Jim

The Creep won't come out today. Says it has to be tomorrow and even that is too early. He mumbled something at me about the police and this being the day of discovery. Sounded more like superstition than any genuine concern, but maybe I'm just a hard old soul, what do you think? Anyway, he was adamant. So there's an evening meeting off the cards. I'm not sure how I feel about that. On the one that, it gives me time to think it properly through, to script it somewhat. On the other hand, I do find myself walking through to the office.

Moran doesn't notice me right away. He's firing balled-up sticky notes at various targets with a rubber band and all the determined grace I'm sure he lends to every kill. It's okay, I can wait. I don't mind what he does with his spare time. Hope he knows he's picking each and every one of those little missiles off the floor, though, that's the only thing.

Anyway, he turns in my chair to take aim at Waterloo Station on the Underground map (the wall art might as well be useful too), spots me and stops. Hides the rubber band down below the desk before he realizes I've probably been here a while.

Before he can bother with jokes or excuses, "Moran, am I doing the right thing?"

He shrugs. "Usually."

"You didn't even ask what it is I'm doing."

"That's why I said 'usually' rather than yes or no." Either because he's seen I'm sympathetic to the endeavour, or because we're getting dangerously close to discussing things where he feels he's out of his depth, the rubber band comes back out. Waterloo goes down. "Pick a station."

"…Upminster." He doesn't fire right away. He stops to eye me. "End of the line after Barking," I explain. "Which may well be where I am."

"Yeah. Long time since." Fuck's sake, this is useless. No straight answer either way means all I'm doing is overthinking it, putting myself off, getting pissed off. I turn away from him and head in the direction of coffee, but then again, I don't have a coffee maker, do I? Or there's no pot in it anyway. Behind me in the office, there's this little hiss of victory, of joy, as in that basket case's head the whole station at Upminster disappears in one incredible blast.

It's not his fault. From Moran, 'Usually' will have to be good enough. In fact, it more than is. There's trust and understanding on that. He trusts my judgement, and doesn't feel the need to submit it to constant questioning under hot lights.

Yeah. Fine. 'Usually' can be enough for me. Especially when it's so accurate. Actually, that's a good idea, that's a better question to ask him; this one has a more solid, concrete answer, requires no explanation. "Put it this way, when was the last time I was doing the wrong thing?"

Mimicking my accent, "Oh, no, angel, you'll hardly need your gun with you on a standard bit of-"

"Yeah, alright but-… Wait, is that what you actually think I sound like?"

"That is what you sound like. I do the official best impression of you."

Later, when there's time for a whole other chat about this, I'll ask who else was in whatever contest made him official. Now, though, "But before that?"

Another shrug, "Not since I've known you, anyway." Nostalgia, business analysis, opinions, none of these is really his strong point. It's not fair to put this on him. He knows that, and resolutely balls up another notelet as if he wants to remind me of his place. "Pick another station."

I pass him first, so I can get a decent look at the map, pick him out a challenge. He'll want one which is in close proximity to another, so the shot has to be accurate and flawless. Sitting on the edge of the desk I tell him, "Baker Street. And may God have mercy on your soul if you so much as graze St John's Wood, Sebastian. That's more than you're worth to me, do you understand?"

It's not a joke; he doesn't laugh and he doesn't question it. Just gets a good look at his target, adjusts his position. He leans out of the chair, standing forward with his elbows on the desk.

"You look like a snooker player."

"Hush, mate."

"You're sticking your tongue out the corner of your mouth. Do you stick your tongue out when you're shooting people?"

"Yes."

"Ever bite your tongue on the recoil?"

"Nearly every time, now will you shut the fuck up, please?"

Well, certainly, if he's going to be like that… But I can still watch. You should really see how seriously he's taking this. He has different sizes of elastic band, presumably for different distances or accuracy, that sort of thing? He selects the right one with caution, and does not proceed until it's in the right position on his thumb and forefinger. The notelet gets rolled under his palm until it's as close to round as paper can get, so there'll be no surprises in its trajectory. Then and only then does he even try to take aim.

There's a large, cackling part of my brain crying out, "Oh, please," when after all this is just a game. But then there's the rest of me, and that's what keeps me from jogging his elbow or saying anything else to put him off. Because I look at this and it's really good to know. Good to know he puts this much effort into things. Danielle's out there somewhere wearing a wetsuit and sneaking into a government facility on the same day as having stitches removed from her side and having written a report for me on a cop we picked yesterday. Seriously. And they are just the tip of the iceberg. There are so many. Maybe they ask for more and need more given to them, but they're still there and one way or another they're all still mine. I held this shite little island to ransom and…

Right thing? Yeah. Fucking usually…

Sherlock

Lestrade and I went house to house just behind the forensics team. Then, just like the hotel, we end up outside smoking, this time leaning on the hood of his car. Bagged evidence is occasionally carried past us to a transit van full of coolers, but for the most part we're free to talk. Not that we have, yet. Neither of us. Something about going from corpse to corpse for a long few hours, maybe. Anyway, I'm damned if I'm going to be the one to strike up conversation.

Eventually, after the first cigarette and the longest wait, Lestrade says, "Any ideas?"

"All the same ones as last time. Not that you were paying all that much attention, I suppose."

He takes that one on the chin, "I promise to listen this time. Until scenes-of-crime clear it down and we start getting results from the lab, other people's ideas are about all I have to go on. It's all getting a bit big to wait, wouldn't you say?"

So I begin to tell him my ideas. "The killer is artistic, but lacks creative impulse; hence he creates the same image, of the peaceful sleeper, over and over again. I wouldn't look for anybody in a creative profession. More likely a labourer of some sort, somebody used to repetitive and strenuous physical work. He's completely devoted to these murders. Anything else he does in his life is only to facilitate them; even covering them up is secondary to being able to continue. They're huge crimes, mass murder at both scenes. Daring, bold. He probably started with something smaller and was never caught. Now he wants to make an impression, bigger the better. He wants to be noticed. But the scale of the attempt is too big. He's burning out. Probably knows it. That's why he's so indiscriminate. The victims are immaterial –

"I can't believe you just said that."

That wasn't Lestrade. I could take that sort of interruption from Lestrade, I could ignore it if it had come from Lestrade, but it didn't. He hasn't opened his mouth. He's looking round, same as I am, at the constable who spoke. She's a fledgling, by the looks of things; not just her unlined face or the naïve nature of what she felt the need to say and the way she said it, but from the fact that she's been given the job of carrying bag after bag of probably useless gatherings to the van.

But my God she means it. Square, set jaw, hard eyes. Really glaring at me. "Excuse me?" I say.

"It's bloody typical. Bloody analysts-"

Me, to Lestrade, "Oh, so that's what you said I am."

But she's not finished yet, and is determined to get there, "-They don't matter to you, do they? You love a good killer, oh yeah, but nobody ever remembers the victim's names. You're all the same. You're ghouls."

"And you're just pissed off about carrying the bags," I tell her. It's perfectly true, but she tenses like she might leap forth and tear out my throat, bags or no bags.

Lestrade reaches across, trying to guide her away. He's saying, "All due respect, Sally, but-" She eyes his outstretched hand in a way that makes him retract it.

Past him, I explain to her, as if she deserves an explanation; "I was talking about the probable suspect. In serial cases like this, there's generally some sort of connection between the victims. Prostitutes, students, fat people, perceived deviants… Doesn't really matter; whatever you are, somebody wants to kill you. Police officers, I hear, are a common fantasy, though rarer in practice. By 'immaterial' I meant that this killer has no such pretentions. It's the kill, and the circumstances of it, that matter to him. In fact, so far he seems determined to be arbitrary. Forgive the contradiction in terms, but-"

She's not listening to me anymore. She looks from me to Lestrade, and past my own voice I watch her lips form the word and question, "Serial?"

Him, stern and final, "Move along, Sally." She goes, but only warily, and looking over her shoulder at me. Lestrade's gaze is just as persistent, though with a good deal more anger in it.

"What? Oh, look, I'm sorry if I put my foot in my mouth, but it's obvious, isn't it? This isn't going to stop after two incidents. He'll be planning his next one already." Lestrade groans like he just doesn't want to hear this. I understand but… No, I don't. I don't . He asked for my ideas and here they are. Anyway, this time I'm only telling him what he already knows.

"Oh. You meant any ideas on how to stop it."

"In an ideal world, Sherlock."

"I told you, he's burning out. The only thing he wants more than recognition is to be able to continue forever. But nobody can have both. Either you get very smart and very lucky with this one or… Or you have to wait for the mistake."

"That's first -year stuff," he spits, really very disappointed in me. "Everybody knows that much."

"What did you expect? I mean, who do you think I am? I don't know whether to be flattered or disgusted. Nobody's going to hand this to you. It's one of those things that's just going to take thought and graft and you could very well get him before any more people die, but without that-"

He cuts in, "Oh, no. No. No, don't you lecture me on having things handed to you. No, not you; what have you ever had to work and scrape for?"

Well, six days clean, but that's none of his business. I wasn't lecturing. I was, actually, about to offer my assistance in analysing any of those results, the ones he's apparently happy to wait on while the killer watches TV news from outside these houses and some other dogsbody like Sally phones the next of kin for a single, Dalmatian-owning mother and her teenage son, three house-sharing young professionals and an elderly lady. And if that sounds self-righteous then fine, because it is word-by-word correct.

Another day, I would have walked from him by now.

[Apologies for the delay, but forty-three hours at home with my family with no internet or digital TV service and patchy electricity, I'm really just happy I made it through.]