Author's note: Good morning!

I won't rant for long, just a quick note. Seeing as the site doesn't let me reply to guest reviews, I just want to thank TJ, to whom I wasn't able to reply in a private message, and who left a truly wonderful review on the last chapter - thank you so much :) Of course, the thanks also goes to everyone else who has stuck with this story up till this point :)

So, without further ado - enjoy!


Chapter 7: Running scared, you are tripping over your own brain


The connections are right there, floating just out of his reach. The clue must be somewhere, must be hidden, just like the message was.

The elements, the order in which they were left-

John, in the tramway tunnel, tied to a chair–

The victims – something about them: gender, age, occupation –

John, at the pool, speaking Moriarty's words –

The choice of crime scenes, the clock layout –

John, with a bomb strapped to his chest and a laser point illuminating his face from below –

The clothes, the chains –

John, kneeling in Irene Adler's drawing room, with a gun pressed to the back of his head... 'On the count of three, shoot Dr. Watson –'

Sherlock closes his eyes, pulling wildly at his hair. It's as if he keeps on running through wrong doors, constantly losing his way, and stumbling upon unsettling memories which crash into his attempts at logic, shattering them, and sending him back to the beginning.

He opens his eyes and moves from the kitchen and into the living room, where the crime scene photos are scattered over every inch of spare surface.

The images that start forming when he casts a look at the photos, are no longer ones from the past, and do nothing to lessen the fear. Instead, Sherlock can feel his mind grow even more frenzied, as flashes of a possible future – one he cannot exclude as a possibility (and that fact is frightening) – repeatedly interrupt his train of thought.

John, stretched out on cold, wet concrete –

The clocks, number 12 –

John, wrists and ankles bound by watch-chains, used as hands of a clock –

NO! This has to stop. The adrenalin elicited from the high of the case is being polluted by that drawn out by fear, and the concoction is highly destructive. Sherlock doesn't like how it makes him feel like new skin – raw, exposed, debilitated.

Think. What is relevant?

The complexes – abandoned; no surveillance. The company – bankrupt and shut down. The first victim was found in Northern London. What is relevant? Clocks and chemistry. Clocks – what about clocks?

As Sherlock visualises the map of London in his mind, it blurs and shakes with the suppressed fear, but he focuses on it, and forces the fear further down. He places the crime scenes on the map – they form a circle, more or less. Not only that – they form it precisely as he places them, from first to last, going clockwise. Of course – the storage unit facilities of the company that went bankrupt are placed all over London, and he only had to follow the ticking of the clock to find which would be the next.

Well, that's one part of the problem solved...There is still something else to it, and Sherlock can feel it, like an itch just out of reach, maddening. Using his newest discovery, he starts over, from the beginning, from the top of the clock – the first victim.

Female, 20, found in a storage unit with the number erased – anomaly; all other units had numbers, presumably randomly chosen.

What other anomalies where there? Third victim was bald, while all others had hair; seventh victim was single and a former foster child – no connections, while all other were either married or in a relationship; the ninth had a cat while others didn't have pets. No, no, no! How can any of that be relevant? How is he supposed to find John when all he is given are irrelevant anomalies, traces of chemical elements and randomly chosen crime scenes? This is not how things work, he needs more data. He needs more to be able to make a pattern out of all this random –

Oh. No, not random...Unit numbers and traces of elements. Not random at all. Chemistry.

He scrambles towards the crime scene photos strewn around the floor. He searches for the ones showing the storage units from the outside, with the numbers visible just beside the doors.

The first victim was found in an unmarked storage unit – the start.

Second victim – storage unit number 26.

Third – unit number 8.

Fourth – 13.

Fifth – 28.

Sixth – 7.

Seventh – 68.

Eighth – 16. Wait. The eight victim, the most obvious anomaly. How did he not think of it sooner. ('Fear, that's how' whispers a voice in Sherlock's head). The eighth victim didn't have an element – a break in the pattern. Why? To throw him off the trail? Or to indicate a new lead? The real pattern? They only found the card with the arrow..the arrow – it wasn't the usual arrow used in chemical equations; it was a double arrow, with two lines and (what is stranger still) a double drawn head – another anomaly, he was puzzled by it at the time. Why? How does it fit in the rest? How does it fit with the numbers? Numbers. Victim nine was found in a storage unit with number twelve on it... How does the arrow relate to twelve?

Everything else fits the pattern – the last three victims were found in storage units number 8, 37 and 11, respectively. It's rather simple actually, and Sherlock would kick himself for not noticing it, but he has more pressing matters to tend to.

It is clear as day – the elements found on the victims are not only letters of the message, but also a lead to the next victim. It's all in the numbers. Unit numbers. Atomic numbers. That's why the first victim was found in an unmarked unit – that was the start, with no lead preceding it. They found iron above her hands; atomic number 26. They found the second victim in the 26th unit of the next nearest abandoned complex, if one is to move clockwise on the map from the first crime scene. It goes on – each new element found corresponding to the number of the storage unit the next victim is found in. It all fits, except for the arrow, except for victim number eight, who was found with no element and only a card.

Connection to twelve. There must be a connection. There is nothing random about this, it is all in a pattern. There must be a link between the card and twelve. Think! What else is relevant? Clock and chemistry, and what else?

Sherlock glances over everything again. All this, all the clues and the elements and the deaths, all just to send him a message. The message. Greek and Latin. Ancient languages, ancient civilisations –Greek and Roman. Roman! Yes, that's it – Roman numerals. The arrow, drawn double despite the convention in chemistry. Of course. Obvious.

Don't worry if it's not as obvious to you as it is to Sherlock. I wouldn't have the slightest idea what he was on about, but luckily for me (and consequently, for you), in that moment Sherlock does something that he usually wouldn't, if he were allowed to function in full capacity. Alas, Sherlock is afraid and, consequently, torn between his deductions and suppressing the fear, so he acts out of character, so to say. As I said, this proves to be a lucky circumstance for me, as it allows me to actually see and understand what the obvious revelation is.

He grabs the card, which lays half-obscured by the close-up of the eighth victim, and places it next to a pad. Grabbing a pen, he copies it. Two horizontal lines, parallel one over another, and a double arrow head on one side. Then he throws the card away, its purpose fulfilled, and continues writing. He deconstructs the arrow, so that it is now two parallel lines, positioned vertically one next to the other, and flips one of the arrow heads, so that it forms the mirror image of the other: II X .

His hand rushes over the paper some more, switching lines here and there, etching new marks into the cheap leaf. He merges the two arrow heads into a single X, and puts it in front of the two lines. In a matter of seconds, he is done, looking drained and frantic instead of the usual triumphant. On the pad, there is a simple symbol – XII – Roman number twelve.

There it is – connection. The killer did leave a clue about where the ninth victim would be, after all.

It is only after he has done all this that Sherlock realises he actually used pen and paper. He hasn't done that in years, hasn't had the need to – his mind was always a wide enough canvas for all such simple visual tasks. He would blame it on the fear, but in that moment he has no time to cast blame – all the pieces fit now which means that he needs to call Lestrade (not text, he might not see the text in time) and tell him what he knows.

As Sherlock dials on speed-dial, his hands shake, like they did once before, in front of another fire place, with a glass clenched in one of them, then. When Lestrade picks up after the second ring, Sherlock forgoes his usual rapid monologue, because none of it matters now. There is only one thing that is important, and that is the end product. It is completely irrelevant that he knows the pattern and the links between Roman numbers and Latin, and atomic number and unit numbers. What matters is what he can deduce from it all. Sherlock Holmes knows a lot of things, but there is only one that he considers of any importance, right then, and that's the only thing he tells Lestrade.

He knows where John is.

After he tells Lestrade the address and says to meet him there, Lestrade offers to pick him up (Why is he still talking on the phone, wasting time, and not driving over to the storage unit facility already?)

"No! No, don't waste time picking me up. Go straight to the address I told you, I'll meet you there."

He ends the call. The air smells of chemicals, and the clock in the kitchen is very, very loud, for some reason. Sherlock stands for a moment, before rushing out and hailing down a cab. From there on, everything is bound to happen in terms of fast movement and loud voices and general commotion. Sherlock prefers it like that, because all of it is better than that still moment in which he finds himself stranded after hanging up on Lestrade.

With the chemicals and the clock, that moment smells and sounds like fear.


*dramatic music in the background* Surprise, surprise, it's a cliff-hanger...well, guess you'll have to hang on (see what I did there?) until Monday :)