Thanks for the reviews! I was surprised at how quickly people responded, and how many of the story followers are still eager to keep up with it. You guys are great. Interesting new critters in this chapter for you.

Big Game

The Most Dangerous Game part 2

"Go on, then."

John frowned. "What?"

"You know what to do. Off you get."

He realized that Sherlock wanted him to analyze the dog collar. He also realized that it was a distraction from how mean Sherlock had just been to Molly. "No."

"I didn't just save her emotional pain, you know. A leopard with a caracal? He's easily three times her size."

"I'm not going to stand here while you humiliate me," John declared.

"An outside eye, a second opinion, is very useful to me. Really."

John returned his stare for a moment, but the cheetah's earnest, unblinking eyes seemed to melt his stony resolve. "Fine." He cleared his throat and sniffed at the collar. "Well, it's just a collar. A neck accessory."

"Good," Sherlock said in a noncommittal way.

"Um... it's in good nick. I'd say it's pretty new... except there's a bit of wear on the inside, so the owner must have had it for a while. Tags are missing, if there were any. Several years out of style, so probably a retro design."

"You're in sparkling form. What else?"

"Well, it's quite big, so an adult's..."

"But," Sherlock prompted.

"But... something was written on it in ink long ago, and if an adult wants an accessory personalized, he has it professionally done. So, this belonged to a juvenile."

"Excellent. What else?"

"Uh... that's it," Watson resigned himself.

"That's it?"

John nodded. "How did I do?"

"Well, John... really well. I mean, you missed almost everything of importance..."

John sat back on his haunches with a little huff of frustration.

"The owner loved this," Sherlock said, indicating the collar. "Scrubbed it clean, polished the fasteners. Replaced the license tag three... or four times. But in spite of his care, he's still managed to scratch it repeatedly with his hind claws in an attempt to relieve an itchy neck—so he suffered from mange. The inside of the collar is worn, scarcely more so on the bottom than the top, indicating smooth hair and a neck tapering very gradually. African origin, over a generation old."

"What?" John was shocked at the age of the collar.

"Not retro—original. I'll send out for a catalog if you need further proof."

"No... I believe you... but it looks so new."

"Someone's kept it that way. There's a splash of marsh scum near the ring; analysis tells me that it came from the marshland to the south and the dust overlaying it came from much nearer here, close to the permanent water hole to the north."

"How do you know that?"

"Each marsh has its own scum signature, like the print of an ape's thumb. A 'scum-print' if you will." Sherlock smiled smugly. "So, the youngster came up from the marshland years ago and left it behind."

"What happened to him?"

"Something bad. He loved that collar. He'd never leave it filthy. He wouldn't let go of it unless he had to. So, a juvenile with a thick neck gets... Oh," Sherlock whispered.

"What?"

"Carl Powers." The same hushed voice.

"Sorry, who?"

"Carl... Powers, John."

"What is it?"

"It's where I began."

On the way back to Bushbuck Row, Sherlock explained the incident to John. "I was just a kit myself when Carl Powers, African Boerboel and champion swimmer made his way up here to the water hole for a competition with his swim team. The story was he had some sort of fit in the water and by the time they got him out, it was too late."

"You said he had mange—they let him in the water?"

"Demodectic mange is not contagious. Pups generally grow out of it as their immune system strengthens."

"And you thought there was something fishy about his death?"

"Yes. I was the only one. They never found his collar. The swim team issues a special charm to each swimmer on their first win. They all wore them on collars; it was the thing. He would never leave it behind. They found his other belongings, but no collar. I made a fuss about it, tried to get the pride interested, but no one pays much mind to a cheetah cub... unless they want to eat him."

John watched Sherlock muddling through papers back at the cave. "I want to help," he said after a while. "There's only five hours left." But before he could continue this line of thought, he had to receive a telegram. "It's your brother... he's sending me messages now. He says this is of national importance..."

"Sure, I'll put my best cat on it," Sherlock muttered, as usual not looking up from his work.

"Right. Good... Who's that?"

He really didn't know how he got himself into these things, but somehow John found himself back in that deep, dark thicket with Mycroft Holmes.

"Sherlock sent me to get more information about the stolen plans," he said. "He's... investigating away. I just wondered what else you could tell us about the dead creature...?"

"Jackal. In his prime. Park and Foxhole cross. Worked for the Service pride. He was involved in the Bruce Partington project in a minor capacity. Security checks, AOK, no known terrorist affiliations or sympathies. Last seen by his mate about ten-thirty yesterday evening south of the marsh."

"He was found north of the Yard," John reviewed. "So, he got on the train..."

"No. He had a Scallop tag." Mycroft referred to the metal tags issued to persons of privilege or important occupations for free rail travel; each time the tag was shown, its number was recorded in the train's log.

"He must have bought a ticket."

"If so, we found no trace of it."

"Then..."

"How did he end up with a bashed-in brain on the tracks near the Permanent Water Hole? That's what I was hoping Sherlock could explain. How's he getting on?"

"Fine," John said, a bit too quickly. He decided that honesty was not quite the best policy in this situation. "He's... completely focused on it."

Sherlock had sent out for a microscope (adding a great treasure to his toy collection and effectively diminishing his funds in one fell swoop) and the investment proved fruitful. He found something on the cellular level which he could never otherwise have discovered. Then it was books, books, and more books, trying to discover the nature of the unknown substance.

Shortly after John returned to the cave, he completed his analysis. "Poison!"

Mrs. Hudson, who had just brought in an old rabbit she had managed to secure for nibbling until more sustaining food was acquired, looked up at him. "What you going on about?"

Sherlock sprang up so suddenly that she started in alarm and scurried back to her corner, leaving the rabbit behind. "Clostridium botulinum! It's the deadliest of all known poisons, natural or engineered." When Watson stared uncomprehending at him, he prompted, "Carl Powers."

"Oh, wait... you're saying he was murdered?"

"Remember the scratches on the collar? The pup suffered from mange; it would be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his salve. Two hours later, he comes north for his swim meet, the poison takes effect, paralyzes the muscles, and he drowns."

"How come the autopsy didn't pick it up?"

"Virtually undetectable. They wouldn't have been looking for it." Sherlock went to the discarded radio and punched his own Morse message in static by holding and releasing the talk button. "There are still tiny traces of it along with the mange salve in the inside of the collar, as well as in the scratches on the outside, from when he'd put the salve on his neck. That's why it had to go."

"And you just let the criminal know?"

"That's right."

The two spotted cats sat by the radio with bated breath, waiting for some response from their adversary.

John shook his head. "The killer kept the collar all this time."

"Yes. Meaning?"

"He's our criminal.'

Sherlock didn't have time to reflect on all the ramifications of this conclusion before the sobbing voice came over the radio again.

"Well done, you! Come and get me."

"Where are you?" Sherlock asked. "Tell us where you are."

It turned out to have been a female jackal who had been rigged up for explosion. Sherlock did not spare her much thought, thinking more about who Carl Powers' killer might be, and what would be his next challenge—he was sure there would be another.

"She lived in Milletwall," Lestrade said, back at the Yard. "Two robed creatures of uncertain species forced their way into her den, took her out on the plain and rigged her to enough explosives to dig a new water hole in one go. She had to read out the messages as someone typed them on an electric typewriter. It had been dismantled and rewired so that the actual printer was right in front of her, while the keyboard was a safe distance off. We've got the machine, as well as the radio she used." He showed the items to Sherlock and John.

"Electric? Fancy," said John. "That's nicer than mine."

"When we don't need it for evidence anymore, you'll have a chance to bid on it at auction."

John looked crestfallen. "Can't. Even if we had full electric in the cave, Sherlock's used all our credit on this case."

"If she deviated by even one word, she'd be detonated," Sherlock concluded, not concerning himself with the discussion of typewriters.

"Or if you hadn't solved the case."

"Oh," Sherlock murmured to himself. "Elegant."

"Elegant?"

"What was the point?" asked Lestrade. "Why would anyone do this?"

"Well," said Sherlock, "I can't be the only creature on the plains that gets bored."

The radio which Sherlock again had hung from his neck produced static once more, and then there were three short beeps and a longer one.

"Four this time," John said, declaring the obvious.

"First challenge complete; second imminent," Sherlock interpreted.

As if on cue, an egret landed on the ground in front of him. "Delivery for Mr. Holmes."

"Who from?"

"Another egret passed it off to me; didn't get a name." She spoke in a muffled voice, her beak lightly clamped on her delivery.

"Oh, fine work," Lestrade muttered. "You work for the Yard—you've got to be more thorough than that!"

The egret shrugged and released the black and white square to Sherlock before flying away.

Sherlock saw that it was a photograph of the ground, and closer inspection showed a faint set of paw marks in the soft earth, spotted with something dark. He showed the photo to Lestrade. "These tracks end rather abruptly, wouldn't you say?"

As Lestrade made his own examination, Donovan padded up to the little group. "Freak, someone's on my radio, asking for you."

Sherlock took the radio and stepped a little apart from the others. "Hello?"

"It's okay that you've gone to the police," a young, male voice said.

"Who is this? Is this you again?"

"...But don't rely on them. Clever you... guessing about Carl Powers. I never liked him. Carl laughed at me... so I stopped him laughing."

"You've stolen another voice, I presume." Sherlock sensed John sneaking closer to listen.

"This is about you and me," the voice said shakily.

"Who are you?" Sherlock waited. Some more static came over the radio, along with something else like a dull rumble. "What's that noise?"

"The sounds... of life, Sherlock," the voice said after a sniffle. "But don't worry... I can soon fix that. You solved my puzzle in nine hours... this time, you have eight."

The static ceased; there was no more from the new victim.

Lestrade, who had been communicating on his own radio, put it down and declared, "Great. We've found it."

What the Yard had found was the bloodied tracks of an aardwolf named Ian Monkford. John listened as Lestrade related to Sherlock what the cadets had found out.

"He was in training at the new bank. Tended to stick to more populated areas. Told his wife he was going on a business trip, but he never arrived She alerted the Yard this morning. Cadets found the tracks far afield by the stream that feeds the river."

"Still got your coalition, eh?" Sally Donovan asked John softly, so the others wouldn't hear.

"Yeah, well..." John muttered, trying to brush her off.

"Opposites attract, I suppose."

"No, we're not..." John felt a little warm. He couldn't stop thoughts of happily snuggling up to Sherlock at night from flooding his mind. We're not like that... it's not like we... frolic.

"You should get yourself a hobby. Paw prints, maybe. Electronics. It's safer."

"Bird claw marks all around..." Sherlock sniffed the tracks. "Vultures, I'd say."

"Before you ask, we had a blood sample checked against his medical history. Positively Monkford's blood."

"No body," Sherlock observed.

"Not yet," said Donovan. "Found a tuft of fur, though. If you ask me, we won't find him. He's in the stomachs of vultures, now."

He observed the sniveling female aardwolf nearby and went to question her. John followed.

"Mrs. Monkford?"

"Yes?" the aardwolf asked, looking distraught. "Sorry, but I've already spoken to two police—"

"Oh, we're not from the police," said John, actually flattered that she thought he might be on staff with the big, tough lions. "We're..."

"Sherlock Holmes," the cheetah offered, dipping his head to the side, and moving in slightly as if to exchange customary sniffing.

She returned the gesture, sniffing tentatively while Sherlock shocked John by actually nuzzling her.

"Very old friend of your husband's," Sherlock went on. "We, um... we grew up together."

John's surprise only grew. Sherlock was looking downright moved.

"I'm sorry, who?" she asked. "I don't think he ever mentioned you."

"He must have done... This—this is horrible, isn't it?" Sherlock's voice was tremulous. "I mean I just can't believe it—I only saw him the other day. Same old Ian, not a care in the world." He put on what is best described as a sad smile.

"Sorry," Mrs. Monkford said, not really looking sorry, "but my husband has been depressed for months. Who are you?"

"So strange that he came all the way out here. It's a bit suspicious, don't you think?" His eyes shone with sorrow.

"No, it isn't. Our water hole's gone bitter and not fit for drinking; he had to go fetch some water before leaving on his trip."

"Oh, well, typical of him to miss the signs and end up by a bad water hole... that was Ian all over."

"No, it wasn't!" She sounded downright angry now.

"Wasn't it?' Sherlock asked, sounding much more like his usual self. "Interesting." He sauntered off.

As the Aardwolf went to the nearest cadet to complain, John hurried along after Sherlock and asked, "Why did you lie to her?"

"No one likes to tell things to strangers... but they love to contradict you. Did you notice the past tense?"

"Sorry, what?"

"I referred to her husband in the past tense; she joined in. Very premature to give up hope; they've only just found the tracks."

"You think she murdered her mate?"

"Definitely not; not the sort of mistake a murderer would make."

"I see... no, I don't," John admitted on second thought. "What am I seeing?"

"Fishing!" Donovan called after him. "Try fishing!"

"Where now?" John asked, trying to ignore her.

"We Water Treatment."

"Eh?"

"Ordinarily, when a watering hole is contaminated, the creatures nearby move on to another water source. But the aardwolves had no intention of moving, so they must have been dealing with the local water treatment specialists in hopes that the hole would become safe again."

John would have commended Sherlock's cleverness at reaching this conclusion, but he saved his breath for the journey.

At We Water Treatment, a striped hyena named Ewert received them into his shack of an office. Though much larger, Ewert's shape and coat bore considerable resemblance to those of the aardwolf. "Can't see how I can help you," he said.

"You were working on Ian Monkford's watering hole, I believe," Sherlock prompted.

"Oh, yeah, well... pretty little location. Can't let it go to waste."

"I suppose you could live by any pretty little water hole you liked, couldn't you? I mean, you must know them all, in your line of work."

"Guess I could, but you know how it is—get too attached to your business and before you know it, you belong to it and not the other way 'round." The hyena paused to scratch at the back of his neck.

"But you didn't know Monkford?"

"He was just a client. He and some others round the hole pitched in to pay for the treatment. Didn't know what happened to him after that, poor creature."

"Nice holiday, Mr. Ewert?"

John was as lost as Ewert, but he had learned by now to keep quiet when in doubt.

"Eh?"

"You've been away, haven't you?"

"Oh, the sunburn?" Ewert asked, indicating a little peeling skin on a pink patch at the end of his muzzle. "No, it's just I'm indoors most of the time running the business, but for this one I actually went out to do most of the sample-taking myself, and I didn't think to protect my skin this time. Wife would love it, though—bit of shade."

"Could I trouble you for a small loan? I saw a fish patty stand outside, and I've left my credit token at home. Poor Watson's little tummy can't hold much at a time, so he gets peckish at all hours—poor little fellow's starving."

John actually wasn't very hungry, having eaten well that morning in spite of everything going on. But again, he held his tongue.

"They wouldn't take a token anyway," Ewert said, rummaging in a box and withdrawing a shallow leather bag. "All they take is the new currency." He nosed the bag open and nudged the contents around. "Sorry, all I've got's the company tag. Can't use that."

"Ah, well. I'll just have to scare up some game, I suppose. Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Ewert. You've been very helpful. Come on, John."

John scampered out of the hut after Sherlock. "I've got my honorarium card from the clinic, and the bank's nearby," he said. "If you want money for something..."

"I only wanted to see where he kept his money, John. I've got my credit token in my pouch, as usual."

It was true that Sherlock had taken to carrying his more valuable small items in his little pouch, and that now article hung next to the bomber's radio around his neck.

"Why..?"

"Mr. Ewert's a liar."

This episode was brought to you by the aardwolf, the African Boerboel, and the striped hyena. Hope you're enjoying the story as much as I am. ^^