Maxine
"I fold," Lestrade sighed, placing his hand of cards down on the desk.
I glanced between him and my own hand with a smirk slowly rising on my lips. "Well, suppose that's for the best," I said before placing my cards face up on the desk in front of me.
"Wh—but you had nothing!" Lestrade exclaimed, pointing at my hand of a two, five, seven, eight, and Jack while the river had two tens and a Queen.
"I believe it's called a bluff," I said as I scooped the candy bars we were betting with toward my side of the desk.
Lestrade scoffed irritably. "It's impossible to play with you—your face never changes! Never!"
"As I understand it, that's how the game is meant to be played," I replied as I opened the wrapper of a chocolate bar and bit into it.
Lestrade gave a heavy exhale and gathered up all the cards to shuffle. Before her could get far, there was a knock on the office door and Sergeant Donovan stepped inside.
"Inspector, there's someone—oh." She paused when she spotted me and frowned. "What's the freak's freak doing here?"
"Y'know, we do have names," I told her dryly.
Donovan merely sneered at me.
"What is it, Sergeant?" Lestrade prompted.
Donovan turned her gaze to him. "There's a man here insisting to speak with you. He won't talk to anyone else—says it's urgent."
Lestrade bit his lip and glanced at me warily.
"I'll be fine, go on," I assured him.
Lestrade got to his feet and headed out of the office. Donovan hovered for a moment, looking me over with mild confusion.
"What's going on?" she asked. "You're never here without him."
"Sherlock?" I raised my brows at her. "You mean the man who helps stop murderers and does your job better than you, so you're quite bitter about it?"
Donovan set her jaw and glared at me. I snorted softly and shook my head.
"Just an interesting new case, Sergeant. Nothing to worry about," I told her.
"Really?" Donovan put her hands on her hips. "Because Inspector Lestrade seems like he's babysitting you."
The same term I had used when Sherlock told me to come here. I sighed and waved her off. "Don't you have work to do?"
Donovan clicked her tongue in frustration and left the office. The door remained open behind her and I spotted Lestrade approaching a tall blond man that looked like he was two seconds from completely breaking down. His face was tear-stained, his limbs trembling, and he carried a satchel across his torso. He was gripping it in front of him so hard that his knuckles were white.
"Hello, sir, Detective Inspector Lestrade," Lestrade introduced. "I heard you were asking for me?"
The man nodded shakily. "Y-yes, sir," he stammered. "I need to report a missing person—my daughter."
Lestrade blinked. "And you couldn't do that with my Sergeant?" he asked.
"I-I'm sorry, sir," the man said in a tremulous voice. "I didn't know what to do—and as I understand it, you work with Sherlock Holmes. He wasn't at his flat—and-and—"
"Calm down, come sit in my office," Lestrade said, beckoning for the man to follow. "What's your name?"
"Rivers, sir," the man replied as he followed Lestrade. "Luke Rivers."
"All right, Mr. Rivers," Lestrade said. "Let's figure out what's going on, shall we?"
They entered the office and I got to my feet. Luke stared at me in mild surprise and glanced at Lestrade quizzically.
"Ah, my colleague, Maxine Watson," Lestrade explained.
Luke's green eyes lit up. "Mr. Holmes' girlfriend, is it?"
I still wasn't entirely used to the title, oddly. I rubbed the back of my neck and nodded. "Can you explain what's going on?"
Luke sat down in one of the seats across Lestrade's desk with the satchel in his lap. I could tell there was something inside—something rather bulky.
"I came home from work, and Lily was gone," Luke explained. "M-my daughter, I mean. And-and in the living room on the coffee table was this."
He opened the flap of the satchel and pulled out the strange bulky item inside.
My heart skipped a beat.
It was an iron helmet fit for a suit of armor. In the face guard's hinge, there was a small piece of yellowed parchment folded up. Luke lifted the guard and pulled out the note. Lestrade was already putting on some gloves he got from in his desk.
"Sergeant!" he called toward the office door. "We need evidence bags! Large ones, please!"
Looking back at the helmet Luke placed on the table, the Inspector frowned in thought and a sense of grimness. I kept my eyes on Luke and the piece of paper in his shaking fingers.
"I-it says..." he muttered, unfolding the paper. "'Only when you produce a knight will you get your Lily back.'"
"Produce a knight?" Lestrade echoed. "That's all it says?"
Luke nodded stiffly.
"A challenge," I murmured. "Or some sort of clue? Regardless, it implies the girl is alive. Our killer is playing a game." I pursed my lips. "How're we meant to present this knight to him when he leaves no instructions?"
"Who's the knight, though?" Lestrade asked.
"I'd think Sherlock," I replied. "He's asked for him before."
"H-hang on!" Luke exclaimed. "You're calling this person a killer? How do you know? Is he going to... would he...?" The man trailed off, tears beginning to trail down his cheeks.
"We're going to do everything in our power to save your daughter, Mr. Rivers," Lestrade assured him. "However, you've the right to know that it seems the person who took her is a known killer that we have been tracking."
Luke gave off a weak sob. "Wh-what would a murderer want with my little Lily? She's only sixteen! She's still a student! She never hurt anyone; she's the sweetest thing you'd ever meet!"
"I'm sorry this is happening, Mr. Rivers," Lestrade said. "Would you be able to give us some more details? Your daughter's description? The details of the last time you saw her?"
At that point Donovan came in with the evidence bags. She handed them to Lestrade before striding quickly from the room. Evidently she didn't care for my company at the moment. Lestrade carefully bagged the helmet and the note. Luke was trembling in his chair, his eyes staring blankly ahead of himself with a glassy, horrified gleam to them. Lestrade sealed the bags and looked toward the man with a frown.
"Mr. Rivers?" he prompted.
Luke startled. "Yes?"
"I was asking for some more details," Lestrade said.
"Oh, yes, yes..." Luke replied tremulously. "What would you like to know first?"
"What does your daughter look like?" Lestrade asked.
"Uh... blonde hair, long and she keeps it... keeps it braided." Luke sniffled and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "Green eyes, freckles. A-a mole on her neck just here." He pointed at his own neck just below his Adam's apple. "She-she's not much taller than you, miss." He nodded at me. "And around the same weight, I'd think. She was wearing her-her pink jacket; well it's light pink—like pastel."
Lestrade had taken out a notepad and was jotting things down. "Is the mother aware of her disappearance?" he said.
"Lily's mum passed two years back," Luke said. "I-I can't lose Lily too—I just... I..." He withered into a crying fit, covering his face with his hands and shaking.
Lestrade pursed his lips in a mixture of frustration and empathy. He got to his feet and began to leave the office.
"I'll get us some tea," he said over his shoulder. "Maxine, could you... er, try to calm him?"
Before I could object, Lestrade was out of sight. I warily looked over to the sobbing man. I was the last person to leave with someone in this state—even Sherlock was better an consoling people than I was. I cleared my throat awkwardly and shifted in my seat.
"We, uh... we'll find your daughter," I said, trying to sound reassuring.
This was going to be the longest few minutes of my life, waiting for Lestrade to return with the tea.
Sherlock
My phone began to buzz in my pocket. John and I were still walking the streets waiting for a call from Mycroft or for another idea to pop into my head and lead us somewhere.
"Inspector," I greeted when I picked up the call.
"We have a very distraught father here claiming his daughter's been kidnapped," Lestrade said. "Seems the culprit left an old knight's helmet with a note."
"It's the fourth victim," I breathed, my heart beginning to race. "What has the man said? Does he have any idea where his daughter must be? What does the note say?"
"Slow down," Lestrade said. "The note is demanding he produce a 'knight' or he'll never see his daughter again. He's a bloody mess right now, I'm getting some tea to see if we can calm him."
"We'll head over right away," I said before hanging up.
"What's going on?" John queried.
"The father of the fourth victim is at the Scotland Yard," I explained as I walked toward the road to hail a cab. "We need to get there to question him. Hopefully we can find the girl before it's too late."
"I'll message Mycroft," John said, pulling out his mobile. "Best he knows someone already stole the suit of armor. Maybe he can review some footage and catch the killer on tape."
I grimaced. Mycroft only just put full surveillance on the locations earlier today; I was willing to wager our killer stole the armor some time ago. However, it would be best to check, just to be safe. I nodded at my friend and raised a hand to call a taxi over.
Once we were inside and headed back to Scotland Yard, my mobile chimed in my pocket. I pulled it free, expecting to see a text from Maxine, however the number was blocked. It merely said: UNKNOWN. I frowned and opened the message.
To think, the great Sherlock Holmes could be so quick to emotion. I really expected more from you.
I furrowed my brow. My number was listed on the website—had someone gotten a hold of it and was toying with me? Was it our killer? Was it him?
I quickly typed back a response: Who is this?
John glanced over at me with a quizzical expression. I shook my head at him, indicating I couldn't explain just then. All my thinking power was being focused on my phone. It trilled again as a new message came through.
It was the Yakuza who figured out Akage and Dakota Lyheart were one and the same. But their resources—astoundingly—only goes so far. They couldn't figure out who Lyheart was.
My heart stuttered in my chest. I knew then who I was talking to. It shouldn't come as a surprise that he was involved in this, yet all the same something clenched my intestines with horrific force at the realization.
Beside me, John could clearly sense my rising anxiety. He shifted in his seat and tapped my shoulder.
"Sherlock, what is it?" he pressed. "Who's texting you?"
I didn't bother responding to him. Instead, my thumbs typed hastily away on my mobile while my heart pounded harder and harder in my ears.
Enough of your childish games. Get to the point.
The reply came within less than a minute.
Oh, my dear Sherlock. It's always about the game, and I'm going to win this round.
"Faster," I said to the cabbie, the panic cracking my voice. "If you get us to the Scotland Yard as fast as you can, I'll pay triple the fair and ensure you don't pay any traffic tickets."
"What?" The cab driver looked back at me, clearly taken aback.
I slammed my hands against the back of his seat, jostling him. "Just drive, you idiot! This is an emergency!"
"Sherlock!" John exclaimed as the cabbie began to accelerate. "What the hell is going on?"
"It's Max," I rasped, quickly pulling up Maxine's contact information in my phone. "She's in danger."
Maxine
"Do-do you think you can convince Mr. Holmes to take my case?" Luke blubbered. His face was red and he could hardly breathe through his nose.
"He'll need no convincing," I assured him. "Your daughter's disappearance is linked to the case we're working right now."
"Oh..." Luke shook his head. "Is... is that a good thing, or a bad thing?"
I sighed and met his gaze. "Both."
He laughed weakly before it turned into a soft sob.
Abruptly, the entire room was thrown into pitch darkness. I blinked, startled, and looked outside the door to see the rest of the office was shrouded in black as well. Other officers were giving small exclamations of shock and annoyance.
"The power went out?" I murmured, getting to my feet.
My eyes were taking some time to adjust. I felt around to grip the back of my chair to get some sense of where I was. In my pocket, my phone began to vibrate. I pulled it out to see Sherlock was trying to call me. I frowned. Sherlock never called; even with me, he only texted.
However, before the true sense of danger could fully fill me, a strong hand covered my mouth and nose with a cloth that smelled strongly of chemical. I gave an involuntary gasp of surprise, and that was all it took. My world hiccuped and swayed. I tried to thrash out of the man's grip, but he already locked an arm around my shoulders and was pressing me against his chest.
My phone fell to the floor, still buzzing when it went up against Lestrade's desk. It was the last thing I heard before everything melted away.
Sherlock
I didn't wait for the cab to come to a complete stop when we reached the Scotland Yard. I heard the cabbie give some exclamation about the fair, but didn't bother turning back. I ran toward the entrance, my body thrumming with adrenaline. There were patrol cars scattered about with their lights flaring and several officers standing outside the building. When I didn't see Lestrade among them, I headed straight inside; none of them tried to stop me.
It was dark in the building; more officers were walking about inside with torches shining their way. I paused when I burst inside, quickly pulling out my own torch from my coat pocket. The power had gone out—been sabotaged, most likely. That wasn't good.
"Sherlock!" John had followed me inside. "Please tell me what's going—why's the power out?"
"Sherlock." Lestrade's voice came and I turned to see the Inspector jogging toward us from his office.
"Max...?" I said, my voice hardly more than a hoarse whisper.
I shined my torch toward Lestrade's face but at an angle not to blind him. His expression fell into something both ashamed and angry. My breathing hitched and I took a shaky step back. John looked between Lestrade and me with rising horror tainting his stone-blue eyes.
All my rage and fear flooded through me at once. I let out a roar and turned to the closest desk I could find to shove everything off of it. Pencil holders, papers, a keyboard, and a cup of coffee was all sent flying to the floor. Still not satisfied, I gripped the desk and gave another bellow as I flipped it on its side.
"Sherlock!" Lestrade cried.
It took everything in me not to punch him. I locked my irascible gaze onto him and shoved a finger into his chest.
"You were meant to keep her safe!" I shouted.
"We've barred off the building," Lestrade assured. "No-one is getting in or out that we don't know."
"Just hold on a second," John said, pushing himself between Lestrade and me. "What happened? Where's Maddie?"
Lestrade huffed and shook his head. "Look, I'm not proud of what happened. I've got a composite sketch to our forensic artist already."
"You—you saw who took her?!" I exclaimed.
"Took?" John echoed. "What-what d'you mean, 'took?'" He looked back at Lestrade. "No... you can't be..."
"He tricked both of us," Lestrade pressed. "The man that came in claiming his daughter was taken? It was him."
"Unbelievable," I breathed, then my voice rose to a shout. "Unbelievable! You call yourself a man of the law—someone who protects and upholds peace—you should be terminated from your standing as Detective Inspector." I spat the last words with all the venom I could muster and glared at him.
"I just told you, he tricked both of us! He might have even tricked you too!" Lestrade defended.
"Enough!" John yelled. "This is getting us nowhere. Lestrade, what did the man look like?"
"White male, crying and snotting up a storm; how were we meant to know he was with the Yakuza?" Lestrade shook his head helplessly.
"Because he isn't," I murmured, glaring down at the mess I'd made. "The Yakuza is working with a third party. And a fourth party too, I suppose."
"Tell me what's going on, Sherlock," John demanded.
I closed my eyes and ran my fingers through my hair. "Moriarty. He connected the Yakuza with this-this assassin or mercenary—or whatever he considers himself."
"This is Moriarty?" Lestrade gasped. "Again?"
Before I could reply, the power suddenly kicked back in. Surprised, we looked around ourselves and turned off our torches. The mess I'd made looked far worse now that it was in full view. I realized that I didn't even care whose desk it was. My entire being was fixated on finding Maxine and keeping her safe.
The phone in Lestrade's office began to ring. The three of us exchanged a knowing look before hurrying to the room. I paused briefly in the doorway when I spotted Maxine's yellow scarf on the floor. Grinding my teeth, I snatching it before going to the desk and picking up the receiver with haste.
"Hello?" I said.
"Here's the deal..."
American accent, man, possibly around his mid-forties. Smoked in his teens, quit in his twenties. Confident, but wasn't always—he'd earned this level of pride. I gripped the desk tightly as I waited for him to continue.
"I need your help, Mr. Holmes," he said. "I've been trying to wait it out, but I'm an impatient guy."
"What do you want?" I said, my voice tight with rising anger.
"It's simple," the man replied. "I need to find out who is attached to the pen name, Dakota Lyheart. Once you do that, I need you to bring her to me. In exchange, I'll give you back you're cute little freckled redhead in one piece and still breathing instead of skewered in a suit of armor in a very public place."
I could hear the grin in his voice. It infuriated me to no end. I wanted to find this man and crush his windpipe in my hands.
"You think that you can stop me, but you can't," the man murmured. "I killed that girl in broad daylight earlier today and no-one saw. Then the brothers... They were a bit easier. Not as fun as I normally like. But your girl? Oh, she deserves something special."
"How long?" I rasped.
Not that it really mattered; the person the man was demanding was already in his custody. I wasn't going to tell him that, of course, and I needed to see how long I'd have to come up with some sort of plan.
"I'll give you two days," the man said. "Should be plenty of time for someone like you. Call me at this number when you have her ready to trade."
I stared blankly at the far wall as the line went dead and the dial tone blared in my ear. John and Lestrade both leaned toward me quizzically, their brows furrowed. Slowly, I lowered the receiver and hung it up.
"He doesn't know," I breathed.
"What? Who was that?" John demanded.
"The killer—the man that took Max," I explained, turning to face the other two men. "He doesn't know that she's Dakota Lyheart. He's demanding that we find who the pen-name is attached to and exchange her for Max."
John groaned and took a few steps back, running his hands through his hair.
"Bloody hell," Lestrade sighed, shaking his head.
"What are we meant to do?" John exclaimed. "We can't give him Lyheart and we can't tell him Maddie is the same person!"
I closed my eyes, letting my mind reach out and grasp at the countless possibilities I could conjure. "Can't tell him the truth, can't produce someone for the trade," I murmured.
"I could say I'm Lyheart," John suddenly said.
I shook my head and stared at the yellow scarf in my hand. "He knows Akage is a female," I said. "Which... is strange."
"How so?" Lestrade asked.
I began to pace around the office. "Akage translates directly to 'redhead.' How the killer doesn't realize that he already has his mark is astounding."
"There are a lot of redheads in London," John argued.
"Certainly, but you've documented Max's combat ability in your blog," I pointed out. "At least to some degree. It shouldn't be a difficult leap for anyone to make the connection."
"Well, he did ask for Lyheart, not Akage," Lestrade said.
I opened my mouth to snap at the Inspector, but when his words reached me, I blinked. "You're right," I breathed. "He didn't ask for Akage..."
I pressed my hands together in a prayer position and put my lips to my index fingers, letting my mind swiftly dive through all the information I had and connect various things together.
The texts from Moriarty were teasing—he stated this was a game. He stated that the Yakuza knew Akage and Lyheart were the same and he helped them figure out the rest—but he never stated he already told them. It was incredibly possible that the killer—an outside source Moriarty enlisted to help the Yakuza—had no idea about the third name his target held.
"He's doing this all for kicks," I snarled suddenly. "The killer's never even heard the word Akage. All he was tasked with was finding Lyheart and brining her to Japan. The killer isn't even Japanese... of course. A mercenary—an assassin—some sort of freelancer... he's just doing this for Moriarty—for money."
My phone trilled in my pocket. I pulled it out quickly and saw that the unknown number had texted me again.
It said: Your move ;)
Maxine
It was dark. I blinked my eyes several times to try and rid them of drowsiness and clear my vision, but to no avail. My head was pounding and my limbs were lead. I groaned and sat up, trying to understand my surroundings. I was on a bed of some kind and there were sheets around me. My clothes were still on—thank goodness—save my scarf.
Abruptly, light flooded the room. I gasped and shut my eyes tightly from the discomfort of my irises contracting. I blinked them open again as I heard footsteps approaching me.
"Sleeping beauty awakes," said a man in an American accent.
I looked around to see that I seemed to be in some sort of warehouse crate—the bigs ones seen being placed on boats to go overseas. The man I knew as Luke Rivers—though, he was no longer blond, his eyes were now green, and his nose was smaller—was striding in from the metal doors he'd opened. There was a pistol in his hand, though he didn't aim it at me. I was on a small bed toward the back of the crate, and there was no way I would close the distance between us before he shot me.
Not to mention, my dagger was no longer in my boot.
"Clever," I rasped, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my palms. "Playing the part of the distraught father... it was very convincing."
"Thank you," the man said. "I do enjoy the acting part of the job. Adds variety."
"Who are you?" I asked. "You're with the Yakuza?"
The man chuckled and leaned on the wall. "Oh, no, sweetheart. I'm a bit too extreme for their tastes. But, they are quite desperate to find this Dakota Lyheart person—willing to pay a very pretty penny."
I narrowed my eyes. The way he spoke suggested he didn't know who I was. I decided to keep my mouth shut about that for now. Instead, I pressed, "But who are you?"
"Well, the public has given me many, many names, but in my network, most just refer to me as Wolfgang," the man replied. "So that should suffice, if you must call me something."
He'd changed clothes since I last saw him. He wore a form-fitting, long-sleeve shirt and brown cargo pants. His hair was just past the tops of his ears and a slightly reddish brown. He must have been wearing a wig at Scotland Yard along with the prosthetic nose and colored contacts, and he'd worn baggy clothes to hide his physical physic. He even looked shorter, which implied he might have worn shoes with thicker soles. There were black leather gloves on his hands and the casual smile on his face sent shivers down my spine.
Clearly, Wolfgang knew what he was doing.
"So you're... what, a mercenary? A hitman?" I asked. I wanted to glean as much information as I can while still wracking my brain for a way to escape.
Wolfgang snorted. "Mercenary," he echoed with distaste. "No. No, no, no... I like to think of myself as a jack-of-all-trades. Someone needs someone dead? Done. Someone needs to fake their death? Done. Someone needs a pair of eyes behind enemy lines? Done."
He slowly shrugged off the fall and began to walk toward me. His eyes were a dark green and his brows were arched in such a way that it gave his overall features an intimidating intensity. Oddly, in the back of my mind I found that I wanted to draw him.
"Someone needs the real identity of someone?" he went on in a low voice. "Done. Someone needs that someone carted off to another country?" Wolfgang paused about five feet away—still too far for me to lunge. "Done."
"All right, but... the murders... asking for Sherlock..." I said, finding a rising discomfort at his closeness.
Wolfgang chuckled. "Well, I have my strengths and I have my weaknesses," he sighed. "Detective work has never been my favorite. But, see, the guy that hired me... he put in a little something extra just for me to mess with that boyfriend of yours. I saw it as a two for one. I kill these people in reference to Lyheart's little comics..."
"Manga..." I corrected under my breath.
"What?" Wolfgang perked a brow.
"They're not comics," I muttered. "They're manga."
Wolfgang scoffed. "Whatever they are. Doesn't matter. What matters was killing them in such a way that good ol' Sherlock realized they were all connected to the same thing. He'd want to figure out why—he'd find Lyheart for me."
Finally, Wolfgang backed up toward the doors again. I loosed a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Normally, danger thrilled me. But this? Trapped without any means of defending myself? I wanted nothing to do with this.
Wolfgang smiled at me as he leaned on the wall again. "Didn't realize you figured out it was connected to that manga yet," he said. "If I'd known that, maybe you wouldn't be here right now."
I blinked at him. More and more, I was convinced he didn't know who I really was. I wasn't sure if that was good or bad luck for me.
"What d'you mean?" I asked.
"Well, I got impatient," Wolfgang admitted in an irritable sigh. "I wanted Sherlock to see that the murders were all connected and what they were connected with. I figured making his girl my fourth victim would... inspire him."
"That's what this is," I breathed.
Wolfgang peered at me. "What did you think it was? I have some class. I don't kill senselessly. There's a code I follow."
"You might have just been a crazy fan of that manga," I pointed out.
Wolfgang laughed and shook his head. He put his hands on the wood slab and leaned down toward me. "You're pretty calm for a girl in your situation."
"Living with Sherlock, I've gotten to be close friends with danger," I told him. "Dating him only made it closer."
Wolfgang snorted in amusement. "I like you, Maxine. Sure hope I don't end up having to kill you."
He turned and began to walk away.
"Wait!" I called.
Wolfgang paused and looked back with a perked brow.
"Who hired you?" I asked. "Why do they want this Lyheart person so much?"
Wolfgang scoffed softly and shrugged. "I don't ask the big questions, sweetheart. I just ask 'how much?'"
With that, Wolfgang strode out of the large shipping crate and closed the doors behind him. The light stayed on—it was coming from a lamp in the far corner. I exhaled sharply and glanced up to see a camera peering down at me. If I managed to make any process in escaping, I was willing to bet Wolfgang would see it—or someone would. I wouldn't be surprised if he had an accomplice; after all, who took out the power back at the station?
There was a single white blanket on the bed, a bucket in the corner I guessed was for me to relieve myself in, the lamp, and the camera near the door—that was it. Not much to use without a lot of modification that would probably be caught on camera.
I let out a long breath and hoped Sherlock had some sort of plan, because my mind was completely blank on this one.
Sherlock
Keeping a level head was next to impossible. John was on the phone with Mycroft, trying to see if the video footage had given him anything. We were back at the flat and I was staring at the composite sketch that Lestrade had done up, memorizing the features. Maxine's scarf was laid over the back of my chair and every so often I went over to rub my fingers on its soft fabric.
Trying to see if the number on Lestrade's phone carried GPS or any sort of traceable location had proved fruitless, even for Mycroft. After a thorough combover Lestrade's office, I'd found a blond hair that was consistent with artificial hair. I would have to test it at the lab to make sure, but I was fairly certain the man that took Maxine had been wearing a wig.
The helmet Lestrade had bagged as evidence provided no leads either. The fingerprints had no match in any database and there was no real way to track where the thing came from. All that could be gleaned was that it was an authentic piece—it came from the medieval era, perhaps late 15th century. Even when I recalled all the other crime scenes and examined the evidence from them, they gave me nothing. It was like chasing a ghost.
"Not in the building, but possibly not far," I murmured to myself. "No background noise when he called—wasn't driving. Or wasn't moving. Could have been intentional, could already be at destination. Voice sounds young or middle-aged. Tone suggests high confidence. Arrogance could lead to a slip up. Skilled actor, possible wig hair, could have been using prosthetics."
I scowled at the sketch. It could potentially be useless.
"Hey." John came walking toward me from the kitchen. "Mycroft says he got the copies of the sketch but it could be that—"
"That it could be useless, yes, I know," I interjected. "What else?"
John sighed. "Cameras don't seem to have caught anyone stealing anything, but his people are still going through them. And the car that left the scene of Scotland Yard had no plates and no-one's seen it since. Blue sedan of some kind. Oh, and he's having the sketch cross referenced with known contract killers."
I could see the tension in John's shoulders and the anxiety in his eyes. I furrowed my brow at him.
"How d'you do that?" I whispered.
"Do what?" John asked.
"You're so calm—so level," I replied. "Max is missing, but you're able to keep it together."
"Well, one of us has to, right?" John said.
I blinked. "What do you mean?"
John eyed me critically. "Sherlock, you upended Donovan's desk and probably destroyed her computer."
"It was Donovan's desk?" I clicked my tongue with slight satisfaction. "Oh, good. At least it wasn't anyone useful."
"I've never seen you this... this..." John waved his hands in an effort to find a word.
"Emotional?" I supplied. "Moriarty said the same thing." I pursed my lips into a tight line.
"It's not necessarily a bad thing," John pointed out. "I mean... I'll admit, I sort of had some doubts..."
"Doubts?" I taped the composite sketch on the mirror over the fireplace.
"About you with my sister," John explained.
I turned to face him, slightly indignant. "Why?"
"Because, Sherlock, you're you, and she's her." John shook his head. "Neither of you seem... capable of this sort of thing. But seeing you today... You love her, don't you?"
I swiftly adverted my gaze. "If the sketch might be useless and there's nothing on the surveillance footage yet, we should see if anyone had reported a suit missing. That will narrow it down for Mycroft."
John exhaled at my change of subject, but before he could say anything, I pressed on with a new thought.
"We need something to trade," I murmured. "He has what he wants, but doesn't realize it, so it's impossible for us to supply... We need something of his for something of ours. Something he cherishes, something he couldn't stand losing."
"The man's a psychopath," John said. "What in the world could he care for enough to give us Maddie?"
I pressed my fingers against my temples and loosed a long exhale through my lips. What did this man care about? Perhaps he was in it for the thrills, perhaps he just enjoyed this. No... no, there had to be something more to it. Moriarty had been the bridge between this man and the Yakuza.
My phone began to ring in my pocket. When I took it out and saw Mycroft's name, I answered so hastily I nearly dropped it.
"What do you have?" I demanded.
"A possible ID," Mycroft replied. To his credit, he didn't sound as smug or pompous as he normally did. I didn't know if it was for my benefit or Maxine's. "Seems that our man only changed his hair for his trip to Scotland Yard. We have some photos of a man that's known to... well, he isn't exactly a contract killer. He's a contract anything."
"Name," I insisted.
"We don't have his birth name," Mycroft said. "He's never been brought in. But in his crowds, he goes by Wolfgang. Apparently he doesn't get out of bed for less than three million quid. Not much is known about him other than the fact that he is very good at what he does."
I was quiet for a moment, processing the information.
"Sherlock..." Mycroft said softly.
"What?" I replied, still thinking about this Wolfgang and how I was going to destroy him.
"You do realize that this could go wrong," Mycroft said. "You're emotional—too quick to action. This man is dangerous and unpredictable."
"Let me know if you find out more," was all I replied with and ended the call.
I immediately began to scroll through my contacts and John perked a brow at me.
"What did he have to say?" John pressed.
"Our man goes by Wolfgang," I explained as I began typing a message. "And I know what he cares about enough to trade for."
"What's that?" John asked eagerly.
I sent the message and then went to another contact to type another text out. John waited for me to answer him, but I was too intent on the message I was typing out.
"Sherlock," he said irritably.
I looked up, but before I could reply, there was intense knocking from the door below.
Startled, John and I exchanged a look before both heading out to the landing and down the stairs. John had his hand near his hip where his pistol was and I felt my own body tense for a potential fight. However, when I opened the door, instead of leaping into battle, my jaw went slack and my eyes stretched.
Standing before us was a short Japanese woman with long, braided black hair and a muscular build. She was wearing an athletic, form fitting black shirt with a hood and equally dark leggings. The boots she wore seemed for both climbing and running. She had to be in her forties, though her dark eyes were large and youthful. She stared up at us with a grim expression.
"Am I too late?" she asked in a light accent.
"Who are—?" John began, but I interrupted with the answer.
"Kaida Miyako," I murmured.
Miyako blinked, though her surprise didn't linger long. "Sherlock Holmes. The one who told Max she could no longer communicate with me."
Max. I'd never heard anyone else refer to Maxine as that besides myself. Oddly, it sent a strange irritation through my body.
"Y-you're Maddie's teacher," John breathed. "The one who got her into this mess!"
"Please, you can yell at me later," Miyako said. "May I come in? It would be best we don't speak of a plan out in the open."
A few minutes later, we were up in the living room and John was bringing over some brewed green tea from the kitchen. I sat in my usual chair while Miyako took John's. When she spotted Maxine's scarf, she blinked.
"She never goes anywhere without that," Miyako breathed.
"Why are you here?" I asked the woman tightly, ignoring her comment.
Miyako exhaled slowly through her nose. She bowed her head to John in thanks when he set the tray on the coffee table and went to pour herself a cup. Only after she took a sip did she respond.
"I learned of the plan to send an outsider to collect Akage," Miyako said. "They had figured out the connection between her and the manga artist Dakota Lyheart, but they could not find the author's real name."
"So, what, you came to warn her?" John asked as he perched on the edge of the coffee table.
"I came to protect her," Miyako insisted. "If they figured out who she was, I intended to offer myself instead."
"That wouldn't work," I said as I poured myself a cup of tea.
"What do you mean?" Miyako asked.
We'd already filled her in about how Maxine was kidnapped, but not the details.
"The man that has Max doesn't know she's Lyheart," I explained. "He also has no idea about Akage or the physical description of her. There's someone else plucking the strings here."
"What? How could that be?" Miyako demanded.
"His name is Moriarty; James Moriarty," I replied. "I suppose you could call him my rival. We've crossed paths before."
"He's a lunatic," John said. "Intelligent, critical, and completely psychotic. This whole thing is a game to him. He hired this man and only told him to find out who Dakota Lyheart was, that she was female, and to deliver them to the Yakuza."
"I'm guessing there's some sort of location nearby that he would deliver her to, once he had her," I murmured. "Human trafficking drop off."
"I still don't understand," Miyako pressed. "Why take Max if he doesn't know who she is?"
"Because Moriarty told this man to use me to find out who Lyheart is," I snapped. "And Max... Max is my girlfriend."
Miyako's brows shot up beneath her bangs. "Wait; you and Max... together?"
"Shocking, I know," John said.
"No, actually," Miyako replied. "It... it makes a lot of sense. Max loves challenges, and I would assume Mr. Holmes is a great challenge."
John snorted in amusement and I huffed before drinking some of my tea.
"So—this Moriarty—he's playing games with you?" Miyako asked me.
I nodded while drinking.
"Do you know the man that took her?" John asked. "Wolfgang?"
"Wolfgang? Yes, unfortunately, I do..." Miyako said. "He works for no less than five million pounds per job—or dollars. He's American. Does anything illegal you can think of, but his favorite is killing."
"We've seen his handy work," I muttered, looking at the sketch with narrowing eyes. "Do you know his real identity?"
"I'm not certain anyone does," Miyako said. "Sorry... Has he given you demands?"
"He wants Lyheart," John said. "He wants Sherlock to figure out who she is and trade her for Max, or..."
"Or...?" Miyako prompted.
"Or he'll kill her inside a suit of armor and leave her out in a public place for Sherlock to find her," John said in a low voice, his jaw clenched.
"I am very sorry," Miyako said. "You are her brother, this must be very hard for you. For both of you." She got to her feet and walked toward the sketch on the mirror. "I understand my part in this, and I will help you get her back."
"How?" I demanded. "So far, we've no leads. That sketch could very well be useless—he was wearing a wig; who knows if he had prosthetics or make-up on?"
Miyako kept staring silently at the sketch and it dawned on me what she meant. I set my cup down and got to my feet as well.
"You mean to present yourself as Lyheart," I said.
"What?" John exclaimed.
"It would make sense, don't you think?" Miyako replied, finally turning to face us. "A Japanese woman is the author of a famous manga that was published in Japanese before English."
I pressed my hands together in the prayer position near my mouth. My mind was racing with new possibilities. I stepped back into the living room's open space and began to pace.
"Calling him this soon would be suspicious, we'll have to wait," I said, mostly to myself. "We can do some more work in the meantime. Search for stolen reports of a suit of armor, check the security footage, work out a step-by-step plan for the exchange... Have to figure out a way to get Miyako back; Max won't stand for abandoning her. A tracker, perhaps? Something in her clothes—somewhere he won't look..."
"Water-proof tracker," Miyako said. "For beneath my tongue."
"Do they make those?" John asked.
Miyako pulled something out of her pocket—a small round chip no no larger than a five pence. "They do," she replied.
For the first time since I figured out Maxine was the target of this case, I felt hope. Relief flooded me and I smiled lightly.
"This might work," I muttered. "This could very well work. But..." I turned to face Miyako, "there's still something bothering me."
"Yes?" Miyako raised a brow at me.
"Why do they want you?" I asked. "Why alive? You've sent assassins that you trained to kill high-ranking members of their clan. Yet, when you were found out, you told Max to leave the country because you thought they would use her against you. At first, I thought that perhaps it would be to lure you out so they could kill you, but Max mentioned that you told her that they sent you a warning—a warning to cease the assassination attempts or they would resort to targeting Akage."
Miyako glanced away. "It's complicated," she said. "There's no point in getting into it now."
"There's every point in getting into it now," I pressed. "I need to know all the details of this situation for Max's sake. I need to be able to make decisions based on the data available to me and surprises in the middle of carrying out crucial actions could result in horrific failure. So, please, enlighten me what I'm missing."
"When I left, it was during a rather large drug exchange," Miyako admitted. "I had the drugs and the money hidden away after I dispatched of all involved. They want the location."
"Knew it," John said, puffing out his chest.
I narrowed my eyes and shook my head. "No. No, there's something more," I murmured. "Something that is keeping them from wanting to kill you. If they only wanted the location of the drugs and the money, they could capture and torture it out of you."
"They knew I wouldn't break," Miyako replied a little too quickly. "That's why they wanted Akage—to use her to break me."
I sucked my teeth and pursed my lips. "It's still doesn't complete the picture," I said. "They don't try very hard to try and track you down. How else would you be able to run a dojo in Tokyo for so many years? It's almost as if they fear finding you and possibly end up hurting you. I know you must be prowess in combat given Max's abilities, but the Yakuza have never had an issue just sending large numbers to get at someone. Even you couldn't fight off ten of them.
"So that leads us with the question: why be so careful with you? Why, even after the assassinations, is there leniency and the drive to use Akage as the motivation instead of your own pain or life? There's only one thing I can think of. Someone in the clan—someone high in the rankings, cares for you. They care so much that they'd rather use a stranger to make you compliant than hurt or kill you. They want you close to them—they want to use Akage as blackmail."
I peered at Miyako while stepping closer to her. She looked incredibly uncomfortable by my words and my sharp gaze. She cleared her throat awkwardly and bit her lip.
"I suppose your reputation proceeds you," she whispered.
"It's annoying sometimes," John sighed.
I shot him a glare but Miyako gained back my attention when she spoke again.
"My real name is Sakura Hikura. My father... Yoshio Hikura... he leads the clan," Miyako said. "He gained the promotion four years ago. I defected two years before that, but he still had enough influence to keep the others from coming after me. Since then, he's tried to get me to come back. He has these fantasies of being a whole family again, but that can't happen. Not after all the death and carnage they've caused."
"You told Max that you were taken in at a young age, off the streets," I reminded her.
"I lied." Miyako shrugged. "I don't like talking to others about my heritage. I was determined to bring the clan down before my father was the leader, and I still am today; even if that means taking his life too."
John rubbed the back of his neck. "Damn," he breathed. "And I thought my family troubles were bad."
Miyako sighed softly. "I never meant for it to come this far. I never expected him to try so desperately to get me back. I thought for certain sending assassins would have been the last straw—that he would want me dead."
"Was that your end goal?" John asked. "To have you father try to kill you?"
"No, no..." Miyako shook her head. "I was never meant to be caught. I'd even made certain that no-one was close to me, should that day come. But Max... she was different. Somehow, she snuck right by my defenses and before I knew it, I cared about her."
I understood Miyako's words all too well. Max had done the same thing to me. John had as well, though not to the degree of his sister. I'd never meant to have friends—to have people close that my enemies could use against me.
"When Aoi betrayed me, my father sent me a message—to return and he would leave Akage alone," Miyako went on. "I'd been caught and I had someone he could use against me. After Akage was safe, I tried even harder to gain my father's ire. I wanted him to forget about using someone to make me come back and simply focus on killing me. Seems he cares for me more than I ever gave him credit for."
"Or he knows that killing you would be kinder than forcing you to return to the clan," I pointed out. "You striking out against him like this has only motivated him to hit you where it hurts: your dear friend and you back in the Yakuza."
Miyako scoffed. "You give him too much credit. He isn't that clever."
"Perhaps not, but Moriarty is," I said. "It could be he's been whispering in your father's ear for some time. It would kill two birds with one stone for him—get paid a large sum for an illegal job and mess with me." I pressed my lips into a tight line.
"We will get Max back," Miyako assured me. "I won't let her pay for my mistakes, I promise."
I met her eyes for a moment before striding across the room toward my violin. It was sitting on the couch and as I lifted the bow Maxine had gifted me, my heart grew heavier. I blinked rapidly for a moment, attempting to make my eyes stop burning, then I put the bow to the strings and played.