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(Why am I using so many exclamation marks?)!

Voila:

'And you're sure it's the house boy?' Lestrade asks Sherlock, leaning over him to reach the laptop. Opening 'The Science of Deduction', Sherlock types six words: Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox.

'Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections.' Sherlock turns to face John and Lestrade. 'My contact at the Home Office gave me the complete records of Raoul's internet purchases.' He points to the folder lying on the desk. 'He's been bulk ordering Botox for months. Bided his time, then upped the strength to a fatal dose.' Sherlock updates the post on his blog and almost instantly, the pink phone rings.

This is your only chance, Aud.

'Wait.' I grab the phone before Sherlock gets to it. 'Don't answer it.' All three men look at me as though I'd gone mad.

'Audrey... What are you –' John starts in astonishment.

'Trust me.' I keep my eyes fixedly on Sherlock. 'If you answer the phone, the woman and building will blow up.' I grip the phone tightly. 'You need to go to Lakanal flats in Camberwell. She's on the fourth floor; flat number 384.'

'Audrey, are you sure -?' John begins again. 'I don't know about this…'

'What is going on?' Lestrade exclaims in frustration.

'Please, Sherlock.' I cry frantically. 'Trust me.'

Sherlock jumps up from his seat. 'Do as she says.' He commands Lestrade.

'Wha –'

'Now.' He barks, cutting across Lestrade, who races from the office.

'Donovan we need back-up, maximum back-up.' He shouts at Sally. 'Lakanal flats, Camberwell, now!'

"…Scotland Yard were called at 5pm yesterday to reports of a bomb scare in Lakanal Flats, South London.

A number of flats had to be evacuated when a viable bomb was discovered in apartment 384. Further investigation has– "

Sherlock lazily flicks the remote at the telly, muting the BBC news reporter. 'Quite the stunt you pulled there, Audrey.' Sherlock glances at me and smiles tightly. I sigh loudly from my seat in the kitchen and push it out from underneath the table, the legs of the chair screeching against the floorboards.

'Right,' I huff. 'For the fiftieth time, I had no other choice. Moriarty was going to blow her brains out if you answered that phone.' I move to stand in front of Sherlock, crossing my arms. 'Once you answered that call, she would start describing him; his voice.' I stare intently at the stubborn man sitting across from me, trying to make him see the logic behind my act. 'Just once, Moriarty would have put himself in the firing line.'

'Yes, that's all very well; saving lives.' Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. 'But you've outsmarted Moriarty. And for that there will be dire consequences, I'm sure of it.' His looks troubled, eyebrows knitted together.

'Jesus.' John shuffles in the doorway, laden down with bags and shivering from the cold.

Well, one bag. But laden sounds so much more dramatic so…yeah. Let's stick with that.

'It's bloody freezing out.' He places the small (don't look at me like that) Vodafone bag on the countertop.

I sidle over. 'Ooh what's this then?' Peering into the bag I spy a snazzy looking iPhone 5.

'Yours.' John says, smiling at me.

I gape open-mouthed like a codfish. 'Shut the front door.' John frowns slightly at my reaction, but continues to grin at me. 'I was due for an upgrade.' He explains. 'And, anyway, I'm not great with technology and you're in need of a phone so…' He trails off.

'Aw Homie J...' I stare at the doctors kind, if slightly flushed, face. 'You're too good to me.' Stepping forward, I wrap my arms around his middle and pull him into a bear hug. 'Ooof.' John grunts, my grip winding him slightly. He takes my hands and gently pries them from his back. 'I've put my number, Sherlock's and Lestrade's in already.'

I settle down on the sofa opposite Sherlock, switching on my new phone. 'Hey, S Bomb.' I call across the room. Sherlock throws me a withering look. I take it he's listening. 'Do you have an iTunes account?' He stares at me blankly. 'So that's a no, then…' He continues scrolling through his phone. 'Do you listen to music?' I ask, ignoring the fact that he's ignoring me. 'I play the violin.' He states without looking up. 'So yes, obviously I do.' I shake my head. 'No, I mean proper music. Not songs that sound like they were composed in the Shire.'

If looks could kill, I'd be harpooned against the wall.

'Let's see… You're thirty-five now, which means you were born mid 70s.' He raises an eyebrow, sighing. 'Impressive skills of deduction you've got there.' I ignore him. Sassy bastard. 'So, you grew up listening to 80s music, I imagine.' He says nothing, which means I must be right.

Audrey, you are on fiyah.

'Do you know who the Police are?'

Sherlock sighs exasperatedly and sets his phone down. 'The Police were an English rock band formed in 1977. The band consisted of Sting, Andy Summers and Stewart Copeland.'

I snigger. 'That sounds like something straight from Wikipedia.' I narrow my eyes. 'Sherlock Holmes, did you just Google the Police?'

'Don't be stupid.' He huffs. 'Contrary to popular belief, I did actually have a childhood.' Throwing me a final dirty look he grabs his phone and begins scrolling again.

We sit in silence for a while until a sudden thought strikes me.

'Sherlock,' I begin. 'When Sting dies… Do we call him Stung?'

'Shut up, Audrey.'

'D'you reckon this is connected, then? The bomber?' Lestrade asks as Sherlock snaps on a pair of latex gloves.

Sherlock bends down to examine the poor sod sprawled out on the river bank. 'Must be. Odd, though.' He holds up the pink phone. '...He hasn't been in touch yet.' He looks at the ripped pocket on the shirt before working his way downwards until he reaches the man's feet. He pulls off one of the socks and examines the sole of the foot with the magnifier.

'That is gross.' I squeak from behind John.

'Audrey?' Lestrade looks up, noticing me. 'I didn't know you were here.' He smiles warmly.

Ah Greg, your powers of observation continue to astound me.

'Hi Greg.' I wave before clamping both hands over my nose, the stench of rotting flesh turning my stomach.

'Stop being such a girl, Audrey.' Sherlock chastises me.

'Oh I'm sorry.' I snap. 'But unlike you, I don't get off on the aroma of dead man feet.'

Lestrade barks out a laugh and proceeds to unsuccessfully mask it as a cough.

Standing up and closing the magnifier, Sherlock looks across to John and jerks his head down towards the body in a mute order to examine it. John squats down beside the body and reaches out to take hold of the man's wrist as Sherlock walks a few paces away to check his phone.

'Now that you're here, Audrey.' Lestrade touches my arm lightly. 'I just want to thank you for yesterday.' His brown eyes look into mine. Swoon. 'You helped save that woman's life.'

'Oh, it was nothing.' I toss my hair in a la-di-da sort of way.

'How did you know, though?' Lestrade frowns. 'Where the woman lived, I mean.'

'Er…' I glance at Sherlock, too preoccupied with his phone to notice my panicked state.

Merde.

'…He's dead about twenty-four hours – maybe a bit longer.' John interrupts, looking up at Lestrade. 'Did he drown?'

I let out the breath I was holding. Thank you baby Jesus, for John.

'Apparently not.' Lestrade replies. 'Not enough of the Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated.' John nods. 'Yes, I'd agree.' He bends down to inspect the corpse again. 'In his late thirties, I'd say. Not in the best condition.;

'He's been in the river a long while.' Sherlock re-joins us. 'The water's destroyed most of the data.' Sherlock quirks a grin. 'But I'll tell you one thing: that lost Vermeer painting's a fake.'

Lestrade and John share a 'the-fuck-is-he-on-about?' kind of look.

'We need to identify the corpse. Find out about his friends and associates ...' Sherlock ignores his flabbergasted companions.

'Wait-wait-wait-wait-wait.' Lestrade splutters. 'What painting? What are you – what are you on about?'

'It's all over the place. Haven't you seen the posters? Dutch Old Master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago; now it's turned up. Worth thirty million pounds.'

'O-kay.' Lestrade begins uncertainly. 'So what has that got to do with the stiff?'

'Everything.' Sherlock's grin borders slightly on the psychotic. 'Have you ever heard of the Golem?'

'Gollum?' I speak up. 'The emaciated Dobby thing in Lord of the Rings?'

Silence.

I swear to God I live solely to be ignored.

'It's a horror story, isn't it?' John shakes his head. 'What are you saying?'

'Jewish folk story.' Sherlock corrects him. 'A gigantic man made of clay. It's also the name of an assassin – real name Oskar Dzundza – one of the deadliest assassins in the world.' He points down to the body. 'That is his trademark style.'

'So this is a hit?' Lestrade asks.

'Definitely. The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands.'

'But what has this gotta do with that painting? I don't see ...'

Sherlock huffs impatiently. 'You do see – you just don't observe.'

Ooh burn.

'All right all right, girls, calm your tits.' I struggle to keep a straight face while saying this. John chuckles.

Respect bro.

'Sherlock?' John looks at him. 'D'you wanna take us through it?'

'Sherlock eventually steps back and points to the body.

'What do we know about this corpse? The killer's not left us with much – just the shirt and the trousers. They're pretty formal – maybe he was going out for the night, but the trousers are heavy-duty, polyester, nasty, same as the shirt – cheap. They're both too big for him, so some kind of standard-issue uniform. Dressed for work, then. What kind of work? There's a hook on his belt for a walkie-talkie.'

'Tube driver?' Lestrade offers.

Sherlock throws him a look that blatantly says 'peasant'.

'Security guard?' John tries.

'More likely.' Sherlock points to man's arse. 'That'll be borne out by his backside.'

'Backside?!' Lestrade exclaims as I snort childishly.

'Flabby. You'd think that he'd led a sedentary life, yet the soles of his feet and the nascent varicose veins in his legs show otherwise. So, a lot of walking and a lot of sitting around. Security guard's looking good. And the watch helps, too. The alarm shows he did regular night shifts.'

At this point I kind of zone out and, since we're on the topic, I take in the fine pieces of ass standing before me. Not that I would ever tell Sherlock, of course. Nope. Never. Not even as I lay dying.

'AUDREY.' I jolt from my daydream, turning to see all three men staring at me, two with concerned faces. 'These daydreams of yours are getting steadily worse.' Sherlock starts towards the footpath. 'And even more annoying.' He calls back. I glare after him as he saunters up the river bank.

Yep. He got the booty alright.

'Stop!' Sherlock shouts and the cab driver pulls over. 'Back in a sec.' He tells John and I. Opening the car door, he vaults over the railing with grace like that of the gazelle.

'Majestic.' I whisper appreciatively. John steps out of the car, takes one look at the railing, and with a silent but palpable, 'Nah', he jumps back into the cab.

Moments later, Sherlock returns. 'What was that about?' John asks as he sits back.

'Investing.' Sherlock replies. 'Now we go to the Gallery.'

The taxi pulls up and Sherlock steps out. John and I begin to follow but Sherlock stops us. 'No. I need you to find out all you can about the gallery attendant. Lestrade will give you the address.'

'Okay.' John agrees while I stare sulkily at Sherlock.

I wanted to dress up as a police officer.

As the cab pulls away from the Gallery, my phone dings a message alert. Pulling it out, I make sure the screen is not visible to John.

Looks like Little Red Riding Hood saved Grandma from the Big Bad Wolf after all.

Such a clever girl.

But you've made the Wolf angry now, naughty naughty, and you've made him miss dinner.

The Wolf is hungry. Now he has an even bigger appetite.

I stare at the last line of the message, my hands beginning to shake.

"All the better to eat you with, my dear."

M.

'Who's that?' John asks beside. I nearly jump out of my seat.

'Er… It's Lestrade – with the address.' I lie quickly.

'God.' John laughs slightly, not noticing. 'That was quick.' I nod and smile in reply, turning to stare out the window.

Oh Aud. You have well and truly done it this time.

Thank you to reviewers: tula453, Sherlocked77, pinkyndx, Music Box Physicist, AdorkableAud, TimeMistress3722, alpacaamazing, Qwuirkykeyboard, lially, rycbar15 and Rockysay'shi . Please leave a review if you liked this chapter, I love reading them and they really motivate me to continue! Until next time.