Hey… Sorry for not updating in a while, my workload has been immense. History assessments, the retake of the History assessment (I only got an A. Some people are never happy), a French assessment, another French assessment, revision for the final French assessment, the deadline for my Music coursework… I'm sorry, please forgive me!

The last couple of weeks have been decidedly bleh and boring and beige. The highlight of it was my conversation with my friend's toy unicorn over Facebook. This, incidentally, has started a small craze of Unicorn profiles in my year.

On the other hand, I did go to London for my sister's 17th birthday. We went to see Wicked, but it was effectively an excuse for me to squeal at Sherlock locations. Annoyingly, we didn't get to go to Baker Street *cries* but we saw a great deal of other places, such as the part of the Thames where Alex Woodbridge was found, Tottenham (which after Ten O'clock Live, I shall refer to as "The Tottenham" ;D) Court Road and the skater park from The Blind Banker. I think I upset some Londoners by screaming at the top of my voice every time I spotted a location used. I certainly frightened some tourists.

Not an awful lot happens in this chapter, I'm afraid. It's very Lestrade centered and more build up than anything. So, sorry.

Also, I'm upgrading the story to an M. The reasons are unfortunately not slashy… Awww. It's not going to happen in this chapter… well, you'll see. Sorry for being so cryptic (ROFL I made a pun *is proud*), but I don't want to give it away. It's only a precaution. God, I'm explaining this horribly. Shut up Bethan : )

December 8th

5:00pm

"Isn't it obvious?" he cried, smiling gleefully at Lestrade's bewildered expression.

"Er, no," said Lestrade in a bland monotone, clearly used to Sherlock's accidentally-on-purpose insults.

Sherlock smirked. "The next victim is the owner of the painting. Examine the card beside the painting."

Lestrade bowed his head slightly to read it. "'The Milkmaid, Johannes Vermeer. Oil on Canvas, On loan from Private Collection'." Lestrade smiled coldly. "Ok, but what I don't get is the connection to Laila Jansen."

Sherlock sighed in his exasperation. "At the time, milkmaids had a bit of a reputation."

"For?" said Lestrade, confused.

"For being up for it," said Sally bluntly.

A blush crept up Lestrade's cheeks. "Oh. Well, that explains it then. How did you do it?"

Sherlock smiled at John. "It was all John, actually."

He beamed at Sherlock proudly.

"His hideous attempt to be contemporary and fashionable led us to the painting."

John's grin flickered and he gave Sherlock a playful glare. He returned it with a smirk.

Lestrade sighed. "So who's the owner?"

"The 6th Baron of Duncombe Park, Gordon Feversham. British aristocrat, married, one child. He lives in Yorkshire. We'll have to get over there as quickly as possible."

11:00pm

Sherlock sat in the police car and stared blankly out the rain spattered windows. He disliked travelling in official vehicles, especially when he was relegated to sitting in the back seat- this had given Sally particular pleasure- but this was urgent, and at least he got to sit by John. Sherlock was trying, desperately, to think. This was proving remarkably difficult, as Lestrade had forced Valium down his throat when he had begun to panic about the flight, and now he was feeling irritatingly relaxed. Fear was an advantage when trying to solve a crime, and whilst Sherlock did not fear for the victim, he was always afraid that he might get this one wrong. That he might lose.

John was asleep. It figured- the poor man must have been exhausted from the evening that had just passed. The flight had been long and laborious due to delays, turbulence and Sherlock informing an airhostess that her sister was sleeping with her boyfriend- they'd nearly thrown him off the flight for "harassing staff members". By the time they pulled into the large country manor it was late- and it was imperative that they protected Gordon Feversham at once.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" said the aforementioned Baron upon greeting them. They had been let in by a housekeeper and had been sitting patiently in a grand baroque living area. "It's eleven o'clock at night! My wife and I are trying to sleep!"

Lestrade stood up. "Mr Feversham-"

"Baron Feversham," he interrupted.

"Baron Feversham, then," Lestrade sighed irritably. "I'm afraid you may be in great danger."

"Danger? Preposterous. How so?"

"We believe there is a very dangerous man who wants you killed."

"Killed?" There was still a tone of disbelief in Feversham's voice. "Nonsense. You must have me confused with someone else."

"We really don't. Can you confirm for us that you are the current owner of the painting 'The Milkmaid' by Johannes Vermeer?"

"Well yes." He paused. "I don't see what that has to do with anything…"
Lestrade recounted the tale to Feversham, all the while a look of despair growing on the Baron's face.

"But why me?" he said, his voice shaking a little. "I've- I've never met this man!"

"No, you probably haven't. What you have to understand is that this is all part of a larger game. He's taunting someone."

"Who?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Me."

"And you are?"

"Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective."

There was the barest hint of a smile on Feversham's face. "Holmes, you say?"

Sherlock remained impassive. "Yes."

"Any relation to Theodore and Adeline Holmes?"

"Yes. My parents," he said coldly.

Feversham beamed. "A noble family. I knew your father, a fine man. Such honour and dignity."

"You knew my mother too?" There was a tinge of something… uncertain in Sherlock's voice which he did not like to hear. Something raw.

"No, but I knew of her." Feversham said this much more coldly. "Of her reputation."

Sherlock gripped the edge of the seat he was sitting in but said nothing, instead glaring at the pompous, upper class fool across the room. There was a long and awkward silence before Lestrade spoke.

"Anyway, we're here to protect you and to question you in relation to a potential murder. So please, stay by us. We will keep you safe."

Sherlock glanced at his phone. The horrible thing was, if he got it wrong, he couldn't find out until it was too late. When Moriarty called.

11:59pm

The time ticked by in silence for agonisingly long. Lestrade and John guarded Feversham fiercely- Lestrade deftly ignoring the fact that John had somehow managed to get his gun through customs. Finally, the moment had arrived.

Lestrade glanced at his watch. "Five seconds…"

Everyone in the room braced themselves for an attack. Lestrade's watch began to beep. Midnight.

There was a moment of terrifying reticence before Sherlock's phone began to ring. There was a loud exhaling of breath from everyone except Sherlock, who grabbed his phone eagerly.

"Hello."

"You figured it out. I'm impressed. I was sure you'd miss that one."

Sherlock was startled to find himself relieved at the sound of Moriarty's voice. "You underestimated me."

"I underestimated your pet." Moriarty spat the word, and Sherlock grinned at the annoyance in his voice.

"He's cleverer than you give him credit for."

"He's clever than you give him credit for."

"Please stop repeating everything I say. It's awfully childish."

"And you're childishly awful," Moriarty said impishly, giggling at his own joke. "Well, congratulations, in any case. I hope you enjoy this next one. I'd sleep if I were you- how do you expect that gorgeous brain of yours to be working if you don't let it rest? I want you on your best game Sherlock."

"Whatever you say," Sherlock said coldly.

Moriarty giggled. "So submissive, Sherlock? I never had you as the type to be dominated. If you're that desperate you should have just said…"

This touched a nerve. "I don't want anything from you," Sherlock growled, his anger ready to overflow.

"But who do you want it from?"

Sherlock tensed. "What?"

Moriarty laughed cruelly. "Oh, nothing. I'd best be off. Places to go, people to see. See you later!" His tone was irritatingly musical before he ended the call, the dial tone ringing in Sherlock's ears.

December 9th

9:00am

Sherlock, John and the official police team had been put up in a nearby guest house. This time, Sherlock had been placed in a different room to John. He still wasn't sure why he was so annoyed about this. They'd all gotten some much needed rest that night, safe and secure in the knowledge that they had two days left to solve the crime. In Sherlock's opinion, some of the local police officers were far too cocky- they seemed overly certain that they could solve the case quicker than the London police could. Perhaps they didn't get as much crime, perhaps it wasn't as serious, but stand Lestrade next to a Yorkshire police officer and you saw the difference. The slumped shoulders, the aged face, the tired eyes. The marks of a man who's seen too much too young.

The next morning, he, John, Lestrade and Sally had arrived at the house of Gordon Feversham promptly. The same housekeeper had answered the door, and they had waited in the same living room, however a young woman had instead greeted them.

"Hi," she said, her voice neither rich and opulent nor containing any hints of a Yorkshire accent. From what Sherlock could deduce, she was from a middle class part of Birmingham. "I'm Kayleigh, Gordon's wife." She shook hands with each of them. "I hear there is a serious matter involving my husband." Her voice was steady but her eyes betrayed her- thought there was a tinge of something uncertain within them that would require further observation to deduce.

"Mrs Feversham, would you like to sit down?" said Lestrade kindly.

She did so, perching carefully on the edge of a seat. "Could you explain it to me? Gordon was awfully cryptic…"

"There have been a series of murders-" She gripped the edge of her seat at that moment "-that have led us to your husband. We have prevented his murder-"

"There was a risk that he could have died?" She did not seem concerned, more surprised. "Gordon's not the type to make enemies."

"I'm sure he's not. These don't seem to be personal attacks, though they're to do with a connection with the killer, however tenuous it may be."

"So, you mean to say that he will strike again?"

"Yes, and to someone connected to your husband."

"Who?"

"We don't know that yet. It could be anyone."

She was about to speak, before there was a tentative knock at the door. A small boy, no more than around seven or eight, was shuffling nervously towards them.

"Oh God," said Kayleigh. "I'm sorry. Frasier, Mummy will come play with you in a moment."

He nodded but said nothing, wordlessly walking towards the door again.

"I'm sorry about that," she said apologetically. "He's awfully protective of me."

"May I ask what he's doing at home on a Thursday?" said Lestrade, not unkindly. "It's a school day."

"Oh, I home school him," she explained. "He has a very weak immune system, and can't go out much. Besides, Gordon thought it would be better if I stayed at home to look after him." There was a touch of sadness in her voice.

Lestrade smiled. "Well he's very sweet. I have three of my own actually."

Sherlock gazed silently out of the window, ignoring the eager conversation between Lestrade and Kayleigh Feversham about their children. He was far too interested in the case to listen to such a boring subject. These days, all Lestrade talked about was his children. Maybe it was his age. He'd become increasingly sentimental.

Of course, his tragic personal life hadn't helped. Selina Lestrade had been a beautiful and successful doctor before her death. Perhaps if it had been a violent or brutal murder, Lestrade would have been able to deal with it. But it hadn't. It was, and Sherlock was sure John would scold him for even thinking so, dull. She fell asleep in the bath and drowned. Hardly a dramatic death. The tragedy of her death was how Lestrade had tried to revive her, had desperately pleaded with the hospital staff to keep trying to resuscitate her. Sherlock had not been at the funeral- she had died two years before they ever met- but he had heard the other officers whispering about the beautiful speech he had made whenever it was close to the anniversary of her death. This, Sherlock realised with a jolt, was startlingly soon. He had not cried; Lestrade was far too private a man to do that in front of others. No, he had simply listed his regrets. That they had never been to Paris. That he hadn't bought her the necklace she'd always seen in the window of a shop in North London. That he'd never got round to redecorating their living room. So whilst Lestrade's life had disintegrated around him, he had remained stoic. A beacon of decorum in a world that was slowly destroying itself from the inside. Sherlock was sure that one day Lestrade would be unable to take the strain. Occasionally he saw it in his eyes- when he brushed his thumb over the wedding ring he still wore or when he glanced at her picture on his desk. The only constant in his life was the ghost of the woman he had loved.

The other officers called him Saint Gregory. He was cool, calm and collected. He never over reacted. He never got angry. He was the ideal officer. Only a few knew he kept a bottle of whiskey in the bottom of his desk for when he got depressed. That and some of her perfume.

Lestrade was no saint. But he was a better man than the job deserved.