Well. Long time no post on this story. I wanted to get Wethern's Law finished up before working on this one and once I finished WL this chapter gave me a terrible time.
So, I'm sorry. I can't promise faster posting now that I am deep in dissertation work but I will try. Though I said that last time soo….
As always, I want to thank you so much to those that read, reviewed, favorited, kudos-ed, etc! You guys and your feedback are what keep me going and from just throwing in the towel. Please continue to let me know what you think, I appreciate the time you guys take out to read and write reviews. I re-read your reviews constantly; they do not go unappreciated.
Major kudos for Lexie for looking this over. Because of her this chapter is not only better but the helping verbs also have action verbs associated with them. Always a plus! Thank you, dear!
"...was reported that Jefferson Hope died in police custody shortly after committing the murders of Drebber and Standerson allegedly due to his aortic aneurysm. As you, dear reader, could imagine both Holmes and I were shocked to find that the perpetrator of the current crimes was not a copycat but no other than Jefferson Hope himself…."
"…Rache is what he inscribed at Drebber's and Standerson's murder scenes. Revenge. The current victims: a member of parliament, a wealthy philanthropist, a streetboy, and a female university student had no connections with Hope or his long dead Lucy…"
"Holmes quickly deduced that Hope was being paid for this crimes. In the intervening years between Lucy's death and the present day, Hope fathered two children. With Hope's time running out, he was determined to gather enough money to make their lives comfortable…"
"…only in his final moments did Hope give the name of his benefactor: Moriarty. Who this Moriarty is and what he wants remains a mystery…"
-Excerpts from "A Study in Pink" from Mysteries and Crime: Or Adventures of a Detective and a Doctor by Ormond Sacker (Dr. John H Watson)
4 September 1879
As long as Molly Holmes could remember, the numerous and ever changing rules of how a lady should and should not behave were drilled into her head. As a child, infractions were dealt with swiftly and accompanied by long tedious lectures regarding her unacceptable behavior.
One of the cardinal rules was that a lady should not exhibit any negative emotions, to always remain tranquil. While she didn't devote herself to axioms, Molly did strive to remain level headed and rational. Usually she succeeded quite well.
Except for now.
"Holmes!" Molly marched down the hall, a magazine crumbled up in her hand. Pages bobbed behind her like a bird, only connected to the rest of the sheets by the tiniest bit of paper.
She didn't even pause when she reached the door to her husband's office, preferring to throw it open with enough force that the heavy wood boomeranged from the wall. Sherlock was sat behind his desk, his eyebrows arched so high as to nearly blend in with his curls. The pen in his hand dripped ink onto his notebook as it hovered above the sheet, its descent halted by its owner's shock.
"What in heaven's name is this?" Molly held up the crumbled magazine high so that her husband would know exactly what she was talking about. He had a habit of obfuscating for time and Molly was not in the mood to humor him or allow him the opportunity to think of a lie.
"It would appear to be a magazine, Mrs. Holmes." Sherlock placed his pen down and leaned back in his chair, resting his threaded fingers on his stomach. His lips twitched with barely concealed amusement.
"Ob-viously," Molly snarled. "It's the Strand Magazine to be exact."
"Ah hell," Sherlock muttered, closing his eyes.
"'Ah hell,' is right! Imagine my surprise when I flipped through this and discovered a new story from Ormond Sacker. 'Oh,' I thought, 'how lovely! My husband has been remarkably tight lipped about how the Study in Pink case unraveled. Hopefully Dr. Watson's story will shed some light.'"
"Molly-" Sherlock tried to interrupt but Molly would not be stopped.
"Some of the details I was quite familiar with, having listened to you mull them over for months. But there was one detail that you kept from me, wasn't there?"
"Molly," Sherlock attempted again to no avail.
"Allow me to highlight which detail was most shocking to me, Mr. Holmes." Molly violently straightened the magazine with a snap. " ' 'Holmes!' I cried as I saw my dear friend slowly bring one of the cursed pills to his mouth. What if he had guessed wrong? There was no sick dog this time around!' Et cetera, et cetera. Ah, here 'But that is my good friend Holmes, risking his life to prove that he is clever.'" The last few words were almost spat out.
Sherlock stared at her, his nostrils flaring as he to keep his face neutral. "Why do you care? Why should it matter the risks I take?"
Molly was sure she looked a fright, her eyes bulging and her jaw slack with disbelief. "Wh-why? I'm your wife! What happens to you has a direct effect on me! Honestly, you shouldn't risk your life over such trivial nonsense."
Sherlock stood up quickly, sending his desk chair smashing into the wall. "My work is not trivial nonsense."
"It is when you risk your life just to prove yourself! There was no reason you couldn't have just waited to test the pill you chose."
"I already have a mother, Mrs. Holmes, and a housekeeper to supplement her nagging, I have no need to hear it from a wife I don't even want!"
Molly reeled back at his pronouncement, the magazine fluttering from her loose fingers to the floor. Molly stared at her husband for an indeterminable amount of time, her breath caught in her lungs.
"Well then," Molly said quietly. Her eyes began to burn with unshed tears. Molly blinked rapidly, trying to buy herself some time. She refused to let her husband see her cry. "Forgive me for bothering you with my nagging. . I can assure you that the people in your life that do it do so out of caring for you and your well being. I'll make certain to refrain from doing so in the future."
Molly turned on her heel and walked quickly from the room, ignoring the loud thump of flesh on wood and whispered curses from her husband. It was stupid, really, to feel hurt. It's not as if he was lying or saying something that she had not already known. If nothing else, Sherlock had always been ruthlessly clear that he was not pleased with having to marry her.
A sentiment that she herself shared at the beginning of her marriage. Over the last few months, though, Molly had started to come to some peace with their marriage. They spoke more often about a variety of topics and actually sought each other out on occasion, no longer passing each other as if they were ships in the night.
Molly wiped away a stray tear with her fingers.
"Ma'am?"
"I'm going for a walk, Bentley," Molly grabbed her hat and dolman from the entryway cupboard. "I'll return shortly.
"I will ring for Thompson to accompany you."
"No, Thompson won't be needed. Thank you, Bentley." Molly quickly pinned her hat on before slipping into her dolman.
Bentley paused in his movements to ring for the footman, his face an ill concealed look of uncertainty.
"Thank you, Bentley," Molly repeated forcefully.
"Ma'am." Bentley slowly opened the front door as if delaying her departure would somehow cause her to change her mind.
Molly swept past him as soon as the door was open wide enough to accommodate her. She stood on the stoop for a moment, breathing in the London air. The smell and taste of soot and dirt coated her mouth and throat. The beige air of a lingering peasouper stung her eyes, furthering obscuring the visibility of the surrounding city.
In retrospect, perhaps she should have stayed indoors where the air was somewhat easier to breathe. Too late now, Molly thought, her pride preventing her from returning so soon. The young woman straightened her hat purposefully, squared her shoulders and headed in the direction of nearby Regent's Park.
In the early days of her marriage, she used to wander the park, acclimating herself to her new neighborhood in a futile attempt of filling the hours of the day. But there were only so many times that one could walk in the park around Marylebone.
One day during one of her rather aimless wanderings, she came upon a perfect bench. It was under a great oak and was set far enough back from the well-trodden path that those passing by felt no need to acknowledge her presence but it was close enough that she was easily visible and she could not be molested without witnesses. It was one of her most favored reading and thinking spots. Compared to the gardens at Alderlay, Baker Street's was roughly the size of a postage stamp.
Molly brushed the bench perfunctorily of the detritus of leaves and acorns that had accumulated since it was last occupied before sitting down with an unladylike plop.
Don't even want.
Don't even want.
Don't. That was the part that stung. Present tense. As in still does not desire her presence in his life. Molly ran her fingers over the ruffles accents on her skirt. Molly was well aware that the beginning of their marriage was founded on a mutual distaste of the very idea of each other. She just supposed that after assisting her husband in his work and having the occasional meal with him, he would grow somewhat fond of her. If not as his wife, at least as a companion or even a friend. She certainly was growing rather attached to him and found his antics more amusing now than irritating. In fact, many of eccentricities just endeared him more to her.
Perhaps it was naïve of her to assume that her husband had felt anything similar. After all, this is the man that only claimed to have one friend and vocally scorned sentiment. It was clear that she was still a burden weighing him down.
The sound of laughter broke through her dark thoughts, drawing her attention. The source was a young couple on the nearby path. The woman was being playfully chased by her companion, presumably a suitor or husband, eliciting shrieks of laughter.
It was highly inappropriate. Even gauche.
It was also feed the seed of bitterness she tried so hard to keep from sprouting. That woman was wanted and loved. She and her bright-eyed companion had a bright, happy future ahead of them. A future that they look forward to, a future they want to spend with each other.
And here she was, sitting alone on a park bench watching them like some sort of voyeur of their happiness. The brooding unwanted wife of a mercurial eccentric.
The metallic taste of blood blossomed on her tongue as Molly bit her lip, trying to keep herself from sobbing like a character in one of her gothic novels. She sniffed nosily and swallowed the lump in her throat.
She longed to indulge in cathartic cry. To cry for being on burden to a husband who has no affinity for her. Cry for her increasingly bleak and lonely future.
"You're being a ninny," Molly scolded herself, wiping away a tear that seemed so desperate to escape. Thank goodness no one else would be witness to her rather embarrassing actions. "If a distant husband is the worst thing in your life, you should count yourself blessed." She tugged at her skirts, smoothing out invisible wrinkles. "So your future is not how you pictured it would be, no reason to be a watering pot. Besides, he hasn't murdered you so he isn't the worst husband there is."
It vaguely occurred to her that saying her husband has yet to murder her was probably not the highest of bars to set to what constituted a decent husband.
A drop of water landed on her skirt and bloomed, darkening the gray fabric to the color of soot. Molly touched her cheek, confused. Another gray spot blossomed on her skirt followed by two more. She looked up through the branches and leaves to see dark clouds, saturated with water.
"Oh hell."
"You go and find that girl right now!" Mrs. Hudson demanded of her employer, arms akimbo.
"I see no reason to do so. Mrs. Holmes clearly wishes to be alone, my joining her would quite defeat the purpose of her leaving." Sherlock carefully packed his pipe with tobacco. The brief encounter with his wife had left him gasping for a pipe. It would help calm himself and allow him to think.
Sherlock knew what people thought of him, and agreed with them mostly, but he honestly did not like making people cry who were undeserving or at least without having an alternative reason to make them cry. Especially his wife. He always felt about two inches tall when he distressed her, even when it was not his own fault.
He just absolutely hated when she became worked up over his cases. It didn't happen too often but when it did she would lose all appetite and barely even sleep until the case was concluded.
If Molly knew some of the more dangerous details, the risks he took in his deductions he feared that her nerves would only worsen.
While his wife was made of sterner stuff than most women of his acquaintance, there were some things that no lady should have knowledge of. He certainly wasn't going to be the one to expose her to the seedier parts of the world.
"It looks like it's going to rain," Mrs. Hudson protested, shooing at his feet propped up on his desk.
"We live in London, my dear housekeeper, it always looks as if it is going to rain. Stop that." He brushed Mrs. Hudson's hands away from his feet. If he wanted to put his feet on his desk in his house than by God he will. "For a servant, you are not very good at being subservient."
The housekeeper let out a short scornful laugh. "I've changed your diapers, pushed your pram, and chased monsters from your wardrobe. You must be mad to think I am going to be deferential to you. That's why you hired me."
Sherlock twisted his face into a dark scowl in order to hide the smile that tugged at his lips.
It was exactly why he hired her.
"Now take that horrid smelling thing out of your mouth and go find your wife!"
Not a second after she finished speaking, the tell tale plip-plip of rain hit the window before blurring together to create a long continuous noise as if to emphasize her point.
"Fine! But if she is foolish enough to be out in the rain then-"
"Now!"
His teeth clicked together with the force of him closing his mouth. No one but Mrs. Hudson and his mother could make him feel so like a child. Sherlock kicked his feet off the desk and used the momentum to pop out of his desk chair. "I'll expect a fresh pot of tea waiting for when I return."
Molly wrapped her arms tighter around herself as she waited for a break in the traffic to cross the street. In a way she was a bit relieved that it was raining for the rain sent all the cross sweepers scrambling for cover. Occasionally the cross sweepers became hostile if they thought her gratuity too small and since she had left her purse at Baker Street…well at least one uncomfortable interaction was avoided today.
Seeing an opportunity to cross, Molly sprinted across the street, one hand on her hat and the other pulling up her skirts. Just before making it to the pavement, her path was obstructed by a river of rainwater. Throwing propriety to the wind, she leapt as far as she could, hoping that she could make it over the obstacle.
Her boot landed short of the pavement. Water flooded her boot and the splash of her landing soaked her stockings. Molly quickly pushed off her foot, propelling herself to the more accommodating cement footpath. With a quick shake of her shoe, she continued on to Baker Street her right foot squishing in her boot as she went. Molly wrapped her soaked dolman about herself closer and bowed her head, trying to protect her face from the stinging rain.
She had only managed to make it a few yards when she collided into a person. Molly let out a startled "oh!" before babbling apologies. "Forgive me, I was not looking where I was-"
"Molly."
Her head flew up at the sound of her given name. "Sherlock?" The object of her collision was indeed her husband, wrapped in a long coat and looking far drier than she was at the moment. "What are you-"
"Looking for you, obviously." Sherlock grabbed her elbow and firmly escorted her down the street. Molly practically trotted at his side as she tried to keep up with his long strides. Annoyance tightened her jaw at his manhandling of her. She ripped her arm out of his grasp.
"I am quite capable of walking by myself thank you very much." And of finishing a sentence she added silently. She absolutely abhorred his habit of interrupting her sentences. Molly marched ahead of him with as much dignity as she could muster though she looked like she had tussled with a straining dyke and was thrashed quite soundly.
It was only a few yards to their front door and her husband stayed behind her, possibly humoring her sad display of independence. Molly pulled up her skirts as she stomped up the stairs, propriety be damned. The front door swung open before she could reach it.
Always prompt, that Bentley.
"Mrs. Holmes, Mr. Holmes," he greeted with his usual gravity. "May I take your outerwear?"
Molly whipped off her dolman before Bentley could attempt to help her. She bunched the sodden material into a ball and handed it to the butler. "Thank you. Send Annie upstairs and have some hot water sent up."
"Of course, ma'am."
Molly felt a twinge of guilt as she trudged upstairs at her curt tone. It wasn't like her to be so discourteous to the help. Well, she told herself, you do it so rarely they'll most likely forgive this slip.
"You could say 'thank you.'" Sherlock called behind her.
Molly whipped around, grabbing the banister as she nearly lost her footing. She flinched as a loose wet lock smacked her in the eye. "I beg your pardon?"
Was Sherlock Holmes preaching about manners?
"You could say 'thank you,'" he repeated. "I did after all go out in a storm to find you."
Molly's mouth dropped open. The cheek! Demanding thanks for a task she didn't ask of him nor wished him to do. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes, for braving a whole half block in the rain. I am sure doing a task that was unasked of you was quite onerous. I am forever in your debt." She nearly bit her lip with the ferocity she spat out the last few words. As soon as she finished, Molly quickly escaped up the stairs to her chambers. She had gotten the last word in, and she was not going to let him take that from her.
Cold comfort.
Molly did not often fall victim to foul moods. Whether by luck or simply her nature, she tended to be rather even keeled. On the rare occasions that it did occur, Molly simply retreated to her chambers, and if late enough in the day, retired for the evening. What her dark moods lacked in frequency, it made up for in severity. She became snappish, irritable, rude, impulsive, and occasionally even cruel. Isolating herself contained the damage, ensuring that only she had to endure the effects, not anyone else.
It was precisely this reason that at only a few hours past noon, Molly was in her nightclothes and dressing robe. After Annie, her lips pressed together so tightly at the damage Molly had wrought upon her gown that her mouth was hardly visible, helped her from her sodden clothes Molly gave herself quite possibly the fastest sponge bath in history. It was during her sponge bath, and the idea of having to redress that she made the decision to throw in the towel so to say and stay in her room. It wasn't as if she had any obligations to attend to.
After only an hour of being by herself, Molly came to the conclusion that it was the best decision she had made all day. No need to put on a good front for anyone, she could unleash her angst on the pages of her journal in peace. After filling several pages with handwriting that would give her childhood governess the vapors, Molly felt remarkably lighter.
Until she re-read what she wrote and found herself mortified at the melodrama filled pages.
One would think she was a character in one of those horrid Sarah Gorley novels her mother so enjoyed reading.
Molly was carefully ripping the pages from her journal, she had no desire to see this entry ever again, when she heard the squeak of hinges. Her head whipped around to look at the door to the hallway to see no one there. Which meant…
"You didn't knock." A statement so obvious that Molly grimaced the moment it came out of her mouth. Since their wedding nearly one year ago, Sherlock always knocked before coming through the door connecting their chambers, one of only a handful of manners that he consistently acted upon.
"I didn't want to take the chance that you would refuse to see me." Her husband stood there awkwardly in the doorway, his hands buried in the pockets of his royal blue smoking jacket.
Molly set her half mutilated journal aside. She was positive that Sherlock had already seen it but perhaps putting it out of sight would put it out of his mind.
"Yes?"
"I, uh,"
Goodness was Sherlock actually at lost for words?
"I believe I should apologize for my earlier words. It was not my intention to upset you." Sherlock focused his attention on straightening his cuff as he spoke. "Your...concern is not unappreciated."
Molly couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed. Of course Sherlock didn't understand what about his words upset her so. Silly of her, really, to think that he would. Her husband was not known for his ability to navigate anything related to sentiments. Foolish of her to think that he would be so proficient now.
At least he apologized. In the months she had spent with her husband she could count on the fingers of one hand how often she heard him apologize to anyone sincerely. He was trying, and given it was only a few hours after the event her husband probably didn't even consult Dr. Watson beforehand.
Molly pulled her feet up on the chair and wrapped her arms about her legs. She rested her head against her knees, looking at the fire dancing in its grate.
"Thank you. I should not have called your work trivial." Molly knew enough that insulting his work, even inadvertently was like poking a sleeping dragon when it came to her husband. "Did you need anything else?"
"Yes, I mean no. I wanted your opinion on a case."
"If you leave the pathology report on my desk, I will review it in the morning."
"There isn't a body."
Until that moment Molly didn't know it was possible to freeze when she was already still. She slowly turned her head to look at her husband who was rocking back and forth on his heels, his eyes fixed on some point on the ceiling. "I don't understand."
Her husband never asked her opinion on cases unless it involved a corpse or a body part.
"I need a sounding board."
"Mrs. Hudson took Billy again, didn't she?"
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Really should give that woman the sack."
Molly rolled her eyes. "We both know that's an empty threat."
The idea of Mrs. Hudson leaving Baker Street was like the idea of walking on the moon, absolutely ludicrous.
"So you need me to fill in for your skull?" She wasn't entirely sure if that was a compliment.
Sherlock threw himself onto the chair across from hers. "No. No, you're being you. Interesting one really, man claims his bride is a vampire…"
10 September 1879
Sherlock was very close to committing himself to Bedlam. It was his weekly meeting with John to review private cases that had been sent their way. One of his favorite times of the week as it usually offered up at least one half decent case.
Only now instead of it being a working meeting, it had become a social gathering where Watson, Mrs. Watson, and his wife would eat and eat only to stop eating so that they can blather on about something completely inconsequential such as-good God, were they talking about lights?
"They're saying it will look like artificial sunshine," Mary said, reading from the newspaper.
"That sounds completely ridiculous," Molly scorned.
"I agree. Well, we'll see what happens in the next week or so. I suspect it's a much to do about nothing." Mary folded up the newspaper and set it aside. "I think Sherlock is going to have a fit of apoplexy if we don't allow him and John to discuss cases."
Watson let out a dramatic sigh. Horribly done, really. Good thing he was a doctor for he was not meant for West End. "I suppose we should begin." Watson pulled the door, calling Bentley.
"Tell me, Mary, how are you feeling?"
"Oh as good as can be expected…"
Sherlock tuned out the women's conversation, anxious for John's satchel to arrive. He couldn't care less about the impending expansion to the Watson family.
A lie really. He did care. He was still annoyed that Watson wouldn't let him track Mary's pregnancy.
The man said that if Sherlock wanted to do such a ridiculous thing as examining a pregnant woman's urine and vomit and measuring her body, he should impregnate his own wife.
Sherlock had to admit, for a moment the idea was extremely tempting.
"Finally!" Sherlock exclaimed, as Bentley entered the room, carrying the bag full of possible cases. He quickly took the bag from the butler and dumped the contents out on the floor by the fire.
"Those were sorted!" Watson cuffed his much taller friend on the ear.
"Your sorting does more harm than good." Sherlock rubbed his throbbing ear, crouching down to glance through the papers.
"I sorted them," Mary cut in.
Sherlock paused in his paper rifling. His lip curled up at best friend's wife's remark. She was actually quite good at picking up pertinent details and knowing which cases would be the most interesting. If he'd know that before, he wouldn't have dumped out the papers as he did.
Sherlock made sure to store that bit of knowledge in his mind palace for easy access. "Apologies Mary," he murmured.
Mary waved her hand. Her lips were pressed tightly together in an attempt to hide her smile. Clearly she was amused at his error. "There was nothing truly earth shattering this week. Though I must say, I never took you for a classist."
Sherlock turned in his crouch and raised an eyebrow at the teasing women.
"I sorted all your unsolved cases as well and there were quite a number of cases where the suspects were of means yet you couldn't seem to find evidence." Mary paused for a moment to take a sip of her tea. "Or perhaps the rich are better at committing crimes. What do you think, Molly?"
Sherlock scowled at his friend's wife. She couldn't really think that he would cover up someone's crime because they were of the upper classes. Sherlock had spent more than his fair share of time with the beau monde and if anything it has made him even more eager to see them knocked down a peg or two. They were absolutely tedious.
However, the blonde woman did have a point. Many of the cases where his primary suspect was well heeled he just could not seem to find enough evidence of their culpability. Few magistrates were willing to prosecute any of London's wealthy or elite unless the evidence was nigh irrefutable.
Most still didn't believe in his methods. He showed them that Monkford's blood was once frozen, indicating that he was not dead as his rider-less horse suggested. The wife was the key. She would have been an easy nut to crack, already so sloppy with her words. However, no one was willing to bring fraud charges against a 'grieving widow' of a wealthy but indebted banker.
A grieving widow who soon, too soon to have made all the arrangements necessary, left for South America, pockets heavy with her husband's life insurance money. But no one from the Home Office was going to spend the resources-, wait. Resources. Resources.
"Resources!" Sherlock shouted.
The other members of the lounge stared at him incomprehensibly.
"What are you on about, Holmes?"
"Resources!" He repeated. Sherlock began throwing the papers on the floor about, looking for the current list of unsolved cases that John made sure to keep updated. The detective ignored Watson's cry of panic as the doctor attempted to keep the papers well away from the fire grate. "Of course. Of course! Monkford, Middleton, Wenceslas! They're all rich. Or their crimes made them very, very rich."
"Yes but Mr. Holmes what is your point?" Sherlock saw his wife slowly set down her cup of tea as if she was trying not to startle a wild animal.
Sherlock ignored her. "John! Go home and fetch the unsolved case notes-"
"Honestly, Holmes! At this hour?"
Sherlock barreled on, ignoring his friend. "Molly, any notes that you have on unsolved cases. Actually, any notes you have bring them to my study."
Why were they all staring at him fish eyed? "Move people! Move!"
Sherlock ran from the room to his study, this was going to be fascinating, he just knew it.
Sherlock's office was never tidy but rarely did he let it get to such a state. Papers were everywhere. The desk, the chairs, the bookshelves, the floor, dangerously close to the fireplace. A tower of precariously stacked notebooks balanced on the mantle place, next to his skull. The landscape that usually collected dust on the wall was on the floor, its wall commandeered for papers, strings and pushpins.
Every unsolved case he or Watson had investigated in the past three years were on his wall waiting to be picked apart.
"Are you going to elaborate on what you are doing so that we may assist or do you just desire an audience?" Mary asked, her lap overflowing with newspapers she had displaced in order to occupy the sofa.
Sherlock bit back a retort. She had become much more volatile since she started growing a human and liable to unexpected reactions. "Resources, my dear Mrs. Watson is everything." Sherlock ripped a case off the wall. Suspect way too poor. "If you're a silk stocking, you pay people to clean your houses, fix your food, dress you. Might as well pay someone to plan your crimes."
"Bit rich from you Holmes," Watson cut in, his lip curling out from under his horrific mustache. Really, how Mary still lets him have that thing on his face is quite beyond him. "Considering you're part of that class you just mocked."
"But I would never let anyone else plan my crimes."
Molly hands flew to her face to try and smother her snort. "Sorry," she muttered.
"Point is, these people are rich and I know for a fact that most of them are not bright enough to would stump me."
"Humble," Watson said under his breath.
Sherlock continued, "therefore there must be some sort of connection. We need to-re-examine the cases with suspects who were rich before the crime or became rich as a result of the crime. Not just our cases. Anybody who recently had a suspicious windfall should be suspect."
"How about Henry Matthews?" Mary suggested.
"Who?" Sherlock questioned.
"Henry Matthews." Mary held up the newspaper she was perusing. "Recently nominated to Home Secretary after Bryan Davenport died."
"The MP from the Pink case?" Molly asked.
"I would assume so."
"But that was solved, we know who did it." John said, leaning against the desk.
"Oh. Very good point." Mary shrugged and tossed the newspaper aside.
"No."
Everyone turned to look at Sherlock.
"No. The case was solved but it wasn't. Why did Hope kill those people? They weren't connected with his revenge on Lucy. Did he even pick the targets or were the targets picked for him? Bit too lucky on his part if he chose them at random. No-no someone probably picked them for him. Two birds, one stone so to speak. One killer and multiple crimes, no one would ever look too closely at a death if it was a serial killer. No need to see who would stand to gain from their death, no need to find motive. Sloppy, sloppy, SLOPPY!"
Sherlock began pacing. If he didn't burn off some of the energy coursing through his body he was going to explode. "Brilliant, truly brilliant. What a convenient tool. A known killer with nothing to lose, dying does that to you so I've been told. But he had much to gain; money for his children. Oh sentiment! You are the downfall of so many. Were all the victims chosen or just some? There must have been an orchestrator, a leader…"
"Or a benefactor-" Watson chimed in; his eyes alight.
"Moriarty." The detective and the doctor said in unison, shooting each other a wide grin.
"Who's Moriarty?" Molly asked, perching on the arm of Mary's sofa.
A smile slowly blossomed as the possibility of what Sherlock uncovered began to sink in. "I have no idea. Something new."
Look at that! Something resembling a plot!
Historical notes:
Henry Matthews was a Home Secretary in Victorian times. 99.99% he didn't have anyone murdered to clear the position though.