The Silent Game
A Silent Something
The next morning, the three flat mates sat in the little café down the road, John having just finished a full English breakfast, Rose sitting next to him, choosing waffles instead. Sherlock sat opposite them and simply had coffee.
"Feeling better?" Sherlock asked, knowing that the pair of them had been starving, though Rose hid it much better than John, not even complaining.
"Much." They answered in unison, looking to each other and chuckling a little.
John carried on. "Feels like we've barely stopped for breath since this thing started."
"You get used to it." Rose said lightly, starting on her small milkshake.
John frowned, thinking he should keep an eye on his friend's eating habits from now on. Then another thought came to him. "Has it occurred to you-"
"Probably." Answered Sherlock, getting a smirk from Rose.
John just gave him a look. "Has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? Possibly with the both of you? The envelope, the phone, Carl Powers from your past Sherlock and Rose's bathroom and brother?"
"Yes, I know." Sherlock answered.
"Is it him then?" She asked lowly. "Moriarty?"
"Perhaps." Sherlock said. It was then that the little pink phone beeped with a new message, as though it knew they were talking about the subject.
It was a photo of a smiling blond woman, three pips sounding out as the three of them looked at the image.
Sherlock frowned, looking quite lost. "That could be anybody."
"Well, it could be, yeah." John seemed to know who she was though, causing Rose to look up at him as he got off his chair, Sherlock still looking at the phone. "Lucky for you, I've been more than a little unemployed." John's temping job at the clinic had run it's course, ending two days before they got the case and John had been a little bored.
"How d'you mean?" Sherlock asked, not quite understanding, though Rose had a vague idea of where this was heading.
"Lucky for you, Mrs Hudson and I watch far too much telly." Was the reply from the doctor as he went to pick up the remote on the counter, flicking through the channels until he stopped on a particular one. It showed the woman in the photo - Connie Prince - talking to an audience, going on about silk purses.
Rose's head snapped back to the phone as it rang once again, Sherlock answering it, keeping it quiet enough so it was just the two of them to hear the person, not wanting to disturb anyone else in the café.
"Hello?" Sherlock answered.
A shaky voice spoke, sounding older than the rest. "This one…is a bit…defective. Sorry." Rose pitied the woman having to apologise for her own faults, though she felt a small amount of guilt for the relief that ran through her at not recognising the voice. "She's blind. This is…a funny one. I'll give you…twelve hours."
"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock asked, wanting some form of information, other than what he had been specifically given.
"I like…to watch you…dance." The words sent a chill down Rose's spine, only added to by the gasping noise the woman made. Sherlock ended the call as John came to sit down again, having left the telly on. Sherlock and Rose shared a look that spoke volumes; it wasn't going to be an easy one, and they would only get harder.
Sherlock looked to the television as Rose filled John in quietly on what he needed to know; missing out that it was an old lady and that she was deaf. It would only serve to distract him and make him feel bad. She still didn't like it.
Sherlock listened to the television as his friends talked quietly. "Miss Prince, famous for her makeover programs, was found dead two days ago by her brother in the house they shared in…"
Striding through the morgue, Rose followed Sherlock, John just behind her, as the approached the body laid on the table, sheet covering it up to the shoulders. She noted the three puncture wounds on the woman's arm, dried blood still on the skin. Lestrade was a couple of steps ahead of Sherlock, reading from a blue folder.
"Connie Prince, 54, she had one of those makeover shows on the telly. Did you see it?" He asked, getting a funny look from Rose. Why would Sherlock, of all people, watch a makeover show?
"No." Came the predicted reply.
"Very popular, she was going places." Lestrade told them.
"Not anymore." Sherlock answered in an off handed manner.
"Hence the was." Replied Rose, still looking to the body.
"Time and a place, children." John butted in before they started something bigger.
Rose sighed, mind focusing on the case once again. "So, dead two days."
Sherlock carried on. "According to one of her staff, Raoul de Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden."
"Nasty wound. May I?" Rose asked, going to take a closer look after getting a permission giving nod from Lestrade. She picked up the hand carefully as Sherlock spoke, prying the thumb away from the hand as far as it would go without the tight skin pulling back, frowning as she looked at the cut.
"Tetanus bacteria enters the blood stream; good night, Vienna." Sherlock stated, looking over the body again.
"I s'pose." John chipped in absently, taking the folder off Lestrade and looking over the medical notes taken.
"Something's wrong with this picture." Sherlock told them.
"Eh?" Asked Lestrade, looking a little lost.
"Well, obviously." Rose answered Sherlock, ignoring the inspector. "Otherwise the bomber wouldn't be telling us about it."
"Found anything yet?" He asked, a hint of teasing in his voice.
"As it happens, yes." She answered smugly. He frowned at this though, wondering what she could have found before him. "Come take a look at the wound." He did so, taking out his little magnifier as he did. "Got to get one of them…" She muttered, seeing the little devise.
"Remind me when we get back to the flat…" He muttered, running the little glass over the cut and up the woman's arm, settling on her face for a bit before snapping the case shut again. As he did this, he spoke to John. "John, cut on her hand, it's deep. Would have bled a lot, right?"
"Yeah." Answered John, sounding a little like Sherlock with the tone of obviousness he spoke with.
"But the wound's clean. Very clean, and fresh." Sherlock continued.
"Hasn't been washed because there's still blood on her arm." Rose deduced.
"How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?" Sherlock asked suddenly, looking to Lestrade and John, who still had the folder.
"Oh, eight, ten days." John said, getting a half smile from Sherlock as he then proceeded to try to look like he was waiting patiently. Rose didn't think he was doing a good job though, so she thought aloud.
"Cut was made post-mortem?" She asked, eyebrow raised in question.
John looked at her as Lestrade asked, "After she was dead?"
"Must have been." Sherlock answered, giving Rose a small smile. She took it as a small praise. "The only question is - how did the tetanus enter the dead woman's system?"
Rose hummed in contemplation and Sherlock looked over to her, still not being quite used to having people willing to do work for him. He still took full advantage though. "Rose." She looked up, noting the tone he used; it was one that meant she had a proper job to do, most likely going on her own. She never minded though; she liked to work alone. "Connie Prince's background - family history, everything, give me data!"
"On it, boss!" She said, heading out of the door, but paused on hearing Lestrade, thinking it may be important.
"There's something else we haven't thought of."
"Is there?" Sherlock asked, heading to follow her, but Lestrade called him back.
"Yes. Why is he doing this, the bomber?" Sherlock paused. "If this woman's death was suspicious, why point it up?"
"Good Samaritan." Sherlock explained simply, but there was something else. Rose saw he was trying to avoid the topic it seemed, trying to get Lestrade off his back.
"Who press-gangs suicide bombers?" Lestrade retorted.
Rose got in before Sherlock did, drawing Lestrade's attention for a second. "Bad Samaritan."
Sherlock threw her a smirk as Lestrade stuttered slightly. "I'm… I'm serious here, guys! Listen, I'm cutting you slack here, I'm trusting you but out there somewhere, some poor bastard's covered in Semtex and he's just waiting for you to solve the puzzle, so just tell me…" He said, looking Sherlock in the eye, even though the other man had lowered his gaze slightly, staring off into space once more. "…what are we dealing with?"
Rose waited for Sherlock's answer, but caught his smile - though he tried to repress it, knowing it was not entirely appropriate - not unnerved in the slightest by the now familiar sadistic edge it had acquired, one that perfectly matched his intrigued tone of voice.
"Something new."