Hey there! This is a celebratory little chapter, to honour the recent end to my exams! Hooray! *uncorks imaginary champagne bottle* That is, until January. Not so hooray.
Anyway, this is just a short chapter to ease me in, plus the next place I could have stopped it would have made it insanely long. By the way, mega bonus love points to anyone who can tell me how to separate different parts of a chapter with that line thing across them (An amazing description, I know), because I have no idea how. Please take pity on a poor, technophobic girl! Enjoy!
"There has to be something." Sherlock slammed his fist down on the table angrily, making John jump. Hours and hours had passed since the body had been found, and Sherlock had been working in silence for hours. The loud noise had woken John from his dozy stupor. John hadn't slept for days- Sherlock kept him up till insane times in the morning with his experiments and excessive practice of the violin. It wasn't that he was bad at it, on the contrary, Sherlock was practically at a professional level, but he only ever played the same tune. It was beginning to grate on his nerves. John yawned loudly, his eyes heavy with exhaustion.
"Sherlock," he said sleepily. "Maybe you should give it a rest?"
Sherlock gave him a disapproving look. "There isn't time, John. Moriarty's clearly counting down- if I can figure out the pattern then I can find the next victims. Don't you understand?" He stood up abruptly, frustrated by John's lack of enthusiasm.
"Forgive me for not being as passionate about corpses as you are," said John, dryly.
Sherlock scowled at him. "Be grateful I'm passionate about anything at all."
John put his head back down in his hands, before Lestrade strode purposefully into the room.
"Nobody heard any sounds of a fight, and there were no signs of forced entry. It must have happened too fast for the guy, poor sod. Cause of death was of course the wound to the neck, at around midnight yesterday."
"The method, whilst interesting, is not what the case depends on," said Sherlock flatly. "We need to find out the link between them. Clearly all the victims will know Moriarty some how- they're probably his customers." He grabbed his laptop from the desk and checked the website he'd been on again. It was a fan site of Edwards's band- the news had just broken and devastated fans were leaving messages of despair and devotion all over the forum.
"What are you looking for?" asked Lestrade.
"I don't even know," replied Sherlock, holding his head in his hands. This lack of understanding annoyed him beyond belief. "There are no chemicals, no clues, no nothing! I don't see what I can do until there's another murder."
"Sherlock!" Lestrade berated him sharply.
"Well that's the truth," he snapped. "Unless I can figure out what Moriarty wants me to do, we'll have to wait until I have more data."
John glanced at the computer screen. "Maybe he's targeting the band? Or popular figures?"
"We can't rule it out as a possibility I suppose," said Sherlock, eyes shut tightly. "But it's unlikely. Moriarty doesn't want public attention; he only cares about my opinion."
John shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable. "He's obsessed with you. It's like he's attracted to you."
"I have considered that, and it may be true."
"What?" John spluttered. "I was joking! You seriously think he-"
"As you well know, I'm not the best with feelings. For all I know, he could be." There was an uncomfortable silence. Lestrade coughed.
"Well, er, I, er, better check on the team-"
"Wait," said Sherlock quickly, body tensed and stiff from a sudden realisation. "Oh, how could I have been so stupid?"
John stared at Sherlock, confused. "Er, mind telling us what you're on about?"
"Lestrade, where's the box that Moriarty sent me?"
"Er, just in the other room. Let me fetch it." He returned holding the small purple box. "Why is it important, Sherlock?"
"It's deeply important. Pass it here." Lestrade did so. Sherlock turned it over and over in his hands, long, thin fingers making light work of the bow. He took the ribbon and held it up to the light of the window. Sunlight passed through miniscule holes within the material. Sherlock held up a piece of paper behind it, exposing a phone number written in the patches of light. Sherlock grinned, feeling the familiar rush of adrenalin he got whenever he was proved right. "You see? He told me to call him- on this number. He'll explain this to me once I ring it."
"Brilliant Sherlock!" John exclaimed, forgetting himself momentarily due to the excellence of his friend.
"Thank you," Sherlock smiled coldly, "but there's more to be done. This is just the start."
"Do you want me to trace the call?" asked Lestrade.
"No point," said Sherlock. "Moriarty's too clever. There's no way he'd fall for that."
Lestrade sighed. "Put it on speaker phone then."
Sherlock punched the numbers into John's phone- he was using it out of habit, this time, not his fear of his number being recognised- somewhat more violently than he had intended. The phone rang three times before he heard the familiar drawl.
"That took you longer than I had expected Sherlock. You're getting slow in your old age."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the man he could not see. "What do you want Moriarty?"
"Oh, come now Sherlock. What ever happened to the usual exchange of pleasantries? No small talk?"
"Moriarty," Sherlock growled, his voice dangerously low. "What do you want?"
"Manners cost nothing, Sherlock," Moriarty's soft Irish tone sounded tinny through the phone. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that?"
"No, as a matter of fact, they didn't," Sherlock said coldly. "Now get to the point."
Moriarty laughed. "Ok, Sherlock, straight to business. That's what I like about you," John began to pace the room. "You're such a professional. Anyway, I'll keep it simple. I've been bored without you in my life, darling. I get the feeling you've missed me too. So I've set up another little challenge for you. Ten more people will die if you don't save them in time, Sherlock. You have 48 hours per person to find out who they are, and how to find them. If you don't, then I'll kill them."
Sherlock heard Moriarty giggle and frowned. "Ten people," said Sherlock tersely. "Why ten? What about number one?"
"Oh, number one could be anything. I could lose some of that Anthrax I've been storing, or some Uranium could fall into the hands of someone you really don't want to have a nuclear weapon. Either way, it'll be pretty destructive."
"You're seriously threatening to start a nuclear war over this?" interjected Lestrade angrily.
"Oh, hello Greg. How are the kids?"
The colour drained from Lestrade's face. "How did you-"
"Chloe, Stephanie and Daniel, yes? Aged 15, 11 and 9 respectively? And what cute children they are, Greg. Their mother must have been beautiful."
Lestrade said nothing but his fear had lit a vicious fire behind his eyes. "W-W-What?" he stammered, before Moriarty shrieked with laughter, enjoying Lestrade's distress.
"Aren't you going to threaten me? You're staying unusually quiet, Greg. Say something, to show you care. Go on."
Lestrade's eyes narrowed in his anger. "You listen to me-"
"This has nothing to do with Lestrade," said Sherlock. "You're talking to me, remember?"
The smile in Moriarty's voice was clear. "Missing me, Sherlock? Why I do believe you're getting jealous! How delicious."
"You've got to give me more to go on," said Sherlock in a lifeless monotone. "There were no chemicals in that box, nothing to analyse, that's not what you want, is it?"
Moriarty laughed again. "Well, I'll admit, I was waiting for you to discover my clue in the ribbon. I'll give you the next victim for free. If you were to check Mr Lestrade's office, you'd find the picture of his children has been replaced with something rather more… sinister. Solve the puzzle, and figure out the links between them. You'll never save them all if you don't figure that out, Sherlock."
"Wait!" yelled Lestrade, but it was too late. Moriarty had hung up. Sherlock stared John's phone, turning it over and over in his hands, remembering their first meeting. That phone had let him see into John's soul. See into his past. It was only when he heard the door slam that he looked up, and realised Lestrade had left.
"How did he get into Lestrade's office?" John murmured quietly.
"I'm not sure," said Sherlock. "Though the security on this building is probably no match for Moriarty."
"It's disturbing," John shivered slightly as he said it. "He knew the names of his kids. He must be freaking out." Sherlock glanced out into the hallway. Lestrade was walking calmly back from his office with a Polaroid.
"The next victim?" Lestrade's voice was steady, apparently unperturbed by Moriarty's knowledge. It was only his eyes that gave away his true feelings; they were wide and bright with terror.
Sherlock glanced briefly at the photograph. "Apparently so. We'd best get down to the scene."
Lestrade walked quickly away, bellowing at Donovan and Anderson to get their arses down here now. John glanced at Sherlock. "Is that normal? He's so calm."
Sherlock gazed at the back of the retreating D.I. "For him, yes. He's trying to maintain his professionalism. Separating his fear from his work. For anyone else, God knows. Sometimes even I don't know what that man's thinking." Without another word, he walked away. John sighed and ran his fingers roughly through his hair, before following. He got a strange feeling of déjà vu. He'd certainly been here before. He yawned once more as he walked. No sleep tonight, then.
I didn't plan for Lestrade's kids to become involved in this. Just goes to show that the plots have a mind of their own. Must dash, I'm continuing my Martin Freeman Christmas film list, following Nativity with Love Actually. Bye dears! *whoosh*