A/N: Finally, chapter sixteen. Sorry it's been so long. This was a collaboration with a good friend of mine. Red Murdoch belongs to him, so it's sort of a cross-over. Most of Murdoch's dialogue are his words, and the main idea behind the case was his suggestion. You can find his work at "bill hyphen ray dot blogspot dot com". Just get rid of the spaces and use the symbols for the bold words (as if you couldn't figure that out)

Some notes on reviews:

Fuchsia Grasshopper: TGG is going to be epic.

TeamTHEFT: Thanks! I'm glad you like it. Here's your update.

Chapter Sixteen:

The Butcher

"Mrs. Hudson!" I call across the crowd towards my landlady. I wave as she turns towards me, picking up my suitcase and walking in her direction.

"Kat!" she greets, hugging me before leading me away. "How was the flight?"

"It was fine," I respond.

"You're not tired?" she asks. I shake my head as we walk to the baggage claim.

"Nah, I managed to sleep on the plane," I answer, grabbing my suitcase.

"And how was the wedding?"

"It was… interesting," I answer, thinking back to my recent holiday in America, my cousin's wedding and my mother's icy silence. "The best man hit on me the entire time." Mrs. Hudson laughs. We walk towards the exit in silence.

"So was he cute?" Mrs. Hudson asks as we walk out the doors. I chuckle.

"Who, the best man? Eh, he was okay," I respond as she hails a taxi.

"He's no Sherlock, then, is he?" she asks pointedly as a taxi pulls up, and I laugh. The cabbie gets out of the car and walks around the back to open the boot. I put my suitcase inside, he closes the boot, and we all get into the car. I give the cabbie the address before turning to Mrs. Hudson.

"Speaking of Sherlock, where are the boys?" I ask. "I thought John was supposed to be picking me up." Mrs. Hudson turns to look at me.

"They're on a case right now," she answers. I nod. "Four bodies in the last two weeks. It's a shame, really."

"Any connection?" I ask, knowing she'll have some sort of answer. She's a lot sharper than the boys give her credit for. She shakes her head.

"None that they can figure out, I'm afraid," she answers. "Though Sherlock is adamant that there is one: They've all got the same injuries and were all found within blocks of each other." I nod again. "The press is having a field day, though. Calling him 'The Butcher'. It's Jack the Ripper all over again." I shake my head. The rest of the ride is silent. We pull up to the flat. Mrs. Hudson gets out and moves to pay the cabbie while I get my suitcase from the boot. We're at the base of the front steps when the front door opens and Sherlock and John come rushing out.

"Kat! Thank God you're here," John exclaims. I tilt my head at him. "Sherlock's been absolutely insufferable the entire time you were away." I chuckle as Sherlock glares scathingly at John.

"Where're you headed in such a rush?" I ask as I put my suitcase in the building.

"Scotland Yard," Sherlock answers, hailing a taxi. "We're going back over the evidence. There must be something." I nod and walk towards him as he opens the car door. I slip inside the taxi before he has the chance to get in himself.

"Good thing I'm back then, yeah?" I say as he gets in. John laughs and soon the three of us are headed towards the Yard.

"How was America?" John asks. I shrug my shoulders.

"It was okay," I respond. "The best man kept hitting on me, though." John chuckles as Sherlock watches me. We've been dancing around each other since that night with the crossbow. "I turned him down. Wasn't interested." Sherlock nods slightly before turning to look out the window. "So, tell me about this 'Butcher'."

"How do you know about that?" John asks in shock. I smirk.

"I have my sources."

"He's killed four people in the last week," Sherlock states. "There are signs of struggle at all the locations where the victims were taken, signs of bondage on all the victims' wrists and ankles, all were gagged, all had their throats slit, and they were all moved after being killed." I shudder. "Whoever is doing this is thorough. Not a trace of evidence left behind: No fingerprints, no shoeprints, no witnesses, no CCTV. Nothing to give us a lead."

"Your kind of case, then. No other connections between the victims, though?" I ask. Sherlock shakes his head.

"I've looked at every possibility," he says. "There are a few connections between two or three, but nothing that links all four."

"It's probably something so obvious that it's sitting right in front of you," I respond.

"Perhaps."

We pull up in front of Scotland Yard and get out of the car. The three of us head up the stairs to meet Lestrade in the reception area.

"Kat!" he greets. I mock-salute at him and he laughs. "Thank God you're here. Do you have any idea how intolerable Sherlock is when you're not around?" I laugh as Sherlock glares at Lestrade.

"So I've heard," I answer. "How goes the case?" Lestrade shakes his head and leads us towards the lift.

"No good," he says, pressing the lift button. "There's no connection that we can find." The four of us get into the lift and Lestrade hits the button for his floor. The doors close and the lift starts to move. "One of the victims was a police officer, one of our own. My supervisors are getting on my ass about it. They want the bastard found." I nod in understanding. A moment later, the lift dings and the doors open. "We've called in a specialist for when you guys figure out who's doing this." Lestrade leads us to his office, picks a file up from his desk and hands it to me. "See what you can figure out." I take the case file and start rifling through it, moving to sit in one of the chairs.

"Liam Gladwyn, male, 25. Police officer," Sherlock recites as I read. Apprehension starts to fill me as I look at Liam's police picture, the twinkle in his crystal-blue eyes as he's trying not to smile; the lock of hair that never stays in place. I flip to the next page, looking at the picture of a woman with blond hair and wise grey eyes. "Sophia Cartwright, female, 50. Works in a shop." I frown and flip to the next page, seeing a man with brown hair, hazel eyes, and a kind smile. "Lucas Ayers, male, 54. Cabbie." I take a deep breath and turn the page, looking at the picture of the last victim. Gorgeous red hair, mischievous green eyes, and a smile that lights up the room. "And Claire Summers, female, 25. Barista." I close the file and close my eyes.

"You said there were no connections?" I ask. I can feel the three of them watching me.

"None that we could find, anyway," Lestrade answers. "Why?"

"Because there is a connection," I respond. I open my eyes and look up at them. I open the file again. "Liam Gladwyn is the first friend I made here at the Yard. We still hang out sometimes." I pause. "Used to hang out." I flip the page. "Sophia Cartwright: She works at the Wicca shop where I get most of my supplies, and we're in the same coven." I flip the page again. "Lucas Ayers: In the same coven as Sophia and I." I flip the page one more time. "Claire Summers: Same coven again, and she stayed with me for a while when her parents kicked her out." I close the file and hand it to Lestrade. "The connection is me."

"Someone is targeting people you know," Sherlock agrees.

"But why?" John asks. "You don't make enemies. You're too nice to everyone."

"Maybe not everyone," I respond, glancing at Sherlock.

"You think maybe…" he projects, trailing off, but I know who he's thinking of.

"I just don't know why," I respond. Sherlock nods.

"This specialist of yours," Sherlock says, turning to Lestrade. "Where is he?"

"Let me give him a call."

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

The three of us leave Scotland Yard and head back to Baker Street, Sherlock leading the way. We walk in silence as we pass 221B.

"Who d'you think is behind this?" John asks. I shake my head.

"I have an idea, but I can't figure out why?" I respond as we walk past a café. "It makes no sense." Sherlock turns down an alley. John and I follow behind. In the middle of the alley, a man leans against the wall, smoking a cigarette. He glances up when he hears our footsteps, flicks the cigarette down and walks towards us. He's at least six foot seven, with broad shoulders and spiked red hair. He's wearing jeans, a Rolling Stones t-shirt, and a black leather jacket. I can tell he can be dangerous when he wants to be.

"Sherlock!" he greets with a grin. His voice is deep and raspy. Chain smoker. "Good to see you!" He holds his hand out to Sherlock while I make more mental notes. American. He's got a .45 automatic in a shoulder holster, a .38 in an ankle holster, and a switchblade clipped to his belt. Note to self: Don't piss him off. The man turns to John. "And how are you, little one?" John rolls his eyes while I chuckle.

"Fine, Murdoch," John answers. He turns to me. "Kat, this is Red Murdoch. We… used to work together a few years back." Murdoch holds his hand out to me.

"Kat Wilson," I greet, shaking his hand.

"How'ya, Kat," he responds with a nod. "Nice to see Sherlock is expanding his horizons a bit." I laugh.

"So, you used to work with John. Doing what?" I ask, curious.

"Maintenance," Murdoch replies.

"Yeah, if you can call being a hit-man for the government 'maintenance'," John grumbles just loudly enough for us to hear.

"You're our specialist, then?" Sherlock asks.

"Yeah," Murdoch answers with a nod. "I was on vacation, but Lestrade called my hotel this morning, asked me to help you out."

"Why?" I ask. He turns to me, raising his eyebrow. "You used to be a hit-man: Past tense, as in you aren't anymore. So why would Lestrade call you?"

"I'm technically a private investigator, but I spend most of my days chasing down and eliminating serial killers," he responds.

"They call him 'the man that Death follows'," Sherlock adds. I roll my eyes at him.

"That's just overdramatic," Murdoch says.

"I agree," I reply. "But Sherlock is a drama queen." John and Murdoch laugh. I grin sweetly at Sherlock while he glares at me.

"Any idea who's behind this?" Murdoch asks. Sherlock nods.

"We have an idea," he responds. I watch as Murdoch mouths the word we while John just looks at Sherlock in confusion. "But we need to be absolutely sure before we act."

"We?" Murdoch asks before shaking his head. "Never mind. Tell you what: I'm going to go get some breakfast and have a beer. You all come get me when you're ready to go catch this guy."

"Sounds good," Sherlock responds. Murdoch waves and walks away.

"Beer, this early?" I ask when he turns the corner at the end of the alley. John shakes his head with a chuckle.

"Don't ask."

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

"Where is he?" I groan in frustration, moving to the kitchen table and tossing my jacket over one of the chairs. John, Sherlock and I stand in their flat, trying to regroup after searching the city.

"You can't find him?" John asks. I shake my head.

"I tried earlier, but somehow he's blocking me," I respond. John looks at me in shock.

"He can do that?!"

"Yeah," I answer. "Anyone can. Most people don't, though. They either aren't aware they can, or don't see the need because they don't believe in that sort of thing." John nods. "Normally I'd be able to find him anyway, but between the flight home and running around London, I don't have enough energy." John nods again before turning to Sherlock. They start talking as I zone out, staring at the tiles on the kitchen wall, trying to see something I've missed. I'm snapped out of my thoughts by my phone ringing. I pull it out of my pocket and look at the ID—Molly Hooper—before flipping it open.

"Hey, Molls," I greet. "I was just gonna call you."

"Actually," the voice on the other end says. "This is Jim."

"Oh. What're you-"

"That's what I'm calling about," Jim says, cutting me off. "Molly's gone missing." My heart stops. Not Molly.

"What do you mean, 'missing'?" I ask.

"She was supposed to meet me for coffee in the canteen, but she didn't show. I went down to the morgue to see what was taking her, but she wasn't there. Just her phone. I know she doesn't just leave it around." I sit there, stunned for a moment. "You were the first person I could think of to call." I can feel John staring at me and asking me questions while Sherlock is on his own phone. My phone beeps at me, letting me know I've got a new text. I pull my phone down and open the text while keeping Jim on the line. I stare at the text in dread.

I have something of yours at the flat.

"Shit," I mutter, pulling the phone back up to my ear. "Sorry. I'm gonna have to call you back." I snap my phone shut, not even bothering to wait for Jim's response, and turn to Sherlock. "One of you call Murdoch. Now." John looks at me in concern.

"Already done," Sherlock responds. I stand up and grab my jacket, tugging it on, already walking. I shove my hand in my pocket, making sure I've got my keys.

"What's going on?" John asks.

"He has Molly," I answer evenly, walking out the door. I glance behind me to see Sherlock rummaging in the closet and John staring at me, wide-eyed and mouth open. "Well, come on! We haven't got all night!" The three of us hurry down the stairs. I open the door to find Murdoch, his finger an inch away from the doorbell.

"Sherlock called," he greets. "What'd you find out?"

"He's got one of my best friends," I respond, striding past him. I hear him curse under his breath as Sherlock and John follow behind me. I hail a taxi and give the cabbie the address. The four of us pile into the taxi—which isn't easy with Murdoch's height—and head off. As we drive, I pull my keys out and take one of them off the key ring. The flat is only a few blocks away from 221B. I ask the cabbie to stop at the corner, and the four of us step out onto the pavement, Sherlock handing the cabbie a few pounds.

"Where are we?" John asks.

"A few buildings down, there's a restaurant called 'Drummond Villa'," I start to explain, staring at said building. "Above that restaurant is a flat. That's where Molly's being held." Sherlock and Murdoch nod. "That black door just past it leads to the stairs."

"Right," Murdoch says, pulling the .45 from the holster and checking the magazine. "Is there a back door?" I nod.

"There's a tunnel of sorts just past the door," I answer calmly. "You can follow it around to the back of the building. There's a fire escape that leads right to the kitchen."

"Okay, standard operating procedure," Murdoch says to John. John nods. "You three go in and distract him. I'll go around back and make sure I'm in position in case he tries anything dumb." Sherlock and I glance at each other and nod. Murdoch places the gun back in his waistband and jogs down the street.

"Murdoch!" I call after him. He stops and turns around, and I toss him the key. "You'll need this." He catches the key and looks at it before nodding and turning away again.

"How do you know Molly's here?" John asks. "I thought you were too tired to use your abilities." I glance at him.

"I am," I answer before walking away towards the black door.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

The three of us walk through the front door of the flat slowly. I lead the way, turning down the hallway leading to the living room.

"So glad you could make it," a maniacal voice calls as we walk. "And just in time, too. I was beginning to think I'd actually have to slit poor Molly's throat." We turn the corner to see Sean standing in the middle of the room holding a large knife to Molly's throat. I look Molly over quickly. Her wrists and ankles are bound with duct tape to one of the wooden dining chairs, and there's a gag in her mouth. Some of her hair frames her face where it's fallen out of her now-loose ponytail, and there's a trickle of blood on her temple from where Sean must have hit her. She stares at me with tears in her eyes. I glare at Sean. He smiles back with an insane glint in his eyes.

"Let her go, Sean," I growl.

"Ah, ah, ah," he tuts, shaking his head at me. "You're in no position to be making demands." He presses the knife harder into Molly's neck, and Molly whimpers. I see red and start to move forward.

"Don't," Sherlock's voice says in my head. I stop walking, but it doesn't stop me from scowling as Sean.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask. "Why them?"

"Because I wanted you to suffer," he answers, grinning madly.

"I don't understand," I respond, shaking my head.

"Of course you don't," he sneers. "You, with your perfect life, all your friends, your money. You have everything." I frown. "While I've lost everything." I see a flash of red behind Sean. Murdoch.

"What do you mean, you've 'lost everything'?" I ask, trying to keep Sean talking.

"Oh, exactly what I said," Sean answers. "Lestrade saw you threatening me that day the cabbie got killed. He asked me why you would do something like that. I told him I didn't know. He checked the camera footage from the back office. Fired me right on the spot." He pauses before continuing. "Then Molly here decided that all my friends should know what I'd 'been up to'. Not one of them have spoken to me since."

"And that's my fault?" I ask.

"Yes."

"It is not!" John exclaims. "You were the one who cheated. This is your own doing."

"Ooh, one of your lackeys sticking up for you? How cute," Sean coos before glaring at me. "I lost my job, my friends. I just got an eviction notice in the mail today, so I'm losing the flat as well. And it's all because of you."

"Why kill my friends, though?" I ask. "Why not come after me directly?" Sean laughs, and it sends a shiver down my spine.

"Oh, I did think about it," he answers. "But I wasn't sure how I wanted to do it. Until I got an anonymous message. Someone called 'Moriarty'." I feel Sherlock stiffen behind me. "He told me that the best way to get to you was to go through your friends. It makes sense: You took everything away from me, so I'm going to take everything from you."

"You're insane," I say. Sean laughs again.

"Maybe, but it doesn't really matter now," he replies as Murdoch creeps silently from the kitchen to stand right behind him. "I'm going to kill Molly. Right here, right now." Molly whimpers again as Sean presses the knife harder into her neck. A bead of blood appears at the tip of the blade.

"Hi, there," Murdoch growls, pressing the .45 to the base of Sean's skull. Sean stiffens and goes pale. "It seems we have a dilemma. You have a knife, but you have to ask yourself one question: How fast are you? Are you fast enough to slice Molly before I redecorate your flat with your brain? I don't think so." Sean turns slowly to look back at Murdoch. Beside me, Sherlock quietly moves forward. "Put it down, Sean." Even with his head turned, I can see the defiant glint in Sean's eye. Before he can turn again, though, Sherlock pulls his riding crop from inside his coat and swings it at Sean's arm, knocking the knife out of his hand. I focus on it and move it away from Molly as it falls. At the same time, Sean turns to run, but Murdoch fires his .45, hitting Sean in the back of the head, sending him sprawling to the floor. John and I rush to Molly. I undo the gag from her mouth as John tries to undo the duct tape around her ankles. Murdoch walks over and hands his switchblade to John, who looks up at him gratefully, before pulling his phone out, opening it, looking up, closing it, and putting it back in his pocket. I hear John mention someone named Charlie, but I'm too focused on Molly to pay any attention.

"Shh, it's okay," I whisper to Molly, who sobs. John cuts the tape around her wrists as I smooth her hair back. "It's over. He can't hurt you." Molly wraps her arms around me the instant she's free and just cries. My heart breaks a little. I sit with her, holding her, while Sherlock calls Lestrade and we wait for the police.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Sherlock, John and I sit in our respective chairs in the boys' flat. Sherlock and John watch me while I speak to Jim over the phone.

"Thanks," I murmur before hanging up.

"How's Molly?" John asks as soon as I close my phone. I look up at him. He looks tired.

"She's fine," I answer. "She'll have some bruising on her wrists and ankles, and she's really shaken up, but long-term she'll be okay." John breathes a sigh of relief, and out of the corner of my eye I see Sherlock relax just a little.

"That's good," John replies. The three of us sit in silence for a few minutes before John speaks again. "How did he do it? That's what I don't understand. How did he do it without any leaving any evidence?"

"He worked in Forensics at the Yard," I answer. "And he was one of the best they had. He'd know what kind of evidence they'd be able to use. As for not ever being on CCTV, one of the first things we do when we become specialists at the Yard is look over CCTV footage from old cases. There are certain things we have to look out for: Suspect details, license plates, that sort of thing. All the old footage is available, as long as the case isn't still ongoing. He would have been able to figure out the blind spots by watching the old footage." John nods.

"He would have had a bit of help from Moriarty as well," Sherlock adds. "Just enough help to not get caught until the very end."

"I get the feeling we'll be meeting this Moriarty soon," I state, frowning. "First the cabbie, then the Black Lotus, now this."

"Hang on," John interjects. "The Black Lotus?"

"The Chinese smugglers," I respond. "I'm pretty sure they were getting help from him as well." Sherlock nods.

"I thought so, as well," Sherlock says.

"So this Moriarty is what?" John asks. Sherlock and I look at each other before I turn to John.

"Something very not good," I answer.

A/N: I realize I've never actually given you guys a description of what Kat looks like. This is going to sound narcissistic, but she looks quite a bit like me: Long, straight, brown hair that reaches the small of her back; chocolate brown eyes; full lips; five foot six; and slightly curvy.