Chapter Title: A Thousand Words

Author: Sam

Story: A Picture Perfect Crime: 02 of ?

Series: Side of the Angels

Setting: AU: Just before Christmas, 2015: London

Note:

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Stretching out upon his favorite perch, Sherlock lifted his newly casted leg to the armrest of his chosen divan. He pulled the laptop onto his stomach as he typed his password to access the device, ignoring John's protests that they 'would not be solving crimes, today . . . recall that I have Victoria here!' The consulting detective also ignored the slightly nervous seeming presence of Dr. Hooper and the delightedly giggling little Victoria Watson. The only person he deigned to recognize was Mrs. Hudson, his long-term landlady, and that was only after she slipped a plump pillow under his ankle.

"Oh, mustn't dent that cast, dear. Here you are." The woman offered a motherly smile to the much younger man and he returned a bare ghost of a lip quirk in her general direction.

Finally, he looked up from his laptop and frowned, annoyance flashing in his odd-colored eyes. "Do be quiet, John. I can't concentrate with you whining."

John Watson stiffened noticeably, shoulders thrown back and back ramrod straight as if taking a blow. His mouth pursed, his eyes narrowed, and he bit out, military-toned, "I will not have you hare off while we're baby-sitting, Sherlock." The physician strode to his best friend's side, heels striking the hardwood floor in an angry tattoo. "I won't endanger her!"

His friend's words seemed to break through Sherlock's preoccupation at last. His long-fingered hands stopped tapping at the keys and he raised his own eyes to meet John's brown-grey ones. Tone neutral sounding, his displeasure at the accusation was evident in the rigid set of his shoulders and his soft frown as he replied "I have never willingly endangered a child, John."

Guilt welled in the smaller man and he threw himself into his regular chair of old. "Yes, I know, Sherlock." He let the unspoken apology run through his voice. "Well, perhaps a level one or two." At Sherlock's opening mouth, John shook his head, tone hardening once more. "I mean it, Sherlock. I know those are boring cases, but there's no way either of us are going into the field so there's no point getting much higher than a three or four. Besides, you've got to have the medicine with all the walking you've done today. A one or two will be no hardship to solve even on the narcotics." John slipped a hand into Victoria's nappy sack and pulled out Sherlock's prescription bottle.

"Here," Molly's hand stretched out with a glass of water, breaking through the tension. She offered a gentle smile, worry reflected in her dark brown eyes. The woman often went unnoticed in the background and this time had been no exception as she'd retrieved drinks for the small group.

Sherlock's eyes shifted to fix on Molly and he paused for a minute before reaching out and taking the proffered drink. Holding up a hand, he sent John a glare as the surprised older man fumbled the pill bottle open and retrieved a solitary tablet, passing it over. Quickly, Sherlock swallowed the medicine with a gulp of water then handed the glass back to Molly and turned back to the laptop.

"Oh, John," Mrs. Hudson reached for a glass offered by Molly and sent her a smile, "Thank you, Molly dear." She glanced back at her former tenant, "I've heard you've updated your blog? My computer's gone down, and I haven't had a chance to look it over."

John smiled at the older woman and nodded, relaxing his stiff posture as he accepted a drink. "Thanks, Molly. Yes, I've changed the appearance and fixed the counter again." He sipped his water and glanced over his still cheerfully playing toddler.

An incomprehensible rumble broke from Sherlock's throat drawing all attention, but rather than explain himself, Sherlock typed something and began to turn the laptop towards Mrs. Hudson. He froze, eyes widening instead. "John . . . do you normally get photographs in your comments?"

"What?" John set his glass on the nearby table, bounded out of his seat, and pulled over Sherlock's laptop. He sank to the floor by the divan and began scrolling through the replies received concerning his regular blogs. As he sat positioned so Sherlock could read over his shoulder, the other man appeared content to withhold any complaint about having his device usurped.

In response to the latest crime posting, which John had updated two days prior, there were already over a hundred replies received. However, third from the most recent seemed an odd one: simply the picture of a china doll in an old-fashioned nun's black habit with an over-sized wooden rosary wrapped around its waist. This particular 'comment' had been left twice in the last forty minutes.

"I've never had a response like that before," John clarified, wondering just who would send such an odd picture to his site. He glanced over the two more recent comments, but neither gave a clue as to the identity or purpose of the doll posting.

The photo suddenly appeared in the comments section again and, before John could react, Sherlock reached a long arm over to tap a quick reply. 'Who is this?'

Within a few seconds the doll picture appeared a fourth time, accompanied by several photographs of buildings.

Sherlock frowned fiercely, sitting up and cursing softly. Molly flushed and Mrs. Hudson clicked her tongue against her teeth. John whirled around, surprised by his friend's reaction to what seemed a very timely puzzle.

"What? What's wrong, Sherlock?"

The other man glared at John and ground out, "you've got me medicated. In twenty minutes I won't be thinking clearly enough and now you present me this wonderful treat to pass the time. Shame on you, John Watson." He sounded more distracted than annoyed, though the undercurrent suggested some slight irritation.

Molly slipped down to the floor beside John. "What treat?"

The trio seemed unaware that Mrs. Hudson sank into John's customary chair and pulled little Victoria closer, delving into the large nappy sack for more toys and a baggy of snacks.

"This," Sherlock waved his hand towards the series of photographs, which had been added to by another string of four building pictures. Five photographs containing groups of buildings appeared as the next comment.

"How odd," Molly murmured, her customary shyness around Sherlock evaporating at the interesting, if bizarre, puzzle. "None of the buildings are the same one. Could they be crime scenes?"

Suddenly a series of twelve pictures appeared, but the pattern had ominously changed. These weren't buildings; they were sleeping animals. "Not crime scenes then?" questioned Molly.

Another twelve building photos appeared, drawing Sherlock to lean even closer to his laptop as John held it for the three to see. "Eight, four, five, twelve, twelve?" Five buildings once more appeared. Finally, four photographs of people, all with a bright red 'x' through them, posted: a curly-haired boy, a middle-aged woman, 'a man in an ugly dress,' as stated by John, and an unsmiling male youth.

The comments section started flooding with blog follower reactions to the peculiar display questioning the purpose and jeering at the unknown author, who had not signed his posts.

"Thirty-three seconds apart."

"What?" John turned to look at Sherlock half-reclining behind him.

Sherlock flicked his fingers at the variety of picture-posts. "The time stamps on those are thirty-three seconds apart exactly. Rather precise of him."

John scrolled back through the odd comments, ignoring the immense flurry of recent activity on his blog. Verifying the timing of the posts, his lips compressed and his grey-brown eyes darted over the many photographs. "After he got our attention, he deliberately posted at intervals," John confirmed Sherlock's statement. "So, he wanted us to see what he sent."

"And that means our poster has a reason for those specific pictures." Sherlock slipped his smart phone from his pocket and brought up John's blog, capturing each photo individually. In a flurry of typing, the consulting detective sent the photos to his printer. As he meticulously looked over each picture a frown settled across his sharp-boned features and reflected in his oddly tilted eyes.

John handed Sherlock's laptop to Molly and rose to his feet. He hurried to the printer, his footfalls sounding between the soft whir of the mechanics and the rustle of pages spilling over the paper guard; he retrieved the photos and carefully stacked them.

Several minutes passed as John collected pages and Sherlock and Molly reviewed the actual posts. Molly pulled over a pad of paper and pen normally used for free-thinking. She began writing points of observation including the thirty-three second intervals and the doubtful idea that the buildings had to deal with crime scenes.

When the printer fell silent, John grabbed the last sheet and moved to sit on the floor by Molly and Sherlock's divan once more. He rifled through the print-outs until he settled on the four crossed-out people. "Victims?" John queried, holding up the boy's photograph.

"No," Sherlock responded without looking up. "All of them are alive."

Surprise widened John's eyes and he turned around to stare at his best friend. "How do you know?"

Sherlock let out a snort and gestured vaguely at the boy's photo. "That's me. The other boy is Mycroft. The man is my uncle Rudy."

"Targets then?" Molly asked, before John could question Uncle Rudy's choice of outfit. Her voice reflected worry for the Holmes family.

"A possibility, but why those four targets? And why in combination with those buildings and animals?" Sherlock replied, tone neutral though his eyes had brightened and his finger scrolled at a rapid pace.

Molly nodded and asked, "what do the buildings have in common?" She put the notepad aside and helped John sort the photos into five stacks: individual buildings, groups of buildings, animals, people, and the lone doll. "Or the groups? Are they different towns or the same one from different views?" Her voice sounded breathless as she seemed to become wrapped up in the mystery.

John glanced over at his contented daughter as Mrs. Hudson kept her occupied. Smiling for the older woman, he turned back to the print-outs. "Right, there are five groups here. The building groups look like different towns. The style of buildings aren't the same."

Leaning over slightly to look at the larger photographs, Sherlock nodded. "You're learning, John."

Mouth tightening, eyes narrowing slightly, John stiffened but stayed silent.

"Those pictures are in the wrong order." Sherlock's voice rose in pitch, anxiety apparent in his tone. "Why did you change them around?" He reached over and scooped up the photos, his hands flying as he rearranged them, frowning fiercely. "The poster sent them in a specific order and specific groups." He thrust the stack at John with a glare. "I need to see them."

With a sigh, John stood once more and moved to the wall. He glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock, who stared intently, and Molly, who looked avidly curious. John turned back to the wall and began hanging the pictures in the six groups, using a chair to reach near the ceiling for the first row. Finally, he stepped back to view the collection but moved to sit when Sherlock made a low rumble in his throat.

Amusement coloring her voice, Molly asked "did you just growl?"

Sherlock ignored her. He shifted as if he wanted to stand but the cast on his ankle seemed to remind him of his current limitation. "The prison was second, not third, John. First came the doll then the prison."

John nodded but Molly rose faster than he could and stepped onto the chair to fix the pictures. When she turned, Sherlock seemed to be contemplating the new arrangement, but his eyes had begun to droop due to the narcotic John had given him. Molly looked to John; he shook his head. He knew that Sherlock would want to continue no matter how sleepy he got.

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To Be Continued in Chapter Three: What's in a Name?