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Chapter Text

Chapter 1 15-4-2010

            The thrumming sound of the violin below made John pause.  He stopped his work, reading his blog comments, and was silent for a moment.  It sounded louder and louder, building to a crescendo, until finally reaching a quiet whisper, barely audible from the upper floor.  John shook his head; he knew what his flat mate was doing, and he had no intention of interrupting him. 

John continued reading through the four pages of comments from his most recently written case, pleased with the amount of readership the blog had gained.  He smiled happily to himself while moving his cursor to click on a new Word document.  John had to start typing up the last case while it was still fresh in his mind or he might forget all the things his partner had said, all the ways to describe his nuance of voice, and the sheer brilliance of the man.  It had been weeks since it had happened, and John had his notes, but he had been working more than usual. He started to type, the usual thrill running through him when he used verbs to describe the action. 

            John’s fingers paused over the keys however when he heard a phone go off downstairs.  He could feel his heart start to pound, and his blood start to race.  He saved what he had written so far and shut his laptop, putting it away.  He ran over to his nightstand and checked that his gun clip was full; he clicked the clip in the gun and made sure the safety was on before tucking it into the back waistband of his jeans.  He waited impatiently for a moment.  He would not give his flat-mate the satisfaction of knowing how excited he was.  He knew whose ringtone that was: Sherlock had a special preset for Lestrade.    

“John, there’s been a murder!”  The downstairs occupant yelled from below. 

“On my way!”  John fisted the air; he had calmed himself down before reaching the main level of the flat however, so appeared to be completely in control of himself. 

“Come on!” 

            John followed the long black coat out of the flat and watched as its occupant hailed a taxi with his usual flourish of impatience. 

“Did detective inspector Lestrade say anything, Sherlock?”

“The address, but nothing more.” 

            John saw Sherlock’s lips curl into a smile; the way they always did when he got a new case.  John smiled as well and turned his head to see out the taxi window.  He knew that Sherlock would tell him everything either at the scene of the crime, or when they got home.  As much as he was pestered about his blog, he knew Sherlock secretly loved the attention. 

The night around them was beautiful and John never tired of it; the dark blue sky, the twinkling stars so far off in the distance.  Even the bright lights of London were striking. 

“We’re here John.”  One couldn’t help but notice the excited tremor that ran through Sherlock’s voice. 

            It had been weeks since their last case and Sherlock had grown restless in that time; restless, and hard to live with.  He had brought home a cadaver, just a few days ago, for some sort of experiment with maggots, but John had forbade it from entering the flat.  A head, or a few fingers in the tub, was different from a whole body. 

            Exiting the taxi Sherlock quickly brought John up to speed.  Lestrade had called and told Sherlock that it was a young woman, probably in her early-to-mid thirties, who had been stabbed to death.  John looked up at the decrepit old building; it looked like it would fall apart at any second.  What a horrible place to die, he thought.   

            They approached the crime scene tape and squad cars, expecting to see Lestrade outside waiting for them.  Instead the two were greeted by Sergeant Sally Donovan. 

“Freak,” she said as greeting. 

            Sherlock inclined his head so as to say he had heard her but was choosing to ignore her.  In fact he wasn’t even looking at her, but at the building where the body was.   

“Where’s Lestrade?”  John asked. 

“Upstairs, with one of his associates.”  When she said associate, she pointed at Sherlock.

“What do you mean ‘one of my associates’”?  Sherlock asked pointedly, looking at her now. 

“They got here ten minutes before you did and said they worked with you; marched right upstairs to examine the body.”

“They?”  John asked, wondering. 

“Well, she; there was just a woman.” 

            Sherlock suddenly grew more intense as he stared at Sally and started asking her questions feverishly. 

“What did she look like?  Where did she go?”

“Anderson let her in, I didn’t.  He said she was American; she’s upstairs, top floor, at the crime scene.  At least, I haven’t seen anyone come down.”  Her sentence trailed off as Sherlock ran to the old building.  She looked at John and muttered, “How can you handle him?” before walking away to talk to another officer. 

            John raced off after him, taking the worn stairs two at a time – of course worried they would break – trying to catch up to his friend.  He didn’t understand why Sherlock would have such a reaction to someone else being here unless…Sherlock had said he had plenty of enemies.  What if this was one of them?

            They reached the top landing simultaneously and saw that there was indeed a woman talking to detective inspector Lestrade.  If this was truly an enemy of Sherlock’s, John could say he picked great enemies.  John couldn’t help but to stare at her.  Even from the back, he thought she was gorgeous.  The woman was tall, and had olive skin if the back of her legs were anything to go by.  John noticed however that she did not seem dressed for a crime scene.  In her black lace dress and heels she stood out among the uniformed officers.    

Looking around he noticed plenty of the other boys stealing glances her way as well.  Well, it’d be hard not to get attention when you wear something as lacy as that, John thought. 

“I need you to talk to Lestrade.”  Sherlock’s whispering broke John’s hypnotic gaze. 

“Oh yes of course.” 

            Sherlock strode over to the woman and grabbing her by the arm, dragged her away to the other side of the building.  John thought he had looked angry, but there had been another emotion in those blue eyes that was hard to pick out.  He paid attention to the way the woman smiled, as if relieved to see him; she shook off Sherlock’s arm and walked with him, almost…equal.    

John held his hand out to Lestrade to shake.  The DI took it and then sighed.  

“How are things going up here?”  John asked conversationally. 

“Well, the boys are finishing up photographing the scene.”

“Ahh, yes, murder.”  John had almost forgotten the reason for the visit.  It seemed like the whole reason they were there was to figure out who this woman was now.  At least, John wanted to know who she was. 

“If you’ll excuse me, I have to speak with one of my boys.” 

            John held up his hand in mock wave and stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do with himself.  He found his gaze wandering over to where Sherlock and the girl stood. 

Sherlock appeared to whispering furiously to her but the girl kept shaking her head.  She pulled something out of her clutch and handed it to Sherlock.  John realized it was a letter when Sherlock opened it to read.  He saw the color drain from the detective’s face; he grabbed the woman’s arms in a vice-like grip and his lips moved fast, too fast for even a lip-reader to decipher their words, John thought. 

He saw the girl nod her head and Sherlock visibly relaxed.  The detective sighed and ran a hand through his hair before looking down at his shoes for quite a few moments.  Then, very out of character for the man, he drew the woman in and kissed her on the forehead.

            John was still recovering from the surprise of seeing Sherlock get intimate with a human being, when Sherlock grabbed her hand and led her over to where John was standing. 

Expecting to be greeted John held out his hand, but the pair walked right past him.  John drew his hand back in, among mutterings of “right, OK”, and turned around.  Of course Sherlock would have gone straight to the body. 

            John saw that it was a woman, blond shoulder-length hair; she was lying on her back so he could also see that her black top was stained with blood and the floor around her had quite a pool of it.  One of her black heels was missing but…John saw it was on the other side of the room. 

“Single, probably in her early 30’s.  Why was she here though?”  John heard Sherlock muttering to himself. 

“She’s had jewelry stolen.” The woman muttered to herself.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at her, asking a question without needing to voice it.

            The woman knelt next to the body and showed Sherlock the dead woman’s right hand. 

“She had a ring on her right hand, evidenced by the tan line. Either it was worth something, or our killer is taking trophies.”

“Hm.” Sherlock hummed noncommittally as he investigated the pockets of the young woman’s jacket. “Ahh, passport in her coat pocket.”  Sherlock mused, pulling out said passport.  “It would seem she’s from Illinois.  Deborah Greene.”

John pondered that. “So, is he killing tourists, or did this tourist just get unlucky?” he asked aloud.

Sherlock tossed a glance over his shoulder at the soldier standing behind him. “Just unlucky John.”

John thought about asking how he knew but shook his head. His breath was better saved for other things.

            Sherlock handed the passport to a nearby officer and kneeled once again by the body.  He lifted her shirt up very carefully, and called John over. 

“John, what would you say did this?” 

            John snapped his latex gloves against his wrists and knelt down next to the body.  He ran his fingers carefully over the abdomen, tracing the stab wounds that had clearly caused the woman much pain.  He wasn’t a coroner and had never had to deal much with dead bodies before Sherlock, but he still knew injuries.  He was after all a doctor, and had been an army doctor as well.  Nothing prepares you for the grittiness of death so much as war. In war, once someone was gone you moved on to the next sorry bastard who needed your help. You didn’t try to ponder what had killed them; you knew.     

“Five stab wounds to the abdomen, carefully placed, however.  My guess would be the coroner finds they didn’t hit anything vital.  I’d say she bled out, and that’s why there’s so much blood pooled around her.” John sucked in a harsh breath. “And that could have taken, oh goodness, as long as forty-five minutes depending.  As for what…I’d say a butcher’s knife probably.”

“A butcher’s knife…” Sherlock said to himself, standing up.  Sherlock took pictures of the wound and proceeded to walk around and to take pictures of the surrounding area. 

            John and the mystery woman stood off to the side while he did so.  John turned to her, holding out his hand. 

“Hello, I’m John Watson.” 

“Yes, Sherlock’s told me all about you.  She said in a distinctive mid-American accent. 

“Funny, he’s never mentioned you.”  John narrowed his eyes at her answering smile.

“He’s not supposed to.”  She answered calmly, still smiling.  John could sense a storm under her composed self, as if it angered her that she was a secret.

“Could you two please be quiet, I’m working.”  Sherlock was back examining the body one last time.  If it bothered him that John was introducing himself to this woman, he couldn’t detect any hint of it in Sherlock’s body language.

            The woman held out her hand and shook John’s with a firm grip, ignoring Sherlock.  

“Emmaline.  Emmaline Holmes, though I prefer Emma.”

“So, you’re his sister then?  Funny he’s only told me about his brother.”  John felt more comfortable knowing their relation. 

“No, I’m not his sister; I’m his wife.” Her eyes danced as she made the declaration.

            John dropped her hand, startled.  Sherlock, have a wife?  A wife who he had just had some very unsavory thoughts about.  And this of course caused the color to rise up in John’s cheeks.  Emmaline noticed and smiled but didn’t say anything about it.   

They both watched in silence as Sherlock finished examining the body and spoke to Lestrade for a matter of a few minutes. 

“So, Emma is it, how old are you exactly?”

“Twenty-five; I’ll be twenty-six in a few months.” 

“So when did…when did you and Sherlock meet?”

            Emma smiled at John’s questioning.  One could easily tell that he felt uncomfortable. Sherlock was right; John was an open book.   

“We met when I was fifteen.  On a plane from New York to London; he told me all about a case he had been called in to solve, by one of Greg’s old friends, who had recommended him.  I asked him how he solved the crime, and he showed me, by deducing some things about my life and about the other passengers.  We stayed in touch, obviously.” 

“You’ve known him for ten years?”

“We haven’t been together since I was fifteen, if that’s what you’re asking.” She shuddered a little at the thought.   

            John’s next question died on his lips as Sherlock approached the two of them. 

“Is your car outside Emmaline?”

“Yes.”

“Good, we need to go to your flat now.”

            John noticed that Emma didn’t even ask; she just started to descend the stairs, pulling her car keys from her clutch.  Most people would have asked questions about ‘why’, and ‘for what reason’, but she seemed, to John anyway, to have a trust in him that he hadn’t seen elsewhere. Elsewhere, outside of himself. And if he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t sure if even he trusted Sherlock enough to not question him a little. 

            The ride to Emma’s flat was a bit of a long one because they had to pass through much of London to get there.

“So, what did he deduce?”  John asked from the backseat. 

“Hmm?” Emm asked, tossing the question over her shoulder but keeping her eyes on the road.

“Sherlock on the plane, what could he tell about your life?”

“Oh; he knew my mom had died, and that I was going to stay with my grandparents.”

            John didn’t even bother asking how Sherlock had known; he knew by now that his friend’s science of deduction was an almost sure thing.  They drove for a few more minutes and John looked out the window, surprised at where they were.  He and Sherlock lived in Westminster, and it appeared that Emma lived in Camden, in a very posh apartment building.   

“What do you do exactly?” 

“My grandparents left me money when they died, but I’m a doctor.”  Emma trotted up the stairs and opened the door, moving aside as Sherlock raced up the stairs and into the building. 

            John smiled and followed Sherlock up, Emma right behind, both of them at a more leisurely pace.  

“What kind of doctor?”  John continued his inquiry as they walked up the flights of stairs. 

“Psychology.”

“Oh that’s lovely; where do you work?”

“So many questions doctor.” she teased.

            John paused on the stairs for a moment.  “How do you know I’m a doctor?”

Emma paused to turn around and look down at John.  “Sherlock’s told me all about you remember?”  She smiled at his confusion.  “I might have been a secret from you, but you were not a secret from me.”  She explained. 

“Oh, right, yes.”  John stared for a moment.  “Why were you a secret from me?”

“Because my husband is delusional and thinks I can’t take care of myself.”  She replied.  “And I work at Bethlem Royal Hospital.” 

“The hospital for the mentally ill?”  John asked, wanting to clarify.

“That’s the one.” 

“Emmaline, key.”  Sherlock huffed impatiently from a flight above them.  

            Emma rolled her eyes and hurried up the stairs to her door. 

“Where’s your key?” she asked as she opened it for Sherlock, and he walked carefully inside.  Emma walked around the flat turning on lamps and overhead lights as she went. 

“It’s at home; I bring the key to the flat when I’m coming and only then.”  Sherlock murmured, running his hand down the length of her bookcase.

“Sherlock, what are we doing?”  John asked, not quite sure what they supposed to be doing here.

“Shh.” 

            John rolled his eyes but stayed quiet.  He too decided to look around, even if it was for a different purpose than Sherlock’s. Looking around beat standing around awkwardly in the middle of a stranger’s flat. Emmaline’s flat was furnished in neutral warm colors that made John feel right at home.  She had a large bay window with a seat that looked out over the city.  Her walls were painted light beige and black-and-white photography adorned her walls. 

“Who did these?”  John asked. 

            Sherlock looked up at his inquiry and saw what his friend was staring at.

“I did.”  He looked back down at the floor, tracing something invisible with his eye. 

            John looked back at the photos, taking a closer look at them.  Most of them were photos of crime scenes, broken glasses, or the caution tape; nothing that would alarm anyone.  A few were of Lestrade, and the police force, some were of Emmaline.  There was even one of Mycroft hanging, where he sat by a Christmas tree in Emma’s flat.  So clearly, he had spent the holiday here at some point.  There was one photo, set aside from the rest, of a smiling Emma and Sherlock, arms wrapped around one another, taken near the same tree. They were nestled happily in each other’s arms, smiling at each other, not even looking at the camera. John allowed himself a small smile of his own to see his friend so happy.   

He worked his way around the apartment and took a quick peek inside the bathroom.  It’s walls were painted grey with little red balloons painted on the wall across from the counter, reaching up, up to the ceiling, almost as if it was flying up to the sky.  He walked back out into the living room where Sherlock was now on eye level with the floor and examining the rug.   

“Would you like some tea?”  Emma poked her head out of the kitchen to ask the two gentlemen. 

“Tea would be lovely, thank you.”  John continued his search of the flat, moving on to the bookshelf.  He could see she was an avid reader, and enjoyed many of the classics.  Many of the books had worn spines, suggesting she had read them more than once. Jane Eyre, Lord of the Rings, Lolita, Dracula, Picture of Dorian Gray, The End of the Affair…John nodded to himself as his eyes roved over the titles. Many he hadn’t read himself, and probably wouldn’t. They were doomed to be on his ‘to read’ list. But life with Sherlock was active, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything.    

            He worked his way around to the kitchen, noticing Sherlock had now lifted up the window seat and was perusing its contents.  They could be here hours before he was done searching everywhere. 

“Do you have the faintest idea of what he’s looking for?”  John asked Emma, as she handed him a cup of tea.

“Probably looking for someone who might have broken in.  I noticed the doorjamb open yesterday but I thought it must have been him.”   

“Does he often break into your flat?”

“Only when he’s been waiting a while outside.  Or wants to show how clever he is.”  Mostly to avoid people he thinks are following him, she thought.  She smiled faintly as she went to take Sherlock a cup. “He forgets his key a lot.” Emma set Sherlock’s tea down on a table near him.

            Left on his own for a moment John took the time to admire exposed brick work over the refrigerator and stove that looked like restoration work.  He noticed a small photo frame near the pantry and got up to examine it.  It was a black-and-white photo of Sherlock, taken from the side.  He looked at least three years younger than he was now. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and he was looking down, a soft smile on his lips. He looked…almost happy.

“Are you hungry John?”  Emmaline came back into the kitchen. 

“Famished actually.”  John put his empty cup of tea on the counter and turned from the photo.   

“Does Sherlock often forget to feed you?”

“Only when he’s too busy to remember that people normally eat.” He answered seriously.

            Emma grinned and set about looking for something in the pantry.  John went back to his seat at the island and waited patiently.  She moved on to the fridge and brought out a plate.  She set it on the counter before John.

“Do you like bread pudding?”

“My mother used to make it for me.”

“I’ll hope that’s a yes.”  She smiled, removing the plastic wrap from the plate. 

            Emma handed him a spoon and poured him some more tea before returning to the living room to check on Sherlock.  John quickly devoured the slice of pudding that had tasted almost as good as he remembered his mother’s to taste.   

“Emma, what are these?” He heard Sherlock asking.

            John went out to the main room, wanting to know what was going on.  Sherlock was pointing to faint scratch marks in the wall next to her front door. 

“They aren’t mine; I haven’t had anyone over except for you last week.”  She held up her hands in evidence that her nails were unscathed. 

“Emmaline, pack a bag.”  Sherlock was staring uneasily at the marks. 

“I keep a packed bag in the trunk, just in case.” She told him as she reached for her discarded coat.

“Wait, what’s going on Sherlock?”  John felt very behind. 

“Someone broke in and left a note here for Emmaline.  It’ll be safer if she comes to live with us for now.  I’m afraid she’s no longer safer on her own.”  Sherlock’s voice sounded sad. 

Emma knew that it was because they had been separated for three years in the hope that it would keep her hidden from whoever Sherlock was afraid of.  It seemed that his plan had not worked. As sad as she was that her husband was upset, Emma didn’t see their reuniting as a bad thing.

“What note?”

            Sherlock handed it to him before departing the flat and running down the flights of stairs.  Emma followed him, stopping only to grab her purse. John opened the letter and read:

My dear Emmaline,

It is pointless trying to hide any more

I know who you are and who you are connected to

I hope that you enjoy the present I left for the three of you

John turned the note over but there was no more.  It wasn’t even signed.  John raced after the other two and hurried into the backseat of Emma’s car.

“What does it mean, ‘present’?” he asked, as they pulled out into the chilly London air.

“It obviously means the body.”  Sherlock answered the, to him, silly question.  “Whoever left that note for Emmaline also killed Deborah Greene.”

            They pulled up to 221B Baker Street and Emma parked the car.  Sherlock grabbed her case from the trunk and John hurried ahead of him to unlock the door to their building.   

“I’ll clear out a drawer and make some room in the closet.”  Sherlock said, taking the stairs two at a time until he was in their flat

“I’ll just be in my room.”  John pointed upstairs and departed the main floor.  Emma smiled and waved; Sherlock didn’t even notice, having departed into his room.  John backed out the door before walking upstairs into his bedroom. 

            He pulled his laptop back out, and opened the previously closed Word document.  He needed to finish this last case and start jotting down notes about this new one.  He didn’t want to forget anything.  This was by far the most interesting thing that had happened since he had met Sherlock. Well, maybe not as interesting as having a bomb strapped to his chest, but that wasn’t fun. Finding out Sherlock was living a secret double life was fun.  

He heard music come on downstairs, probably the CD player – it didn’t sound like the violin – and went back to his writing.  He occasionally heard a murmur of conversation from downstairs, but he couldn’t make anything out. Just as well since he was trying to concentrate.    

            When he finished with his writing he put his laptop away and decided to go downstairs, to see if they needed help with anything.  He trotted down the stairs and opened the door to the main level but stopped in his tracks.  Sherlock and Emma were dancing: they were swaying back and forth with their eyes closed, holding each other.  John smiled upon seeing the pair so deeply absorbed; normally Sherlock would have heard the opening door.  As it was he was busy burying his face in her hair. 

            John shut the door, affording the couple their much-needed privacy, and went back upstairs to change into his pajamas.  It was late and sleep was sounding better by the second.  He stooped down to pick up his gun from his discarded jeans and decided to clean it before sleeping.  He hadn’t done so lately and a clean gun was a good gun.  He sat down at his desk and set to his work, making sure every piece shone.  When he was satisfied he made sure the safety was on and took the clip back out. 

He set them side-by-side in his nightstand drawer and curled up against his pillow; pulling his blanket up to his chin, he snuggled down into the comfort of his hard mattress.  John reached a hand out and pulled the string of his bed-side lamp.  The light went out and the room turned dark. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 2 17-4-2010

            John came downstairs and saw Emma putting away clothes from the cracked door of Sherlock’s bedroom.  Yesterday John had gone back to her flat with her to get the rest of her things.  He rubbed his tired eyes; Sherlock had kept him up most of the night with his incessant playing of the violin. He had stopped at some point in the early morning and John had gratefully rolled over to get what sleep he could in the blissful silence.  He walked into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee; his tired body needed it if he was going to work today. 

He mechanically reached out for the empty pot, but he brought his fingers back and yelped when they contacted something hot. He saw that someone had already made coffee.  And he smelled something…there was breakfast cooking.  John walked back out into the main room.  Somebody had straightened up and organized everything.  Even Sherlock’s desk was neat.  Books were on the bookshelves, and the floor had been vacuumed. 

He walked over to the desk, amazed to see it looking so clean.  There was a letter on the corner, addressed to ‘Mr. Holmes’.  He picked it up and flipped the paper open.  The paper was snatched from his hands by Sherlock, on his way to the kitchen.  John hadn’t even gotten a line in, but he could tell it had been from Emma. 

Sherlock perused the letter before smiling and putting it in the sink and setting a match to it. 

“What are you doing?”  John yelled, alarmed at the tiny flames.

            Sherlock turned the tap on and extinguished the flame.

“It said ‘burn after reading’.  I was merely following instructions.” 

            Sherlock grabbed a cup from the top pantry and poured himself a cup of coffee.  “Those are always my favorite letters.”  Sherlock blew on the cup before taking a sip.

“What?”  John asked, peering into the sink. 

“Letters that tell me to burn them; those are the very best kind.” He took another sip of coffee.  “Emmaline and I began writing them to each other after we got separate homes; it helped make our time apart more bearable.”

            John sighed and shook his head.  Sherlock was a wonder. 

“Oh look, English Breakfast.”  Sherlock looked at the stove and turned the stove-top off.  

“What?”  John asked.

“I think she used up everything in the refrigerator.”  Sherlock murmured to himself. 

            He grabbed himself a plate and filled it up with the offerings left out on the stove.  Sherlock sniffed the air; he then bent over and looked in the oven. 

“Bread.  She’s making…,” he sniffed the air again, “banana, is that nut, banana nut bread?” 

            He shook his head and walked out to his arm chair to sit and eat.  John stood in the kitchen, still amazed at his flat mate.  He grabbed himself a cup and a plate and sat down in the chair opposite Sherlock to eat.  The oven went off and Emma ran out from the bedroom to grab the bread. 

“Thank you for breakfast.”  John called after her. 

“Oh, I enjoy cooking!”  Emma smiled from around the corner and put the bread on the counter to cool.  “Sherlock don’t touch it.”  Every time she baked bread at her flat he would try to cut it before it was ready and ruin it; he was impatient in all regards.

“She does a marvelous job at it too.”  Sherlock praised.   

            Emma smiled before disappearing into the bedroom once again. “It helps when your husband frequently forgets to eat. Meals have to be delicious enough to entice him into forgetting his ‘transport rule.’” She called.

“Anything new with the case?”  John asked Sherlock, gathering egg on his fork for a bite.

“No; I’m hoping for a nice murder soon.”

            John coughed and beat his chest, forcing the egg down his throat.

“I really wish you’d stop talking like that.”

“Like what John?”

“Like you want someone to get killed.” He said, exasperated.

“Another murder is the only way we’ll solve the case.” Sherlock reasoned, before shoving another bite in his mouth.

            John sighed and gave up.  That was the way Sherlock’s brain worked; wishing for a murder so he could solve the crime; wishing for a murder so he’d stop being bored on weekends. 

John finished his breakfast and took his plate to the sink to wash it.

“Do you work today?”  He heard Sherlock ask from the front room.  He was about to reply in the negative when he heard Emma say ‘yes’. 

            John walked back into the front room where Emma kissed Sherlock’s cheek.  She walked over to John and shook his hand. 

“I’ll be back at 5:00 so no getting into trouble before then.” She said sternly.

            She waved before walking out the door.  Right after she departed Sherlock’s phone went off. 

“Can you get that for me John?”

            John sighed but followed the ringing to Sherlock’s bedroom.  He muffled a laugh when he saw Sherlock’s clothes laid out for him on the bed like a child.  He grabbed his phone and saw the text.

“It’s Lestrade.  He says the autopsy reports come back for Miss Greene.”

“Well then!  Hurry and get dressed John!”  Sherlock yelled, bursting into the room. 

            John left the room as Sherlock threw off his robe and started to unbutton his pajamas.  He raced upstairs and pulled clothes from his own closet.  Dressed, he grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and again put his gun in the waistband of his pants. 

            Sherlock was tying his scarf when John got back downstairs.  Throwing on his coat, Sherlock led the way downstairs and hailed a taxi.  The first few moments were passed in silence, but John couldn’t keep quiet.

“So…Emma.”

“What about her?”

“I think the fact that there even is a her, at all, should be discussed.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You told me you were married to your work, that you weren’t looking for anything.”

“Well I wasn’t looking for anything John.”  Sherlock looked at him like it should be obvious why. 

“You could’ve told me you know.  Why keep it a secret?”

“I have many enemies John.  Enemies who would do anything to get at me; so far they’ve used strangers to get me to solve cases or to do other things.  They know using my brother is useless; besides, he’s in a position of such power.  You’re constantly with me and look what happened at the pool with Moriarty.”  Sherlock looked right at John as he said that. “My enemies would of course use her to get to me if they could.  That’s why we don’t live together, and I’m careful when I visit her.”

“How long have you been married to her?”

“Oh goodness, six years.”  Sherlock said, leaning his head back against the seat in thought.  

“Six years?”  John did the math in his head.  “She was only nineteen?”  John couldn’t imagine anyone getting married so young, especially to someone as difficult as Sherlock.  

“Yes I suppose she was.  She didn’t make it clear that she fancied me though ‘till she was what…seventeen?  Yes, right before her eighteenth birthday.”  Sherlock smiled in remembrance. 

“She was seventeen, when, when…”

“John calm down!  We lived together so I suppose she thought the time was right to tell me.”  Sherlock shrugged his shoulders.  “And that’s all she did was tell me; your blushing gives everything away John.  Do you really think I’m that deplorable?  She was only seventeen.” 

“Lived together?”  The more John learned about their story, the more strange it got.  John knew the age of consent was sixteen in Europe, but to him it was still young, and the fact that Sherlock had fallen in love with what he considered a child…it made John look at his friend differently.    

“After her grandparents died.  She only lived with me for six months; I made her find somewhere else.”

“Why?”

“Why all these questions John?”  Sherlock asked, suddenly exasperated.  “Why does it matter?”

“Because this is a big secret!  If you can keep a wife from me, what other secrets have you been keeping Sherlock?  Do I even know you?”

            Sherlock stared at John for a moment before turning his head to stare out the window.  As soon as the taxi stopped Sherlock exited the car and entered the building.  John sighed and paid the cabbie.  He hurried after Sherlock; sometimes he was a difficult man to live with. 

“Ahh Sherlock, there you are.” Lestrade ushered the pair into his office. “Here’s the report.”  Lestrade handed it to Sherlock who sat down and began reading. 

“Just like you thought John, butcher’s knife.  And…yes, she did bleed out.  So someone who likes to inflict pain.  I wonder if he stayed to watch…” Sherlock mused aloud.  

“We’ve notified Deborah’s family and they’ve confirmed the body’s identity.”  Lestrade continued.  “Coroner thinks Deborah Greene was dead maybe an hour-and-a-half before we arrived on the scene. 

“Yes, how did you know about it so quickly?”  John asked, looking at the detective inspector. 

“We got an anonymous call about the body.” Lestrade shrugged.

“What?”  Sherlock shouted, standing up from his chair.  “And you didn’t think to mention this?”

“Well, no, it happens all the time.  People that come across the body, but don’t want their names in official reports, so they just call it in instead of reporting it to the office.  It’s pretty common Sherlock.”

“Not with this one.  I want a copy of that tape.” 

            Lestrade left the office to get a copy of the 999 call that had led them to the body. 

“You think something’s up Sherlock?”

“Of course there is John!  This killer wanted us to find the body quickly.  Why else would he call 999?  Why else would he leave that note for Emmaline, telling her to come to the scene of the crime?  He’s playing with us.  He wants his work to be known.” Sherlock threw the file down on Lestrade’s desk with a huff. “And he wants us to know that he knows all about us – knows about our lives.” 

            Lestrade came in with a copy of the tape and inserted the disc into his computer.  He turned the volume up and pushed ‘play’. 

“I’ve found a body.  She’s in Islington at 969 Aberdeen Lane.  Did you get that?  I found a body.  She’s…she’s dead.” 

“That’s it?”  Sherlock asked. 

“That’s it.”  Lestrade confirmed. 

“And you didn’t think it was suspicious?”  Sherlock asked. 

“Why would we?”

“His voice didn’t quiver.”  John said. 

“What?” asked Lestrade. 

“Most people, when they see a body, their voice quivers when they speak.  His didn’t; he was too calm.” John explained.

“That’s the kind of thinking I need!”  Sherlock exclaimed, pointing at John with a smirk.  “I’ll need a copy of this to take with me.”

“Here take this one.”  Lestrade put the disc in a case and handed it to Sherlock. 

“Thank you.  Now, if you’ll excuse me.” 

            Sherlock looked deep in thought as he left.  John followed him and hailed a taxi.  As soon as he closed the door his phone went off; John answered it.  It was the hospital where he worked. He told the driver the address; he had been called in to work. 

“What’s the meaning of this John?”  Sherlock looked up when he noticed the new direction the cab was going in. 

“I’ve been called in to work.  Don’t worry; he’ll still take you home.”

“Be good today.”  John said a little while later, from the curb. 

            He waved goodbye to the taxi as it drove off to the flat.  John turned and walked into the hospital. 

ᶓ

“I’ve just got to pop in for a moment, OK?” 

John got out of the cab and ran up to the flat.  He entered and walked up the stairs to the front room.  Sherlock was playing the violin and Emma was reading a book. 

“Hey, Sarah is downstairs, and we were wondering if you’d like to join us out tonight?”

            Sherlock and Emma answered at the same time.

“No thank you, I’m busy.”

“Yes, we’d love to!” 

            Emma looked over at Sherlock.

“Why not?”  She asked. 

“I’m busy working.  I’m making connections and thinking.”

“You haven’t got anything without another murder and you know it.” 

            Sherlock sighed and put the violin down. 

“There’s a new jazz bar that’s opened up a few streets over.”  John pointed at the door.  “She’s waiting.” 

            Emma grabbed Sherlock’s coat and held it out to him. 

“Very well, this one time.”  He stood up and put his coat on before grabbing his scarf.  John headed out before the two of them and got in the cab.  Emma got in the back and Sherlock took the only vacant seat in the front of the taxi. 

            The cabbie dropped them off at a place called ‘Jazz 101’ that had a ‘GRAND OPENING’ sign in its front window.  Sherlock tossed the cabbie a few bills as he got out and opened the door for Emmaline. 

“What a gentlemen.”  She looped his arm through his and they went inside. 

            Sarah scooted over and got out, and John right after her. 

“So who’s that with your friend?”

“Apparently he’s married,” he took her arm and led her inside.

“You mean you didn’t know?”

“Found out two days ago when she moved in.”

“How long have they been together?”

“Married for six years.”

“What?”  Sarah was incredulous.  “How can he have been married for that long and not have told you about it?”

            John just shook his head, not wanting to get into it.  Sarah rubbed his arm and offered him a soft smile. 

“Over here!”  Emma called and waved from a table in the back. 

            John and Sarah walked over.  John took Sarah’s coat and hung it on the back of her chair before pulling it out for her.  He took the seat next to her. 

            John took a quick look around.  It was dark in the club, but every table had a candle in a glass vase and there were what appeared to be gas lamps at intervals along the walls.  Near where they were sitting was a stage with a jazz band and singer, and in front of the stage, a dance floor.  John also noticed the way Sherlock’s eyes flitted over the room, taking everything in quickly.  He probably already knew three exits and how to kill the chef with the palm fronds.  John smirked to himself.  Sarah asked him what was so funny but he just held up his hand and shook his head. 

Almost as soon as they were all settled a waiter came over and offered them menus.   

“No thanks, I’m not hungry.”  Sherlock tried to wave his away. 

“You haven’t eaten since breakfast.”  John leaned across the table. 

“I don’t eat when I’m working.”  He replied coolly. 

“Sherlock, have something, please.”  Emma chimed in from beside him. 

            Sherlock sighed and looked up at the waiter.

“A cup of tea then.”

            The waiter nodded and walked away, giving the others time to peruse their menus. 

“Honestly, I have no idea why you dragged me out.”  Sherlock looked down at his nails. 

“If you’re going to be morose you can find a taxi to take you home, by yourself.”  Emma said without looking up from her menu. 

            John smiled at the brusque nature with which she handled him.  He hadn’t met anyone yet who handled Sherlock that way, not even Mrs. Hudson.  The song switched over to a snazzy love song.  The singer was quite talented.  John noticed she was dressed as a flapper from the 20’s.  He pointed it out to Sarah who thought it was also interesting.  The waiter came back with Sherlock’s tea and took other drink orders.  The group of friends wasn’t hungry just yet, but ordered appetizers to share.  They were planning to work up their hunger by dancing.    

“Come on.”  Emma stood up and reached for Sherlock’s hand. The song had changed to a slower melody; John noticed the small smile that played on Sherlock’s lips before he stood up. 

“Would you like to dance?”  John asked, turning to Sarah. 

“Yes.”

            John led Sarah out onto the dance floor and wrapped his arms around her, nestling his chin on her shoulder.  She did the same and they swayed back and forth, comfortable in each other arms.  John opened his eyes and saw Emma and Sherlock in a darkened corner, dancing.  John was glad at least that Sherlock wasn’t sitting home alone by himself while John went out.  He closed his eyes again comfortable to be held by his girlfriend, who tonight, smelled deliciously of…wood and flowers.  John inhaled the scent again and smiled against her neck. 

            The song ended and everyone clapped appreciatively, as it had certainly been the best of the night so far.  John and Sarah went back to the table and started sipping on their drinks, talking.  John glanced around and saw Emma and Sherlock still dancing, though more out in the open now.  He noticed the protective way Sherlock had his arms around her waist and felt like he was intruding on something private, especially when she stood on her tip-toes to whisper something in his ear, and he leaned down to whisper back. 

“Who has Freak got to dance with him?” 

            John looked up to see Sally and a man standing near their table.  The man’s hand was resting on her waist so John assumed they were on a date.  Of all the people to chance meeting them there John hated that it had to be Sally.  She was by far the worst about verbalizing her hate for Sherlock. 

“Oh, that’s, that’s his, uh, wife.”  John finally got out after a long pause.  It still felt strange to say since he was just getting used to it himself. 

“Freak’s married?  There’s no way.”  Sally’s mouth formed an ‘o’ of surprise before her eyebrows shot up.  “There’s no way.  You’d think he’d brag about it.”  She turned to look at her date for agreement and he just nodded his head.  

            Sally and her date waited for the song to end and for Sherlock and Emma to come back to the table so she could introduce herself. 

“Hello.  I’m Sally Donovan.”  She smiled and held her hand out. 

“Oh, hello!  Emmaline Holmes.  Are you a friend of Sherlock’s?”

            Sally stifled a small laugh.  “Sherlock?  Sherlock doesn’t have friends.”  She stopped smiling and looked at the younger woman.  “I’m going to give you the same advice I gave him.  Get out while you can.”  Having said her peace, Sally took her date and walked to her table, on the other side of the restaurant.    

            John watched her walk away before turning to look at Sherlock.  He would always swear that her words left a sting in him.  Sherlock looked after her and John thought he saw his eyes water, just a little bit, before he composed himself.  Emma took his hand and held it tight. 

John turned back to his drink.  The couple resumed their seats and Emma laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.  She whispered something in his ear and he looked down at his lap and smiled.

“No, thank you.”  He said, turning to look at her.

“What?”  Sarah asked, looking between the two of them. 

“She offered to have Sally killed.”  Sherlock said, serious. 

“Oh.”  Sarah looked down and brought her drink to her lips. 

            Emma, Sherlock, and John laughed.

“But, I’m serious here, someone owes me a favor.” Emma told him, looking at Sherlock up through her lashes.

Sherlock just smiled in response.

ᶓ

“Hey, uh, I’m spending the night at Sarah’s tonight OK?” 

“Alright John; you don’t have to ask permission.”  Sherlock looked over at his friend and winked.  John blushed but sent up a silent prayer that Sherlock had deduced something in Sarah’s manner that spelled good luck for him.  

            Sherlock and Emma got out of the cab at 221B Baker Street and waved. 

“So, did you want to watch a film when we get there?”  John turned to Sarah. 

“I was hoping we could just go to bed; I’m exhausted John.  I’ve got to work in the morning.”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

            They got out of the cab and walked up to Sarah’s flat.  She unlocked the door and headed straight for the bathroom to wash up before bed.  John walked into the bedroom where he kept pajamas, in case he slept over.  He quickly changed and folded his clothes, setting them on the coffee table. 

“I’m going to sleep now.”  He knocked on the bathroom door.

“OK.”  He heard the shower running.  John sighed and settled into the couch. 

            A few minutes later Sarah came out of the bathroom and went into the bedroom.  John lay on the couch silently debating in his head.  He made up his mind and waited another five minutes before getting up.  He walked silently over to the bedroom door and knocked, talking quietly to himself, the silent pep-talk.   

“Sarah?”

“Yes?”  He heard her voice call loudly, almost as if she had been expecting him. 

“I was just, I was wondering, if I could sleep in here?”

            There were a few moments of silence and then the door opened. 

“Oh, good.  I thought you would say no, and then wouldn’t that be awkward.” 

            His words were interrupted as Sarah grabbed him and pulled him into the room, her mouth already searching for his in the dark.   

ᶓ

“Sherlock, do you want something?” Emmaline was in the kitchen getting a piece of bread. 

“No, I’m fine.” Sherlock hung up his coat and scarf and walked over to the CD player.  He shuffled through a few CD’s before finding the one he had been looking for and put it on. 

Emmaline walked out of the kitchen, smoothing a stray line of butter from her lip. “What’s this?”  She asked, surprised. 

“You don’t like it?”

“No, Van Morrison is good.  What’s the occasion?”

            Sherlock walked closer and drew her in his arms and began dancing with her. 

“It wasn’t enough to dance earlier tonight?”  She asked.

“I’ll never get enough of holding you.”  He put his hands on either side of her hips and held onto her firmly.   

            Emmaline smiled and wound her arms up around his back and held onto his shoulders. 

“About what that woman said at the jazz club,”

“Never mind her.”

“She was rude, Sherlock.  And wrong.”

“Hmm?”

            Sherlock ran his nose up and down the length of her soft cheek.

“You’ve got Greg, and John, and you’ve got me.”  Emmaline’s breath faltered slightly at the sensation. 

“Yes, so I do.”

            Emmaline pulled her head back to look at him.  He stopped the swaying so he could look at her.  God, she had wanted to say something.  She lost her sentence as soon as she looked into his blue eyes and fumbled for a moment, trying to remember what she had been going to say.   

“I’m being serious Sherlock.”

“Shh.  Shh my darling Emmaline.” 

            He put a finger on her lips and smiled when color touched her cheeks.  He kissed her forehead and resumed the dancing. 

“Sherlock, what’s gotten into you?”  Emmaline whispered in his ear. 

            In answer he bent down and softly touched his lips to hers.  It was a chaste kiss and lasted but a moment. 

“You tease.”  Emmaline whispered against his mouth.   

“All in good time dear.” 

            This was the side of him reserved specifically for her; the side only she knew existed.  She took in a deep breath when she felt his fingers brush her spine, running up and down its length.  Reflexively she stood on her toes and brought her body closer to Sherlock’s.   

“We’re a little jumpy tonight Emmaline.”  He whispered in her ear. 

            She didn’t answer; just wound her arms around his neck.  He bent down again but this time kissed the side of her neck.  Up, up, until he reached her chin.  She nudged his face with hers so that their lips met again.  She wanted to taste his soul, the core of his being.  She pressed all her fervent wishes and urges into her lips, imprinting her love on his mouth.

            Emmaline brought her hands up to cup his face and tentatively traced his mouth with her tongue.  Sherlock hitched in a breath before smiling against her cheek.  He gently nipped her earlobe before kissing the underside of her jaw and her chin.  Impatient, she grabbed his hips and held on while he slowly kissed the corners of her mouth. 

“Sherlock…”  He heard the impatience, the need, in her voice and it pleased him.  Oh god he was glad that he was not above this human emotion.  Other things the officers spoke about, and he did not understand, but this, love, sex, he very much understood.   

 His hand fisted in the fabric of her shirt, and she pressed herself more firmly against him.  Her hot mouth teased a few centimeters above his before he broached the distance, circling his arms around her body, effectively trapping him to her.   

“Emmaline.”  He whispered her name in her ear.

            He had never felt a love like this and he wanted to trap it like he had Emmaline.  Not stifle it, but make sure that it would always be his.  He looked into her eyes before bending down to touch her soft, full lips once again.  He would never get enough of this woman who had spent so much of her life with him. 

He would never forget the first time they had made love, shortly after her eighteenth birthday.  He could almost taste the chocolate cake that had been on her lips seven years ago.  Now her lips tasted deliciously of bananas and butter.  Her curves had become fuller since then as well; he knew she was self-conscious about them but he loved them.  They in no way betrayed that she was deadly: a runner, a boxer, and a practitioner of Judo. 

            He buried his face in her curtain of brown hair, inhaling deeply.  It smelled of oranges, the same as it always did.  The delicious scent drove him crazy, just as it had the first time he had smelled it. 

God, it had been too long since their last time together.  Long enough for her to cut her hair shorter, and to get a promotion at work.  He broke from his reverie, feeling Emma’s mouth on his collarbone. 

“Are you trying to give me a love-bite?”  He asked, voice sultry.

“Not trying.”  She replied with a hint of glee.    

            Sure enough, there was a red mark on his collarbone. 

“Just you wait.”  He whispered in her ear, reaching out with his tongue to flick her earlobe.   

            She reached for the first button on his shirt and didn’t stop until it was discarded on the floor.  He picked her up and she circled her legs around his waist.  His hands came to rest on the nice curve of her bottom and she moaned against his jaw at his touch.   

He carried her into the bedroom and lay her down on the bed.  For a moment he just stood above her, staring down at her form.  Her rumpled hair, wrinkled red blouse, black skirt hitched up to her thighs.  Her lips were fuller, swollen from the kissing, and beautifully red.   

“Sherlock.” 

            She grabbed his hand and drew him down onto the bed with her where their lips quickly met again, in quick short kisses that betrayed their passion.  She pressed her hands flat against his back and he arched lower against her.  She wrapped a leg around one of his and ran her foot up and down the length of his calf. 

“Damn woman.”  Sherlock ground out between his teeth. 

“Those all the words you have?”  She breathed out heavily. 

  Instead of responding he unbuttoned the top two buttons of her shirt; he then grabbed the bottom of her blouse and worked it off over her head.  She tossed it off the bed; Emmaline rolled over onto him and started planting feather-light kisses down his neck, his chest, his abdomen.  She traced the planes of his chest and lightly scratched at his hips, her mouth hovering inches above his stomach.     

“Who’s a tease?”  He asked, gently taking her chin in his hand and bringing her lips back to his. 

These were no longer the gentle kisses of only a few minutes ago; they were fever-ridden, passion-inducing kisses that trilled and made their mouths hum with pleasure even after they had moved apart.   

            He rolled back over onto her and laid on her the same careful ministrations she had just performed.  Kissing up and down her abdomen, he placed his hands right under her breasts and traced his thumbs along her ribs.  She ran her hands through his wild mane of hair, curling her fingers against his scalp.  He brought his mouth to the soft flesh under her collarbone and left his own love-bite. 

“Try hiding that at work.” 

Sherlock moved to sit at the foot of the bed and kissed her ankle up to her calf.  Light, feathery kisses, just long enough to tease.  He teased his fingers along her thigh before gently tracing his lips from the inside curve of her knee to the hem of her skirt.  Emmaline started to touch his face and his shoulders, indicating it was her turn, so he moved up the bed once again, this time lying next to her.   

            She ran her fingers down his arms, feeling the hard muscle underneath; she intertwined their fingers and kissed each one.  She wound her hands over his shoulders again and brought herself up against him to kiss his neck, and the underline of his jaw.  She tangled their legs together, and in the sheets.  She brushed her lips lightly over his but moved on to kiss his nose, his forehead, his eyelids.  Every shuddering breath he took made her quiver with pleasure.   

            He reached out and kissed her cheek, lightly brushing his lips over until they reached her lips.  She slid her hand down until it rested on his hip and she pulled it against her so they were flush together.  More urgently than before he pushed her back against the pillows and rolled on top of her.  He placed his hands on either side of her, and trapped her between his arms. 

He whispered her name in between hot kisses and she smiled against his lips.  She pulled herself up to kiss his cheek, but her lips were soon back on his with the hot need that only a fevered passion such as theirs could ignite.  She felt like his hands were on fire as they gripped her thighs and inched ever higher.     

            At the same time, she ran her hands down his abdomen and reached his belt, and he reached a hand around to the zipper on her skirt.  Their lips almost touching, both were breathing heavily.  Sherlock brought his lips back to Emmaline’s and laid her back against the pillows. 

She undid his belt with sure movements and soon his trousers were on the floor with her skirt.  Sherlock reached down to whisper in his lover’s ear. 

“Remember when I said I’d get you back for the love bite?  I hope you’re in for a long night darling Emmaline.”  Sherlock smiled viciously but instead of the response he had expected, Emmaline took hold of him, her lips teasingly wetting her mouth. 

“I’m all yours.”  She replied seductively. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 3 18-4-2010

            Sherlock’s hand moved over the bed blindly, searching for the phone that wouldn’t stop ringing. 

“Hello?”  His sleepy voice cut the silence of the dark room. 

            He sat up and listened more intently.  “Yes I’ll be there right away.”

            Sherlock threw back the covers and got out of bed.  He turned on the lamp and then opened his closet door. 

“What is it?”  A sleepy voice from behind him made his heart flutter.  He turned around; he had forgotten Emmaline.  It was easy to do when you were used to sleeping alone.   

            She held the blanket up to cover herself and stared at him, wanting for an answer to her question. 

“It was Lestrade; there was another murder.”  He turned back to the closet and picked out clothes. 

“Why didn’t you say so?” 

            He turned back around to see her getting out of bed and walking up to the closet.  She grabbed an outfit off the hanger, and walked into the bathroom.  He heard the shower turn on.  Sighing, he pulled on his pants and buttoned his shirt, fighting the urge to take a shower as well. 

            Sherlock walked out to the kitchen and sliced a piece of bread and buttered it; he shoved it in his mouth before returning to the bedroom to put his socks and shoes on. 

“Hurry up!”  He walked back to the kitchen to pour a cup of tea, needing something to wash down the banana bread.  He sighed and looked at the clock; John would never have taken this long.  He heard the shower head turn off.

“Finally,” he muttered. 

            He prepared another cup of tea and a slice of the banana bread for Emmaline and put it on his desk so she’d see it when she came out.  She walked out from the bedroom and drained the tea and made a face. 

“Cold?” he asked, smirking at her expression. 

“I hate tea.”  She ate the bread and put her coat on.

“You look…nice.”  Sherlock commented, tying his scarf. 

“Thank you.”  Emmaline looked down at herself, pleased.  “Is John meeting us there?”

“No I haven’t called him.  There’s no reason to wake him up at this ungodly hour.”

            Sherlock trotted ahead and crossed the street. 

“We don’t need the car?”

“It’s Jazz 101; the murder took place in the parking lot.”

“Oh.”  Emmaline put her car keys back in her pocket.  

            He looked down at her and smiled; threading his fingers in hers they started to run the few blocks to the jazz club.  They arrived six minutes later; the police had arrived a half-hour earlier and were setting up the crime-scene. 

“Who is it?”  Sherlock asked, approaching the body. 

“Name is Cary Evans, aged nineteen.  She had just moved to London a month ago from Cardiff.” 

“It’s the jazz singer.” 

“What?”  Sherlock looked up at Emmaline, who was crouched near the girl’s face. 

“It’s the singer from the club.”

“She had only worked there five days,” Lestrade confirmed. 

“You said she was nineteen?”  Emmaline asked. 

“Yes.”

“So young…”  Emmaline shook her head. 

            She lifted up the girl’s shirt so Sherlock could inspect the wounds. 

“There’s more stab wounds.  Last victim had five; she has eight.”  Sherlock examined the abdomen.  Emmaline continued to hold the shirt.  “She has defensive wounds on her wrists and hands.  She’s missing a bracelet.  Greg, I’d ask friends and family for photographs of it.  It seems our killer is taking trophies.” 

“Why does she have more stab wounds than Deborah Greene?”  He whispered to himself. 

“Sherlock?” Emma asked, breaking his concentration.  

“Yes?”

Emmaline wet her lips before looking up at him and speaking.  “Why didn’t Deborah Greene fight back?”

“She could have been easily over-powered, and she was thirty-six.  Cary was nineteen, young, strong.  She stood more of a chance.” 

            Sherlock more closely looked at the wounds. 

“They were made with the same weapon but these are deeper.  See?” He sighed and looked up at Lestrade. “There was more rage here; our killer may have known Cary personally.”

            Sherlock stood up and removed the latex gloves, throwing them away.  He pulled out his phone and texted John that there had been another murder and to come back to the flat.  Sherlock started the long walk back to 221B Baker Street in deep thought and didn’t notice when Emmaline ran up beside him and slipped her hand in his. 

ᶓ

“Sarah, I’ve got to go.”

            John sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the sleep from them.  He was still half-caught up in a pleasant dream. 

“Where do you have to go at 5:30 in the morning?”

“Sherlock.” He answered.

“Alright; be safe.” Her voice was tired but resigned. She had gotten used to John dropping everything for his friend.

            In the dark he found her and kissed her goodbye.  He picked up his folded clothes and slipped on his shoes before walking out to the street and hailing a taxi. He unlocked the door to the flat and walked up to his room to take a shower and get new clothes on before going back downstairs. 

“What’s going on Sherlock?” John stood impatiently watching his friend pace back and forth across the flat. 

“I’m trying to connect the facts, the details, and the murders.” 

            Emmaline came out of the kitchen carrying two bowls and put them down on the table and Sherlock’s desk respectively. 

“Is that…blood?”  John asked, pointing at Emma’s shirt.

“Oh bugger!”  She exclaimed, seeing the giant blood-stain on the bottom of her shirt. 

            Emma rushed into the bedroom to change.  John sat down in an arm-chair and saw that Emma had made porridge with blueberries.  He picked up his spoon and dug in eagerly.  Emma came out of the bedroom and went back into the kitchen, bringing them each a glass of orange juice.  She shook John’s hand again and walked over to Sherlock, who now sat in his chair. 

            She hesitated over him and he noticed, raising an eyebrow questioningly.  She bent down and pressed her lips to his quickly before leaving for work. 

“What was that all about?”  John asked between bites of porridge. 

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”  Sherlock answered, not really paying attention. 

            John told him to eat his breakfast before getting up to wash out his bowl.  When he came out Sherlock was lying on the floor staring up at the ceiling.  John looked up and saw every piece of evidence taped to the ceiling.  He shook his head before grabbing Sherlock’s bowl and eating its contents as well. 

            He came back into the main room and huffed, having nothing to do. 

“I think I’ll do the wash; Emma’s gonna want the blood stain out of that shirt.”  John walked towards Sherlock’s room. “How did she get blood on her shirt in the first place?”

“The crime scene; there was more blood around the body.”  Sherlock answered the question absently. 

            John nodded his head and opened the door.  He blushed at the state of the room.  Sherlock’s and Emma’s clothes were on the floor and the sheets were tangled in a state of disarray.  John walked around the room picking up the clothes and separated them by color; the white shirt he took to the kitchen and scrubbed by means of a toothbrush with some bleach on it. 

            He walked down the stairs to the laundry room Mrs. Hudson had on the first floor; the chore done for now he sighed.  Sherlock was insufferable when he was like this; he had a few of the pieces but he needed more; he tried to solve the crime without more people dying but secretly wished that more bodies would be procured for him to solve the crime.  However, John supposed that that was just how Sherlock’s mind worked. 

            John jumped when he heard a shout from upstairs.  He raced to see what Sherlock had done; he was standing putting his coat on, the armchair he had been sitting in on its side. 

“I’ve got to see Lestrade!  I think I’ve got part of it John.” 

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“Yes, yes…”  Sherlock patted his pockets and pulled out a piece of paper.  He groaned when he looked down at it. 

“Actually, would you mind doing this?”  He handed the paper to John. 

“You want me to go to the grocery?”

“Emmaline insists and I simply haven’t got the time.”  Sherlock ran out the door.  “Thanks John!” 

            John sighed but pulled on his coat.  He checked his wallet to make sure he had money.  He checked the list and saw at the bottom a card number had been written – it was Emma’s debit card number.  She was offering to buy the groceries.  John smiled and walked outside to hail a taxi. 

ᶓ

“Lestrade!”  Sherlock strode into the office of the DI. 

“What is it Sherlock?” 

“I’ve discovered what connects these victims.  They all have a similar facial structure.  The murderer is subconsciously killing women who all have comparable bone structure.  He is killing someone he knows, over and over again.”

“What?”

“He’s using these women as a substitute for a woman he wants to kill in his personal life.”

“Is that all?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock started with an air of superiority, “He’s also got to have some form of advanced medical training, to avoid vital organs the way he does.  We’re close Lestrade, there are just, pieces missing.”  Sherlock held his hands out to emphasize his point. 

            Sherlock sighed and rubbed his temples.

“Here.”  Sherlock pulled a flash drive out of his pocket. 

“What is this?” 

“It’s software I got from a friend; run every woman’s photo through the software.  It’s already set up to pull aside photos of women that share facial similarities with the other two victims; when it’s done running, call me.”

There was no need for Lestrade to know that he had swiped it from Mycroft’s office weeks before, when his brother had been annoying.  Sherlock was glad now that he had.    

“What do we do Sherlock?”

“We wait Greg; we wait for him to mess up; so far, he’s been very good at cleaning up after himself.” 

            The two men shook hands and Sherlock departed, heading back for his flat.  Upon entering he looked down and started to take off his coat; he paused however, when he saw the note on the floor.  It was addressed to him.  He stooped down to pick it up.  He weighed it carefully in his hand before opening it. 

My dear Sherlock,

I hope you’re enjoying yourself

I know I am

Just watching you work is a marvel

Did you like what I left you, almost on your door?

Sherlock immediately started searching the flat for any breach, but finding none, he relaxed slightly.  It must have been slipped under the door.  The last line obviously referred to Cary’s murder at Jazz 101.  Sherlock sighed and rubbed his eyes.  He was so tired. 

            He had just sat down to a cup of tea in his armchair when John came in with the grocery.  He started putting things away in the proper places so Sherlock stayed relaxed.  John finished with the grocery and went down to check on the laundry, assuming correctly that Sherlock wouldn’t have bothered.  He moved the things to the dryer and started another load of wash. 

            John came back upstairs to find Sherlock snoozing in the arm chair.  Emmaline came out of the bedroom, dressed in a short night-gown.  John blushed and quickly said good-night, heading upstairs.  He again removed the clip from his gun and placed it in his bedside drawer before dressing for bed and falling asleep. 

            Once Sherlock was sure both occupants were asleep he quietly went upstairs; opening John’s bedside table he removed the soldier’s gun and clip and took it downstairs with him.  He moved his armchair to a more prime spot so he could watch both the window and the door.  He wanted to feel safe in his own home again but he couldn’t while the killer was out there. 

            He kept his eyes open all night and only started to nod off when the dawn light filtered in through the curtains.  Just as soon as he had started to fall asleep his phone buzzed with a text.  He slowly reached into his jacket pocket and read the message. 

Lestrade: Cary was 2mnths pregnant at time murdered. This makes 2 killings 3.

            Sherlock closed his eyes; they were dealing with a sicker man than even he had thought.  He got up and walked into his bedroom, laying the gun on the nightstand, safety on.  He barely got his shoes off before he collapsed from exhaustion. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 4 20-4-2010

“He still feels hot Emma.”  John took his hand off of Sherlock’s forehead. 

            The man had woken up yesterday morning feeling sick so John and Emma had confined him to bed-rest.  Sherlock had tried to call Lestrade but the DI had told him the program was still running so it would be best for him to get some shut-eye.  There were so many women in London that fit the parameters the software had to look for.   

            John hadn’t even asked about the gun; Emma had found the note on Sherlock’s bedside table with John’s gun when she had woken up.  He couldn’t believe his friend had stayed up all night watching out for the two of them; if he had only asked, they could’ve taken shifts.  Emma however wanted Sherlock to stay in bed; she said he hadn’t been getting a lot of sleep lately.

            As it was it had been difficult to get him to go back to sleep.  When he wasn’t looking Emma had put sedatives in his tea and he was out until 7:00 the next morning.  Of course she and John had deliberated about it, but they knew he needed his rest.  They had taken turns watching him all through the night; it was John who was watching him when Sherlock woke up.   

“Oh, you’re waking up.”  John put his book down on the nightstand and leaned forward over the bed. 

“Are you thirsty, hungry?” 

            Sherlock moaned and covered his eyes.  How could he have fallen asleep at a time like this? 

“What time is it?”

            John looked at his watch. “7:03, on the 20^th of April.” 

            Sherlock’s eyes opened wide and he tried to sit up, grabbing onto John.  “I was in bed all day yesterday?”  He shouted. 

“Calm down, it was for your own good.”  Emma walked into the room with a glass of water. 

“Infernal woman,” Sherlock sighed, lying back on the bed, snuggling deeper into the blankets.   

“Now Sherlock, she’s been here taking care of you.”  John easily rushed to mount a defense.

“John, fetch me my nicotine patches will you?”  Sherlock covered his eyes with his arm, trying to block out the sunlight.

“No John.”  Emma said, shaking her head, and walking to the window to draw the curtains.  “Sherlock you’re sick.”

            John looked between the two of them and shook his head.  He was glad he had to work today; being here with the two of them would not be fun. 

“Well I’ve got to go.”  John patted his thighs and stood up from the chair by Sherlock’s bed. 

“Oh John, I need you to look at something for me real quick,” Emma turned from the window.   

“OK…”  She ushered him out into the hall, and John noticed the strange look from Sherlock.  So he didn’t know what she was going to say.   

            Emma closed Sherlock’s door and walked down the hall, John following close behind. 

“Sherlock told me you were questioning him a few days ago.”

“Oh yes.  Does that bother you, because I can, not, do that?”  John finished awkwardly, hands falling awkwardly at his sides.    

Emma laughed.  “No it’s fine.  I know that Sherlock got mad when you asked him why I moved out.”  Her voice grew morose. 

“Yeah, why did he do that?”  John was honestly curious about why such an innocent question would make his friend so irritable, but he also guessed that this was a subject that made them both uncomfortable.  

“I came home one day before him and there was a kid from a gang in the house.  Sherlock had found evidence against their gang leader and had sent him to jail; I mean locked up, for a long time.  They wanted revenge so they sent this kid to hurt Sherlock, as gang initiation.  Well the kid panicked because nobody had told him there was a girl living there, just Sherlock.  He slashed out with the knife and ran out the door before I could say anything; I was just…frozen there.”

            Her eyes had taken on the far-off quality of someone who was absorbed in the story they were telling. 

“Oh no.”  John could see it in his mind’s eye, and he knew the story ended fine, but was still worried. 

“Sherlock came home to find me lying in a pool of my own blood.”  Emma pulled the neckline of her sweater down so John could see a faint pink scar, right between where her collarbone met her throat on the left side.

“It wasn’t a terrible cut, it just bled so much I couldn’t do anything about it; I couldn’t even reach the phone before I blacked out.”

            She sighed and covered the scar again, continuing with her story.    

“He blamed himself, naturally, and packed my bags for me while I was in the hospital.  He called a cab to take me away to school, and I didn’t see him for a long time after that.”

“That’s a terrible story.  I mean, I suppose I understand why he’s so paranoid now.”

“He’s Sherlock, he’s always been paranoid.  But I didn’t see him for months after that, being at Cambridge.  I called him and he wouldn’t answer his phone.  Finally he did and agreed that we should try being friends, and when that did not work out he tried to shut me out again.”

            “What did you do?”

            “Broke into his flat; that’s when he proposed.”  She said with a smile.      

            John saw a faint tint of pink color her cheeks so he assumed the rest was a personal story. 

“Well, I’ll let you get to work.”  She finished, clutching the edges of her sweater in her fingers. 

“Right.” 

            He held his hand out for their usual shake but instead, she leaned in and kissed his cheek. 

“Thanks John; you’re a good friend.  I’m glad he’s had you, here with him.  I worried about him, living on his own.”

            John smiled before opening the door and walking down the stairs. 

“Alright,” Emmaline started to speak, opening the door to Sherlock’s room.  “What do you think you’re doing?”

            Sherlock stood, fully clothed, and tying his scarf. 

“There’s been another murder; Lestrade needs me there.”

            Emmaline sighed. 

“Let me go and I promise to eat whatever you make when I get back.”

“Fine,” she relented. 

            He kissed her forehead before putting on his gloves and exiting the bedroom. 

“Uh-uh, I want some more.”

            Sherlock turned around and Emmaline grabbed the lapels of his coat, pulling him down for a longer kiss.  She pressed her lips quickly to his one more time before letting him go, patting his coat.

“Now you can go to work.”

            Sherlock stood up straight.

“Maybe John should leave more often,” he muttered more to himself than to Emmaline; however she heard, and smiled. 

            Sherlock hailed a taxi and yelled the address to the cabbie.  If the murderer had struck again so soon it meant he was devolving.  Sherlock leaned back against the seat, feeling sick.  He closed his eyes and didn’t open them again until the cabbie was yelling at him to get out. 

            Sherlock looked up at the abandoned office building; he paid the cabbie and walked up to the crime scene tape.  Sally led him over to Lestrade without a word, but he did notice she kept stealing glances at him.  He must have looked worse than he thought.  Of course when he had checked in the mirror at home he had appeared very pale.  He shrugged the thoughts away; he was here to investigate the latest murder; then he could go home and lie down. 

“Sherlock!”  Lestrade strode over and shook his hand.  “You look awful; are you sure you’re OK?” 

“I have ten minutes Lestrade.  Where’s the body?”

            Lestrade started walking over to the most heavily populated area of the crime-scene.  Sherlock strode ahead of him and stopped dead in his tracks. 

“Name?”

“Lindsay Smith, aged twenty-five.”

            Sherlock took a step closer; Lindsay Smith lay sprawled on her back, lying in a pool of blood that stained her pink shirt.  Pinned to her shirt was a note.  Sherlock bent down to read what it said: ‘She wouldn’t stop screaming’. 

            Sherlock hung his head in his hands and breathed in deeply before looking at the body again.  Her throat had been completely slashed open, shreds of skin hanging; it was the most gruesome murder of the bunch by far.  He lifted up her shirt and there were thirteen stab wounds but they bled much less; Sherlock guessed the slicing of the throat had killed Lindsay and the stab wounds were done after she had died. 

            Sherlock brushed her hair back and noticed she was missing a diamond stud; the killer had taken another piece of jewelry as a trophy.  He drew his phone out of his pocket and took a picture of the bare ear. 

“We’ve interviewed a witness who said she saw the back of a man leaving the parking lot.  Anderson said we’ve got a partial print and we’re rushing it over to the lab now.”  Greg came up behind Sherlock again. 

            Sherlock nodded his head, indicating that he had heard.  He stood up and started taking photos of the rest of the crime scene with his phone. 

“Remember to call me when that software gets done running.”  Sherlock shook Greg’s hand and departed the scene. 

            He made it two blocks before he ran to the nearest trash-can and heaved up the little he had had to drink in the past forty-eight hours.  He wiped his mouth with a shaky hand and was barely able to get a taxi to stop.  Sherlock couldn’t remember feeling so sick; he had never gotten ill at a crime scene before. 

            It took Sherlock five minutes to get up the stairs to his flat and another minute for him to find the doorknob to turn it. 

“Sherlock?” 

            From his position on his hands and knees, he saw the hazy form of Emmaline get up from his armchair and run across the room.  She just had time to hold her arms out when he blacked out, falling into them. 

ᶓ

John flipped the page in his medical journal, peering over the top when he heard the groan from the bed. 

“So you’re awake now?”  John put aside his book and leaned back in his chair. 

“What time is it?”

“Oh about 6:30 in the evening.”  John looked down at his watch and back at Sherlock, an angry expression marring his features. 

“What now?”  Sherlock asked, rubbing his temples. 

“You worried Emmaline to death; I got a panicked call that you had collapsed and you wouldn’t wake up.  We were worried Sherlock.  You’re overexerting yourself.”  John hissed through his teeth. 

            John sighed and got up, leaving the room.  Emmaline came in with a glass of water; Sherlock saw the clear evidence that she had been crying.  Setting the glass of water on his bedside table she fell to her knees by his bed; she reached out for his hand and held it in both of hers. 

“You scared me to death.”  Her voice was a barely audible whisper. 

“So I’ve been told.”  Sherlock blew a piece of hair out of his eyes.

“I mean it Sherlock; I’ve never seen a case physically exhaust you like this.”  She ran her thumb over the back of his hand, concerned.   

“I’ll be fine; I always am.”

“You’re too hard on yourself.”

“Emmaline,” he turned his head to finally look at her; there was wetness in her eyes.

“Do you know what it does to the people who care about you, when something like this happens?  John was pacing back and forth all day, couldn’t sit down.”

“And you were crying,” Sherlock said, bringing his thumb up to trace her cheekbone. 

“I can’t help it.  I worry about you.”  She closed her eyes, feeling the touch of his skin on hers. 

“Well don’t.”  Sherlock leaned back against the pillows. 

“It’s not a switch you can turn off Sherlock; I can’t help that I fell in love with you.”  She picked up the glass of water.  “Drink something.”

            Sherlock took the glass and drained half of it before Emmaline stopped him.

“Let’s take it slow, OK?”

            Emmaline reached the door before Sherlock spoke again. 

“Thank you.”

“For what?”  Emmaline turned around.  

“For loving me.”

            Emmaline smiled. 

“There was never anyone else.”

            She walked back over to the bed and kissed his forehead before leaving the room.  Sherlock fell back asleep and wasn’t bothered again until his phone went off at 9:00. 

“Hello?”  He answered, sleepily. 

“The software’s finished.”  Sherlock sat up in bed and threw the covers off. 

            He went out into the living room and held up a hand to John; he didn’t need to be bothered now.

“Put the female age range between eighteen and fifty years old.”

“Done.”  Lestrade came back on the phone after running the instructions through the software program.   

“Lestrade, narrow it down to those women who have an older husband.”

“What makes you think he’s married?”

“His murders are controlled; so is his life.  To anyone on the outside he’d appear completely normal and would have a steady existence.”

“Why older?”

“He’s got patience; someone young and immature couldn’t do this.  They wouldn’t have the patience to watch their victims bleed to death. Besides, this has taken years of medical training; he has to be older.”     

            It was a few minutes before Greg said ‘OK’.

“Now narrow it down to those men who are involved in the medical field in some way.”

“Good, the list is getting smaller.”

“Now narrow it down so the husband is white and between five foot eleven and six foot two, and with brown hair.”

            Sherlock waited impatiently while the software ran the new parameters.  He hoped desperately that this would get them close to finding the killer. 

“That narrows it down to ten suspects Sherlock.  Anything else?”

“Not tonight, no.” Sherlock sighed in frustration. 

“I’ll go over our records in the morning; we’ll get him Sherlock, soon.”

“Goodnight Greg.”  Sherlock hung up his phone and rubbed his eyes. 

He was tired and hungry.  Almost as if she had read his mind Emmaline brought him a bowl of oatmeal.  John helped him back into bed where he ate his dinner.  He drank the last of his water and Emmaline came back into the room to collect his dishes. 

“Get some sleep Sherlock.”

“Emmaline, come here for a minute.”

“What is it?”

            Emmaline leaned over the bed and was surprised when Sherlock reached up and brought her lips down against his for a quick, gentle kiss. 

“I love you,” he whispered against her mouth. 

            He drew back and rolled over, covering himself up with the blankets.  He was too tired to even wait for a proper response, even if he wasn’t expecting one.  They weren’t often romantic in the ooey-gooey way; he wasn’t even sure how many times he had said ‘I love you’”; not as many as he should have, that was for sure. 

Emmaline bit her bottom lip before heading for the door.  She touched the handle before saying over her shoulder, ‘I love you too.’  Sherlock smiled as the door closed.  Yes, theirs was a true and pure love; even if they did only get to meet once a month, or on cases as gruesome as this.  Still, he wouldn’t trade their time together for anything.  He fell asleep dreaming of what it would feel like to finally catch this killer.      

Chapter Text

Chapter 5 21-4-2010

“You’re looking better.”  John observed as he walked around the corner and saw Sherlock standing, looking at the wall of suspect’s photos.  He had hung them up earlier in the morning after Lestrade had faxed them over. 

“It’s the tea.”  Sherlock showed him the empty cup.  “I’ve been drinking it all morning.”  Emmaline came out of the kitchen and poured him another cup, almost as if to prove he was telling the truth. 

            John yawned and walked into the kitchen.  He grabbed a box of cereal and a bowl, pouring himself some. 

“Can you hand me the milk?”

            Emmaline handed it to him and took it from him when he was done; she stood there for a moment before rooting around in the pantries for something.  She procured an apple and took it out to Sherlock; John noticed that she was wearing Sherlock’s robe.  He shook his head; that had been a strange observation.  Of course, there was nothing normal about their situation so maybe strange observations were called for.   

            He walked back into the main room and plopped into the arm chair. 

“Any conclusions?”  John asked, taking a bite of his breakfast. 

“What am I missing John?  All the pieces are here…he’s white, tall, brown hair.  We have that physical description.  We know he works in the medical profession.  He keeps trophies, so he can re-live these murders over and over again.  It’s not enough taking their lives once; he has to do it again and again.  Maybe he’s been to anger management…no…,” Sherlock took another sip of tea.  “He keeps up the appearance of a happy relationship, there’s no way he’d let his anger get out of control until he kills again.  It’s becoming an obsession, John.  He keeps killing more and more.  There’s less time between each murder.  Think, Sherlock!  What is it?”

            He crossed his arms and held his chin in thought. 

“You’ll figure it out.”  Emmaline rubbed his arm comfortingly.  “I’ve got to go; work.”

            She reached up to kiss his cheek and waved goodbye to John before leaving the flat.  Sherlock’s phone started ringing in his pocket.

“John, can you get that?” 

            John sighed but stood up, reaching into Sherlock’s jacket. 

“It’s Lestrade, there’s been another murder.”

            Sherlock didn’t say anything, just walked over to the door and grabbed his scarf and coat.  John followed him, weary as well.  They would both rest easier once this man was behind bars. 

ᶓ

“It’s the same four stab wounds to the abdomen.”  Lestrade showed them to the body.  “Her name was Sarah Clarke; she was seventeen.”

“Who found her?”

“A woman walking her dog; Sarah was on her way to work when she was attacked.  She was here for maybe thirty minutes.  The woman who called it in said she had still been breathing when she had come across her.”

“What piece of jewelry is she missing?”  Sherlock asked, squatting beside the body. 

“We’re not sure yet.  She’s not wearing any earrings; I’ve got an officer calling family as we speak.”

“It was a bracelet; one she loved apparently.  There are tan marks on her left wrist.”  Sherlock squinted at her wrist before concluding he was right and moving on to examine other parts of the body. 

“The killer is evolving quickly,” John spoke up from his position by the body. 

“And whatever was protecting his wife is gone now; he’s killed her replacement so many times he’ll kill her any time now.  He’s going to be craving the high from killing the actual thing,” Sherlock pointed out. 

            Lestrade nodded his head wearily.

“If we don’t find him soon he’ll go on a spree; we don’t need any more deaths.”

“No, we don’t,” Sherlock said, standing up.  “John, we’re going.”

“Sherlock, what are we going to do?”  John asked, pulling off his gloves.

“We’re going to stare at my board.”

            Sherlock ran up the steps, pulling out his keys.  He noticed Emmaline’s car was gone; she had gone to work earlier, he reminded himself.  He raced upstairs and flung his coat off. 

“What’s wrong, what’s different?”  He muttered to himself. 

“Cary.”

“What?”  Sherlock turned to face John.

“Scene one, three, and four all victims had four stab wounds to the abdomen, with the exception of scene three who’s stab wounds were applied post-mortem.  So who’s different?  Scene two, Cary.”

“Why?”  Sherlock asked, wanting to keep John on his roll. 

“She had seven stab wounds to the abdomen.”

            Sherlock pulled out his phone and called Lestrade. 

“Hello?”

“Who found Cary’s body?”

“The night manager, at 12:30.”

“How long had she been dead?”

“Autopsy says about an hour.”

“That puts time of death at around 11:30; when did she get off work?”  Sherlock asked. 

“11:00.” There was a rustle of papers as Lestrade checked his papers. 

Sherlock spoke to Lestrade and John.  “Assuming the killer attacked her right when she got off work she would have laid there, bleeding, for a half-hour before she died.”

“Why was there so much rage in her kill though Sherlock?”  John asked, pointing at Cary’s picture. 

“What makes her different?”  Sherlock asked himself. 

Suddenly it hit him, and he felt stupid for not having seen it before.  “She was pregnant…Greg!  The software, how many of the wives are pregnant?”

“There’s only one match and her husband is…Kyle Edwards; he’s a trauma surgeon.”

“Get officers to his home immediately; make sure his wife is OK.”

“Sherlock?”  John tapped his friend’s shoulder; his whole body had gone rigid. 

            Sherlock turned around to see what John wanted; he followed his friend’s line of sight to a note lying on the floor.

“It just came under the door.”  John whispered. 

            Sherlock lowered the phone and pushed the ‘end’ button.  John pulled the gun from his waistband and held it up, safety off.  He nodded at Sherlock and the younger man walked forward and opened the door, John rushing forward into the hall. 

“Clear.”  John put the gun back and bent over to get the note. 

            He flipped it open and read, the color draining from his face.  He handed it to Sherlock; John gripped his hair in his hands, impatiently waiting for his friend to read it.  Sherlock read the note:

Well done Sherlock

But where’s Emmaline?

“Is that written in…blood?”  John asked, his voice wavering. 

“Yes.”  Sherlock cleared his throat.  

            Sherlock’s mind raced, thinking.  Another note, always a note.  He raced out the door, hailing a cab.  He never even noticed that he had forgotten his coat.   

“Sherlock, where are we going?”

“Emmaline’s flat; that’s where the first note was left.  He wanted us all together and he started it there.  That’s where he’ll be.”  Sherlock’s voice was frantic, worried.

“Sherlock?”

“He has to be there.  He has to be.”

“Emmaline told me; what happened I mean, when she lived with you.”

            Sherlock’s sad blue eyes met John’s. 

“I promised her she’d never get hurt again because of me.”

“She’s fine Sherlock; she’s smart.”

            Sherlock just nodded his head, nervously tapping his knee.  When the taxi finally stopped both men burst from the back, running up the stairs to Emmaline’s front door.  John slipped the gun back out, and nodded his head.  Sherlock opened the door; it was unlocked. 

            Sherlock’s heart sank as he walked into the flat.  The couch had been overturned, the glass coffee table broken in shards.  Emmaline appeared to be unconscious, her arms tied behind a chair, her ankles tied to the chair legs.  There was a rag tied around her mouth; blood had dried in her hair but Sherlock couldn’t immediately see any injury. 

“I thought you would have been more astute Sherlock; she’s been gone hours.”  Kyle Edwards appeared out of the shadows behind Emmaline’s chair, clutching a butcher’s knife. 

            Sherlock thought of Emmaline’s missing car, her saying goodbye; she had been heading to work and he had jumped her. 

“She doesn’t look like Jenna; she doesn’t look like those other girls.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Kyle took another step forward and reached a hand out to brush Emmaline’s hair over her shoulder, out of her face.  “I like to see you nervous.”  Kyle looked up, bringing the knife edge closer to Emmaline’s cheek.  “Tell your friend to drop his gun.”

            Sherlock nodded his head at John; the soldier set his gun down on the floor and kicked it across the room so neither of them could reach it. 

            Sherlock’s stomach churned; with the light from outside filtering in through the window, and her hair out of her face, he could clearly see that she had been hurt.  There was a giant gash on her left temple and a bruise on her right cheek.  The cut was still bleeding, dripping onto her white blouse. 

            Sherlock looked at John out of the corner of his eye; his friend had been slowly inching closer to Kyle while they had been talking.  He knew that John could be quiet, but that was scary.  He had to keep Kyle distracted so John could dispatch him.  Even without a gun John was a deadly weapon.   

“Why make the 999 call Kyle?”  Sherlock figured the longer he could distract Kyle, the more of a chance John stood in getting to him before he could hurt Emmaline.

“I wanted to show you my work; an artist should be appreciated.”

            Sherlock kept his calm outward appearance, but inside he was seething.  John inched ever closer.

“How did you know Cary was pregnant?”

“I was at the club that night; you’re a good dancer, by the way.  I overheard her telling one of the musicians about it; the way she got so excited, as if it were a good thing.”  He sneered at the retelling of the story.  “Stupid bitch deserved it.”  Kyle put his hand on Emmaline’s shoulder and trailed his fingers up and down her arm, tenderly. 

            Sherlock ground his teeth; hurry up John, he thought.  He could see Emmaline’s neck lolling and knew she was waking up. 

“Why did you steal their jewelry?”  Sherlock was grasping for questions; he already knew why the killer had done everything else. 

“Because I wanted a piece of them.  Do you know what it feels like to be in charge of someone’s life?  I save lives during the day, and I took them at night.  It feels like God, Sherlock.  Being in charge of how someone leaves this world; it’s heady stuff, I’ll tell you that.”

“How did you know about Emmaline?”  It was the only thing he had not been able to figure out.

“Oh Sherlock, you weren’t as careful as you thought.  You may not have had a routine, but it was easy enough to follow you every time you left.  I have friends in high places.  Friends who are willing to pay with favors and favors in return.  I can’t say I blame you though, she is a beauty.” 

John’s palms were sweating, inching across the glass-covered rug.  He was glad Kyle hadn’t noticed him yet; it wasn’t exactly like he was being stealthy.  He could sense Sherlock was running out of questions. 

“Do you want her to die?”

            Kyle turned his gaze on John, grabbing Emma’s hair and yanking back on it.  John saw her bite her lip to keep from crying out. 

“Oh good, you’ve rejoined us.  I didn’t think you were done.”  Kyle pressed his face up against Emma’s and spoke to her. 

            He traced the knife-edge down the side of her face teasingly, bringing it to rest at the hollow of her throat.  Sherlock looked to John, and then Emmaline.  They both nodded their heads.  Sherlock took in a deep breath and charged.

            John and Sherlock ran for Kyle at the same time that Emmaline pushed off her tip-toes and pushed the chair back.  Kyle lost his balance and the hand holding the knife flew up, slicing open the flesh under her chin.  John and Sherlock tackled him at the same time.

“I’ve got him; John, call Lestrade.”

            John got up and pulled his phone out calling Lestrade and telling him the situation, and the address.  Emmaline worked her way out of her ties and stood, holding a hand to her head.  She felt woozy and unsteady on her feet. 

            Sherlock produced a pair of handcuffs he had stolen from Lestrade and cuffed Kyle’s hands behind his back. 

“John, sit on him.”

            John finished his call and obeyed, taking over Sherlock’s spot. 

“Come on.”

            Sherlock picked Emmaline up in his arms and carried her downstairs.  He heard the sounds of a far-off ambulance; holding her in his arms he sat on the bottom stair and waited for help to arrive.

“Sherlock,” Emmaline whispered. 

“Shh, please; the ambulance is on the way.”

            She reached her fingers up to pat her lips.  Sherlock frowned but complied with her wish; he kissed her gently, tasting the blood on her lips.  She started to deepen the kiss but he pulled away.

“You have a head wound, remember?”

“Hmm?”  Emmaline’s eyes fluttered open and closed. 

“Stay awake, they’re almost here.”

            The sound of the ambulance grew louder and was soon in sight.  He picked her up in his arms again and carried her over to the parked vehicle.  The EMT helped Sherlock put her in the back.  The EMT examined Emmaline’s wounds and started to stitch up her forehead before beginning stitches on the underside of her jaw. 

“Sherlock, where is he?”  Lestrade ran up to Sherlock, out of breath.

“He’s in flat number 209; John’s got him.”

            Lestrade nodded and ran off, talking on his radio.  Every time Emmaline cringed at the needle in her skin, Sherlock felt it.  He winced with her, upset that she was in pain because of him. 

            Another EMT walked up to him then and threw an orange blanket over his shoulders. 

“For the shock,” the man said, walking away. 

            Sherlock sighed and noticed John walking towards him, also wearing on orange blanket. 

“Apparently I’m in shock.”  John said, stopping by Sherlock’s side. 

            Sherlock flinched again as they finished Emmaline’s stitches.  The EMT helped her out of the ambulance and gave her an orange blanket as well.  Blood was already starting to stain the white bandage that wrapped her forehead. 

Once she was down, and leaning heavily on Sherlock, an officer directed them to a bench where they were to wait to be questioned by officers, about what had just occurred.

“Where did you learn to do that?”  Sherlock asked.

“Hmm?”  Emma asked, turning her head.

“That trick with the chair, freeing yourself?”  He hinted.

“Oh that; I’ve learned a thing or two from Mycroft’s partner.  I had to, for Mycroft to even consider allowing me to apply to MI6.”

Sherlock turned white.  “You’ve applied to MI6?” 

“Yes.  I do not work often, and it is directly for him.  He’s made the allowance that I could do work in the area, if there weren’t any other agents around.” 

“Other agents.”  Sherlock would have to get used to that particular word being used about his wife. 

“I have a badge and everything.”  She said with a hint of pride. 

Sherlock sighed, running a loving hand over her hair.  “I suppose I could try to keep danger from you; that does not mean you cannot go find some for yourself.”

“And that’s exactly what I did dear.  You can try and take the girl out of danger, but you can’t take the danger out of the girl.”

John laughed.  “I like her.” 

Emma smiled, taking John’s hand with an affectionate squeeze.  “I like you too.  My husband couldn’t have a better friend.”  She said, her eyes drooping tiredly. 

“They better hurry up so we can get her home.”  John told Sherlock.

“Yes they better.”  He agreed, eyeing the orange blanket on his shoulders with distaste.     

ᶓ

Sherlock walked back over to the bench, glad they were all done with the officer’s ridiculous questions. 

“Can we go home now?”  Sherlock asked John as he sat down. 

“We have to give the shock blankets to someone.”  John pointed out. 

“I know just who to give them to.”  Emmaline stared across the open space at Sally Donovan.    

            John and Sherlock shrugged their shoulders and stood, walking across the space, following the younger woman. 

“Thanks so much Sally,” John said, handing her his and Sherlock’s blankets.        

            Emmaline was right behind them, having slowed down.   

“Yes, thank you so much.”  She said.    

            As soon she had deposited her blanket in Sally’s arms, she reared back and brought her fist connecting with Sally’s face, her closed hand connecting hard with her jaw.  Surprised, Sally dropped the blankets and fell back against the pavement, clutching her mouth.  It would need ice, and would bruise nicely.   

“That’s for making fun of my husband.”  She told the woman.    

            Anderson walked over to help Sally stand, giving Emmaline a dirty look.

“What?  I’m in shock.” 

            She walked off, Sherlock and John racing after her.  Sherlock slung his arm over her shoulders and kissed the side of her head.

“Thank you.”  He whispered. 

“She deserved it.  No one, and I mean no one, gets away with making fun of my husband.”

            John smiled and shook his head at the odd pair.  They got a ride home in the back of a police car; with the lights on they got home in ten minutes. 

“Come on, we’re here; I don’t want you falling asleep so soon.”  Sherlock nudged Emmaline’s shoulder. 

            John shook his head, trying to clear it of the sleep.  He walked ahead and opened the door, stepping aside to let the other two in.  Sherlock helped Emmaline on the couch and sat down on her right; John sat down next to Sherlock and the group of unlikely friends sat in silence for a moment, relaxed; happy to be home, happy to have solved the case.  John would have to take notes as soon as he got upstairs so he didn’t forget the case; this was definitely one for the blog; if Kyle’s words were anything to go by, Moriarty definitely knew about her already, and was planning to draw her into their game.        

            Sherlock rolled his head to his left and took in his beautiful wife, even looking as she was now, all because of him.  He kissed her bruised cheek and turned his head to the right; his doctor friend who had stayed by his side, through thick and thin.  He put an arm around each of their shoulders and hugged them, a rare show of affection for the doctor.  After a moment, he took in a breath. 

“I’m bored.”