I am so sorry i have no clue what has been going on with my chapters so i updated them and now they are right so please look through them and comment sorry again.

Grace's POV

"Help I just saw a shooter!" I said, looking around at where to point. I pointed randomly behind me, and the police walked over to me.

"Are you sure? I can have Sherlock and John take over here for me if you need…"

"No, it's fine. I'm a private investigator anyways," I said, making up the lie as I went. "You see, anything with a brand, like the 'M,' I have to be here. I'm Grace," I said, shaking their hands.

"Grace…?"

"Grace," I said coldly and sternly.

"I've never heard of you before, 'Grace,'" Lestrade said.

"That's because I'm not one who usually comes to such pity cases," I said, looking behind them and staring at the body.

The both of them looked insulted. "How come you've never been to one of our cases before, or you have never been referenced to us?"

"Because I make sure I'm not." Apparently, that did the trick, because they took Sherlock and John (I made sure I was in among the crowd), and the rest of the police with them. Apparently, the crowd went where the police went, because they seemed to disappear midair they went so fast. I walked over to the body, and lifted up the shirt. "M." Moriarty. James Moriarty.

But something I noticed—that Lestrade and the police apparently did not—is that their were words inscribed in the "M." In pen. They said:

Pretty

Oval

Canvas

Kill

Everyone

Tonight

I immediately picked up on the word "POCKET," dismissing the odd words, and checked in there. There wasn't one, so I pulled down his pants—slightly, and saw a piece of paper taped to the pocket. Sure enough, it had, yet another, cipher.

Here's a little poem for the troubled

A little piece of my heart

Pins and needles don't break bones

But screws do, and so does rust

Knives hurt

And tears hurt wrists

You don't understand what this means

Do you

But remember

I'm watching over you

And so is the scaffolding

I looked up immediately, not even caring what the rest of the note said. I saw one man, standing alone, on the scaffolding. My mouth opened wide. Moriarty knew I was after him.

But that isn't what shocked me. What shocked me is that there was a woman, standing with him, who dropped down a bag.

Odd, yes. Very odd. I could think of anyone who would have dropped down a paper bag from a window, let alone a 25-story window. I wondered what could have prevented it from blowing away.

Curiously—as anyone in their right mind would have been—I went over and picked up the bag. It was a screwdriver.

The thing that shocked me most was that it was pointless. Nothing too it. It was funny. I put the screwdriver back into the back, and set it down. If it was dropped from a 15 story scaffolding, I figured it had some importance. I shrugged the though off and continued examining the body.