((Huge HUGE apologies for not updating in two months! I feel terrible. I have my reasons. I wont go into all of that, but one of them was that was blocked on my internet for some reason for a few weeks. Luckily that's all sorted now and I am back!

Thanks for sticking with me. Hope you like the next few chapters. Got a real treat in store for you all very soon. In about one chapter's time, actually.))

The murder scene was quite something. Four days had passed slowly by since her meeting with River (it still puzzled her to no end, but then again, she had expected nothing less from River)and now Amy Pond stood before a man who'd had his brains blown out. There she had been thinking she couldn't be shocked when she had seen so much already in the universe, but the scene made her stomach turn.

Always she had liked art galleries. However, she didn't like this one. It had a bad vibe, no thanks to the crime scene before her. A dead man was slumped against a white-washed and pasty wall, slathered in liquid crimson underneath Turner's 'Hero and Leander'. It was a magnificent, eerie painting, with dark colours and fierce brushstrokes that made up the crashing waves of the sea. The blood underneath it, along with the body, made it even more dark and eerie, and yet strangely beautiful. It was a painting that Amy had always admired and wanted to see, except now she wasn't so sure that she liked it all that much.

The gallery had been closed off and police swarmed like flies trying to gather evidence. Lestrade had called Sherlock in - mainly because he had been demanding that the DI give him a case.

Amy helped Sherlock examine the body, although she couldn't do it as good or as quick as he could. Lestrade loomed over them. "We managed to find an ID for him. His name is Eric Marshall. Thirty-nine years old. He's local; he lives in Southwark - works for the gallery. He'd just finished work for the day."

"He's Welsh," stated Sherlock suddenly.

Neither Amy nor Lestrade knew how he got that, they simply nodded. He was right, though, the man was Welsh. It had been stated on his ID.

Sherlock examined everything he could. In silence. Every movement he made was nimble, delicate yet hasty, eager to unravel more. He examined the position of the body and the size of the bullet hole to the man's head to determine the distance he was shot from. He could also tell which kind of gun had been used by the size of the wound and he demanded that Lestrade write it down. "There is a fair amount of powder blackening around the entry wound, so obviously the pistol was fired from a close distance. I'd say three four feet. That suggests the killing was intentional. It also suggests that he knew who the killer was." Then he examined the inside of the man's suit, the outside, his hands, the wall behind him, the floor... He rose when he had completed his work. It took only a matter of minutes. He placed his hands inside his coat pockets. "Find anything in his pockets other than his ID?"

"Some money and a receipt for food along with his mobile and a letter. Why?" Lestrade frowned.

"It's possible that he could have been killed for something he maintained in his possession."

Lestrade had gone off to find the man's belongings. When he came back they were tucked into a clear bag. Sherlock - without bothering to put on gloves - opened the bag and pulled out the mobile. He rapidly scanned through it, checking messages and seeing who the man had received calls from and made calls to. There was nothing of suspicion. Then he pulled out the envelope. Inside it were two keys and a note. He handed them to Amy to look at with a slight grin on his lips. On the paper was them of the gallery, followed by the words:

Floor three, Room 16, Cabinet 1

"Directions?" muttered Amy, glancing at both men.

"That's exactly what they are," said Sherlock.

"Do you think it's important?"

"Yes." Sherlock nodded as he spoke. His instincts were kicking in.

"You're so sure that this is all about something he owns?" interrupted Lestrade.

"I know it is."

Normally, Lestrade would ask him how he knew that but again he simply nodded.

"But that's not the interesting thing about this case," continued Sherlock. "I'll show you what is." He bent down and lifted up the dead man's left hand. Amy suddenly noticed Lestrade's face darken. "What is that?" she quizzed. On his hand was a symbol scratched into the skin and crusted with blood, some of it still oozing through the gashes. A circle with a line through it and another line above to make a 'T'. Amy came over uncomfortable, like something sinister had been released into the room, as she noticed both men's expressions.

And then Lestrade's expression switched to one of utter disbelief, and Sherlock's brightened in his usual twisted, excited way. "It can't be..."

Sherlock rose again. "It's the symbol of the Triggs."

"They were a well known gang of criminals from East London. They had been around for more than three decades. They targeted anywhere and anyone and they didn't care. They mainly specialized in robberies, but were known to kidnap, murder, even rape... anything for money," explained the DI. "They would always leave their mark in the form of that symbol on their victims or in locations where they committed a crime. It was their way of warning people and boasting that they were around and meant business."

"I've heard of them," spoke Amy. It was when she was in Leadworth. Their story had been on the news once. "Weren't they sent to prison? The brothers and the other six members?"

"Yes. Except three of them killed themselves four years ago and the other five are serving life sentences. It took nearly thirty years for the bastards to be caught."

"So it can't be them..."

"No..." said Sherlock. "But they had followers. Criminal gangs like the Triggs always do. There are always people out there who want to continue their legacy, who were inspired by their cri-" He stopped mid-sentence, a moan of realization hitting him like a train. "Oh-"

"What is it?" Amy's head tilted to the side a little.

"The robberies!" exclaimed the detective. "The robberies from two months ago. They have to be connected." Sherlock thought some more, then grabbed the note from Amy's grasp. "This has something to do with all of this." He sounded very certain. "I doubt it will lead us to the killer, however it will lead us to whatever the killer wants."

"It does have a suspicious vibe to it," admitted Amy. The way it was written, the tone she had read it in. It sounded like a code. Like something that should be kept secret.

Sure enough, when they entered room 16 on floor 3 and looked in cabinet 1 a while later, they came across a discovery they had been waiting for. Money. Five cases full of crisp notes.

"That's the money stolen from the banks?" questioned Lestrade in disbelief.

"Has to be," said Sherlock. "The stolen money has been missing ever since. Unless it's all just a coincidence and he happens to own this much money, but the universe is never that lazy. Count it all if you must," he continued, shoving the cases into the hands of crime scene investigators, "but I bet you it is the missing two-million."

Amy noticed the way Sherlock was grinning and frowned, crossing her arms.

"What?" he asked, his nose crinkling when his brows furrowed.

"Stop grinning."

"Why? It's getting fun."

"A man has been murdered and you think it's fun?"

"Yes. Don't pretend that you don't think it is."

She tried hard no to smile in agreement but his smirk got the better of her. She sighed in defeat, then laughed. "You are such a bad influence, Sherlock."