Author's note: Hurray! I am on Holiday! I can now write at leisure, and will try to get as many chapters out before the end of the Holiday season, even though my keyboard is broken and won't type some numbers, go figure!

Yes, the pun was bad. I'm sorry.

Warm thanks to: SammyKatz, Rocking the Redhead, NiceNipps, Renaissancebooklover, Apedarling, Mrspencil, MizJoely. I appreciate the reviews, thank you for your feedback.

I'm sorry if not much seems to happen in this chapter, but I kind of had to get it out before I could continue with the story. I will have another one out really soon, I promise!

I hope you are all spending a lovely time with your near and dear loved ones.

ok, now I want to write a Holiday-themed 221B! Why do I do this to myself?

Have a great time everyone!

feral

"What do you mean, you don't have any footage of the suspect?" Bonlieu was bellowing at the guards when Sherlock and John entered the room.

Molly had asked to return to visit the morgue, so that she could personally inspect her mentor's cadaver before leaving for Rome. Sherlock had wanted to participate, but John had pulled him away, muttering something about privacy. To be honest, Sherlock only accepted to go elsewhere because he had already examined the body. Now they watched Bonlieu berate the guards with apparently colourful and very graphic threats.

"There was a blackout!" One of them pleaded. "Because of the works being done in the hospital... We've had a few all day, although they only last a minute or two. The emergency power starts immediately, but that doesn't cover the security cameras..."

"A minute isn't enough to do the damage inflicted on doctor Paten." John frowned.

"But it is enough to walk down a corridor." Sherlock replied darkly.

"This is most unfortunate." Bonlieu shook his head as they left the hospital.

"The killer entered the building, presented herself as the ambassador's secretary and lured Paten into a trap, without ever being caught on camera." John gritted his teeth. "Slippery cow."

John turned to his friend, his brow furrowing slightly as he saw Sherlock's eyes suddenly twitch as they looked ahead.

He didn't need much, that message was enough. Something was wrong, but they couldn't talk about it here.

"I'll go find Molly." He said brightly, although he felt his body grow tense. "We don't want to miss the plane."

Bonlieu turned to them, releasing the collar of one stammering guard. "Although I have already failed to keep you all safe, please allow me to escort you to the airport and offer what protection I can."

Sherlock nodded at the agent. John began walking down the corridor to the morgue when he saw Molly approaching them, her bag in her hands, her eyes downcast. She hadn't yet spotted him and he was about to call her name when she halted and slowly turned to look at a door. The pathologist tentatively opened it to reveal a common walk-in cupboard. Molly stood very still for a moment, muttered something to herself and slowly closed it. She pulled her shoulders back and looked up.

John pretended not to have seen what had just transpired, staring with unbridled admiration at a very handsome Ficus next to the window. He cleared his throat.

"Oh, Molly! We're about to leave, are you ready?"

Sherlock didn't turn around.

It was going to be a long trip.

The drive to the airport was...Awkward.

Molly stared intently at her hands on her lap, painfully aware of Sherlock glowering, whilst his flatmate purposefully looked out of the window.

Bonlieu, apparently oblivious to the strained atmosphere, spoke first.

"Mr. Holmes, there is something I would like to ask, before you go. Could you please tell me how you knew where to find Doctor Paten? The hospital is very big, why look at that entrance?"

Sherlock turned to the French agent. "It was fairly obvious: the hospital is very busy, there are cameras in the corridors, patients in the rooms and staff walking around. Our killer needed a place where there would be no witnesses. Last night I thought I saw someone suspicious, so I ran out of the building and onto Notre Dame square."

John pretended not to notice Molly stiffen, and interjected. "I remember you insisted on walking around the hospital perimeter after that..."

"Knowledge works hand in hand with deduction, John: I needed to have a better understanding of the grounds. As nobody of any interest was present, I was able to examine the area at leisure, and noticed the construction work in rue de la Lutèce. An entrance that is momentarily closed is a perfect place for a crime: there are no patients, hence no doctors, nurses nor visitors. It also allowed a near flawless exit. "

"Near flawless?" Bonlieu repeated.

The consulting detective sighed. "The construction work naturally caused dust to cover the pavement. It was thanks to such debris that I spotted footprints, when we found the doctor. As very few people would use such an entrance, the traces were fairly untarnished. Therefore, among doctor Paten's, I could clearly see the killer's footprints. The stride and the particular shape of the heel confirm that this is the very same perpetrator of the other murders. I also noticed a slight limp. Doctor Paten, old as he was, didn't leave his killer completely unscathed."

The french agent rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It is all still very little to go by...Do you know when or where she will strike again?"

Sherlock leaned back against the seat of the car. "I believe I have identified the next target, but there is no guarantee. I can only suggest increased security."

"I had heard you were Flying to Rome, not to London. I imagine you hope to find her there." Bonlieu nodded solemnly. "I will pass on your recommendation."

The car reached the airport, and the agent escorted Sherlock, John and Molly to the gate.

As he bid them farewell, he shook Sherlock's hand.

"I wish you luck for your hunt."

The consulting detective nodded, and they parted ways.

Bonlieu silently watched them board, and when they were out of sight, he pulled out his phone. He had a call to make.

Molly sat by the window, Sherlock wanted the corridor seat, and John took in the middle.

The pathologist tugged nervously at her jumper, opened her mouth to speak, then looked at Sherlock, closed it and opened the Alitalia complimentary magazine, staring intently at an article written in Italian.

"Well, this is nice." John shrugged with a lopsided smile.

Molly laughed nervously. "It's actually quite exiting, I've never been to Italy." She looked at him cheerfully. "There are so many things I've always wanted to visit there. But I need to stop at the shops, I need a change of clothes since the ones I bought in Paris..."

Oh.

Right.

Her smile wavered for just a moment, then she shook her head, attempting to laugh. "Silly me. Oh, Look! The safety thingy. I...I need to read the safety thingy. I mean, you never know, you know?" She stammered bleakly as she gripped the card in her hands.

Sherlock shrugged "It's the same card as the one you read on the flight here. The weather is fair, albeit slightly windy. The pilot is sober but hasn't slept enough because of the new baby. We're sitting in first class, at the very front of the plane, which happens to be the most unsafe part, and that gives us a forty-nine percent chance of survival in case of a crash." He turned to look at Molly, his icy eyes meeting hers. She opened and closed her mouth hesitantly. He hadn't spoken directly to her in quite some time.

John frowned slightly. "forty-nine percent? What about the back?"

"Sixty-nine."

"First class seats are the most dangerous?"

"Maybe Airlines don't like rich people."

"I guess not. Wait..." The doctor turned to his friend. "If the front row seats are the most Dangerous, why are we sitting at the front?"

"It's first class."

John leaned back. "Right."

Sherlock was typing furiously on his phone all the while.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"What happened, back there?"

Sherlock cocked his head slightly, lifting his eyes to his friend for a moment. "What do you mean by 'back there', exactly?"

"In the hospital. You seemed to have realised something, or... Or I don't know, you were acting strange."

His friend turned the phone off and put it in his pocket.

"The killer is aware that we are going to Rome, and is waiting for us."

"What? How?" Molly's hand flew to her chest.

"How do you know?" John began to undo his seat-belt. "Won't she change targets?"

"No."

"How do you know?"

Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes as the Aircraft took off.

"Because she knew we were in Paris even before we stepped off the plane."