December 10th

9:00am

Sherlock awoke with a pain in his skull that felt like a hangover. He touched his hand to the back of his head, to find that the wound there had opened up again. Wincing, he washed the blood from his fingers, observing briefly how dazzlingly red it looked against the pale flesh of his hand. In all his time at crime scenes and examining bodies, he had never seen two shades of blood the same. They were as unique as the person themselves, imprinted on their soul like a fingerprint. His was jewel bright, a shining scarlet colour. Lestrade's was a dark red, almost burgundy. John's was a deep, rich crimson, and it reminded Sherlock of wine and indulgence.

He knocked on John's door just hard enough to wake him if he was asleep. "Are you awake?"

John opened the door. "Yeah, just coming now." He grabbed his jacket, which had been thrown over a chair, and began to put it on as they walked down the corridor of the guest house. They stopped at Lestrade's room.

"Good job you're here," Lestrade said as way of a greeting when he answered their knocks. They stepped inside to find an exhausted looking Sally staring blankly at a pile of files. "Did you look over Feversham's business accounts last night?"

John and Sherlock looked guiltily at each other. "Er," said Sherlock. "We got a bit distracted."

Sally glared at them both. "You had a nice time babysitting then?" she spat venomously at them.

"Yes, actually," said John coolly. "Frasier's a nice kid."

"The same can't be said for his father," said Lestrade.

"What?" said Sherlock. "Did you find a connection?"

"Yes actually," Lestrade said, more than a bit pleased with himself. "There's only one we can find. Gordon Feversham's newest property venture is a planned housing estate, around 2 hours from here. Mostly 3 bedroom houses, a few larger places as well. But it's going to be a huge place, and he's planning to build it in a previously public piece of land. However, there have been reports of rare black swans having made their home there so they're going through a legal battle."

Sherlock laughed happily. "Swans. Brilliant! So who's the target?"

"We have absolutely no idea."

11:30am

The large plot of land was undoubtedly beautiful. There were many tall oak trees, which must have been hundreds of years old, surrounding many animal habitats that were essential for the ecosystem around them, or so Sherlock was told. He stepped out of the police car, into a large pool of mud.

"Nice parking, Lestrade," he muttered, wiping his shoes on the grass in annoyance. There was a large huddle of people in the distance, who seemed to be chanting something that Sherlock couldn't quite make out.

"Protesters?" he asked John.

"Looks like it." They all walked down towards the cluster of people, and the shouts became gradually louder as they approached until they could finally tell what was being said.

"Save the black swan!"

"Stop destroying natural beauty!"

"Feversham's a murderer!"

Lestrade walked nervously through the crowd, flashing his badge at the demonstrators. "Excuse me," he said, loudly and clearly. "Let us through."

A young woman with vivid red hair stood up on a small raised area that had been assembled. "Are you with the police?"

"Yes."

The crowd began to angrily jeer. "You can't stop us objecting!" The girl cried. "This is our rally and we'll do whatever it takes to stop Gordon Feversham building his site here!" The group roared in approval.

"We're not here to stop you!" said Sally. "We're here on an unrelated matter, but we need to get through. Step aside please!" Reluctantly, the crowd parted to let them through, turning back to their sit in. A dark haired, middle aged man caught up with John.

"Hey," he said, a little breathlessly from his run. "What's this about?"

"I'm afraid I can't say," said John apologetically. "Sorry." They walked to a large wooden building, presumably the place where visitors to the forest could get information.

"Excuse me," said Lestrade to an elderly woman behind the desk. "I'm with the police."

"Have you come to take the protesters away?" she asked wearily. "They mean well, honestly, they just get a little over excited at times."

"No, they're fine. We're here in relation to a potential crime."

The woman looked grave. "Can I help you?"

"We need a list of all personnel on site. Can we get that?"
"Yes of course… But what is this about?"

"It's for the safety of the staff, I assure you. We need as much information as possible."

"Well, they're all on the computer."

"Great," Lestrade turned to them. "Sally, you go with Mrs…"

"Mrs Doyle."
"Mrs Doyle, and I'll go interview some protesters. We can't rule out the possibility that one of them is targeted. Sherlock… you do whatever it is that you do at a time like this. Go think. That's your area, isn't it?"

2:30pm

Sherlock walked a few paces behind John, his lack of enthusiasm evident in the way he dragged his feet. John had assured him that if they saw this swan, Sherlock would receive a sudden burst of inspiration. So far, Sherlock had had no revelation about the potential victim of Moriarty's next attack, having no data to go on. He'd already sat through a pained lunch, eating organic sandwiches that tasted faintly of cardboard and drinking watery tea. Now John had dragged him on some quest to find a rare bird which he had no interest in, in the vain hope that he would have a stroke of inspiration. Sherlock was not convinced.

"Is this really necessary?" Sherlock grumbled, watching John fiddle with the large map he had bought.

"Yes," he said plainly. "You never know, eh? Besides, you said yourself, we can't really do much until we've heard back from Sally and Lestrade. You may as well."

Sherlock trudged on through the mud stubbornly, frowning at the back of John's head.

After a while, they reached a clearing in the trees, which opened onto a pool of water. Sherlock couldn't decide if it was a huge pond or a tiny lake, but it was remarkably picturesque for what it was. The sun was in just the right position for the beams of light to create rainbows and patterns on the surface- and in the distance, Sherlock was sure he could see several dark birds swimming there.

Silently, John and Sherlock began to approach them, creeping towards where they knew the swans were. They managed to get within a metre from them before the birds flew away in shock.

John cursed under his breath. "So close…"

"Never mind," Sherlock sighed. He saw down on the grass nearby, and John joined him.

"Any ideas?" said John hopefully.

"None yet. Of course, it seems like it has to be one of the people protesting or one of the people who works here, but… it doesn't seem right."

He looked at John, who seemed to hesitate before speaking. "Sherlock… Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."
"…How did you mother die?"

Sherlock froze for the briefest of moments. "She died of liver cancer, when I was eleven. She was thirty seven."

"God, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked-"

"It's fine. I was raised by my father for the rest of my childhood."

The bitterness in his voice must have been evident. "You didn't get on?"

"You could say that." Sherlock clenched his hands open and closed. "He was a bad man. A cruel man. A distant man. No wonder my mother did what she did."

"What?"

Sherlock sighed. "My mother had an affair. With a gardener," He laughed coldly. "Talk about clichéd. This was between the births of Mycroft and I. My father found out whilst she was pregnant with me."

"That must have destroyed him."

"Hardly. You genuinely believe he loved her? No, he just hated the idea that he couldn't satisfy her. Plus there was the added insult of my paternity."

John gasped. "You mean, you were the child of the gardener?"

"No. But he thought I was. We did a test, when I was about four, and it turns out I was his all along. That didn't stop him disowning his son though. He never liked me; all he saw was another man's child. Even when I was proved to be his, he couldn't think of me as his own." John put his hand on his shoulder, which Sherlock shrugged off. "I'm not upset about it. I hated the man, we both did. He drove our mother to drink and that's what killed her."

"Didn't they divorce?"

"No. You know these aristocrats, they're afraid of scandal spoiling their good names," he spat. "He wouldn't let her. He trapped her in a loveless marriage so he could keep his reputation. When he died, he left all his possessions and wealth to Mycroft, his only child. Mycroft's felt uneasy about it ever since, but I don't mind. He sold it all, in any case, and kept the money instead. The memories were too painful, I suppose. Every now and then he forces money on me to keep me living in the condition to which I have become accustomed, out of his guilt." Sherlock laughed. "Sorry, I shouldn't keep going on. You're probably bored."

"No, I was interested. Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine John. It was a long time ago." Sherlock's phone vibrated and he answered. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock, it's me," It was Lestrade's voice. "We need you up here now."

3:30pm

"You took your sweet time," Lestrade grumbled.

"John got us lost," said Sherlock. John muttered something incoherent about the map being wrong before sitting down in a chair. "What's the problem then?"
"We can't find any clue as to who the target is. There's nothing about them that stands out."

Sherlock examined the list. A list of around 50 people wasn't much help to them. Most of these were protesters, though some were staff who kept the forest free of litter and worked in the information centre.

"So, do you think it'll be a protester?" John asked.

"I'm not sure. There's something wrong… something missing from this picture."

"Well the demonstators are very worried about the fate of the swans," said Lestrade. "Perhaps Moriarty had shares in this venture and wanted them out of the way?"

"Perhaps. We can't be certain, but it seems logical. It'll probably be a prominent member in one of the many protest groups that are assembled outside. Does that narrow it down?"

Lestrade shifted the papers in his hands. "Well, that leaves six people. The organisers, the leaders, etc. Here." He passed the lists to him, having highlighted the people of importance.

Sherlock scanned the list. "Purity Adams?" he said with disbelief.

"Yeah, it's a hell of a name," Lestrade chuckled. "She was the red haired girl that spoke to us earlier- or rather, at us. You think she's a target?"

"Potentially, yes. I think we need to meet this girl."

4:00pm

"What's this about?" Purity Adams scowled when she saw Lestrade and the others approach her. "We gave you our details, aren't you happy?"

Lestrade sighed. "We need to ask you a few questions."

Frowning, she passes the megaphone she was carrying to a man near to her. "Keep up the chant for me. Thanks, Grant." She reluctantly followed them to a quiet spot nearby, glaring like a recalcitrant teenager. "So?"

"Ms Adams, we're here as part of an official investigation into a potential crime."

"So why are you asking me anything? My record's clean."

"We know that. We think there is a threat to someone's life."

Purity looked shocked at this, but quickly regained her petulant composure. "I'm afraid I can't help you, I have no idea if anyone in our group has enemies."

"The scary thing is, Ms Adams, they don't need to have enemies. These are motiveless crimes. They just have to fit the killer's profile for his next victim, and one of them could be you."

"I don't know how I can help you!" she cried, shaking a little at the disturbing news. Sherlock felt his phone vibrate once more. "Sherlock Holmes."

"My my my!"

Sherlock groaned at Moriarty's familiar drawl. He nodded at Lestrade to let him know who was speaking. "What?"
"Oh, I'm just observing Sherlock. You don't know who it is, do you?"

Sherlock felt a twinge of annoyance. "There's plenty of time."

"Yes, but are you as close as you think you are? You'll have to work fast if you want to find them."

"I can work perfectly well without your help, thank you."

Moriarty laughed. "Fine, fine. Just remember the clue I gave you. Seven swans a swimming!" He hung up.

8:00pm

4 hours… It could be worse. But it could be a hell of a lot better. Sherlock should have been able to work better than this, he should have been able to solve this quicker. But as far as he could tell, there was not enough data to form any solid conclusions. He knew it was a grave mistake to theorize before he had data. What had Moriarty meant?

He took a sip of his still watery tea. Mrs Doyle had bustled over to them and brought them food and drinks from the shop, free of charge to "such lovely people".

"Have you got anything, Sherlock?" asked John quietly.

"… What connects these people?" he thought aloud, more a question to himself than to those around him. "Their love of nature, their desire to save the environment."

"Seven swans a swimming…" Lestrade muttered. "Well, the swan connection is enough, surely? But which one in particular?"

Sherlock scowled unpleasantly at his drink. "Which one… Which one is special?"

Mrs Doyle picked up some rubbish behind him. "They all seem like six ordinary people to me. Nice enough, but nothing out of the ordinary."

Sherlock tensed in his seat. "Say that again."

"Er-" She looked at him, puzzled. "Nice enough, but nothing out of the ordinary."

"No, the bit before that!" He urged her.

"They all seem like six ordinary people to me."

"Yes!" Sherlock got up out of his seat. "You genius Mrs Doyle!"

"Care to share, Sherlock?" said Sally, looking irritated at his sudden realisation.

"Moriarty said them. Don't you get it?" He laughed. They continued to stare back at him blankly. "It doesn't have to be one of them! It's all of them!"

Lestrade began to smile, then stopped. "Wait, but why six? Surely seven would fit with the song."

Sherlock bit his lip. "There must be another victim. Who, I have no idea."

"This is all very exciting," said Mrs Doyle. "Murders connected to a song… It's just like a crime show on TV!"

Sherlock sighed. "Unless we find the seventh victim, we can't win. Let me see the list again."

Lestrade passed him the list of names. "Who could the seventh be?"

"Swans… Swans…" Sherlock chanted, almost singing the words in order to get them into his head. "Connection to swans…"

His eyes fell upon Mrs Doyle. The only person not included on the list, because she had made it. "Mrs Doyle…" he asked. "What's your first name?"

"Shawna, dear."

"Shawna…" He took out his phone. "Have you ever researched the etymology of your name, Mrs Doyle?"

"Er, no. Why?"

"Because, if I'm not mistaken, Shawna is a Gaelic name."

"Well yes, I knew that, but-"

"A Gaelic name that means 'swan'" He smiled at his phone when he saw that his suspicions were confirmed. "Mrs Doyle, you were the seventh victim."