A/N Sorry for the delay, this has been a total pain to write. The next one should hopefully be a bit sooner.
Sitting crossed legged in his favourite chair, Sherlock stared blankly at the wall; John on the other hand sat typing on his laptop, detailing their latest case to post on his blog. Three nicotine replacement patches lined one of Sherlock's thin pale arms, closing his eyes he arched his fingers and let out a big sigh "Shut up John, I am trying to think."
"I didn't say anything Sherlock" John closed his laptop; even though he knew Sherlock would need silence to think more deeply, the roughness of the demand still irked him.
"Your typing is getting on my nerves and I need absolute silence" Sherlock opened one eye for a moment to see John don his coat and walk out the door, he waited for the prickly comment he knew his flatmate would fire.
The jaw of ex army doctor tensed as a few specific words came to mind. "I know you must think you are the only one with any brains, but you're not. I'm going out, try not to destroy the flat down with your immense IQ." With that, John slammed the door and walked down the stairs, with perhaps louder than necessary steps. He knew that the words were harsh, or more likely meaningless to the other man, but the truth was Sherlock wasn't the only one who was stressed out over the situation. John decided that they both needed a bit of space, he resolved to let Sherlock think in peace and visit Katy's flat once again.
"Good. Maybe now I'll have some peace" On the other side of the now closed door, Sherlock tried to summon his infamous mind palace to find clues that would lead to the rescue of the kidnapped damsel. He placed his forefingers on his temples in an effort to focus his mind, it did little good, but he wasn't going to give up, not when the lack of links was driving him crazy. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he needed more data before he could properly theorize.
On the other side of London, John entered the spacious flat, only to be taken aback once again by the stylish decor. He had been expecting a bit of a dive considering the current occupation of the owner, but it seemed to be a nice flat, in an expensive part of town no less. He recalled the conversation he and Sherlock had on their previous visit.
"From what I can tell at a glance," Sherlock said, taking in the whole flat. "Katy had had a happy childhood before her parents died young. They left her their fortune, but she had been thrown off balance by her parents' fate and had left school. She is intelligent, but dangerously emotional at times; her focus needed to be channelled in life and she chose robbery; the very same profession that had perhaps led to the grasp of a certain James Moriarty. Then again, just because she stole things doesn't mean she deserved to be kidnapped."
"Right, how?" He remembered saying, completely stunned at Sherlock's rapid deductions.
"The family situation is obvious; there are no recent photos of the family but many from when she was younger. Also, I have read her file, her parents died when she was 15; she dropped out of school and went off the grid, until the police caught her for petty burglary 3 months ago." After his explanation, Sherlock had gone very quiet as he got into the zone, looking around the flat for any clues.
John followed the route the detective had taken. As soon as he entered her bedroom, he could tell something was distinctly off; clothes were thrown around the room, carelessly and quickly, and there was a brown jiffy envelope on the bed. It was addressed to Sherlock; John eyed the package for a moment, before picking it up, gently in case it was dangerous, and made his way back to Baker Street.
Back in Baker Street, Sherlock's attempts at entering his mind palace were halted momentarily by the entrance of Mrs. Hudson, who placed the post on the desk behind Sherlock. In response to the wordless action, he turned and gave her one of his ice cold stares.
"You have some mail boys," The stare went unnoticed, by the unconcerned landlady, as she spoke warmly. "Not enough people send letters anymore, I remember when everyone used to send letters. This one looks interesting though Sherlock." She held a small envelope, a red wax seal of a magpie pressed to the back of the brown paper.
"Thank you Mrs. Hudson, you can leave now." Sherlock said brusquely; she took no notice to his tone of voice but left nonetheless. Pulling on his gloves, the consulting detective grabbed the envelope from where his landlady had left it. He studied it intently, taking in every piece of data available and piecing together what he could of the author. The writer had been interrupted as he was writing, as the ink was swayed slightly towards the end, and the wax was from a candle; it had been melted with a lighter, not a match. The stamp had been used previously, four times to be exact, and the letter had been hand delivered, by none other than James Moriarty himself no more than 5 minutes ago.
Rushing from his perch, Sherlock stared out of the window, and saw a figure stepping out of Speedy's Café.
Takeout coffee in hand, Moriarty turned to meet eyes with the curly haired detective, before flashing one of his biggest unnerving grins. Without hesitation, Sherlock bolted down the stairs and out the door. When he finally reached the spot he had seen his most dangerous nemesis, Moriarty had gone, safely stowed in the back of a car that sped away. The detective swore to himself, deciding to make his way back into the flat. There, he noticed the envelope again and, against his better judgment, opened it.
Enclosed in the brown paper was a single, simple piece of paper, a note. It read,
You disappoint me; I thought you were better than this. You cheated and because of that, everything that happens next is on your shoulders; you brought this on yourself. From my perspective, it looks as though you need another story. Rapunzel has been chosen for our tale, although, she seems to have no hope of escape. You see, some naughty person cut off all her hair. So now she waits, trapped in the tower, my tower, waiting for her prince charming. But who could ever fill that role? I suppose Sir Boast-a-lot might do. I suggest you hurry; the hopelessness of the princesses is growing by the day.
Auf Wiedersehn,
Gothel
He read and reread it, trying to match all the clues together and figure out the plan of the man who always seemed to be a step ahead. He still didn't seem to have enough data. It was an hour later when John returned to find Sherlock in the same position, as if the man had not moved an inch in his time away.
"I thought I would do something to help, so I went back to her flat" John said, to what seemed like an empty room, as Sherlock remained still and silent. The former soldier continued, placing his coat on the sofa. "Someone had been there since we last went, they took some clothes from the wardrobe, and they left a package" The seemingly frozen position of the taller man reacted to the last comment, his gaze shifted at an unnerving rate to his flat mate.
"What kind of package?" He hissed, hoping the smaller man would be quick with the information.
"See for yourself," John handed the jiffy bag to the now alert detective and it was immediately opened by slender and precise, yet frantic fingers. The contents were revealed to be a small metal tin, the kind breath mints came in; Sherlock turned it over in his hands, measuring, testing, and assessing. There was no imminent threat, no bomb. It was obvious that Moriarty was too involved in the story for a simple ending like that; Sherlock took the tin into the kitchen, clearing a space by the microscope. Slowly and carefully, he opened the tin, the contents making his eyebrows furrow. Not many things confused him, but as he looked at the coffee like substance he couldn't work out how it fitted with the story. It looked like normal instant coffee and smelled as such, but it couldn't be. He took a sample on the tip of his finger, sniffing it before placing it on the tip of his tongue. The moment it reached his taste buds, he knew it was nothing good and spat it out; the next sample went on one of the microscope slides rather than in his mouth. He continued his investigation with a few more tests, before turning to John expressionlessly for what was to be said.
"He is drugging her." Sherlock stated no hint of emotion present.
"Yes Sherlock." John said as coldly as possible, trying to reflect Sherlock's clinical tone.
"Don't tell me you're still angry John." Sherlock said over his microscope at his cross armed flatmate.
"I'm surprised you noticed." John raised his eyebrows, his voice hinting strongly at his annoyance.
"This isn't about me and you John, this is about her. The drugs she is being given are going to make her completely unstable mentally. I need you; I need you to help me calm her down when we find her." Their eyes met and John instantly knew Sherlock was being serious.
"So how are we going to find her? Do you really think Moriarty is going to let us know where she is?"
"I already know where she is, he already told us." Sherlock picked up his phone and started to type.
"What, how?" The doctor review each of the clues Moriarty had given trying to piece together all the information, his concentration was broken by Sherlock's deduction.
"Moriarty delivered the note personally, so we know she is somewhere in the city. Katy doesn't think she is in any danger from him; the drugs are in the coffee and she trusts him enough to accept hot drinks. So she is in a flat or house in the city. He won't let her out of his 'tower'; he sent someone else to her flat to get her some more clothes. So she is somewhere Moriarty doesn't mind staying himself, somewhere up market considering the state of her flat. He referred to their residence as a tower and her as Rapunzel; they are in a penthouse apartment. Moriarty would be an idiot if he stayed at his personal home, so we are looking at a penthouse flat bought within the last 3 months. He signed his note Gothel, there is a penthouse apartment, in the affluent area of Mayfair, which has leased to a Mr J Gothel 1 month ago." Sherlock said in one breath, he turned his phone to John, showing him the information about the flat.
"Well let's go get her!" John exclaimed grabbing his coat from the sofa.
