Lemons

"Yes!" Sherlock shouted, effectively waking John from her doze.

"Wha-" John failed upright and fumbled to stay on the couch, Sherlock's robe drifting to the floor. "What's going on?"

"The game, John!" Sherlock yelled again, not caring that John barely had her eyes open, let alone her ears.

John rubbed a had over her face. "What game? Did Lestrade call?"

Sherlock huffed, "Not that game, this game." She gestured to the telly. "It has no point!"

"And you are...happy about that?"

"The objectives are futile, no levels, there are no coins or reward systems, and there are no lives to lose, yet you can pay with your own money to buy things. Think! What is the point of a pointless game available only through a single online retailer on this type of console?"

"Sherlock, I can't think of anything when it's-" John squinted at the clock and groaned, "-four in the morning. God, my feet are killing me." She leaned forward to take off her shoes but they were already in a heap on the floor next to the couch. It was only residual pain from having her toes crammed into a triangle for so long.

"Connections, John." Sherlock flourished with the controller, tossing wires everywhere. "Logins. Swapping of information and passcodes."

John pushed to a seated position. "So the point is to meet people?"

"As per usual, you see but do not observe. Go deeper."

John pinched the bridge of her nose. "I can't go anywhere in my state. Can't you please just tell me."

"Illegal activities."

"Alright, I could have told you that."

Sherlock spun back to the telly and poked at buttons until she reached a virtual shop. "Purchase the item, receive the code, obtain nefarious goods. Those that don't know the system will be weeded out, simply playing a boring, mindless game."

"But those that do know the system will purchase illegal things," John finished and shook her sleepy head. "Like Arnold Haywire?"

"But what did our Arny purchase? What drove him to hire an assassin?" Sherlock flipped through the icons and muttered to herself, "What have you been up to you naughty boy?"

John yawned and stretched out, pulling back into herself with a chill. Right, she was barely dressed. "I'm off to bed. Try to get some sleep yeah? I'll message Greg in the morning to let him know what you found."

Sherlock did not even bother to turn around. "Who?"

"Never mind." John smiled and slipped up the stairs to tuck in.

When John woke again, properly dressed in a baggy shirt and shorts, Sherlock was still in the same position in front of the telly with her computer out. The only sign she had moved was that her suit was gone, replaced by the dressing gown that had fallen to the floor.

As soon as John stepped into the room, Sherlock started speaking. "Arnold Haywire was a very bad man."

John scrubbed her eyes and called, "Good morning to you too then."

Sherlock gestured and John peeked over her shoulder to see the laptop open to the Skivvies and Lemons website.

"What am I looking at?" John asked. She had been on this website before. It all still looked like underwear to her.

"Once you purchase an item in the game, you receive an email. That email contains a link with an encrypted passcode. Open the website, input the link, upload the passcode, and you receive a file. Open that file through the correct software and you have the item you bought through the game."

John blinked at the webpage, all neon shades of green and yellow. It did not look like a dark web black market.

"Open anything incorrectly," Sherlock added, "And the computer will get a virus, effectively wiping your hard drive."

"And how do you know that?" John dared to ask.

"Don't turn on your computer," Sherlock deadpanned.

John ran a hand through her hair and growled, "What about your computer?"

"Mine?" She asked innocently. "It's over there." She gestured to the kitchen table. "It's fine."

"Wait." John leaned in to inspect the laptop closely. "Then whose laptop is this?"

"Arny's," Sherlock drawled.

John slumped to the floor and rubbed at her aching eyes. "And when did you steal his laptop?"

"Last night. Or this morning if you prefer."

"You didn't take me?" John pouted.

"You were asleep. You were tired. Besides, it's just a little B and E. I'm sure we'll be doing that again." Sherlock gave her a quick smile before diving back to the computer. "Arny was gracious and stupid enough to leave the directions for the game on a password protected file in a folder labeled Old Bills. No doubt that is against the rules."

John breathed deep and leaned back in. "And what did you find?"

"It appears the reason Arny was so broke was that he spent most of his money buying videos through this network. Very expensive videos."

"What kind of videos?"

Sherlock fidgeted and clicked through the screens, passing back and forth between emails and logins until she pulled up a file and ran it through a harmless looking bit of malware checker. A video quickly loaded and John's mouth fell open. A girl no more than twelve years old looked up at the camera, her arms bound above her head, a strip of cloth tied across her mouth, her eyes wide with fear.

Sherlock did not hit play, she simply looked at John and growled. "It seems he had a fetish for the younger generation. He paid for videos of preteens performing various acts against their will." She turned back to the screen with a hard glare, fingers steepled under her chin. "We may need to send Chloe a gift basket."

John nodded in agreement, jaw clenching as she looked at the screen. No doubt Sherlock had already watched it through, looking for information. As much as John wanted to be of help, there was only so much she could brace herself for so early in the morning.

"Turn that off," John said and whipped out her phone. "I'm calling Lestrade."

After John finished ruining Lestrade's morning with the evil in the world, she sat down in her chair and faced Sherlock.

Sherlock was staring out at nothing, her hands tucked under her chin. "We are missing a puzzle piece. The lock box."

"The lock box?"

"Did we enter a cave when I wasn't looking?" She snapped. "Yes! Clearly Arny was going to use whatever was in it to make more money so he could continue with his habits."

"I don't think I'd call kiddie porn a habit, Sherlock."

"The Millers are linked to this in some way. Something in their attic was meant for him. Something Moriarty knew about and is undoubtedly in possession of."

"And this somehow leads to Arnold hiring an assassin? Do you think someone found out about him?"

"I need more data," she hummed into her palm.

John sat silently and let Sherlock sort through her Mind Palace. Arnold wanted to fund his game to get his porn on a network connected through the fake game. He needed more money so he took a chance with a client that Chloe did not know about. He died before he could reach whatever that thing may have been. Before Arnold died, he reached out to a banker who paid an assassin to kill someone. But who? Someone linked to the game?

John sucked in a breath and asked, "How does a broke man afford an assassin?"

"Already there." Sherlock waved her off. "I have at least ten different possibilities, nine of which are more likely."

"What's the tenth?"

"Sold a kidney."

John snorted and shook her head. This was a right mess. Just like when she used to do puzzles with her mom and Harry's cat would knock the pieces off the table. They never knew what was missing because they could not see what fell. "It's hard to believe Chloe didn't know about any of this."

"You think she was a part of it?" Sherlock asked, her full attention zeroed in on John.

John shifted, "No. She really didn't know about the lock box or the game. I'm sure she wouldn't have stayed if she knew about the kiddie porn, given she was mad about catching him cheating."

"Caught him… No." Sherlock drawled, her eyes darting around the air.

"Yeah," John shrugged. "Though how he was smart enough to work that game and still get caught with another woman is beyond me."

"Oh," Sherlock gasped, her entire body jumping up. "Oh, John! John you brilliant, brilliant woman!" She engulfed John's shoulders with her hands and shook her. "Never let anyone call you an idiot, Doctor Watson!"

John smiled up at her and mumbled, "I'll remind you next time then. But what exactly did I do?"

"Come on," Sherlock jumped up and clapped. "We're going to see a manipulative, string-pulling, cult-leading bastard."

"A what?"

"A therapist!"

It was so good to know what Sherlock really thought about Ella.

Sherlock searched for over an hour calling different offices. John simply went through her morning routine, keeping one ear open.

"Not good enough!" Sherlock yelled at the poor person on the other end of the burner phone. "You will get us in today or my partner will kill herself!... No I don't want your hotlines. I want an appointment…. Well, who are they?!"

John made them both breakfast and tea, even got in some light stretching, and cleaned up a bit of the papers from the ground. Sherlock started dialing a new number, somehow managing to text at the same time on her own phone.

Sherlock's voice rose in pitch and she lathered a Welsh accent into her speech. "Eli?... I can't do this. I know we had plans this morning, but I can't. I'm going to my sisters. If you care, you'll come meet me at eleven o'clock."

Sherlock promptly dialed a new number and used the same accent to cancel an appointment, then switched back to her burner to call and ask if there was a cancellation.

"Splendid," Sherlock mumbled and hung up. "John!"

John walked into the room, her eyebrows raised. "Yes?"

"We're leaving. We have an appointment with Frank A. Grant. He's going to help us mend our relationship."

"And by our relationship, you mean-"

"Yes, John!" Sherlock yelled. "Our lesbian relationship. Now hurry up. We have twenty minutes to get there or they will cancel.

Sitting in a cab on the way to the therapist -the same one Chloe and Arny used, according to Sherlock- John stared out at the scenery and contemplated how she would pretend to be a lesbian. "What are our names?"

Sherlock glanced up from her phone for only a second. "Have you forgotten your name? Are you having a stroke? Shall I write it on the back of your hand?"

"We're using our real names?" John asked, turning to her.

She shrugged, "People know who we are, some assume we are a couple. One more will make no difference."

John sighed and shook her head. Martin really was not going to like this. She may gloss over it in the blog post as well. "And for what reason are we going to say we are there?"

"Whatever you like. Stick to the truth as much as possible."

"Like how you never do the dishes and leave cocks on the wall?"

Sherlock tilted her head, her mouth twitching. "It's relevant to the case."

"It is not," John slipped back into her seat. "And what are you going to tell him about me?"

"That you find your bisexuality hard to grasp and keep feeling the need to gravitate towards men though you have a relationship with me. It hurts my feelings. At least it would, if I had any."

John's mouth fell open, "What?" What was with being called bisexual so much lately? Was she blatantly staring at women's chests without realizing? "And you do have feelings. I've seen them."

"No, you haven't."

"You teared up during that wallflower movie Molly made us watch during that horribly awkward Christmas party she threw for us."

"That was out of pure pain. You made me sit through the entire thing while Molly snotted up half a tissue box."

"No it wasn't."

Sherlock ignored her until they reached the office. It was located inside a large building with many different types of offices. All very normal, if John's experience with Ella was anything to sneeze at. Near the back of the building they found the plaque that read Balric, Grant, and Talbot Counseling.

The man behind the receptionist desk was quite miffed to see Sherlock come in, his back straightening and his smile automatically dropping to a frown. John stepped forward, trying to spare him at least some pain. He was already dealing with an angry customer, and on a Saturday too.

"-did not cancel! Just let me call again. He's not picking up!" The woman yelled and slammed her phone's screen and spun to an empty chair. "I swear to god, Eli, you sad sack of shite-"

"Joan Watson and Sherlock Holmes for Dr. Grant," John said.

The man nodded shortly and said, "Take a seat."

The waiting room was small but cozy, filled with potted plants and magazines. Sherlock tapped her feet, impatiently drumming her fingers across her thigh.

After a ten minute wait, including the woman yelling 'Stop lying! I didn't call! So who does that leave?' and storming out of the office, the secretary perked up and said, "You can go in. Third door on the right."

John offered her thanks and followed Sherlock down the small passage until they reached an unmarked door. Sherlock strode in, in all her unbound glory, hard enough to knock the door against the wall. There were a few chairs and a desk, books lining the walls along with artwork and other pictures, but no one was inside.

"Sorry," a woman's voice called from behind as she stepped into the room and shut the door. "I had to print something. Let me find where Dr. Grant puts his pens, and I'll be with you in a mo."

Sherlock's frown deepened. "You're not Frank."

The woman shook her head and searched the desk, smiling as she said, "No. I'm Dr. Balric. Dr. Grant had an emergency and he needed to step out. I'll be covering your session today. The first one is mostly paperwork I'm afraid."

Sherlock turned to John and they both shared a twitch of the eyes. That was all very convenient for a man they wanted to interview.

"We really wanted to see Dr. Grant, you see," John said as politely as she could, burning up time as Sherlock scoured the room. "A friend recommended him."

Dr. Balric gave a stiffer smile. "I assure you, I am just as qualified."

"And how long have you worked here, Ms. Balric?" Sherlock asked, all charm, walking towards the small window and shuffling around in front of the bookcase.

"Two years," she answered and set her papers down. "But I've been practicing for six."

"And how long has Dr. Grant worked here?" Sherlock's fingers trailed over spines of books, swiping away the dust that collected.

"Six, I believe," she responded shortly. "He's been practicing for longer."

"I can see that," Sherlock drawled and pointed at the certificates and degrees framed on the wall. "Does he see many patients?"

"This usually works as a give and take, Ms. Holmes," she said with an eyebrow raised. "Tell me more about yourself and why you're here and I'll be willing to answer your questions."

"What a waste of my time," Sherlock growled and spun out of the room.

John looked back at the shocked therapist and threw up her hands. "Sorry. She really wanted Dr. Grant. I'm sure you're more than qualified but...Sorry."

John jogged down the hall after her, waving to the receptionist before throwing herself into the building and out onto the street.

Sherlock was on her phone, tapping away.

"Anything?" John asked.

"He's a middle aged man with a girlfriend. Extremely qualified. He has control issues, no doubt why he entered into the psychiatric field. Not close with his family, if he has any. Gambles. Is cheating on his diet. Recently took a trip to Spain where he cheated on said girlfriend."

"How did you figure out all that?"

An honest-to-god smile lit up Sherlock's face as she spun towards the building. With a flourish she pocketed her phone and pulled her suit jacket into place. Buildings shone bright behind her, cars zipped by, people dodged their way around each other, but she reigned over all the madness. After one giant breath she gleefully dove into an energetic glimpse of her mind's eye.

"Girlfriend, easy. The calendar on his desk has lunches scheduled every Tuesday and Friday, no name, he knows who he's meeting. Same thing with date nights. This Friday he has lunch slash dinner with a person with no name. Could be close friend or family member, but men rarely meet with someone that much if they are not getting sex. Statistically speaking it would be a girlfriend, especially given that he went to a strip club featuring women.'

"We know he is qualified easily enough by the framed degrees on his wall, all old and of various kinds. However, Dr. Balric was very distinct in her attitude towards him, defending his prowess. No doubt she looks up to him as some sort of mentor. That and it would have been extremely difficult to book this time without forcing a cancellation.'

"Control issues. Obvious by the way he keeps his things. He'll be furious when he sees Dr. Balric touched his pens. Everything is in a specific place down to the tissues box with a tissue folded to a corner instead of flopping over the side. All books are colour-coordinated and aligned by height. Whether this is medical or purely a personality flaw does not matter. He needs the control. Either wanting to understand his place in the world or the ability to control the people around him lead to his interest in the human mind and psychology itself.'

"Family. There are no pictures in that office of any kind of family, not even one of the girlfriend, leading me to believe the relationship will not last. Any knick knacks to be seen are just as meticulous as the books. Color, shape, size, theme. Suggesting he bought them himself. No gifts from family or he does not display them. Not close.'

"The gambling can be seen in the photographs. They are hung prominently, more so than his certificates. They show cities that are known for their casinos. Los Angeles, San Juan, Palm Beach. All places he won big, no doubt. That and every Wednesday he has poker night written on his schedule.

"Cheating on diet? Too easy. Who isn't? Chocolate bars in his desk yet weight watchers wrappers in his wastebasket.'

"Spain and the cheating of said girlfriend is a bit of a long shot, to be fair. One of his pens was still in its plastic wrapper, not matching any of the others, something that would cause anyone with issues such as his much discomfort. Therefore it is very new. In the calendar there were two weeks with a line drawn through the center, no doubt hinting at a vacation though he did not write down where. The pen was tacky, showing a dancing girl in salsa outfit. When moved, the girl's top falls down, exposing breasts. This does not match the taste of our Dr. Grant in the slightest, suggesting he either purchased it while drunk or it was from someone else. Most likely, male friends enjoying the company of topless girls wanting to remember their time away together. Away from their girlfriends, topless girls, no picture of the girlfriend. Probably cheating. He managed to make it back to his girlfriend for dinner Friday night before returning to his destination. No doubt guilt ridden and wanting to keep their date night -the only one circled on his calendar. The pen could be purchased in many places, however, among the littering of trash in the bin there was an airline ticket receipt for Barcelona. He could be traveling via Barcelona but the pen suggests he stayed, as does his ability to return for a single date night over the weekend."

Sherlock was practically gasping after all her deductions were laid out, her eyes searching John for understanding and approval.

"Amazing." John gasped and giggled. "You are absolutely amazing."

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly but her eyes were gleaming.

How had anyone ever not been enchanted by Sherlock's genius? Sure, she was an acquired taste, but after cracking through that steel exterior, there was nothing to do but marvel.

Sherlock dragged John into the alley next to the building and they both looked up into the glare.

"Are we coming back?" John asked, squinting.

"Tonight." Sherlock turned back to the street and smirked. "I told you we would be breaking and entering again soon."

When the sun had long set and the streets were nearly clear of people, they returned to the empty building with Sherlock's lock picks. John cleared the rooms with her gun leading the way, but they were most definitely alone.

Sherlock first dove for the receptionist's computer, hacking the password far too easily. "Sticky note, back of computer."

John peeked at a small bit of yellow sticking out from under the computer. She peeled it off and read the password. 3ndOFyear! "End of year?"

"He's going to quit his job and go back to university." John did not need to ask how Sherlock knew that because she nodded to the corner of the desk and said, "Pamphlets tucked away with the takeaway menus."

John could barely see the edge picture of a school building peeking out from under the local Chinese menu.

"He won't make it," Sherlock continued. "Can't afford it. Obvious by clothes and hair."

"Some men like their hair long, Sherlock."

"Layers," Sherlock snipped. "They've grown long but they exist. Professional cut from five months ago, give or take. Can't afford to get a new one, not confident enough to do it himself."

"Have you found anything?" John asked, changing the subject.

"Moving the records now." Sherlock whipped out a flash drive and inserted it into the computer. "All names of the patients for Doctor Grant will soon be ours. We have to go to his office for any personal notes."

The records took a few minutes to load, the tick-tock of the clock booming with echos in the small room. When it was done, Sherlock wiped down the keyboard and mouse and led the way to Grant's office.

When the door opened and they both walked in, Sherlock froze, her eyes locked on the desk. The blue glow of the window illuminated a small green and red striped box, tied off with a red bow.

"What is it?" John asked.

"It's for us," Sherlock replied, a smile curling half her mouth. "A present." She swept behind the desk and plucked a small white card from under the ribbon.

"From who?" John quickly joined her. "The therapist?"

"Think again," Sherlock held out the card for John to read.

Written in thick red lipstick was a note.

I'm tired of waiting xoxo

"Moriarty," John hummed. "She sent you a present?"

"She knows we know about the video game. It's a reward."

"Or a distraction," John suggested and Sherlock nodded. "Should we open it?"

"Could be dangerous." Sherlock cocked her head and wiggled her brow.

John smiled. It would not be out of character for Moriarty to present a bomb in the form of a gift. She nodded towards the desk and Sherlock reached out. Her long slender fingers slipped over the edge of the bow, and John's heart raced. Sherlock pulled the ribbons apart and dropped the threads to the desk. She slowly lifted the top of the box and revealed a bed full of salt, two small balls of flesh resting on top of it.

Sherlock pulled out her phone and turned the flash into the box.

"Are those…" John trailed off.

"Yes."

"Testicles."

Sherlock sank to the desk and closed in on the wrapping paper, sniffed the air around it, and moved to the salt. She touched the edge of the box and brought her fingertip to her lips. She blanched away from the taste and smacked her mouth. "Dead Sea salt. Testicles removed recently. Quality paper covering a generic cardboard box. Lipstick matches the other messages from Moriarty."

"Is the Dead Sea thing a pun?" John asked, half joking.

"Don't hypothesize," Sherlock huffed. "We don't know if the man who these belonged to is alive or not. We need to get these back to Baker Street as soon as possible."

"Aren't you going to grab the doctor's notes?"

"Moriarty took them." Sherlock picked up the box with reverence. "She left these in their place. Another piece to the puzzle. Just what I thought."

"These balls were what you thought the next puzzle piece would be?"

"The cuts are recent. They do not belong to any of our known victims." Sherlock carefully flipped the top of the box back into place and collected the ribbon. "We have a new person to search for."

John texted Lestrade on the way back to 221.

If anyone is missing some testicles, they're at 221B -JW

Lestrade answered fairly soon for it being past midnight.

I have words about Sherlock breaking someone's balls but will hold off. - L

It took seven hours for Lestrade to contact them with the castrated man's name. Sherlock finished running her tests at home and had been about ready to visit Molly when he popped up in their doorway.

"Whoa," Lestrade shifted in the doorframe and slapped his hands against his thighs. His gaze roamed the mess on the floor, the papers, the computer, telly, and straight to the purple cock on the wall. "That's… something."

John shuffled to meet him. Sherlock was too busy in the kitchen with the testis. "Hello, Greg. Excuse the mess."

"Do you realize you have a-"

"Purple cock on the wall?" John smiled shortly. "Yes, I do. Come in."

Lestrade walked in and inspected the holes surrounding the drawn penis. "Remind me not to get on Sherlock's bad side," he muttered and adjusted his trousers.

"All the cocks are connected," Sherlock called from behind her microscope. "I told you. It's all cocks."

"I can see that," Lestrade said, looking down at the box of salt still holding the testicles. "Is the salt...you know. Keeping them fresh?"

John nodded. "It won't last for long but it works for now."

"Well, won't be a point to them much longer," Lestrade said, shifting away. "They can't be sewn back on, can they?"

John shook her head. "The man's still alive then?"

"More than that," Lestrade said. "He's an inmate. Name of Ben Noles. Sentenced for-"

"-rape and murder." Sherlock spun in her chair, her eyes widening, her face falling open in excitement. "Oh yes, yes, yes."

John tilted her head. "The name sounds familiar."

"That was one of your cases," Lestrade confirmed. "A few weeks back or so. You caught him for raping his girlfriend's aunt and killing her with a hired gun."

John sucked in her breath. "That sleazy bastard from the sex club!"

"From the-" Lestrade shook his head. "I don't want to know. I just came for the testicles and to tell you he had them chopped off in prison. No one saw it happen and they can't find footage. He's in the clinic right now, won't be out anytime soon. If you want to talk to him though, you need to go through the proper channels. I don't want any more calls about you paying visits as reporters, Sherlock."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock waved him off. "Not necessary. He won't tell me what I need to know."

"So you're not going to work the case?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock rolled her eyes. "Finding out who ripped off a rapist's balls? Not worth my time. Bigger fish to fry."

Lestrade nodded to them both and snatched up the box, carefully wrapping it in plastic before tucking it under his arm. "Alright, let me know if you find anything." He looked to John, knowing who was actually going to keep him in the loop. "Have a good day, ladies."

"See you later, Greg." John walked him out.

Sherlock was mumbling at her, as if she were still in the room. John chose to ignore her incoherency and ask her own question.

"So," she started, leaning against the counter. "Why did Moriarty not kill Ben Noles?"

"Why does she ever keep anyone alive?" Sherlock asked, completely ignorant to her own rhetoric. "Information."

"If he has information, shouldn't we go talk to him?" John asked, expecting to be called an idiot any second.

"He won't tell us anything we don't already know. Moriarty would see to it that he does not give up her game."

"Then what information does he have?"

Sherlock sighed dramatically and threw her head back, pleading with the ceiling. "Don't jump ahead of your own brain, John. Think first! How is Ben Noles connected to our cock case?"

Other than the letters left by Moriarty and the cock theme, nothing came immediately to mind. John knew that would not be a good enough answer so she tried to dive a little deeper.

There was: an incarcerated rapist killer without balls, a dead broke pawn shop dealer with a horrific fetish, said pawn shop dealer's incarcerated ignorant wife, a runaway therapist, a dead banker with an affinity for prostitutes, and a dead assassin. Not to mention a black market video game and a missing lock box.

If Chloe was ruled out of the equation, that left the rapist, the pawn shop dealer, the therapist, the banker, and the assassin. They had nothing on Arnold connecting him to the others, only to the game and the lock box. The banker and the assassin were clear in their connection. That left Ben Noles. How was Noles connected to any one of them?

John supposed Noles could be a part of the game or involved with the box and its mysterious contents. Perhaps he knew Arnold in some way or the Millers who lived in the house where the lock box was kept. Maybe even through the therapist. But how was he connected to an assassin and his banker? That would imply Noles wanted to hire an assassin to kill someone.

John gasped aloud, astounding herself with how slow she could be. "Haywire didn't hire the assassin! Noles did!"

Sherlock flung her head back around and smirked, "It is nice to be reminded you still have some neuron functionality. The police never did catch the gun Noles hired to kill his girlfriend's aunt. I suppose we have Moriarty to thank for finishing the job for us."

John frowned. "I doubt we would have killed the assassin and hung him by cock rings in a public urinal."

Sherlock shrugged. "With a new name I can evaluate the therapist files in a new light. However, there still is one outlier. The Millers. They seemed innocent enough to begin with, and I foolishly let them slip from my radar. But they must be connected in some way."

"What about the aunt?" John asked. "Do you think she's connected."

"They are all connected," Sherlock grumbled, slipped into the living room and flopped on her chair with her laptop. "All the cocks are connected!"

John shook away the visual that created and went to work re-reading the notes she had on the Ben Noles case and sifting through any relevant news in all the London papers. After all, they had yet to figure out what was in that lock box and anything strange was usually relevant.