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[SH]

"Erica Marshall, seven-years-old, last seen leaving her primary school last Wednesday," Lestrade listed off the facts, eyes trying to keep up with the heated speed of Sherlock who paced impatiently as he listened. "Her parents thought she'd gone to visit her grandmother's but—"

"The big bad wolf got to her first," Sherlock cut him off, not even trying to restrain the smirk that was creeping into the corners of his lips. "And you found the phone in her bedroom?"

"Yeah," Lestrade continued once given his cue to talk again. "And a message too."

Sherlock had already seen it. A photograph of a sodden and worn teddy bear, that had already been identified as the little girl's first toy that she had been given when she was born. The bear, of course, was missing.

The pink mobile phone was clasped between his long, slender hands that were already trembling with anticipation and the first hint of withdrawal, as he hadn't taken anything for a good few hours. Already the symptoms were prickling awake, but for once, Sherlock didn't bother with them. In fact, they drove and urged him to get going. All that was needed now was the phone call.

"Maybe you should sit down for a second," Lestrade suggested. "You're going to wear the floor down."

Before he could either comply or argue, the phone managed half a yelp and Sherlock, thumb having already being poised over the button, pressed down and swiftly brought it to his ear, nearly dropping it over his shoulder in his haste. His chest tight, mouth parted, eyes swivelling, his breath deceased—he waited.

"Oh how I hate the quiet game," a soft voice cut through his ear like a needle, injecting the tremor that zigzagged down his spine.

"Is this better?" Sherlock hoarsely said, trying to return the offhand manner.

"Exceedingly."

Lestrade licked his lips as he impatiently sat by, fidgeting in his seat, gripping the arms of it so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"No borrowed voice this time?" Sherlock added after a pause that felt like an eternity.

There was a short laugh on the other end. "No, because there's no bomb this time." Sherlock was truly captivated now, just as Jim Moriarty had intended. "You must listen to me now, Sherlock, because—there's a new set of rules and if you don't follow them, there will be consequences."

"Aren't there always when it comes to you?" Sherlock rigidly countered, his windpipe so tight his words had to practically crawl out of his mouth.

"Yes, but this time, the victims aren't random, they aren't strangers to you," Moriarty explained, a strange tune to his voice as if he was hardly suppressing laughter. "Listen to me very closely, now...there is no bomb this time but people will still die if you don't abide by the rules and if you don't figure out my puzzle this time. Look over to DI Lestrade, and you will see what I mean."

Sherlock did as instructed, trying to cast aside the fear that rippled in his stomach as he did so. Lestrade was watching him intently, and hovering directly between his eyes was a red dot. Sherlock's blood turned thick with cold and he looked away, striding over to the window, desperately searching for any sign of a sniper.

"I see you're taking me seriously now," Moriarty remarked excitedly.

"What do you want?"

Moriarty winced. "Oh, so cliché a statement there, my dear. Want to try rephrasing that?"

Sherlock swallowed, closing his eyes so to cool off the intense frustration bubbling inside of him. "What do you want me to do?" he tried.

"Not quite what I wanted but I'll let that one slide. You have to find Erica Marshall. That is the puzzle."

"The rules?"

"This is my favourite part, I must admit. You see, you have three hours to find her. You cannot tell anyone about the snipers; let them jump around looking for a bomb, as a bit of entertainment for me while I wait for you to—figure it out. If you tell anyone, they will be shot. If you don't figure out my puzzle in time, I will choose someone close to you at random. As you've probably already guessed, I'm afraid the detective inspector is in that raffle...and that pet of yours..."

Sherlock's eyes peeled slowly open. "John has nothing to do with me anymore." He struggled to maintain an indifferent manner and a steady voice. It was difficult, though and he couldn't say anything else for the fear of it wobbling and giving him away.

"I'll just put it like this—you can't burn out your own heart, Sherlock. Only I can do that."

"Three hours starting now," Sherlock said and hung up without waiting for a response.

"What happened?" Lestrade inquired, unsure whether he should approach the other man or stay put so not to distract him or anything. "Was it Moriarty?" he pressed when he received no reply.

"Yes," Sherlock said once he trusted himself to speak again.

"What did he say?"

Sherlock felt sick. He continued to stare out of the window, eyes narrowing on the black beads of people running like perspiration down the streets, ignorant to what was happening to him. It felt like everything was swaying around him, when in reality, he was unsteady, and he brought a hand to his eyes to make it all drop dead. The world, for a moment, was pitch black and no longer existed. He preferred it. No Jim Moriarty, no drugs, no pain, no boredom, just nothing.

"Sherlock—are you okay?"

That illusion was punctured and Sherlock removed his hands and turned around to face the detective inspector, who was studying him carefully. He drew in a long breath, and then clenched his fists as he exhaled, broadening his shoulders, and marching forwards.

"Hey! Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted, clambering to his feet and following on behind him. "Where are you going?"

"To talk to Erica Marshall's parents!" Sherlock called, not glancing over his shoulder as he walked.

[SH]

"This is getting to be borderline harassment now, detective inspector," Mr. Marshall remarked bitterly as he handed the one a mug of coffee and the other a tall glass of water. "We've told you everything we know."

Lestrade offered a grim and apologetic smile. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Marshall," he said softly. "But the thing is, Mr. Holmes here is the best guy we have to offer you right now and he needs to hear the story from your mouth."

Mr. Marshall's eyes hopped over to Sherlock, who was staring fixedly at him with his pale, inquisitive eyes. The two men watched each other for a moment, and then finally the daughter's father sagged his shoulders in defeat as he eased himself down in the armchair opposite them.

"Erica's never done anything like this before, you see," he began, the statement worn and tired as if he had repeated it many times before. "She would never wander off without myself or my wife waiting for her outside the school, you see. I was working the night and I usually take a kip in the afternoon until I have to pick Erica up from school. My alarm—it didn't go off." He stroked his beard, tears tripping down his cheeks. "I woke up and I saw I was half an hour late. I ran out, as fast as I could, you know, didn't even bother to get changed. When I got there, Erica was nowhere to be seen. We always told her, that if ever we weren't there to pick her up, for her to go down to her grandmother's because she doesn't live far from the school so that's the place I went after checking in the school."

"She wasn't there," Sherlock said, clasping his hands together.

"I called my wife there and then and asked her if she'd seen Erica," Mr. Marshall continued shakily. "She said she hadn't and came straight home. We asked everywhere, you don't understand. Neighbours, teachers, Erica's friends...but no one had seen her. The last they saw of her, was her waiting in the playground for me to come pick her up." His chin was quivering badly and he heaved in a stuttering breath.

Lestrade hated situations such as these and wanted nothing more than to just produce the girl out of thin air and return her to her devastated father's arms, but that wasn't possible. He could do nothing, but sit there witnessing this man's turmoil. He glimpsed at Sherlock and, to his horror though not so much to his surprise, the consulting detective seemed unfazed by the scene in front of him. In fact, he looked rather annoyed at the intervals as the grieving parent wept.

"Everyone's been so helpful," Mr. Marshall said suddenly. "Offering us donations, and posting fliers everywhere. They've been a great help, we owe them so much."

"Where is your wife, by the way?" Sherlock pried as if nothing had been said.

"Sleeping, at last," Mr. Marshall answered. "Neither of us has slept a wink since Erica's disappearance."

"Can we see her room?" Sherlock leapt to his feet. His knees were weak when he did that, yet he assured himself no one had noticed. They hadn't either. Lestrade was too busy being bewildered as to why Sherlock was so immune to human emotion, and Mr. Marshall was too taken aback by the request to even care.

"Um—" he began only to be interjected.

"We won't be a moment," Sherlock promised. "Just to check if the guys before us had missed any clues as to your daughter's location."

Mr. Marshall nodded. "Please be quiet though," he pleaded quietly. "Beth's fast asleep."

"Trust me, she won't hear a peep from us," Sherlock offered an unconvincing smile and showed himself up the stairs.

Lestrade awkwardly followed, muttering a second apology as he passed Mr. Marshall. It didn't take any real genius to figure out which room belonged to the little girl, as it had flowers painted on and her name carved out of wood hanging up in the centre of it. Sherlock was already in the midst of rummaging through her belongings when Lestrade joined him.

"You don't have to be so cold, you know," Lestrade hissed. "That man's lost his daughter!"

"He's lying," Sherlock retorted flatly as if it was blatant.

"Sorry what?" Lestrade had to pause to refrain from yelling.

"He's lying," Sherlock said again, drawing out the word 'lying' as if he was conversing with an idiot, which, in his opinion, he was.

"What are you talking about?"

"He said that he and his wife hadn't been able to sleep since Erica had gone missing," Sherlock explained hurriedly, not stopping his search as he spoke. "That was last Wednesday. That is quite a while for someone to go without sleep, and I'm afraid he bore none of the signs. No bags under the eyes, he had a good complexion and he'd put an effort into his appearance."

"What?"

Sherlock groaned, finally halting in his proceedings to face the other man. "When you haven't slept for a great deal of time, you don't exactly care how you look, and even if you do, you can't clean up that nicely. Your mind will be cloudy and you will, for example, miss a button or have your fly undone. In addition, your clothes wouldn't be so—coordinated. You would be more likely to put on odd socks or to wear an outfit that didn't match but no; his outfit was sorted out this morning with a clear head."

Lestrade blinked. "You're accusing a man of lying about his missing daughter because of what he's wearing?"

Sherlock looked exasperated. "Please, just shut up for a minute will you."

"No, you shut up!" Lestrade spat, crossing the room to stand a few inches away from the consulting detective in an intimidating manner.

The two glowered at one another. "You're too emotionally involved," Sherlock breathed. "You better sit this one out so I can figure out exactly why this man is lying in time."

"It's all about puzzles to you, Sherlock," Lestrade said through gritted teeth, pointing at him. "It's all a big game to you, isn't it? But it isn't a game; people's lives are at risk! A little girl, is missing and..."

"Greg," Sherlock cut him off. "Don't talk about things you don't understand."

Lestrade, jaw and fists simultaneously clenched, stormed off to the far end of the room, crossing his arms firmly over his chest as he watched the other man pick up from where he left off. Little did he know how fast Sherlock's heart was racing, how sweaty his palms now were, how his brain felt as though it was being rolled over and over in his skull. His vision was blurry as he rummaged through a box stuffed with toys, tossing the insignificant ones aside. He was searching for the bear, that's what he was looking for, but it kept slipping from his mind. Sherlock kept having to pause for a second or two to straighten himself out, to set himself in the right direction again. It was becoming increasingly difficult, and he knew that if he could just dunk his hand into his coat pocket, pop a pill onto his tongue and swallow it, things would get easier and his head clearer. He had already tried though, only to find to his dismay that he had used up the last of the Dionysus and now, he would be a mess until tonight when he could call Raz and get some more.

He had an hour and a half left to find out where the missing Erica Marshall was, and he was even annoyed with himself that he wasn't finding out where Erica was, but was instead trying to prove why her father was lying. Was he lying? Sherlock shook his head. Of course he was lying. His attire had informed him of that, but how could he prove it? And what did his lying mean? Was he just over exaggerating when he said they hadn't slept since last week? Or did it have a deeper and darker meaning? At that instant, Sherlock wanted nothing more than for John to be there...

"Find anything?" Lestrade angrily asked.

Sherlock ignored him. Find the bear, find the bear, he told himself, turning the box over to tip its organs out onto the carpet, rifling through the various toys that the girl owned. As he did this, the seconds, the minutes, the hour tiptoed away, its steps creaking loudly in its wake.

Time. He needed more of it, and desperately but his brain was so misty. It was as though only a fraction of his mind was focusing on figuring this out, whilst the rest of it moaned and demanded to know where the pills were and why they weren't in his system. His hands started to shake violently and, out of sheer agitation, he cursed loudly and banged his fist against the wall. Within seconds, Lestrade was on him. He was only gripping his shoulders, pulling him away and reminding him through grounded teeth that they were supposed to be quiet, but Sherlock turned around and shoved him roughly off.

Lestrade stared for a moment, not entirely sure how he should react. Sherlock, in all the years he'd known him, had never once lashed out physically at him. With biting words, of course, but never actually—if it had been anyone else, he probably would have retaliated. He had half a mind to despite this. However, he was halted by the apologetic and immediately remorseful expression cut deeply into the consulting detective's face.

Rolling his eyes, Lestrade put up both of his hands in surrender and to signal there was no harm done. Sherlock didn't relax entirely, but did so enough to return to his search. Suddenly, there was the sound of the thunderous steps on the stairs and Mr. Marshall burst into the room, absolutely livid. Trailing dozily behind him was who Sherlock supposed was his wife.

In a blink of an eye, Mr. Marshall was on Sherlock, shoving him hard against the wall with his arm pressed firmly against his throat, his other hand gripping tightly onto his coat. Lestrade leapt into action, yet he still felt powerless against really doing anything against a man who had just lost his daughter and was grieving. He just clutched the father's shoulder and tried to pry him off, but it was no good.

"Mr. Marshall, please," Lestrade attempted to keep a calm tone, eyes darting from him to Sherlock, who's pale face was filled with a hint of colour for the first time in ages. "He meant no harm; he's just frustrated you see—"

"He's frustrated? Him? Mr. Marshall shouted.

"You seem to be overreacting a little," Sherlock remarked placidly as if he wasn't in his current situation at all and they were simply chatting over coffee. "If you were worried about me waking your wife, Mr. Marshall, you would..."

"What would you know about human emotions?" Mr. Marshall demanded, the vein standing out on his forehead. "You don't care about my daughter being gone at all, do you?"

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly and a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Caring? I would have thought you'd be more keen on me finding your daughter rather than me sitting there crying at your sob story."

"My—my what?" Mr. Marshall echoed, not quite sure, he believed what he had just heard.

Lestrade, who had still been trying to pull the two apart, froze in his actions, looking at Sherlock pleadingly, mutely begging him not to say anything stupid.

"Your sob story," Sherlock reiterated. "That's all it is really. Not once have you mentioned your poor daughter, you've only mentioned how hard it's been for you. That's all you care about isn't it really? About people caring about your plight—"

He didn't get any further than that. Mr. Marshall's fist collided with his cheek, throwing him down onto the ground. Grieving father or no grieving father, Lestrade saw his que to intervene with force this time, and as Mr. Marshall went to collect up the thin man lying on the floor for a second assault, Lestrade thrust him aside, putting a hand to his chest to restrain him from advancing again.

"OI!" Lestrade hollered, surprising all those around him. "That's enough now! Go downstairs and cool yourself off, Mr. Marshall, before I have you charged for assault."

"You siding with him?" Mr. Marshall seethed. "That—that psychopath?"

"No matter what he is, that is none of your business. He is working to help find your daughter, and that alone should earn a bit of your respect. Now, please if you will. Cool off downstairs, and I will have a word with him," Lestrade ordered levelly.

Beth Marshall made her move and slipped her arm into her husbands, stroking his scraped knuckles tenderly. Mr. Marshall was, of course, reluctant and didn't move for a couple of minutes, his wide chest heaving from the adrenaline hissing in his system. Eventually, he nodded and shuffled out with his wife alongside him.

Lestrade turned to Sherlock, expecting to see him still sprawled out on the floor only to find him up and about, continuing to look through the girl's toys. Shaking his head in disbelief, the detective inspector approached and crouched down next to him. Sherlock looked as though he was oblivious to his presence, and flinched as if in shock when Lestrade touched his arm, pausing his movements.

"There's no time to waste, Lestrade," Sherlock said quietly.

"I know," Lestrade hesitantly agreed, despite wishing Sherlock would take at least a tiny break so they could check the bruise blossoming nicely on his cheekbone. "Let me help, alright? I'm all ears, whatever crazy theories you may have."

Sherlock swallowed and nodded, not meeting his gaze, instead pressing his hands together as if in prayer, tucking it under his chin as he thought.

"What did you mean about—about him acting out too brashly?" Lestrade dared to ask. Although he didn't want to disrupt his thoughts, he didn't want to be left out in the dark either.

"He should be tired," Sherlock said. "He shouldn't have the energy to come storming up over to me, and when he held me up against the wall his limbs weren't trembling the way they should if he was sleep deprived. His anger towards me hitting the wall should have been restrained and, though he wouldn't be too happy about it, he wouldn't have reacted like that. He was angry about something else."

"Like what?" Lestrade frowned, disturbed that this was actually making sense.

"He was wary about us going up into her room," Sherlock elaborated, rising to his feet. "He didn't want us to, that's why I didn't leave him room to give us a yes or no answer. I heard him at the foot of the stairs, pacing. Moreover, his wife was very quick on her feet wasn't she?"

"Yeah, because you punched the bloody wall," Lestrade was losing it again.

"Not so much that...whenever I would have—" he pressed his lips together, feeling that drilling pain in his chest. "Whenever I would have John work all-nighters with me on a case, when he would eventually get to sleep he wouldn't wake up even when I shot the wall."

"He was an army man, Sherlock," Lestrade pointed out. He was frankly staggered to hear Sherlock even mention the doctor, especially to him and now. "He's probably used to sleeping through gunshot—hang on, what are you doing with a gun?"

"Never mind that now," Sherlock batted the topic away. "John is a light sleeper usually, but just give him three days without sleep and he's out for the count no matter how loudly I play the violin or—" he noticed the stern look on Lestrade's face and swerved mentioning the gun again. "Or whatever experiments I was doing. She practically just hopped out of bed, if she was in bed at all."

"How do you mean?"

"She was wearing mascara. No woman's eyelashes are that dark and long naturally, and her hair, it looked as though it had been brushed. I highly doubt anyone, not even a woman, jumps out of bed after being disturbed and things to brush her hair over, especially if she's so distraught about her daughter going missing, I think she wouldn't give a damn how she looked."

"Sherlock, we're going around in circles," Lestrade said agitatedly, rubbing his eyes. "What is your obsession with this—lying about their sleeping patterns? Does it really matter?"

"Every little lie matters. It means they're trying to cover their tracks with something, something they don't want us to see. By telling us they've hardly slept, they're evoking something in you. They're making you feel sympathetic for them. Sympathy seems a big deal to the both of them, especially the father." Then suddenly, his face went lax and he tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. "Have people been donating money to the family?"

"Um, yeah I think so," Lestrade said uncertainly. "The community have started giving donations. Why?"

"So, a father who cares very dearly for sympathy, and donations," Sherlock muttered. "He seemed to care more about how we felt about it rather than how we were going to help find his daughter. He focused on how the family had been coping, none of the usual I hope she's okay, I hope she's this and I hope she's that. You started to feel uncomfortable, I could tell. You could hardly look at him throughout the whole thing, and I'm pretty sure that if he carried on the way he was, you probably would have chipped in to the donations as well to help the family get by."

"What exactly are you suggesting?"

"The bear is the clue." Sherlock dunked his hand into his coat pocket, bringing forth the pink phone and studying the photograph of the rather miserable looking teddy again.

It was a rather dark picture, but there was one strip of light acting like a scar down the bear's face. So it was in a cupboard of some kind, it had to be. Sherlock scanned the small room again and saw, right at his left hand side, a wardrobe. The door would look, to an untrained eye, closed, but to Sherlock's eye, he saw it was left the slightest bit open. His chest tightened and, at a painful pace, pried open one of halves of the door. The light of the room fell like a pointed finger of blame on the bear. Sherlock reached inside and pulled it out into the open.

Lestrade, who had been watching attentively, caught his breath and sidled up next to Sherlock. They both looked from the photograph to the bear, and there was no doubt they were identical. Sherlock handed Lestrade the phone, and turned the toy over his hand. It was damp.

"Lestrade, was it raining last Wednesday?" he stiffly inquired.

Lestrade shrugged. "It was raining all last week," he replied offhandedly. Then his brow furrowed. "No wait. It rained until Thursday. I remember because Anderson was complaining about being outside all Wednesday night and that when he had to work indoors the next day, it was nice weather—"

"Captivating story, truly," Sherlock interrupted him flatly. "The bear is damp so it must have gotten drenched." He turned it over. "There's dirt in its fur, so a child's possession as they would continuously drop it. Last Wednesday at Erica's school, was it a toy day?"

"Toy day?" Lestrade blinked, confused.

"Primary schools usually have them. It's a day when children can bring their favourite toys to school with them, usually at the end of term, to play with. When did her school break up?"

"Last Wednesday..."

"Erica brought this to school with her. If her parents haven't seen their daughter since last Wednesday, why do they have it in their possession?"

"Maybe Moriarty planted it there."

Sherlock considered this. "That doesn't add up with the parents' bizarre behaviour," he decided. "The grandmother lives only minutes away from the school don't she? And Erica's father admitted that he told his daughter if ever they weren't there to pick her up, that she should go to her grandmother's, so no one would have seen someone taking her away. None of the teachers or other parents would have seen anyone taking Erica away because she left on her own accord, so when Mr. Marshall comes running into the playground half an hour later, no one would have suspected that it was him that took his daughter. He also said that once he realised his daughter was 'gone', he went to the grandmother's house. He probably took the bear from her because it's ripped see." He pointed to a tear under the bear's armpit. "He told her they'd fix and clean it up for her."

"Okay, now you've lost me," Lestrade sighed heavily, a headache coming on.

"Erica Marshall wasn't abducted," Sherlock concluded, grinning. He snatched the mobile phone from Lestrade and punched in the number, bringing it to his ear. It rang once before it was answered. "Erica Marshall was abducted," he said again. "Her parents used the story of their supposed missing child to earn money from the donations being made to their family. She is at her grandmother's, probably just told that she was going to be spending the half term with her, and no one thought to search the old woman's house." He glared at Lestrade at this.

There was an elongated silence and then...

"Well done, Sherlock Holmes, though granted that was rather easy," Moriarty said. "Your old self would have worked that out much quicker."

Sherlock bit his lip. "What happens now? That was your last one, wasn't it? And you wasted it on something like this?"

"My last one? Oh no, my dear Sherlock. It's a two-part puzzle. You have a chance to make up for the first part with extra points."

"What is it?"

"So impatient! All in good time. Until then, Sherlock Holmes, you can just train. I want your best game."

The line went dead.

TBC

I hope this chapter came out well! I found it quite challenging, but I hope my efforts didn't go to waste XD

Thank you all so much, for your lovely reviews last chapter, please let me know what you think

And for those of you who missed John this chapter, don't worry he plays a big part in the next one, which is currently being written, but until then I will have to pour all my energy now into my university assignment.

Again, please review, anonymous or not, and tell me what you think.