Sherlock

St Bart's lab was practically a second home to me by now. I carefully placed the shallow glass dish before me, staring at the large drop of blood inside it for a moment. Ian Monkford's blood—no doubt about that, according to Lestrade, and I knew that he wouldn't make a mistake on something like this. After speaking to Mrs. Monkford, I already had my suspicions, but absolutes were necessary, especially in the game the bomber was playing with me.

Moriarty... if that what who we were dealing with, I was eager to meet them in person.

I reached over to the bottle on my left and opened it before picking up a small dropper. Prudently, I dipped the dropper into the bottle to catch some drops of the liquid inside. Once it was half-full, I brought it over the the dish before me. Leaning over it, I gently squeezed the dropper and a small speck of the liquid landed on the blood, which instantly started to fizz and bubble.

Straightening up, I didn't even have time to smile in satisfaction before the pink phone on the counter began to ring. I snatched it up and stared at the ID. BLOCKED. Big surprise.

"Hello?" I answered, pressing the phone to my ear.

The same man from before was on the other like. "The clue's in the name," he said, his voice trembling. "Janus Cars."

I furrowed my brow. "Why would you be giving me a clue?"

"Why does anyone do anything?" the man asked tearfully. "Because I'm bored. We were made for each other, Sherlock."

"Then talk to me in your own voice," I said softly.

"Patience," the man replied shakily, and the line went dead.

I lowered the phone and stared across the room for a moment. The man was by a busy road still, and no one had even noticed him. Could it be that he was somewhere where passing pedestrians wouldn't see him? Either way, attempting to go and save the man before the test was complete wouldn't end well, I was certain.

Looking back to the fizzing liquid in the dish, I picked it up and peered at it more closely. Yes—it was as I thought. A smile came to my lips. This blood wasn't what it seemed, not at all.

"Figure something out?"

I lifted my head to see Maxine step into the room. She eyed me curiously while pulling some of her ginger curls from her face. Her other hand was busy worrying the fabric of her yellow scarf.

"Frozen," I told her, placing the dish back down. "The blood."

Maxine came to my side and blinked. "Frozen... that seems off. So... hold on—the wife was all about that past tense stuff, you said. So..."

"So he faked his death," I said, once again pleased with how quickly Maxine caught on. She wasn't quite as quick thinking as I was, but somethings she really did impress me—her and her brother.

"Is that it, then?" Maxine asked. "Is that all we need to figure out? Or do we need this Monkford guy?"

"That would be unfortunate, considering he's not in the country," I replied.

"He isn't?" Maxine raised a brow.

"I'll explain on the way to the police car pound," I said, gathering up my things. "Where's John?"

"Getting a snack from the vending machine," Maxine said. "I told him he'd get diabetes if he just keeps eating nothing but sweets."

I grunted with amusement. "And he didn't listen?"

"John, listen to me?" Maxine shook her head. "Clearly, you haven't been paying attention all these months we've been living together."

Oh, but I had—more than I cared to admit. I adverted my gaze and cleared my throat awkwardly. Maxine had caught my attention the very first time I met her, and even still she continued to intrigue me. I didn't understand it; what was so interesting? What made her of all people fascinating to be around and observe? I couldn't help but want to learn more about her. I'd learned about her time in Japan, about her longing of excitement, but I still felt like it was barely scratching the surface.

Maxine... this strange young woman with ginger curls and wide, blue eyes... this young woman who craved danger and thrill. I smiled when I recalled her sitting upside-down in my chair—defiant and irate because I wasn't letting her help on a case.

"What're you grinning for?" Maxine suddenly asked, frowning at me.

"Er, still on the blood thing," I lied quickly. "Now we're catching on to this second test. Won't be long before I've got it."

Maxine let out a tight breath. "Four pips from his last call... which means there will be three more tests after this one. I'd assume each one is going to get harder as we go."

"Most likely." I finished getting my things and stood from the stool.

"Does it bug you?" Maxine suddenly asked.

"Sorry?" I frowned at her.

Maxine examined my eyes intently, her expression neutral but intense.

"This man—this bomber... he's targeting these people to get to you. Snagging innocent people off the streets to get to you." Maxine's face didn't change, she just kept staring at me.

"I suppose I didn't think about it like that," I admitted. "I'm... a bit surprised that you're thinking of it that way."

"John brought it up," Maxine said with a small shrug. "I think he was a little irritated after your disregard of the first hostage's wellbeing—or rather, your apparent disregard."

I sighed heavily. "Someone like this would be doing awful things to innocent people regardless if I was around or not," I said. "His actions are not my responsibility. It's ridiculous to think otherwise."

Maxine nodded. "That's what I was thinking too. But I suppose the human reaction is to feel some semblance of guilt."

I blinked and tilted my head at her. "Are you saying I'm not human?" I asked with a small laugh.

"Of course not," Maxine said quickly. "I just... I don't know. I'm trying to piece together how much alike we are and where our differences lie."

"Why are you trying to do that, exactly?" I queried.

Maxine adverted her gaze. "You seem so certain of who you are, Sherlock. Of what you want and what you like. I feel as if all my life, a veil has been over that part of me—hiding everything that can make me feel... alive. Miyako pulled the veil back a bit, but I'm still having trouble seeing past it."

"You certainly like your metaphors." I bit my lip for a moment, trying to think of what to say.

I knew that my blunt honesty caused a lot of people to grow agitated with me, and usually I wouldn't hesitate even despite that. However, Maxine was different. I could still see her angered face the day I shot up the wall in our flat. My gut tightened uncomfortably at the thought of seeing it again.

In the end, I couldn't find any other way to phrase it to her. So I swallowed and started speaking, hoping my tone sounded soothing rather than direct.

"I can't determine who you are, Max," I said. "Neither can Miyako. Neither can John. Regardless of how much we have in common or don't, just because we share a... a diagnosis, doesn't mean that it will give you whatever answer you're looking for."

Maxine met my eyes again. Hers were a stone-blue, the color of hemimorphite. For a while, I thought they resembled smithsonite, but the more I looked at them, the more I noticed that they were more blue than green in shade. I had to wonder why I examined her so much that I managed to categorize her iris color to gemstones without even realizing it.

"Yes, of course, that makes sense," Maxine said, though her voice was small.

I felt my face fall. Oh, don't do this to me, I wanted to say. I didn't usually go out of my way to try and make people feel better—not unless it was a dire situation like with Sarah and the Black Lotus—but Maxine's eyes seemed so lost. She seemed so... sad. I didn't think I'd ever seen Maxine sad.

"It doesn't mean that I won't try and help you," I said before I could stop myself.

Maxine lifted her head. "What?"

"Y'know..." I muttered awkwardly, shrugging. "The only way to really figure yourself out is to... keep living, right? So we keep going on, and I'm certain along the way you'll know what it is you want and what you like. I'm sure your brother will help too. Have you... have you talked to him about this?"

Maxine grinned a bit sheepishly. "Not exactly. John is still coming to terms with how much I enjoy this." She gestured toward me. "Er—the cases, I mean. The peril and such."

"Odd, considering how much he enjoys it too," I pointed out. "Remind him of that some time."

"Remind who of what?"

John came striding back in the room at that moment. He had a candy in his hand, the wrapper peeled down the bar to allow easy access. There was already a few bites out of it.

"You to stop gorging on sweets," I said swiftly as Maxine glanced warily back at her brother.

"I hardly gorge on them!" John defended.

"C'mon," I said, heading toward the door. "We need to get back to that car, and can one of you phone Lestrade?"

Maxine

My talk with Sherlock buzzed in my head as we stood around Monkford's borrowed car in the police car pound. He'd given me some surprisingly decent advice for my current predicament and I was fathomed by how much better I already felt. However, things still nagged in my head. Growing up, John taught me how important it was to be mindful of others and polite. He taught me to care about other people, or at least he tried to.

To a point, it worked. I was aware that there were innocent people dragged into this; that their lives were at stake. However, I couldn't connect with them. I couldn't seem to worry about it as much as I should, and that in turn made me anxious. None of it felt natural to me; I was a stranger in my own skin.

Sherlock's words helped ease that sensation a bit, but I was still struggling with it. I still didn't understand who I was supposed to be or what I wanted.

"How much blood was on that seat, would you say?" Sherlock asked Lestrade, bringing me back to the present.

We stood in a garage, the scent of stale dust hung in the air with the aroma of petrol. It was cold; I assumed there was no need heating a room like this. I clenched my fingers in the fabric of my scarf and rubbed them together in an effort to warm them up. I should have brought my gloves.

Lestrade looked at the bloodstains in the car. "How much? About a pint."

"Not about," Sherlock said. "Exactly a pint. That was their first mistake. The blood's definitely Ian Monkford's but it's been frozen."

"Frozen?" Lestrade echoed.

"There are clear signs," Sherlock replied. "I think Ian Monkford gave a pint of his blood some time ago and that's what they spread on the seats."

"Who did?" John asked.

"Janus Cars," Sherlock said. "The clue's in the name."

"The god with two faces," John murmured.

"Exactly." Sherlock nodded.

"Mmm." John's face lit with understanding.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "They provide a very special service. If you've got any kind of a problem—money troubles, bad marriage, whatever—Janus Cars will help you disappear. Ian Monkford was up to his eyes in some kind of trouble—financial, at a guess; he's a banker. Couldn't see a way out. But if he were to vanish, if the car he hired was found abandoned with his blood all over the driver's seat..."

"So where is he?" John queried.

Sherlock closed the car door. "Colombia."

"Colombia?!" Lestrade exclaimed.

"Mr. Ewert of Janus Cars had a twenty thousand Colombian peso note in his wallet," Sherlock explained. "Quite a bit of change, too. He told us he hadn't been abroad recently, but when I asked him about the cars, I could see his tan line clearly. No-one wears a shirt on a sunbed. That, plus his arm."

"His arm?" I repeated, raising my brows.

"Kept scratching it," Sherlock said. "Obviously irritating him, and bleeding. Why? Because he'd recently had a booster jab. Hep-B, probably. Difficult to tell at that distance. Conclusion: he's just come back from settling Ian Monkford into his new life in Colombia. Mrs. Monkford cashes in the life insurance and she splits it with Janus Cars."

"M-Mrs. Monkford?" John stammered in disbelief.

"Oh yes. She's in on it too," Sherlock nodded.

"Makes sense," I said. "She was insisting her husband was depressed, and she went along with Sherlock with that whole... past tense thing."

Lestrade lowered his head, his expression filled with amazement.

"Now go and arrest them, Inspector," Sherlock said. "That's what you do best." He turned to John and me. "We need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved."

Sherlock turned and began to lead us out of the garage, leaving Lestrade to stare after us with a still-in-shock face. I had to admit, I was impressed. Solving cases within hours of getting them—that was impressive even for Sherlock, especially with how strange and off-the-wall these ones were.

Even as I thought this, Sherlock clenched his fists triumphantly at his sides as he walked and exclaimed, "I am on fire!"

When we got back to the flat, it was cold. We couldn't turn on the heating or light a fire and the windows were still broken and boarded up, leaving us exposed to the chill of early Spring London air. We elected to leave our coats on when we sat in the living room. I had gone to my room and found a pair of black gloves and was now breathing out of my mouth onto my fingers to heat the fabric. John sat in his usual chair and he looked anxious. Sherlock sat opposite him, typing into his computer; making a new message in his website, undoubtedly.

Shortly after he finished, the pink phone rang and Sherlock answered it on speaker.

"He says you can come and fetch me," the man on the like said. His voice was still tearful and shaky. "Help. Help me, please."

The following morning, Sherlock, John, and I were sitting at a table in a cafe. John was tucking into a cooked breakfast and had a mug of tea in front of him. Sherlock was drumming his fingers impatiently on the table waiting for the pink phone—which was lying on the table—to ring. I had an empty plate in front of me and a mug of tea in my hand, having already finished some delightfully fluffy pancakes.

"Feeling better?" Sherlock asked, mainly John.

"Mmm," John grunted in approval of his filling stomach. "You realize we've hardly stopped for breath since this thing started?"

"We haven't really gotten the chance to," I pointed out. "Except for this time—bit more room between tests, huh? Think he's being considerate?"

"It wouldn't be any fun if we ended up just bowing out from exhaustion," Sherlock said. "There's no glory in winning then."

"Has it occurred to you...?" John began, eyeing Sherlock carefully.

"Probably," Sherlock replied.

"No—has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope; breaking into the other flat; the dead kid's shoes—it's all meant for you," John said.

Yes, it was something he was talking to me about when we were back at Bart's and he was off to get into the vending machines. It was clear that the bomber was interested in Sherlock and Sherlock alone.

"I just don't see how he can be so calm," John had told me. "He's connected to this—connected to the reason these people were abducted and could die. Can't he feel guilt? Or-or something?"

"It's not his fault some nutter is interested in him," I had argued. "C'mon, Johnny, you know that."

"I suppose," John sighed. "But still..."

Coming back to the present, I saw Sherlock smile at my brother. "Yes, I know," he said.

"Is it him, then?" John prompted. "Moriarty?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock said.

We'd already talked about the possibility a few days ago. I assumed that John was trying to affirm if the bomber himself was Moriarty or if we had another Jeff Hope situation. Like my brother, my bets were on the former. All the messages... the strange and tricky situations that were being thrown at us... the bomber had the last man tell Sherlock they were made for each other.

"Ah, I almost forgot..." John suddenly said, lifting his head from his meal.

Sherlock and I looked at him curiously.

John seemed embarrassed—or something like it. He glanced warily between the two of us then pursed his lips for a moment. His free hand clenched up and he ran his thumb over his fingers: the classic sign of him trying to decide what to do next.

"Er, Mycroft says hello, Maxine." John instantly went to keep eating, as if nothing had happened.

I blinked. "He... he told you to tell me 'hello?'" I leaned forward, trying to get my brother to look me in the eye.

"Mm-hmm," was all John said; his mouth was full.

Sherlock had stiffened beside me. He looked out the window, his lips pressed in a tight line and the hand resting on the sill tightened into a fist. I knew that look. He was irritated—more than irritated. It was an expression that only came to him when someone had annoyed or angered him to a point beyond words. It didn't happen often. In fact, I was fairly certain only Mycroft was able to gain this kind of reaction from the detective.

Regardless, I didn't understand why Mycroft's message made him react like this. What about that would make Sherlock angry, of all things? Surely a touch of annoyance was to be expected from Sherlock at any mention of his older brother, but this... this didn't make any sense to me. Every time I thought I understood Sherlock, he'd do or say something that would toss me back out in the fog.

I opened my mouth to ask Sherlock why he was so upset, but before a word could leave my lips, the pink phone on the table chimed a message alert.

The anger washing away from Sherlock's face, he snatched up the mobile and switched it on. The Greenwich pips were back: two short ones and a long one. Along with them came a photograph of a smiling middle-aged woman. She had short blond hair, and a rather heavy-set face.

"That could be anybody," Sherlock grunted.

"Well, it could be, yeah," John said, peering at the picture. "Lucky for you, I've been more than a little unemployed."

"How d'you mean?" Sherlock asked.

"Lucky for you, Mrs. Hudson and I watch far too much telly," John said.

He stood up and strode over to the counter. Giving a smile to the woman standing behind it, he picked up the remote control and switched on the small television hung on the wall. Sherlock and I both watched as my brother flipped through a few channels before he finds what he wanted. The woman from the photograph was on the screen and it appeared like she was a host of some sort of show. She gestured to someone just offscreen.

"Thank you, Tyra!" she said cheerfully. "Doesn't she look lovely, everybody, now?"

The pink phone began to ring, tearing our attention off the telly. Sherlock picked it up and held it to his ear.

"Hello?" he said.

I gave him a hard look and he let out an inaudible sigh before putting the phone slightly away from his ear. I leaned in close, causing our arms to press up against one another so I could hear. John looked a touch frustrated that he couldn't listen in as well, but we couldn't exactly put the phone on speaker in a public cafe.

"This one... is a bit... defective. Sorry."

The voice on the other line was a Yorkshire accent, and from what I could tell, it was an old woman. Her tone was tremulous; clearly terrified.

"She's blind," the old woman went on. "This is... a funny one."

John came back to the table after seeing our expressions change. Surely he knew there was yet another hostage.

"I'll give you... twelve hours," the old woman said.

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock demanded.

"I like... to watch you... dance." As the old woman finished speaking, she gasped and began to sob.

The line went dead.

Sherlock shook his head at John as he lowered the phone. I scooted away from the detective, rubbing my brow.

"A blind old woman this time," I muttered to my brother.

His face fell into horror for a moment before he clenched his jaw in anger. John had empathy, I realized; he had a lot of it. Sometimes, I wondered if that was a hinderance or not to him. Did it make it more difficult to work cases? Did it distract him from thinking clearly?

"...and I see you're back to your bad habits," the woman on the TV was saying.

The three of us looked to the telly again and saw that a news headline had appeared at the bottom of the screen as a voiceover replaced the woman's words. The headline read: Make-over Queen Connie Prince dead at 48.

"...continuing into the sudden dead of the popular TV personality, Connie Prince," the news reader said. "Miss Prince, famous for her make-over programs, was found dead two days ago by her brother in the house they shared in Hampstead."

"Our next test," I said, nodding to the telly.

"So it seems," Sherlock murmured. "Let's go."

I was starting to think we were going to be at St Bartholomew's Hospital every day this week. Down in the morgue, Connie Prince's body was laid out on a table with a sheet covering everything but her head, arms, and collar bone.

This time, Sherlock didn't have to do anything to convince Molly to allow us access—not that I think she would have after Sherlock's last encounter with her. Lestrade led us into the room and read from the file in his hand.

"Connie Prince, fifty-four. She had one of those make-over shows on the telly." The Inspector looked toward us. "Did you see it?"

"No," Sherlock answered, his eyes on Connie's corpse.

Meanwhile, I was frowning at the fact that Connie's chart said she was fifty-four when the news stated she was forty-eight. She had been a TV personality, it wasn't ludicrous to imagine her lying to the media about her true age. It seemed a lot of folks didn't like the idea of growing older.

"Very popular," Lestrade said. "She was going places."

I wondered is the Inspector often watched make-over shows on the telly. It seemed out of his character, but then again, John immediately knew who Connie was when we got her photo.

"Not any more," Sherlock said. "So: dead two days. According to one of her staff, Raoul de Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden. Nasty wound."

Sherlock and John both moved forward to examine the gash in the webbing between Connie's right thump and index finger. I remained beside Lestrade; this part of the investigation was definitely more in John's neck of the woods.

"Tetanus bacteria enters the bloodstream—goodnight Vienna," Sherlock murmured.

"I suppose," John said, though he hardly looked convinced.

"Something's wrong with this picture," Sherlock said.

"Eh?" Lestrade frowned toward him.

"Can't be as simple as it seems, otherwise the bomber wouldn't be directing us towards it. Something's wrong," Sherlock insisted.

The detective narrowed his eyes as he looked down at the body, then bent closer to examine Connie's right arm as he pulled out his magnified from his pocket. I took a small step closer out of curiosity and saw that there were several scratched on her upper arm—they almost looked like claw marks. Sherlock moved up toward her face, but I couldn't see what he noticed there, if anything, not without the magnifier.

"John?" Sherlock said.

"Mmm," John responded.

"The cut on her hand: it's deep; would have bled a lot, right?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah," John confirmed.

"But the wound's clean—very clean—and fresh," Sherlock went on. He looked up, eyes flickering about, a clear sign he was thinking everything through. Then, he straightened up and clicked the magnifier closed. "How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?"

"Eight, ten days," John replied.

Sherlock quirked a one-sided grin and turned to my brother expectantly. It didn't take John long to put it all together.

"The cut was made later," he said.

"After she was dead?" Lestrade asked.

"Must have been," Sherlock said. "The only question is, how did the tetanus enter the dead woman's system?"

John looked along the body thoughtfully. I took a step back to stand beside Lestrade again. I felt a tad useless here. I didn't know much about biology or how nervous systems worked or anything like that. Lestrade and I were in the same boat this time.

"You want to help, right?" Sherlock asked my brother.

"Of course," John said.

"Connie Prince's background—family history, everything. Give me data." Sherlock said.

"Right." John immediately turned and headed out of the room, patting me on the shoulder as he went. He must have noticed my lost expression and was trying to make me feel better.

Sherlock looked over Connie's body one more time before starting toward the door as well. I fell in step beside him, but Lestrade spoke up before we could get far.

"There's something else that we haven't thought of," the Inspector said.

"Is there?" Sherlock asked casually.

"Yes," Lestrade insisted. "Why is he doing this, the bomber?"

Sherlock paused with our backs to the Inspector. I glanced at him to see he actually seemed a bit anxious.

"If this woman's death was suspicious, why point it out?" Lestrade went on.

"Good Samaritan," Sherlock suggested over his shoulder, his tone nonchalant.

"...who press-gangs suicide bombers?" Lestrade said disbelievingly.

"Bad Samaritan," Sherlock corrected half-heartedly.

"I'm-I'm serious, Sherlock," Lestrade said. "Listen: I'm cutting you slack here; I'm trusting you—but out there somewhere, some poor bastard's covered in Semtex and is just waiting for you to solve the puzzle. So just tell me: what are we dealing with?"

Sherlock looked forward again thoughtfully. The two of us shared a small glance and the detective smiled with delight.

"Something new," he said before plucking my sleeve in a gesture to follow him out of the morgue.

With only a little over three hours left to go, Sherlock, Lestrade, and I were back at 221B Baker Street while John was still out gathering information on Connie Prince. Sherlock had covered the wall behind the sofa in paperwork: maps, photographs of Connie Prince—both when she was alive and pictures taken at the morgue—photos of Carl Powers, press cuttings and various sheets of paper with notes scribbled on them. Pieces of string were pinned between some of the exhibits, linking them together. It really looked like an episode out of a crime show in here.

"Connection, connection, connection," Sherlock muttered under his breath as he paced back and forth in front of the wall of papers. "There must be a connection."

I was lying on the sofa, staring up at the display he'd put together. I'd left my scarf on, considering it was still rather chilly in the living room, and rubbed my fingers against the fabric. Sherlock had barely said a word to me as he'd put all of this together, and he'd spent the last several hours trying to piece things together. I was just as lost as he was; probably more so. None of it made sense to me. All I could think of was that this bomber—Moriarty—was playing a game with Sherlock. Perhaps it was as simple as that: just a sick, twisted game...

"Carl Powers, killed twenty years ago," Sherlock said, pausing in his pacing and gesturing to the wall. "The bomber knew him; admitted that he knew him. The bomber's iPhone was in stationary from the Czech Republic. First hostage from Cornwall, the second from London, the third from Yorkshire, judging by her accent." The detective's expression twisted in frustration. "What's he doing—working his way round the world? Showing off?"

"They seem to be random," I noted.

"Doesn't seem likely," Sherlock said. "He puts a clue in everything. It seems like all of his acts are intricately deliberate."

"Or he just wants you to think they are," I suggested.

"Why would anyone do that?" Lestrade breathed.

"Why does anyone do anything?" I repeated the bomber's words from our second test.

Sherlock met my eyes and frowned. "You really think it's that simple?"

"I think that his motives are the same as yours, Sherlock, and you think so too," I said. "Boredom is a horrible thing to a brilliant mind. He's clearly intelligent, and now he's found someone who can actually be a challenge—who he can play with. It's a game. A great game."

Sherlock rubbed his brows. "Yes, yes, that's his motive but..."

"If he's already proving to be someone who is just looking to amuse himself, then why put effort into every single aspect of this?" I said. "Random events can help cover his trail. Though..."

Sherlock and Lestrade raised their brows at me with equally expectant expressions when I trailed off.

I let out a small breath. "I'm going to guess he will reveal himself soon enough. Probably for that last pip."

The pink phone began to ring in Sherlock's pocket. The detective pulled it out and switched it on speaker. Before Sherlock can speak, the old woman's voice came out, still shaky and tearful.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" she asked. "Joining the... dots." She sobbed softly. "Three hours: boom... boom."

The old woman cried in terror, and then the line cut. Sherlock looked at Lestrade for a moment before pocketing the mobile again and getting to his feet. He turned to face the wall again and raised his hands in the prayer position, his gaze sharpening with concentration.

A/N:::

Hello, darling readers, I apologize this is coming out later than I anticipated. I've been backed up with a lot of family issues as well as some health problems of my own and everything seemed to hit at once. With all that on top of the holidays, I didn't have much time to writing much of anything, even my original works. But regardless, here's the new chapter and I'm going to be switching my schedule up to biweekly on Fridays just to give myself some breathing room until things calm down. So you guys can expect the next update to be on Friday the 11th. Love all of you, hope you enjoyed and have a wonderful New Year!