonnet wearing a blanket around her shoulders and crying and as we approached her, she blew her nose on her handkerchief.
"Miss Mackenzie, House Mistress. Go easy," Lestrade said, quietly and he stepped back and let Sherlock and I walk over to the woman.
"Miss Mackenzie, you're in charge of pupil welfare, yet you left this place wide open last night."
"All the doors and windows were properly bolted. No-one – not even me – went into their room last night. You have to believe me!"
Sherlock smiled reassuringly and gently took hold of her shoulders. "I do. We need you to come with us."
Shortly afterwards, inside the school, Miss Mackenzie lead Sherlock and I into one of the dormitories. He had already looked in a cupboard beside one of the beds and now dropped to his knees and peered under the bed.
"Absolutely no sign of a break-in," I muttered, picking up a cricket bat lying on the floor and looking at it closely. I briefly wielded it as if using it as a weapon but then decided it wasn't used in that way and dropped it to the floor. "The intruder must have been hidden inside some place."
Sherlock went over to a wooden trunk and opened the lid and I knelt beside him; Amongst the other items inside the trunk he spotted a large brown envelope with a wax seal on the back which has already been broken as if someone has opened the envelope. Inside was a large hardback book. Carefully checking the envelope first, he then took out the book and flips it over to look at the cover.
"Grimm's Fairy Tales." He looked along the edges of the book and then riffled the pages quickly. Finding nothing of interest, he looked up. "Show us where the brother slept."
We were is taken to another smaller dormitory and looked around, going to stand beside the only bed in the room which still had bedding on it. The bed was opposite the door, which has a frosted glass pane in it. He looked towards the door while gesturing down to the bed.
"The boy sleeps there every night, gazing at the only light source outside in the corridor. He'd recognize every shape, every outline, the silhouette of everyone who came to the door," said Sherlock, aloud. "Someone approaches the door who he doesn't recognize, an intruder. Maybe he can even see the outline of a weapon."
He went outside the door and pulled it almost closed, then raised his hand and pointed his fingers as if they were gun, showing me how it would be seen through the frosted glass. He pushed the door open and came back into the room.
"What would he do in the precious few seconds before they came into the room? How would he use them if not to cry out?" He walked around the bed, looking at the boy's possessions. "This little boy; this particular little boy who reads all of those detective books. What would he do?
"He'd leave a sign?" I tested.
Sherlock started sniffing noisily. He picked up the cricket bat and sniffed along both sides of it. Putting the bat down again he squatted and sniffed around the bedside table, then reached under the bed and picked up an almost empty glass bottle of some sort of oil. He squinted his eyes, looking at it and suddenly, it came to me. He placed the bottle in my outstretched hand and unscrewing the cap, I poured the contents out onto the floor, watching and waiting for my hypothesis to be confirmed. Momentarily, the letters "S.O.S." appeared on the wooden floor as well as several sets of illuminated footprints of varying sizes leading towards the door.
"He made a trail for us," I said, a small smile on my face.
"Adam, you are a clever little man," he sighed and stood up, dusting off his trousers and then we followed them. "The boy was made to walk ahead of them."
I glanced more carefully at the shape of some of the smaller footprints and then concentrates on scraping some of the dried oil and floor wax loose with a small scalpel and then using tweezers to pick up the loosened pieces and put them into the container.
"On, what, tiptoe?" I asked.
"It indicates anxiety; a gun held to his head. The girl was pulled beside him, dragged sideways. He had his left arm cradled about her neck."
"What bothers me, is how did he get in if all the doors were locked? It doesn't make sense. A stranger can't walk into a school like that, even a boarding school. "
"He walked in when they weren't locked. Anyone can walk in anywhere if they pick the right moment. Yesterday – end of term, parents milling around, chauffeurs, staff. What's one more stranger among that lot?"
I closed my eyes, trying to picture what he was explaining; children outside the entrance being embraced by her mother, other adults and children all around, and one man walks alone up the steps towards the door.
"He was waiting for them," I frowned, "All he had to do was find a place to hide."
"Exactly," he nodded.
"We've got a case to solve, Mister Holmes," I said, pecking his lips.
"I'm right behind you, Mrs. Holmes," he smiled and then followed me back to the flat.
Sherlock was sitting at the bench in front of a microscope, surrounded by a pile of books he had stashed somewhere in his office. I was standing at the other side of the bench, opening the plastic dish and took out one of the samples with tweezers.
"The oil in the kidnapper's footprint – it'll lead us to the kidnapper," I said, watching as he dropped the sample into a test tube which had some liquid in the bottom. The fluid began to fizz and he suctioned up some of the liquid and dropped it onto a slide.
"All the chemical traces on his shoe have been preserved. The sole of the shoe is like a document. If we're lucky we can see everything that he's been up to." He looked at the slide under the microscope.
I put on some gloves and then squeezed some liquid into a glass dish and applies some Litmus paper to it. The paper turned blue and I swiped the microscope over to my side of the table, straightening up a little so I could peer into the glass peephole. "Alkaline. Chalk." I took another sample and dissolved it, then did it a third time. The results revealed other items. "Asphalt. Brick Dust. Now, let's heat it up a little and we get vegetation."
"How are you so good at this?" he asked, smiling and I shook my head, embarrassed.
"I read a lot of books when I was young. Glycerol molecule? No, What are you?" I looked into the distance thoughtfully for a moment before looking back to the microscope, then I looked up again and without saying anything, stood up and went to the desk piled with papers, and it didn't take me long to find what I was looking for, the envelope with the wax seal, which held the book and the one that held the rubble.
"Sherlock?" I said, glancing between them.
"Hmm?"
"This envelope that was in Sarah's trunk. There's another one. On our doorstep. Found it today." I brought the envelope around the bench and gave it to Sherlock. "Look at that. Exactly the same seal."
Sherlock reached into the envelope and took out some of the brown dust. "Breadcrumbs. A little trace of breadcrumbs; hardback copy of fairy tales." His eyes widened. "Two children led into the forest by a wicked father follow a little trail of breadcrumbs."
"That's "Hansel and Gretel." My mother used to read that to Jane and I when we were little."
"What sort of kidnapper leaves clues? The sort that likes to boast; the sort that thinks it's all a game." Sherlock put down the envelope and I adjusted his microscope, before starting to look into it again. "The fifth substance: it's part of the tale. The witch's house. The glycerol molecule. It's polyglycerol polyricinoleate, used in making chocolate."
"Right, then. We need to find a place in the city where all five of these things intersect; Chalk, asphalt, brick dust, vegetation, chocolate."
"I think we're looking for a disused sweet factory, but we need to narrow that down. A sweet factory with asphalt?"
"No. No-no-no. Too general," he said, and we hurriedly started searching through the pile of books. "Need something more specific. Building site. Bricks. There's thousands of building sites in London."
In one of the books, a close-up sketch of some purple flowers, attracted my attention in particular. "Rhododendron ponticum. It matches."
I went back to the book and scanned the articles around it to the only places in London where such a plant grew, then found the one place which contained the other elements as well.
"Nine Elms. There's a mile of disused factories by the river. It matches everything."
I turned and hurried out of the office without my coat and with Sherlock in hot pursuit. I dashed for the front door; Before I could step one foot out of the room, I felt someone's lips come crashing down on mine and when we broke the space with a gentle touch of his lips against mine, his fingers lingered on my cheek.
"I find your intelligence charming and attractive," he whispered against my lips, smiling.
"I'd love to hear you say that over and over again, but there's somewhere we must be. We need to find Lestrade and Clarke."
"Right, come on."