Author's note: I know many of you are curious about the mysterious woman's identity, but I'm not revealing anything because it would spoil the fun! I hope you all like how the fic is progressing so far, and that you all enjoy reading this chapter. Please review! Thanks so much to all those who have reviewed, and been reviewing- they really mean a lot to me.

Chapter 7

Ryuk dared not say anything to Raito on the walk home. Black-faced and looking thunderous, Yagami Raito was having a most volatile disposition. It was one of those days in which everything goes wrong- a drunkard pushed him to the ground and called him offensive racist names; a hansom going by had splashed him from head to foot with water.

Finally reaching his quarters, Raito stripped himself of his wet clothing and flung himself naked on the bed. He was much too preoccupied to bother toweling himself dry or to have a bath. He was furious, and he had to show it otherwise he would explode. Unfortunately, he lacked the privacy of his own house, and did not want to cause so huge a racket that the poor, devoted widow would come calling on him. Hence, Raito was forced to start pummeling his own pillow in anger.

"How. Does. She. Know?" Raito snarled. "Ryuk, do you know anything about it?"

"No," said Ryuk, eating an apple idly. "I saw no death-god near the woman. Her sources must have come from somewhere else."

Raito said nothing.

It hurt his pride, being forced to work for such a woman. But he knew that she in time, would be exceedingly useful to her operations. If she had been telling the truth, that she is very influential and rich- she would be able to find information and go to places in which a young Japanese man would not be able to.

Raito at once recognized her greatest strength- her seemingly naïve and innocent manner made people underestimate her, giving her an enormous advantage over her counterpart. Despite being spoilt, she has shown herself to be remarkably intelligent and shrewd. Unlike Misa Misa, Raito knew that this woman, although supportive of his actions, would no doubt turn on him just as fast if she ever got the hint that he was going to double-cross her.

But he knew, that with enough time, he would be able to exploit her vulnerabilities and win her over. Although he was now suffering a temporary loss, he knew that he would prevail at the end-game.

There was no question.

He had to.

When I called upon No. 221B Baker Street at nine the next day, my heart was heavy within my breast. Although my Mary had taken the news relatively well, I still could not forget the storm of crying and her begging me to not join Holmes on the case. It broke my heart to see her tears, and I have to admit that I am a sentimental man. My strength wavered at that point, but I remembered the oath I had sworn to Holmes and had to stand firm. Finally my wife relented, beseeching me to take care of myself.

The kindly old housekeeper showed me to Holmes' room. The great detective was already up, and was poring through a pile of papers that no doubt were Lestrade's report.

"It looks like Lestrade has over exaggerated things," said Holmes, frowning as he flipped through the report. "From what he said, I was expecting to see a lot more jailed convicts dead."

"And it also appears that some of the people who had died were falsely accused- but their acquittals were not yet made public when they were struck down by the heart-attacks. It is a poor god if he keeps making many errors of judgment. Many of my assumptions (much as I dislike to make them without concrete facts, but this matter is so pressing I had no alternative) made yesterday are now proving to be true. A few well-placed phone calls, and I am extremely certain that none of our Western neighbours have had the same problem. So the problem lies in England, and likely London itself," said Holmes. "Now, I think our criminal is a human using England as his testing ground for his recently acquired new powers… But," Holmes brought his fingers together, and his brow darkened. "But information is still sparse and insufficient!"

"Is he only seeking to eliminate crime from England, or is his aim much more complex?"

"Where is the motive?"

"What is the end?"

"And there is something missing," muttered Holmes again, staring at the list of names. "I know I am missing something crucial…There has to be something that links all these victims together- why they were chosen and not others. Come on, think! Where the devil has all my deductive skills gotten to?"

I knew it was best to leave Holmes alone when he was in that mood, for he was exceedingly irritable when interrupted in his thinking. Picking up a crumpled newspaper from the table, I stared stupefied at the large headlines.

"The press… knows?" I said, flipping over to the page which screamed of the unnatural deaths. Criminals dead of heart attacks! London's prisons emptied! Is this God's hand of justice out to correct the evils of society? Will justice prevail?

"Yes. Damn incompetence on the part of the police, to have let the press know! Some stupid fool at the police headquarters must have babbled," said Holmes, brow still angrily knitted together. "Although of course, I have to say it is very hard to keep so many deaths a secret- but if they're not careful, we are going to have a national uproar in our hands."

There was a silence.

Seeing that Holmes' face still looked taut and tensed, I quietly took a seat opposite him.

"Well," I mused to myself, throwing down the newspaper again. "Printing is truly a remarkable invention. It's the best way to get news from all over the world to the public. Anyhow, what have you got there, Hol-"

Suddenly, Holmes gave a cry. Startled, I looked at him- he was on his feet, staring at me with those bright, keen eyes of his.

"Oh my God! I've got it. What will I ever do without you Watson?" Holmes shouted, rushing towards me and grabbing the newspaper from my startled hands. "You have just given me the missing link! The people who were killed- all appeared in the newspapers for some crime or another. And yet- according to Lestrade's report of the deaths, I am very sure that not all who appeared in the newspapers died. In fact, a great majority did not."

I stared at him, dumbfounded.

"So it seems that he is not God after all- The limitations of the killer's powers are now becoming clearer." Holmes said, rubbing his hands with glee. "Well now, I must hurry!"

Taking his quill and ink bottle, Holmes hastily scribbled a message on a piece of paper. Folding up the blotted and smudged paper, Holmes snatched up his cloak and dashed out of the apartment. Used as I was to his peculiar habits, I have to admit that his sudden leaving without explanation rankled at me a bit. However, I knew that he definitely had his reasons, and all would be explained the moment he stepped over the threshold of this room again.

A few hours passed before my friend came back, and I took the opportunity to read the newspaper with greater detail. Although I was full of horror at the manner in which these mass killings were conducted, I was extremely sure that there would be some, or perhaps many, who would condone these murders of criminals. I have to admit that our justice system had problems with its legal infrastructure, and many have expressed (although discreetly) their disapproval and displeasure. Ashamed, I felt a tiny bit of doubt worrying me at the back of my mind. If the person doing these killings was doing so for the purpose of ridding society of evil, would not the world become a better place- populated by caring, kind individuals, with a negligible crime rate? There is no better deterrent to crime than the fear of death hanging over the heads of the people, and this time, from an unknown source that seems to transcend normal human limitations to administer justice.

But no, I thought determinedly. One should not impose fear and terror in order to build a stable, prosperous empire. That in itself, is criminal. To murder people without mercy, and at the whim and fancy of the killer, is nothing short of the monstrous.

I heard footsteps, and knew that my friend had returned.

"I guessed right," Holmes said with satisfaction, as he entered through the door. He poured out a glass of brandy for himself. "The killer needs both a name and a face to kill. All those people who died appeared in newspapers from about a month ago until now. And all," he emphasized, "had their names and photographs published." He settled himself upon his favourite chair. "Don't you remember Anthony Rockswell?"

"Oh yes," I said. "London's most famous newspaper editor, if I remember correctly."

"Quite so, Watson. I helped him out in a tight spot many years ago, when he was still unknown and penniless. I went to ask him to repay the favour, and wrote him a note asking him to check up the records of the list of names Lestrade gave me. I got an answer within the hour… Rockswell certainly is a very efficient fellow."

"But," I said, trying to emulate my friend's deductive processes, "I had watched the clock, and you were gone for hours! And look! Your shoes are extremely dusty and grimy, and your suit stained- where else did you go? Surely you did not go walking around London?"

Holmes gave a laugh, and took another sip of brandy. "Very astute, Watson. However, you failed to notice these brownish stains of unusual texture upon my cuffs- which would have told you of my whereabouts. These stains can only come from the London prisons, due to the rather unique type of dirt that thrives there. I went there first, before visiting the residences of those citizens who had also died of such heart-attacks."

"Did you have any luck?" I asked eagerly.

A shadow descended upon Holmes' aquiline face, and I instantly guessed that the result was far from satisfactory.

"No, not at all. The only concrete evidence which I have at the moment is that the killer's power is limited, and that he resides in London (for I found out that some of the victims were publicized in newspapers exclusively circulated around London). I didn't notice this link before because most of these victims were from solved cases- I seldom remember those because it would only clutter up mental storage space. I only remember names from unsolved cases, in case some future development might cast some light upon them." He took a puff from his pipe. "And I could find no unusual occurrences in the days or months preceding the victims' unfortunate demise. Family members and close associates have often expressed that the victims were in good health, cheerful, no odd changes in temperament- indeed, the only thing that happened which was out of place was them suddenly dying by heart attacks."

"And anyway," he said, looking at his watch. "I summoned Lestrade here… He should be arriving quite soon. Much as I dislike the man, he is one of the most influential men of the Scotland Yard… it is likely that I will have need for its manpower in the future."

True to his word, around five minutes later, there was another violent explosion of the doorbell.

Lestrade entered, his bull-dog face still as pale as it was yesterday . "What is it, Holmes? I rushed over as soon as I got your message," he panted.

Holmes held out the newspaper.

"This is an answer to one of our key problem."

Lestrade started stupefied at it for a few seconds, before spluttering, with his face turning purple. "A newspaper? Is this one of your jokes, Holmes? If it is, I don't find it very funny. I am a busy man and-"

"No, I have never been more serious in my life," cut in Holmes levelly. "The killer uses the names and faces of people in the newspapers to murder. While the methods employed by the criminal to kill still eludes me, I have found out certain limitations of the killer." Quickly, he highlighted to Lestrade all that we had discussed and found out earlier.

"This eliminates the possibility of this being done by a god… as you had so kindly alerted us to the notion," concluded Holmes blandly, with a touch of sarcasm.

However, this subtle variation in tone was lost on the police inspector, whose rat-like features were now positively glowing at what Holmes had just said. "Remarkable," he exclaimed. "Your discoveries will certainly be of use to Scotland Yard! I know now the route we must take, if we are to stop these killings."

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Indeed?"

Lestrade puffed out his chest. It was actually a rather pathetic sight, seeing this thin and ratty man posturing about. "We must alert all the newspapers! Every arrest has to be made in secrecy… and none is to publish any photographs or details of the criminals- without these details, the murderer will be helpless, right?"

"Don't you understand?" said Holmes impatiently. "Censoring the newspapers is not going to accomplish anything. You see the way in which the killer operates. He is not going to stop even if the newspapers cease publishing such cases… What I suggest is-"

"Holmes," said Lestrade grandly, puffing out his chest even further. "I have my methods, and you have your own. I see no other alternative but to take immediate and forceful action- It is necessary to stop more deaths!" Picking up his hat, Lesetrade hastily bid us good-bye and scurried away, no doubt to evoke the force of the law against all publishing agencies in England.

"Fool," muttered Holmes under his breath.

The door swung closed.