Holmes (Part 2)

[Cass Hoban]

The Adventure of the Country Manor

The melancholy of May set in for Sherlock Holmes. Whilst this May of 2011 was dark, dank and cold, it wasn’t that which caused him such a mood.
It was the fact that he had left his own flat, and had lost his mate, John Watson. Lost him to the beast called marriage.
When John had married Mary Morstan earlier in the month, Sherlock offered to leave for some time to allow them the rooms of 221B Baker Street, to allow them to decide what they would do. Would they live there? Would they live elsewhere? Alone? With Sherlock at the rooms? Living in the rooms alone would help them to get a feel for what they wanted.
Sherlock was sure that his time of living with John was at its end. Living without him, the two of them would probably like that way better. After all, they had never both lived with him, they had no opinion in that direction. Only John could put his sway that way, after having lived with Sherlock for months and become such great mates with him. He may fight to save their companionship, their lives—semi regular now—or he might leave with Mary. If they wanted the rooms, they were Sherlock’s gift to them. He would move elsewhere.
Sherlock was making his way through Westham, East Sussex, as mid May came. He had moved into a hotel for the time being, staying in one general area because he liked the feel of it. Somehow, his time alone didn’t make him go back to drugs, and he had even cut back on his smoking habits, though he would light a fag on occasion.
Ever since the death of Professor Moriarty, there had been no cases to truly test Sherlock, and no background conspiracy for him to fight against, to plan against, to learn of. He found himself bored.
Now what purpose did he have? Run-of-the-mill crimes? Whilst the police had capable men, like Lestrade and Hopkins, they did occasionally call on Holmes to do what he did best. He didn’t always enjoy doing it, and sometimes it was so obvious that he wondered how the police got anything done.
At least for him there was no real crime in Westham. There wasn’t much, granted, but the peace allotted him time to work with chemistry, and allowed him to catch up on his reading of the classics, which had been sorely neglected in the past few years since his practice had taken off considerably.
Sherlock walked down High Street, searching for Horeau’s Fish and Seafood Restaurant. It was near six PM. He wanted dinner, and then he could retire for the evening to catch up on his work or reading. He didn’t particularly enjoy eating in, and preferred to be out in Westham, in the quaint city.
He was dressed in a dark violet button up shirt, and he wore his black waistcoat buttoned all the way up over the top. He had his black trousers and boots on underneath. His usual attire.
The day had been nice, and thanks to a few other nice days before, the wet ground, the wet area, had dried up. The sun was setting behind the quaint restaurant, casting an orange glow on the roof.
When Sherlock reached the door, a man stopped him. He was in his mid thirties, around Sherlock’s age. He had short, brown hair that hang down his forehead, stopping just before going off of it. It was layered in the back and sides, his ears were exposed with the way he parted it round them.
He had a strong face, with sharp gray eyes, an average sized nose, and average eyelashes, not thin, not thick. The eyes were his only real identifying feature.
He was dressed in an olive green button up shirt, with a grayish vest over the top of it, and a thin, black tie going down the inside. He had on black trousers and black shoes to match. He carried nothing with him.
“Mr. Holmes?” The man asked.
“Yes, I am him.” Sherlock replied, “Can I do something for you?”
The man reached into his waistcoat, pulling out a wallet. He held it up, “My name is Roy Mason. I’m a private detective, but nowhere near your level. I’ve been hired for a case, and I require your help, Mr. Holmes. I hoped to do it alone, but when I heard you were in the area, and I couldn’t even think of where to begin…”
“You came to me.” Sherlock said, nodding, “I completely understand. Well then, pray join me.” He motioned to the restaurant, “We’ll discuss matters inside.”
Sherlock walked inside, followed closely by Roy, “Aren’t you going to ask how I found you?” He questioned. Sherlock was now able to pick up a hint of Irish, but it was overlaid by a working man’s accent.
“I know how you found me.” Sherlock answered, “It’s quite simple.”
“Do tell.”
“Well, look at the prints you’re leaving.” He said, directing to the floor.
Roy looked down. There was mud.
“You see, with the weather we’ve had lately, there should be no mud. However, there would be mud if you went to High Street, to the Langney Sewers. I was there collecting samples for some experiments. You had to have followed me. Therefore, I assume since your mud is fresh, and mine isn’t leaving tracks, that you were there after me, having heard I was there. From there, well, it wasn’t hard to follow muddy tracks back down the road. You came here, by the time my trail ended; you probably figured that I would be in my room, or, out. Obviously.
“You probably chequed my room, but found nothing. My landlady would have told you I was out. But if you insisted on chequing, you would have found the samples from the Sewers, and a menu that I got from this place. She could probably have told you I dine here quite often, whilst I’m here. So it was just a matter of time waiting for me. Now, Mr. Mason, am I correct?”
Roy shook his head, “I’m simply amazed. I can tell I’m out of my league, here. Yes, exactly, every detail.”
“Now, one more thing.” Sherlock said, taking a seat. Roy took the seat opposite of him, “The reason why there’s still mud on your shoes. Well, since mine wore off by this point, yours should have too, correct? Not if you were at my room. I ended up making some mud outside of it, outside the window, by dumping some stuff I was using. If you had gone round to my room from the street, then you would have cut through the lawn to get to the door, or even to take a look inside my window. So you either got it on the way in, which I doubt, since you wouldn’t have gotten into my room then, with muddy shoes, or you got it on the way back, cutting through to get here faster.”
Roy nodded, “Again, amazed.”
“Duck Rillette served with Ginger & Gooseberry.” Sherlock ordered, “Then for my main course, Cornfed Chicken with Parsnip & Celeriac Roesti & Vanilla Jus.”
The waiter looked to Roy, “Same.”
“Now then,” Sherlock said, leaning forward, putting his elbows on the table, interlocking his fingers, and putting his pointer fingers up, bringing them back and forth, hitting them together, “what is it that you’re in over your head with?”
Roy looked across the table to Sherlock. Sherlock kept his fingers interlocked, still hitting his two fingers together every few moments, leaned forward, waiting intently for the story to come.
“Well, it started three weeks ago.” Roy said, “Today is Thursday the 26th, so it started on Thursday, the 5th of May. I was hired by a woman in her mid twenties named Violet Thorne. She told me that her father had purchased a manor in the countryside, just outside of Westham maybe three weeks prior to that. He had put almost no work in, waiting for permits to come in and to be sure the manor was safe.
“Well, then it started. Three days before she came to me, her father went to the manor to start working on it, fixing it up to move into it. When he didn’t come to dinner with her as planned, she worried, but then thought that he had gotten caught up in his work. She went to the manor and found him, dead, in the main hall. When an ambulance arrived with the police, the only explanation that could be offered was that he had died of fright.
“Sure enough, when reports came in, that was his cause of death. He died of fright, somehow. I was hired because Ms. Thorne didn’t believe it to be true. She believed that he was murdered.”
Sherlock interrupted, “What time was this at? What time did he go to the manor? What time was their dinner to be? And when was the time of death, if the police got one?”
Roy produced a scrap of paper from his wallet, “According to Ms. Thorne, her father went to the manor at noon, dinner was to be at six, and the time of death was estimated at five.” He read.
Sherlock nodded, “Pray continue.”
“Well, when I looked into it, I found nothing. I searched everywhere I could think, anywhere where work had been done, or there was anything to indicate that Mr. Thorne had been in the room. I searched them all, but I couldn’t find anything to indicate what had occurred.
“I chequed the area around where his body was found, but there was nothing to indicate how he would have died of fright right there.”
Their meals were placed on the table. Sherlock thanked the man, and then looked to Roy, “Well, then it’s obvious. Whatever caused him to die of fright had moved. A person, perhaps? Well, in any case, I’ll join you tomorrow in an investigation.”
As Sherlock started into his starter meal, Roy asked him, “When and where shall we meet?”
“I’ll meet you there at noon.” Sherlock replied, “You needn’t bring anything other than what you normally bring. And you don’t mind smoking, do you?”
“I’ve no problem with it.” Roy replied, starting into his starter, “The place isn’t hard to miss.”
“We’d have had a problem if you did mind.” Sherlock replied, “Well, let’s leave any more business until tomorrow, then.”

******************************
By the time noon came around, Sherlock arrived at the door of the manor. Roy was waiting for him, dressed similarly to the day before. Sherlock had dressed himself in his white shirt and suit jacket, his collar propped up and out at the curve of it. When he reached the door, Roy unlocked it with a key he had in his possession.
“Good of them to leave a key.” Sherlock said.
Roy shook his head, “They didn’t.”
Sherlock nodded in approval, “How’d you get it?”
“Got a copy made during my initial investigation.”
“Good, good.” Sherlock said, “I’m liking you already.”
When they entered the sizeable manor, the first room they came into was a long hallway, lush carpets filled the oak floor. There were a few small tables lining parts of the walls, evidently having once held plants, based on residue left behind from age.
There were two doors on each side before the hallway ended in a larger room. That room appeared to be a kitchen, leading into a loo and a sitting room. On the other side of the kitchen was a staircase. Sherlock’s brief explanation was that the upstairs was a gallery, the old owner having been an art lover.
“The entire top floor is a gallery?” He questioned skeptically.
“Well, one more bedroom and one more loo.” Roy replied, “Then the rest is the gallery.”
“Only two bedrooms?” Sherlock questioned.
“There’s one more in the basement, along with a laundry room and a study. Mr. Thorne hadn’t been there yet.”
Sherlock nodded, “Then we can conclude that it isn’t important right now. I take it you knew he wasn’t there by…”
“Dust from ages.” Roy said.
Sherlock nodded, “I’m going to take a quick look down there.” He opened the first door on the right to the staircase, “What are the other rooms?”
“One is a personal library, one is a billiard room, and the other is a den.” He directed to the first door on the left, “The porch?”
“Right.” Sherlock said, turning on the lights and descending the stairs. He returned a moment later, “Nothing of interest.” He said, “Now, he was found dead in the hall.” He poked his head into the other three rooms, and then came out. He shook his head, “We should put our investigation to this place specifically.”
“Will we find anything?” Roy asked.
“I don’t know.” Sherlock replied, producing a fag. He lit up with his silver lighter and pocketed it again. He stood, leaning against the table, and then turned around to look at the picture that was mounted on the wall above it. It was of an English cavalryman riding through a battlefield.
“Nice picture.” Sherlock said, knocking his ashes onto the table. Roy didn’t stop him.
Eventually an hour passed, with them just standing where they were. Sherlock smoked, still looking at the picture. Roy leaned against the door to the porch, careful not to interrupt Sherlock’s process.
After finishing his third fag, Sherlock looked to Roy, “Well, let’s cheque the rest of the manor.” He said, heading out of the hallway and towards the stairs.
Roy followed, “You figured something out?” He questioned.
“You could say that.” Sherlock replied, ascending the staircase and opening the door at the top. He ignored the bedroom and the loo, instead heading right into the gallery at the end of the hall.
The room was sizeable, filled with smaller, thinner walls that would hold pictures. There were none still present on the walls. Sherlock walked through the aisles that were created, examining the walls.
“These pictures were removed some time ago.” He stated, pulling out his phone.
“What are you doing?” Roy asked.
“Chequing on the market…” Sherlock replied, accessing the internet, “Ah! Here we are. This house was sold nearly a decade ago and has sat on the market since being purchased by Mr. Thorne. That would mean these pictures have been missing for a decade.” He traced the hint of lines left by the frames, “Look at these marks.”
Roy examined them, “I don’t get it.” He said.
“What else looked like this?” He questioned.
“…the plants. The residue on the tables from the plants.” Roy said.
“Good, you’re catching on rather quickly.” Sherlock said, “Now, taking that into consideration, these plants and pictures have been missing the same amount of time, roughly. So, they were removed when the house was sold. Obviously, though, the house had been kept in good condition, as there had been interested parties.”
“How do you know?”
“The hall was clean, the rooms were clean. Only the basement wasn’t. Honestly, how often would you look at the basement when the rest of the house is this nice? Even if the basement is poor, you would still be likely to buy, specially at the price this house was at. In this economy, with how nice this place is, and the fact that Mr. Thorne was middle class, that tells me that it was fairly low.”
“Why would that be?” Roy questioned.
Sherlock shrugged, “Don’t know, but really now, would the basement kill the deal? Maybe they had views, maybe not. Not enough dust to indicate that it sat idle for a decade. We can figure that there had been views, but not many.”
“What relevance does this hold?”
“That the basement is useless in this investigation.” Sherlock told Roy, “Now, back to the residue. We can tell that it hasn’t been cleaned, at least, not hard, considering the marks are present. That tells us something. The house is intentionally looking run down at minor points, just to show that nobody cares.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll get to it. Now, if it looks as though nobody cares, then it’s a ‘fixer’ house. Would you agree to that?”
“I would.”
“How often do people want to buy one?”
“Depends in this economy.”
“Forget the economy; this house has been around for a decade.”
“Depends on the person.” Roy said, shrugging.
“Exactly. And since this is such a nice home for a low price, it almost indicates that you could use money saved to remodel. A run-down look is trying to pressure people into repairs. Mr. Thorne was doing just that. Now he’s dead. I think we can both agree that there’s a reason why nobody has cleaned this place to fix it up.”
“I don’t see why.”
“Me neither.” Sherlock admitted, “But let’s look this way. The house is bad, supposed to be fixed. Now, someone doesn’t want it to be, so they killed Mr. Thorne. Only logical explanation, since nothing in the area explains how he would have died of fright. The house needs more than cleaning, it needs fixing. That’s why nobody in the real-estate industry has done anything, because someone doesn’t want it fixed. Thorne died because he was the first to try in a decade. Someone wants something from this place, and fixing it is against their plans. But what relevance does this hold?”
“Maybe something is hidden here.” Roy suggested, “The old owner, Mr. Walsh, was rumoured to have Spanish gold that was passed through his family. He confirmed owning it, once, to a paper that questioned him. He then reported that nobody would find it, nobody would have it. That led people to believe that he had hidden it.”
“Makes sense.” Sherlock said, “Proceed.”
“What if someone is here, trying to find the gold?” Roy questioned, “Maybe they haven’t found it yet, and have been searching?”
“When was this report made?” Sherlock questioned.
“Eight years ago.” Roy replied, “It was big at the time, so I remember that it was 2003.”
Sherlock nodded, “Well then, these people haven’t been here long. But that raises the question, why did nobody buy it yet? Search?”
“That is a good question.” Roy replied, “But…but what if some threat had been made? What if there had been interested parties, but they had been threatened? Or been told off by a realtor that it wasn’t for sale any longer, or someone else was buying it, or something?”
Sherlock nodded, “Whatever the reason, we can conclude that someone is trying to stop this place from being purchased. Mr. Thorne was just the one to acquire it, somehow. If they control the realtors, then maybe he went to one who wasn’t connected. Anyway, that doesn’t matter. What does matter is the pictures.”
“Pictures?” Roy questioned.
“Let’s leave.” Sherlock said, “It’ll all be clear in the morning.”

******************************
Returning the next morning, Roy was dressed in a raincoat due to the rain, holding an umbrella. Sherlock was wearing a coat as well, carrying his own umbrella. When they met, they both entered the house and took care of their wet gear.
Sherlock closed and locked the door, and then drew the small bolt across the upper part, securing it down. Sherlock then produced a slip of paper from his suit jacket. He wore a blue shirt underneath it.
Roy took the paper from him and read it.

‘Are you armed?’

Roy looked to Sherlock and opened his waistcoat; still dressed the same as before, just with a darker coloured shirt and lighter tie. He revealed a handgun. His M1911 pistol, the same as Sherlock’s.
Sherlock opened his jacket to reveal his. He nodded and motioned for Roy to follow him. He stopped at the spot between the basement door, the first on the right, and the library, the second on the right. He pointed to the picture that he had studied intently the day before. Roy looked curiously to Sherlock, until Sherlock pointed to the table.
His ashes were still there, but two footprints obscured them. One was going into the hall, the second, overlaying it, was going to the picture.
Sherlock took his umbrella and stepped onto the table. He put his fingers at the frame, and pulled. It didn’t come off. He jammed the metal point at the end of his umbrella into the spot between the frame and wall and gave a sharp tug, popping it open.
There, between the walls, was a passageway. The picture had served as a door, and had also had eyeslots for viewing outside.
“I believe that this is how Mr. Thorne died.” Sherlock said, “Using this picture, whoever was here managed to frighten him. Perhaps by creating an effect?” He took his phone and turned it on, using it as a light. He pointed to a small device on the wall, “Looks like it could create smoke, perhaps something worse? Perhaps bad enough to kill him with fright? Anyway, let’s go.” He held his phone in his left hand and his gun in his right. Roy followed him in, armed with his gun as well.
The way the house was built, the passage could cut over the top of the basement, opening to a wider area. This area had a few chairs inside, as well as some tools and lights. There was another passage that went to a trapdoor into the basement, and a picture that would lead into the library.
“Well, I think we can see how they survived here.” Sherlock said, looking around with his light, “They can move freely. It was the picture being here that allowed me to know what was happening here. It told me that it was here for a reason, and what better reason than a passage?”
“Clichéd.” Roy said.
“I know, but it’s here.” Sherlock said. He continued to look around the small room, and then walked towards the small folding table, “I think I have something.” He said, turning his light to a map.
Roy walked over and took a look. It was a map of the property, with marks on it to presumably indicate where they had searched.
“How old is this house?” Sherlock questioned.
“Maybe three hundred years.” Roy replied.
“I’m wondering about these passages.”
“The original owner was a rich man who feared for his possessions.” Roy said.
Sherlock looked at the walls, finding spots for various forms of light, such as torches. It appeared that they were usually affixed there some time in the past, “So, a safe room.” He said, looking back to Roy, “That should explain this place. If he was fearful for his life, he could vanish.”
Roy was by the library exit, examining the picture doorway, “I wonder where they are. The library? Did they, or he, bail?”
“You could tell it was a he?” Sherlock questioned.
“Size of the foot.”
“Good.” Sherlock said, “You observed, but with the obscurity of two prints, it could be female.”
“Weight distribution.”
“Ah! Fantastic!”
Sherlock went back to the map, taking pictures on his phone with it. Then he heard Roy give a scream.
He turned to Roy who was backing away, lifting his gun. He fired once, but the bullet lodged into the stone wall ahead of him. Sherlock was absolutely confused by what was going on.
“Get a hold of yourself, man!” He shouted, “What is…”
Sherlock saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He too screamed when he saw some sort of hellspawn demon approaching him, something so dark, so hideous, so ghastly that his mind froze, and all he could think to do was lift his weapon.
But what was this? Where did it come from? If it truly was a beast from the depths of hell, was it as a warning? Was something going on in this house? There were no signs of the occult anywhere, even if Sherlock believed that such a thing could work. What was this?
Whatever was happening, Sherlock’s mind was going to shreds. He had no way to handle this, to free his mind. He was trapped in a whirlwind of terror.
He thought of Roy. What was his companion seeing that scared him so? Whatever it was, Sherlock hadn’t seen it. They were firing at different creatures, it seemed, firing in different directions.
Finally one of Roy’s bullets went through the picture into the library. Seeing his chance to escape, Roy leapt into it, landing three feet down on the floor, missing the small table that had once held a plant that was right next to it.
Sherlock saw the light of the library, and ran. He leapt through and rushed to the door, forcing it open, getting into the hallway with Roy.
Both men panted, regaining their senses. When they looked inside, they could see smoke coming out of the passage. Both passages. White, hazy smoke. In the dark conditions it had been hard to see, but now it was present for them both.
Sherlock sat down, holstering his gun in his waistband, “Well, I think that was quite a welcome. They’re here.”
“What…what was that?” Roy questioned, holstering his firearm.
“The device we saw? Contains smoke.” Sherlock said, “Some very potent type of drug or something similar. I’d say that’s how Mr. Thorne died.”
Roy shook his head in disgust, “I can see murdering someone…but inflicting death that way? How could anyone do that?”
“I don’t know.” Sherlock said, “People are monsters. And the people are here, somewhere.” He looked to the door. There was nothing to indicate that they had left, specially considering that Sherlock had locked the door from the inside, and also drew the bolt, which could only be done from inside. It was as it was left, indicating nobody left.
Sherlock motioned for Roy to stay where he was. Sherlock opened the door to the billiard room, but there was nothing. Not even any picture to indicate a passage. He chequed the porch, but nothing. Basement, but still too dusty, and the only footprints were from chequing the other day.
“Has to be up ahead.” Sherlock said, “Wait here.” He told Roy, rushing into the kitchen. After finding nothing, he chequed the sitting room, then the bedroom, then the loo. No windows had been opened, since the sills on the inside weren’t wet. He rushed upstairs, chequing the bedroom and the loo. He rushed into the gallery and went into a low crouch, drawing his weapon.
He moved up the aisle, and then rolled forward, avoiding a blow from a fireplace poker that came from both sides. He came up, his back to a window. He could see both men in front of him, and a third waiting in an aisle. Sherlock drew his weapon, “The game is up.” He said, “Your little poison trick didn’t work. Now, come quietly and let’s figure this all out, shall we?”
Roy appeared at the door, gun drawn, “Do as the man says.” He ordered to the unseen three men. They all came into the aisle, between Roy and Sherlock, dropping their pokers. They were all in their mid to late forties, all of them well built. They went out, putting their hands on their heads whilst the two guns remained at their backs.
“I phoned the police.” Roy told Sherlock, “It’ll take them a bit.”
“Good, I want to question them.” Sherlock replied.

******************************
Sitting at the kitchen table, the three men faced towards Sherlock, who sat against the wall in a chair from the table. Roy was towards the stairs, keeping an eye on them.
“Now, what was your plot?” Sherlock questioned.
The lead man spoke. He had an Irish accent, with some wisps of red hair on his head and in his otherwise brown beard.
“We heard about the gold eight years ago when it was announced. I knew the history of this house, and looked into it as a potential buyer. I found the secret rooms were where they were to be, and then devised this scheme. I wanted the gold. My mates wanted it as well. It was pure greed, you would say.
“We set up our base of operations in there, and then got to work going through the property on weekends and nights. We went through the yard with the use of sonar and the like, but found nothing, indicating it had to be in the house. The basement was never a place to search, since everything was cement. He’s great at this stuff, and knew if it would have been newer,” he gestured to a man behind him with his thumb, “after a quick look, he concluded that none of the cement was new enough. No digging was done, and there were no other hiding places there.
“We continued our search through the house, but never found it. We used his connection with the real-estate industry to keep people away,” he gestured to the other man, “and kept searching for ourselves. We had that map you two saw, but couldn’t figure it out. There was just nowhere it could be.
“When he slipped up and someone purchased the house, then we knew we had to act. We waited in the passages for our chance. We didn’t want to kill him, only frighten him away. We used the smoke we had, from an African herb, called ‘Radix pedis diaboli’…”
“Devil’s foot-rot.” Holmes translated.
The man nodded, “Yes. I got it in Africa some years ago. It looks like a cross between a hoof and a man’s foot, hence the name. When burned it produces that smoke that causes extreme fright and madness…”
“And death.” Sherlock interjected.
“Right.” The man said, “We planned on scaring him out. We didn’t mean to kill him.”
“But yet you tried to kill Roy and myself.” Sherlock said, “I doubt you intended only to frighten Mr. Thorne away.”
The sounds of sirens came into earshot as the police arrived. Roy rose to get the door whilst Sherlock stayed with the three men.
“Well, gentlemen, it’s over. Good luck in prison, you’ll need it.” He said, rising as the police came in. He put his gun into his waistband, “Now, according to your map, you lot were quite thorough.”
“As best as we could be.” The Irishman said.
Sherlock smiled smugly, “But you missed the most important part.”
“What?” He demanded.
“You had a single light in the passage. Evidently the previous owner hadn’t known of it. That single light was for the table, for reading the map and the like. You didn’t see enough detail.”
“What do you mean?” He demanded.
“The gold is in the passage.” Sherlock said.
“You just said the previous owner didn’t know!” He shouted.
Sherlock’s smug grin returned, “Oh, he didn’t. His son who hid the gold did know. You see, he was too old to be doing something like this. He was on oxygen…well, that meant he couldn’t hide it. He had a son, a single son, no other family. His son did it for him. You found the door to the basement? Good. It was right next to it. I felt a rough spot with my boot. Now, good day, gentlemen.” He looked to Roy, “Shall we test the theory and give the gold to Ms. Violet Thorne?”
“I think it would help.” Roy said, climbing into the passage with Sherlock as the police took the three men away. The Irishman was shouting at them, but they didn’t respond.
Sherlock passed the smoke device out, “Be very careful with that.” He told the officer who took it, “Now, good day.”
In a matter of minutes, the new cement covering had been torn away by a pick. They reached in and removed a series of leather pouches from the hollowed floor.
“Spanish Gold, Mr. Mason. We’ve found it!”
Roy nodded, “Well, shall we see Ms. Thorne?”
Sherlock looked to him, “You remind me of my partner.” He said.
“Doctor Watson?” Roy questioned.
Sherlock nodded, “Yes. You filled in quite nicely on this case.”
“It was an honour to serve with you, Sherlock Holmes.”
“Likewise, Roy Mason.”
The two man shook hands, and then climbed out of the wall, heading out to see Ms. Violet Thorne to give her what closure and repentance they could as their case drew to a close, along with their time serving as partners.

[Cass Hoban]

The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Satellite

Tuesday, 9th of June, 2011, Sherlock had moved from Westham into Swindon upon the news from John that he should stay out longer. John didn’t think Sherlock should return yet. He believed that the detective should enjoy his time away from the office, away from crime.
If only he knew about the ‘Adventure of the Country Manor’, putting it into words that John would use. Sherlock often missed John on that job, to the extent of writing up notes to relay to him later on, even titling it as John had titled previous cases.
After Westham, Sherlock needed to move on. He couldn’t stay in that small place for too long. As much as he liked the company of Mr. Roy Mason, he needed to move along. A change of scenery from the bustling city of London to the small, quaint area of Westham, to the larger, more London-esque Swindon did him some good. It helped to keep him from boredom.
With boredom came drugs.
Sherlock walked down Ermin St, having just left his lodgings. His phone rang. He pulled it out of the pocket of his waistcoat and chequed the number before accepting the call.
“Since when did you start blocking your number when you called, dear brother?” Sherlock questioned.
Mycroft didn’t question how Sherlock knew it was him. He just spoke, “Sherlock, I can see you’re in Swindon.”
“I’ll assume you might be acting as the British government at the moment.” Sherlock said, “Perk of the position? Tracing any phone you want?”
“I could do that from my old position. My usual one.” Mycroft answered, “Now look, I come to you as a messenger from both positions. I can only thank whatever drives you that you ended up in Swindon this week.”
“What’s so important about Swindon?” Sherlock questioned, “I can tell it’s important, from the tone of your voice. You’re scared, Mycroft.”
“I am.” He answered.
“If this goes bad, you get blamed? You as head of the Secret Service, or you as head of the government?” Sherlock questioned.
“All of it. Sherlock, this threat is immense! If you just shut up and listen to me, you’d know.” Mycroft said, “Now, what do you know of that’s in Swindon?”
“If you really want to play these games, Mycroft, then come here yourself. I’m staying at The Crown Inn at 73 Ermin St. Good day, Mycroft.”
“Sherlock! The Space Agency!” Mycroft shouted.
“Ah! Good, we’re getting somewhere.” Sherlock said, “Now, just tell me everything as straightforward as you can.”
“The line is secure.” Mycroft said, “Now, knowing you, you won’t respond to what I have to say with shock, or anything like that. This requires the utmost secrecy! It would induce mass panic if it got out.”
“About to ring off...”
“The Bruce-Partington Satellite plans have been stolen! We need them back!”
“The Br...”
“Don’t finish that sentence.” Mycroft said, “Don’t even utter the name ‘Bruce-Partington’. It’s top secret.”
“Ok, so what are these plans?” Sherlock questioned.
“MI6 recruited the UK Space Agency to build them a satellite known amongst us as the ‘Bruce-Partington Satellite’. This Satellite’s purpose was to be used by MI6 for counterterrorism. In and of itself, the Satellite is an EMP weapon, capable of pinpoint accuracy up to a radius of three metres.”
“Three metres?” Sherlock questioned.
“If it was wider, then it wouldn’t be considered a counterterrorism weapon.” Mycroft explained, “Panic might come from other countries, retaliations could come...no, a small radius is what we need to keep from creating panic. The pinpoint accuracy is for the purpose of disabling things like hijacked planes, or anything a terrorist might decide to use to harm people. We’re hoping to use the weapon to stop any threats they create.”
“Ah, I see.” Sherlock replied, “Now, the plans were stolen?”
“Yes. We have a few MI6 agents at the Space Agency, as well as a few of our scientists to monitor things. The scientists at the Agency are also working with them, but of course, they provide minimal security. The agents provide the bulk of it for the plans.”
“Now these agents, discrete I would imagine.”
“Of course. Dressed as scientists, working only with the highest of security cleared scientists so that anyone lower won’t see them, or if they do, they won’t question who they are. If they’re working that high up, they have to be more important, too important to question about.”
“Good plan.”
“Naturally, I coordinated it. Now, Sherlock, I need you to go to the Agency and begin looking around. As far as I know, the plans were in the most secure areas where the work was being done. Cameras were disabled when they were stolen. They were in a strong vault, three keycodes required to open it, voice recognition, on a flashdrive inside.”
“Three keycodes and voice confirmation?” Sherlock questioned, “Then certainly it’s one of your own people.”
“All of them alibi out.” Mycroft said, “That would have been too easy.”
“Well then, can you confirm that the plans were still there when the cameras were running?”
“No, but the vault is perfectly fine. The only way into it is the door. We had it chequed very well for tampering. None. The camera would have caught any intruder.”
“Picture put in front of the camera? Disabling was just a diversion to throw us to the wrong timeframe?”
“You mean the old way of doing it? That would work, except that there was a digital clock sitting near the vault. It counts by the second. It kept going, so it wasn’t a false image we were viewing.”
“Well then, it was during the time when the cameras were out. It had to be someone with either the voice of, or close to someone you have working on it.”
“It’s a specific code they must speak.” Mycroft said.
“What is it?”
“Vivat Regina.”
“So, someone working on it, or with a very similar voice, had to speak ‘Long live the Queen’ in Latin, as well as put in three keycodes on a keypad? Very interesting, specially if you’ve confirmed every alibi.”
“I had agents who had no involvement with anyone or anything in the project look into it. It’s all cleared.”
“Well then, that is interesting. I assume you’re watching for the plans to be put for sale in foreign countries and the black market?”
“Of course.”
“How much is in the plans? If we can’t retrieve them, can whoever stole them build their own satellite?”
“They could. They could make it even worse. It could be an actual weapon, capable of large scale EMP strikes.”
“Then try China.” Sherlock said, “Whoever is building it has to not care what the UN will think, assuming we go to the UN with this information. They also have to have the means to launch it into space, to use it as a weapon.”
“I already have intelligence working for me on countries like China.” Mycroft replied, “If it launches, we may have a war to fight.”
“Then we had best deploy ours when it’s finished. I assume the plans were backed up?”
“Of course.”
“Then have them finished. Maybe make it into a weapon, you know, just in case.”
“We are not making the Bruce-Partington Satellite into a weapon!” Mycroft shouted, “That would defeat the entire purpose!”
“Ok then. Just get it finished and launched, just in case, and I’ll do what I can.”
“Sherlock...you have to find and retrieve the flashdrive, the blueprints, everything! There is sensitive information on it!”
“Like what?”
“Where we plan to launch the satellite at.” Mycroft said, “We have a very specific location chosen. If someone else launches, they could take out ours. Our chosen location is the best location we can use, so we need to keep this information away!”
“And if I fail, then there might be a war...” Sherlock muttered, “Ok, I’ll get right on it.” He looked around the empty street, thankful that he could speak more openly with the lack of people, “Anyone there to help me, or am I going in solo?”
“I arranged for a man to join you.” Mycroft said, “Mr. Young.”
“Mr. Young?” Sherlock questioned.
“One of our young, promising MI6 agents. An American. You’ll find him.”
“I’m sure I will.” Sherlock replied, “Ok then, I’ll head off.”
He hung up and put the phone back into his pocket. He headed off to find North Star Avenue.

******************************
“What can you tell me about the…” Sherlock looked around. There were other scientists around, those not working on the Bruce-Partington Satellite. He couldn’t get into a private area yet to speak with the scientists, and time was of the essence.
“The BPS?” The scientist, cleared by MI6, asked, “Or the problem?”
“Problem.” Sherlock responded.
“Please, come with me.” He said, looking over his shoulder. The room he was waiting for was open. He led Sherlock into one of the private rooms where the Satellite was being developed, closing the door behind them and sealing it with a keycode.
“Now can we speak?” Sherlock asked.
“Now it’s fine.” The scientist replied, “What is it you must know?”
“Everything, if I am to find these plans for you.” Sherlock replied, “Certainly there are people here at all hours.”
“There are.” The scientist replied, “Even contained to their own areas of work, there is minimal security patrolling. So there should be security during that time. Whoever got in, though, must have known the patrols.”
“Then that tells us that it could have been an inside job, which I’m still leaning towards.” Sherlock said, “After all, with the voice recognition…”
“All of us have alibis, you know that.” The scientist told him.
“And it only works for the scientists?” Sherlock asked.
He nodded.
“Then I’ll need to speak to all of you who can activate it, and then to security.” He replied, “Look for matches. But is there any way to hear the voice that opened the vault?”
“No, there are no records of it.” The scientist said, “Unfortunate.”
“Quite so.” Sherlock said, “Well then, get everyone together.” He told the scientist, “I’ll need to hear everyone, record everyone, and then see security after that.”
The scientist nodded and went off to collect his fellows. Sherlock pulled his phone out and started to fix its settings to make it work as a recorder, when a young man in his mid twenties approached him.
“Sherlock Holmes?” He asked in a distinctly American accent.
Sherlock looked to him, “Ah, you must be Mr. Young.” He said, “The American in MI6.”
“Former private investigator.” Mr. Young told him, holding out his hand, “Please, call me Jack.”
Jack Young was in his mid twenties, with a well handled body, and brown, curly hair. He had blue eyes that shone, compared to his open forehead and the flesh on the rest of his face. He had a good manner about him, dressed in the labcoat like all others were. Sherlock could see a black suit on underneath it. His was open, unlike everyone else’s, possibly so he could show Sherlock who he was.
Sherlock shook his hand, “Well Jack, do you have any leads as of yet? I understand you’ve been working this longer.”
“I have.” He replied, “But no, no leads yet.”
“Well, I’m about to try for some.” Sherlock said, “Join me.”
Sherlock walked ahead whilst Jack turned to follow, “What are you planning on doing?”
“Questioning everyone who could open the voice lock.” He replied, “Then compare the voices to security. I believe it to be an inside job.”
“Quick question.” Jack said, “Do you think this is even possible? That such a weapon exists?”
“Didn’t they confirm it to MI6?” Sherlock questioned.
“Not exactly.” Jack replied, “We don’t know if this is confirmed or not, all we were told, or I was told, anyway, was to watch over the facility as an EMP satellite was built.”
“Well, apparently the engineers here are amongst the world’s foremost designers and builders of satellites. These scientists have a reputation for expertise in space instrumentation.” Sherlock told him, “I think the chances that they really do have an EMP satellite are pretty good.”
“How do you know that information?” Jack asked.
Sherlock held up his phone, “Their website. Now, let’s get investigating.”
Sherlock sat down and put his phone on the table between himself and the first scientist in a break room. “Now, your name?”
“Gilbert Long.”
“Can you say the phrase?”
“Vivat Regina.”
“Now can you say ‘burning the candle at both ends’?”
“Burning the candle at both ends.”
“Thank you.” Sherlock said, “Next!”
After screening the fifteen men, Sherlock rose and left the room with Jack by his side, “What next?”
“Security.” He replied, “I get their voices, then take a computer and run the recordings. We see any matches, and use that as a basis for finding the culprit.”
“Will that work well?” Jack questioned.
“With the computers here, and with them allowing me to use them, then yes.” Sherlock said.
“More access than Higgins would give.” Jack said.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. Just a reference...wait, no, you wouldn’t get it. Sorry.”
Sherlock kept looking at him, and then looked ahead, “Well then, let’s continue.”
After taking care of the seven security guards, Sherlock took a computer and plugged his phone into it. He loaded the sound files onto the computer and started to bring up a programme.
“This will put the sounds against each other and look for matches?” Jack asked.
Sherlock nodded, “Then we can confirm if it was an inside job. Using the baseline of ‘burning the candle at both ends’, we’ll look for matches.”
“I meant to ask, why take that line to ask?”
“Why not? Simple enough.” Sherlock replied, “Now, it’ll take some time, maybe you want to do something else.”
Jack nodded, “Fine.” He walked to another computer and sat down, “I forgot to tell you. I’m the head of this investigation from MI6. I have access to everything now.” He started to type, “And I forgot about something rather important...”
“You overlooked an important point?” Sherlock questioned.
“You came when I was about to do it.” He answered, “Just go on with your work, I’ll do mine.”
Time ticked away as the sound files were run against each other. Meanwhilst, Jack continued to sit, watching something on the screen.
He hit a few keys and walked towards a printer in the corner. He snatched the full sheet as it came out and put it by Sherlock.
Sherlock glanced down at it, “What’s this?”
“You won’t find anything on your end.” Jack said, “It wasn’t an inside job.”
Sherlock looked away from his work and down at the paper presented to him. He took it up and skimmed over it.
“What is this?”
“Security camera in the parking lot. Due to where it was placed, it probably wasn’t deemed important by the people who stole the plans. It wasn’t knocked out.” Jack said, “And we also concluded that the other cameras were knocked out by EMP as well. Smaller bursts, specifically targeting the cameras.”
Sherlock lifted the paper into both hands and looked at it. He tilted it and looked at any angle. He put it down, “This is useless.”
“It’s the only clear picture of their car.” Jack said, “The rest of the footage doesn’t work. But we can gather some information.”
“What do you see?” Sherlock questioned.
“This is the only resolution I can print it at.” Jack told him, “But I was able to do some work on the computer itself. I found something identifying on it.”
“What?” Sherlock questioned, still waiting for his voices to be finished, still needed to confirm or deny his theory.
“On the side, when enhanced, there’s a symbol. That symbol, from my personal knowledge of Swindon, is of Prince Rentals. It’s a rental car.”
“Well, we can go to them now and find out who rented cars during this period.” Sherlock said, “Any cars out for rental during last night are suspects.”
“I can do better.” Jack said, “Enhanced I can make out some symbols on the plate.”
“Fantastic! Now we have more evidence!”
Jack smiled, “Now, the first two characters are ‘B’ and ‘8’. The last one is ‘U’.”
“Then shall we go to Prince Rentals?” Sherlock asked.
“Your programme?”
“It’ll be here when we get back.” Sherlock said, “Now, shall we?”

******************************
“You know, an EMP detonated 300 miles over Kansas would knock out almost all of my country.” Jack told Sherlock.
Sherlock looked at his phone, and then looked to Jack, “220 miles, or rather, as I’m more familiar with, 350 kilometres, is space. So beyond the border where international space begins that would be from. Certainly if these stolen plans are used, then at least your 300 miles would be put to use for maximum damage.”
Their walk soon brought them to a sizeable building near the centre of Swindon. Sherlock walked inside, looking around the nicely furnished opening room. There were offices in the back, and representatives in the front, with small desks who would rent the cars out. There was a garage affixed to the building at the side.
“Can I help you two gentlemen?” A female representative asked.
“We need to see your records of loaned vehicles.” Sherlock said.
“I can’t do that. You need a warrant. Who are you two, anyway? The police?”
Jack stepped forward, pulling out his wallet, “MI6.” He held it up, “Now, the records.”
She looked to the back offices and motioned to one of them. A man came out and came towards them, “What’s the problem?”
“MI6.” Jack said, “We need to see records of the cars loaned out as of late.”
“What is this about?” The manager demanded.
“National importance.” Jack said, “Now, the records.”
The manager motioned for the woman to leave them. He nodded, “Please, follow me. We’ll deal with this in my office.” He looked to Sherlock, “You MI6 too?”
“Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.” He clarified.
The man looked at him, shaking his head, “What could this be about, then? How can I have Sherlock Holmes and MI6 on my back?” He started to walk away towards his office. Jack and Sherlock looked to each other, and then followed him in.
Jack closed the door behind him and took a seat beside Sherlock in the front of the desk. The manager brought up his computer, “What do you two require?”
“We have a partial plate we need.” Jack said, “Perhaps you can find it for us? We only have three digits. We need the name or names of whoever had it last night.”
“The digits?” He asked.
“The first two are ‘B’ and ‘8’. The last digit is ‘U’.”
The manager started to type the numbers in. When the result came up, he read, “That car was loaned out yesterday, returned this morning. It was loaned to three men. The credit card used was from a Mr. Alexei Kozlov.”
“Russian.” Sherlock said, “Interesting. Can you tell us anything more?”
“No, that’s all I know.” The manager said.
Sherlock looked to Jack, “Want to use your MI6 clearance at the banque?”

******************************
“The last place that Mr. Kozlov’s card was used was this morning at the Best Western Premier Blunsdon House Hotel.” The woman behind the desk informed them.
“Best hotel in Swindon.” Sherlock told Jack.
Jack nodded, “Well then, we have a location to begin at.” He and Sherlock left and tried to get a taxi to take them. Whilst they waited, Sherlock looked to Jack.
“That reference earlier?”
“Oh, it’s from an American television series that was popular in the 1980’s.” Jack said, “Magnum, P.I. It was about this amazing, laid back, yet successful private investigator in Hawaii, living at a rich man’s estate for providing security, using all of his fancy cars, and things like that. He was amazing as a character, and it really inspired me to become a private detective.”
“I see things in your fantasy world didn’t quite work out.” Sherlock said simply.
“What?”
“You joined MI6 instead of staying on the path you saw as a child. You see that on another show? You seem influenced enough by the first.”
“No, it’s not that! I’ve always wanted to do something like this!”
“But that was what pushed you? That Magnum?”
“Yes. But...it was just a stepping stone. This is much better.”
“Let me guess. You couldn’t have the simple life it sounded like he had, so you moved away and did something radically different, joining MI6. I do commend you on your abilities, what I’ve seen of them, but let me tell you this; you won’t get anywhere trying to emulate what you saw on the telly.”
“Sherlock...how could you say things like this whilst we’re still working together? We’re about to do something big, and you try this now!”
“Now is the first time I had a chance to bring it up.” Sherlock told him, “It would have come up eventually, better now.”
“Why? Now I’ll have to be thinking about this as we deal with Kozlov!”
“Well, just put it out of mind.”
“I can’t!”
“I do all the time.” Sherlock said, “Learn.”
Jack shook his head, “No wonder she left you...”
Sherlock looked astonished. He looked to Jack, glaring at him, “What did you just say?” He hissed.
“That woman, McKenzie Williams. No wonder she left you, if you’re like this.” Jack told him.
“How do you know about her?”
“We’re MI6, under the lead of your brother. I think we’re entitled to some information, if we can dig it out ourselves. Not bad for a P.I. who took lessons from a TV show, is it?”
Sherlock looked away and hailed the taxi as it came by. Without looking at Jack, he said, “If you ever mention her again, our partnership is over, and I’ll allow this country to go to blazes over those Bruce-Partington Satellite plans.”
“Don’t bring up my life again either, then.”
“You don’t want help in rebuilding what you can?”
“I don’t need that.” He said, “And I’ve changed enough from my early days, anyway.”
“Fine.”
“Are we good now?”
Sherlock nodded, “Yeah.” He opened the door and slid inside. Jack took the other seat and closed the door.
“Best Western Premier Blunsdon House Hotel off of A419.” Sherlock directed.
The taxi started off, taking them to their destination.

******************************
Sherlock and Jack knocked at the door of one of the suites. Sherlock called, “House keeping!”
When the door opened, Jack came forward with his handgun, “We’re coming in. MI6.” He said, motioning for Sherlock to follow. He closed the door behind and drew his weapon, aiming it at the Russian.
“Who are you?” The Russian demanded.
“I told you, MI6.” Jack said, “Now, Mr. Kozlov, you used your card a few too many times. Where are the plans for the Bruce-Partington Satellite?”
“You won’t find them!” He spat.
“We know that you also rented out three other rooms.” Sherlock said, “This room is the nicest, however, indicating that it was purchased for yourself. You kept using your funds for this, your card, taking the risk. No doubt you took the nicest room for yourself as a little treat. That makes you Alexei Kozlov, right?”
“Smart man.” He hissed.
“Now, the plans!” Sherlock demanded, “Or we’ll take care of all three rooms right now.”
“You won’t get far.” He threatened.
“We have backup waiting.” Jack said, “They’ll come in shortly, if we don’t come out immediately. Sherlock? Want to get to a second room?”
“Gladly.” Sherlock said, ducking out and heading across the hall. He used a cardkey he had swiped off of a staff member to get inside. He didn’t bother letting Jack use his MI6 identity to get one. They just asked for the room number. No need to let them be tipped off that MI6 had arrived.
Sherlock stepped inside. At that moment, a Russian man stood up, but Sherlock was faster, producing a handgun first.
“Come on. MI6.” Sherlock said, directing him out of the room and to Kozlov’s room. As Sherlock pushed him in, he could see armed men coming inside and taking care of the other two rooms.
In minutes the four Russians were together, surrounded by armed MI6 agents. The man in charge, Vadim Ivanov, was seated in the front, predominantly sitting before Sherlock and Jack.
“The Bruce-Partington Plans, if you would.” Sherlock demanded.
“The plans?” The Russian laughed, “You won’t be getting them back!”
“Then at least, tell me. How did you get them?” Sherlock questioned.
“Please, we’re Russian operatives, funded by another country for our skills. Don’t you think we have the means to hack into a voice operated safe?”
Sherlock nodded, “Very true. So, the Chinese provided you with means to hack into the safe, and the voice modulation? You had to collect the sample, however. So...from your expression, it wasn’t the Chinese providing. It was yours.”
“How do you think the Chinese are involved?” One Russian demanded.
“That little question pretty much proved it to me.” Sherlock said, “Your name?”
“What?”
“Name.” Sherlock demanded.
“Gavriil Novikov.”
“Well, Mr. Novikov...” Sherlock looked to Jack, who nodded to him and held up his phone.
“Kozlov, Ivanov, Novikov, and that should mean the fourth is Iosif Soloyyov.” Jack said, “A known group of Russian terrorists.” He looked at the four of them, “I don’t need you to tell me the looks on their faces mean that I’m right, Sherlock.”
“You are indeed correct.” Sherlock said, “And they are hired by the Chinese. I can see it on their faces. Now all that matters is finding the plans. Obviously they haven’t sent them yet, since sending them, even via an encrypted e-mail would be foolish. They would need to deliver in person. Since they’re here, that means the plans haven’t left either. Search their rooms and hard drives. Make sure no copies are present, and reclaim the original.”
“You won’t find it!” Ivanov shouted.
“Jack, what does the drive look like?”
“Small, very small, about the size of the end of your thumb.”
“And then the jack?”
“The jack fits into a computer, the rest of the size, all of it the size of the end of your thumb, is the body.”
“Small...” Sherlock muttered, looking at the four men, “Which is the lowest ranked, Jack?”
“That would be Iosif Soloyyov.” Jack said, directing at one of the men.
Sherlock walked over to him and grabbed him by his wrists. He pulled the man’s arms up and revealed a bandage on the man’s right thumb.
“What would we find if we removed this?” He questioned, peeling it away, even as the man protested and struggled.
Revealing a bloody seam, they found that the thumb wasn’t attached to the finger. Sherlock took plastic gloves from an agent who was set to search the rooms, and pulled them on. He drew the man’s thumb off, but no shouts of pain came.
The flashdrive containing the Bruce-Partington Plans was there. The man had sacrificed his thumb for the job.
“It was a good hiding place. I’ll give you that. That’s all I’ll give you.” He said, removing the drive and putting it into a bag, “Clean that.” He told the man he took the gloves and bag from, “Now, I believe these gentlemen can go off to face justice. Tell Mycroft that the job is done.” He told Jack.
As he left, Jack rushed after him, “Sherlock!”
“Yes, Jack?”
“I need to change.” Jack admitted.
Sherlock smiled, “Then give me a call sometime. I can help you.”
“You’re leaving Swindon?”
“It’s time for me to move on.” Sherlock replied, “Otherwise I’d help you in person.”
Jack nodded, “I’ve got your number.”
“Mycroft.” Sherlock said, “Well then, goodbye, Jack.”
As Sherlock began to walk away to hail a cab, Jack called once more to him.
“Yes?”
“Sherlock...I think I can help you as well.”
Silence.
“...Nobody can help me.” Sherlock said, walking away.

[Cass Hoban]

The Adventure of Vampire of Brighton

“Yes, Brighton is lovely. I’m staying at the Avalon.” Sherlock said, hanging up his room phone. He went to the door of his room and opened it, finding three distraught men standing before him.
“What do I owe the police?” He asked, shaking his head, “No, what do I owe a detective and two officers?”
The three men looked to each other, but the lead man shook his head, “Mr. Holmes, may we come in?”
“What is the purpose of this visit? Grave, I can see. Your faces.”
The lead man, the detective, stepped inside whilst the officers remained outside. He closed the door behind himself, “Mr. Holmes, we have need of you.”
“Of course you do.” Sherlock said, “On all of my travels out of London so far, everyone has needed my help.”
The detective, a man in his mid thirties, shook his head, “Mr. Holmes, I don’t know what your other cases were, but this one is vastly important! For everyone!”
“The last case I had involved the national security of England.” Sherlock said.
“I can’t compete, but this involves the safety of all in Brighton!” The man exclaimed, “Look, I have the files, if you’ll look at them.”
Sherlock gazed over the man. Mid thirties, he guessed, around Sherlock’s own age. He had a head of hair as black as pitch, cut short. He had a hard, detailed face for his age, but it also retained a softness to it. His eyes held an eternal vigor in them, brought to the forefront from his urgency.
He wore a black suit and black trousers, as well as similar shoes. He had a pearl coloured shirt on under his suit coat, and wore a dark blue tie with white stripes across it.
“First, I’m Detective Inspector Demetri Wright.” The man said with a slight northern accent, “I’ve been a DI for Brighton for five years. I worked as an officer before that. I’ve never seen anything like this, nor has anyone on the force.”
“Well, pray tell.” Sherlock said.
“I’d rather you read the files first.” Demetri said, “I’d rather not tell you and be mocked over it.”
“Mocked?”
“A very strange case.” Demetri said, “Just read it and you’ll understand.”
Sherlock took up the files and flipped them open. He skimmed them, and then looked to Demetri, “I don’t understand.”
“Did you read it all?”
“Skimmed the parts I would need to read, the actual incidents.” Sherlock said, “Keywords stuck out to me. No way I think about it makes any sense.”
“Please, read it in depth.” Demetri said.
Sherlock read it again, and again, he looked to Demetri, “I still don’t understand.”
“I don’t know any more, even after investigating.” Demetri said, “It’s as the reports say. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“How can this even be real?” Sherlock questioned, “You have my interest. There is no way I would turn you down. I doubt the real answer is this simple…but I need to know.”
“Piqued your interest, good.” Demetri said, “Now, the count is three corpses, two survivors.”
“Is this suspect just a serial rapist, or a serial killer too?” Sherlock questioned.
“It states in the report that the three dead women died of blood loss, from the bites in their necks.”
Sherlock nodded, “So, this ‘vampire’ has kills because of his habits of sucking blood. Got it.” Sherlock said, “Well, do you have anything on the vampirism?”
“No.” Demetri said, shaking his head, “We have nothing on that. We don’t know what to think. Obviously, this is superstition, a vampire. But the marks and blood loss, with no signs of the blood anywhere, leads us to believe something is happening.”
“Can I see a corpse?” Sherlock asked, “I’d like to see a corpse before I do anything else.”
Demetri nodded, “Of course. Let’s go to the hospital to see the newest.”
“One moment.” Sherlock said, walking to a closet. He opened it and started sifting through bottles and jars before taking a few and tucking them into a bag. He drew his black suit jacket on over his white shirt and walked to Demetri, “Let’s go.”
“What did you get?” Demetri questioned.
“Oh, just something I’ll need. I need to know if those wounds on the neck are bites or not.”
Demetri opened the door, “Get the car ready.” He told the officers, who went off ahead. He looked to Sherlock, “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I think we can come up with an alternative with one of my chemistry experiments.” Sherlock replied.

******************************
Sherlock drew away from the microscope and shook his head in annoyance.
“What is it?” Demetri asked him.
“These wounds! The scrapings I got out…I used my experiment to find the makeup, and see if it would dissolve in another chemical. Because it didn’t dissolve…that means that the scrapings I got out are indeed tooth.”
“So…”
“These are bite wounds.” Sherlock confirmed, “Whoever this is…used actual teeth. Not fake teeth, or something to create the puncture wounds. These are actual teeth.”
“But the wounds are so long!”
Sherlock nodded, “That’s the scary part. Or not.” He shrugged, “Depends on what you believe, Demetri.” Demetri had given Sherlock permission to call him by his forename on the way, “The wounds could be from fake teeth made out of real material. Like just one or two long spikes of tooth for this purpose alone.”
“The blood?”
“I found nothing that was left behind from say, a straw, or something. So maybe he sucked the blood out of the wounds? Maybe there was a straw in one of the spikes of tooth? I don’t know, not yet.”
“What next?”
“I’d like to speak to the surviving victims. Do they have bites?”
“Of course.”
“Unconscious?”
“During the biting.”
“Well, let’s see them anyway.”

******************************
“Ms. Masters, I know this is hard, but what can you recall?” Sherlock asked.
The young woman, twenty three years of age, just out of university, sat, looking terrible as she sat before him.
“I don’t remember anything.” She said, her voice shaking as she tried to stay strong, “He had a mask on the entire time and used a cloth to keep my eyes closed. No sounds at all. He never spoke, never made a sound...”
Sherlock nodded, “Then what?”
“He injected me with something...”
“A needle?”
She showed him her arm. There was a puncture from a needle, “I imagine this is how he did it...”
“A needle it is.” Sherlock said, “So then what?”
“I woke up in the morning, feeling sick and terrible.”
“The blood loss.” Sherlock nodded.
“I found the wounds on my neck after that. I almost couldn’t walk to get a phone to get the police. I...I don’t know any more.”
“I understand.” Sherlock nodded, “Thank you for your time, Ms. Masters.”
Sherlock rose from the second of the interviews. Neither victim had any useful information, other than the signs that a needle had been used to administer a drug to render them unconscious. We could ascertain as much from the corpses...”
Demetri nodded, “Sherlock, do you know anything of use?”
“No...” He said, “Though I think we can assume our ‘vampire’ is a doctor of some sort.” Sherlock said, “Dental for the teeth, and a normal doctor for the drugs and potentially for blood. A blood banque? Selling it for extra money on the side, perhaps? Go and look to see if any major blood donations have come in recently. Cheque it against the blood of Ms. Masters and Ms. Chase. As for now...I’ll be going. Phone if you come up with any developments.”
“Where are you going?” Demetri questioned as Sherlock hailed a cab.
“I have business to attend to.” Sherlock replied, climbing into the cab. It drove off, leaving Demetri behind. He looked to an officer and shook his head.
“No, don’t follow.” He said.

******************************
“Mr. Holmes...what is it you came here to talk about?”
Sherlock sat in a small room. He sat on a sofa, with a table before him. On the other end was a woman in an easy-chair, watching him, waiting for his answer.
“I was told I should come here...to work through my problems.”
“I don’t believe that, Mr. Holmes.”
“Ok...someone I worked with recently told me I should call him if I ever needed help with my problems...he told me to talk to him. I told him nobody could help me.” Sherlock said.
“Yet you came here.” The therapist said, “How did that revelation come about?”
“...I learned that I do indeed need help.” Sherlock said, “I can’t use him, because he can’t help me. Only I can help him. But...even if nobody can help me...I need help.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I’m willing to try!” Sherlock shouted, freeing the idea from his own head. He would often never utter such a statement, but this time, he needed to. Most people who knew him would be shocked to hear him announce that he needed help. But the truth was that he did indeed need help. He was willing to try, willing to do what he could to get better.
He was opening his restrictive mind to the idea of getting better, of getting help.
The therapist smiled, “Ok then, where shall we begin?”
“I had a partner, nearly six years ago, now.” Sherlock said, “Phillip White. Because of me, he was killed in the line of duty.”
“What do you refer to as the ‘line of duty’? You’re a consulting detective...”
“My job can be dangerous. You should know that. Any officer’s life can be in danger, and by extent, so can a detective’s. I’m no different, just because my title is different.”
The therapist nodded, “Ok. Well, how did you contribute to the death of Mr. White?”
“He was my protégé, a young man out of the university. I taught him everything I knew, for the most part. I taught him to understand that reason would win the day...but this day, he didn’t use reason. He used logic, something else I taught him. Logically, he was making a good move. But he didn’t reason out what was likely to happen, and he was lost.”
“You blame yourself for your teachings.” The therapist said, “Even though he made the decisions, do you feel as though you could have done more? Done better?”
“Yes.” Sherlock said simply.
“I’m not going to talk. Go on, Mr. Holmes.”
“Sorry, I’m not terribly used to doing things like this.” Sherlock told her, “I...don’t really know where to go next.”
“Well, why don’t we go on forward instead of back? What happened in your life after you lost Mr. White?” The therapist asked.
“After losing Phillip...I started to use drugs.” Sherlock said, “I was lost. For the next two years, as I worked, I used so many drugs to combat my boredom, to help myself through the long days and nights without any mates, any companions.”
“You said it was only for the next two years. What then? What changed?”
“I met a woman.” Sherlock said simply.
“Go on.”
“...I fell in love with a wonderful woman. She helped to change me. As we lived together, as we saw each other, I never considered turning to the use of drugs. I was whole again...”
“The drugs filled in the emptiness of your life.” The therapist told him, “That much is obvious. But before Mr. White?”
“No problems.”
“No connections to have lost. No emptiness, because you were never full. So to speak. Now, the woman...you don’t use her name. That says a lot.”
“I know it does.” Sherlock replied, “I’m a psychologist in my own right. I just know the practice and use it in mine.”
“That’s not answering the question yet.” She said, “You’re deflecting.”
“I know. I know all about that as well.”
“More deflecting.”
Sherlock remained silent, and then finally spoke, “Her name is McKenzie Williams.” He said simply, speaking a little softer than before.
“You said her name ‘is’? Not ‘was’? That tells me that you’re still connected to her, in an emotional manner.”
“I know.” He replied, “Of course I know! I care so bloody much! I always will!”
“I think that might be the root of the problem.” She told him.
“Are you telling me to cut my ties?” He demanded.
“Either that, or, go back to her.” She said.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“She left me. She left me in the night.” Sherlock said, “What would happen if I went to find her? She made the decision to leave, not me.”
“Things can change in three and a half years.”
“I know...”
“Well, let’s move on. What happened after?”
“I fell to using again.”
“Of course. That’s to be expected, considering you are emotionally rooted to people, falling to drugs when you lose them.”
“Except this time I haven’t.”
“What?”
“My current partner, Doctor John Watson. He married and very well may leave living with me to live elsewhere with his wife.”
“You’re not using...you think things will stay the same. You’ll stay partners.”
“Of course I do.”
“He’s a doctor, however.” She said, “What if his wife wants him to take up his practice? To stop playing detective?”
“Playing detective!” Sherlock shouted.
“You’re the detective, obviously.” She said, “He’s not.”
“He’s learning from me.”
“But his main area of expertise is medicine, however. Is it not?”
“He was a soldier. He desires the action that comes with my work.”
“Is that so?”
“It is.”
She looked at her watch, “Our time is up for today, Mr. Holmes.” She said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Sherlock rose from the sofa, “What should we speak of next?”
“I think we’re going to stay on the subject of those you’ve lost, and those you may lose. They seem to be your main problem.” She answered.
Sherlock stopped at the door, “I was told by Jack Young, the man who offered to help me, that my problem stems from my feelings for McKenzie.” He told her, “I think that’s where we need to focus.”
“I don’t know. I already told you what you must do.”
“...I know. That’s what frightens me.”
“Having to face her?”
“Or lose her for good.” Sherlock said.

******************************
Sherlock pulled his suit jacket over his violet shirt as he answered the door. Demetri stood outside of his hotel room, waiting. He wore the same general outfit, but wore a pale green shirt and silver tie.
“May I come in?”
“I was just going out.” Sherlock said, closing the door, “To see you, actually.”
“Did you come up with anything?” Demetri asked as he stepped aside, allowing Sherlock to step out of the room. He closed the door behind himself.
“No.” Sherlock said, “Not yet. Did you lot?”
“Nothing.” Demetri said.
“No hits on the blood? Blood banques?”
“Sent word out to every blood banque within three hundred kilometers.” Demetri said, “And hospitals. Nothing yet.”
“We’ll figure it out.” Sherlock said, “Regardless of that information. Now, why are you here instead of phoning? Something happened.”
“New victim. Alive, not far away from here. We can be there in a few minutes by walking. The cars are there already. I walked here from there.”
“By all means, let me see the scene.” Sherlock said.
After a few minutes of walking, Sherlock and Demetri arrived at the scene. It was a flat on the second floor.
“Whoever this was had a way to get inside.” Sherlock said, “Or was let in, if it was second floor. First is easy.” He looked up at the windows, “Or he climbed...”
“Let’s just assume he was let in.” Demetri said.
Sherlock nodded, “Yes, makes the most sense.”
Sherlock and Demetri ascended until they reached the desired flat. Two officers stood outside. Paramedics were inside, tending to the victim. Sherlock looked around, seeing nothing of interest amongst personal possessions.
“Stolen?”
“Nothing.” Demetri said, “As far as we can tell.”
Sherlock skimmed rows of items, “Yes, this is all meant to be here.” He said. He looked around, “All that could be stolen, then, is money or jewelry. We’d need to have the victim look, but at the moment, it’s not important. I need to see the room it happened in.”
Demetri led Sherlock into a partially closed room. The woman was lying in the bed, being tended to by paramedics who were helping to stabilize her after the blood loss. Sherlock crouched by them, ignoring their looks. He looked at the wounds before they were covered, and then stepped away, allowing them to seal the wounds.
Sherlock looked around the room, and then at the door. He looked back to Demetri, “The door was burst open.”
“We know that.” Demetri said, “We saw it as well.”
“No foot mark on the door...” Sherlock said, looking around. He grabbed a heavy lamp from a table. When he looked at the bottom, sure enough, there were marks.
“Pounded his way in with this.” Sherlock said, “No kick, no possible marks to indicate anything about him.”
“Ok, what else?” Demetri asked.
Sherlock looked around, and then walked to the loo. He opened the medicine cabinet and then closed it.
He walked out and stood before Demetri. He nodded.
“I have the pattern.”
“Serial…anything, don’t leave patterns!”
“If you look hard enough, they do.”
“Ok then, what’s this pattern?” Demetri questioned.
Sherlock looked at his watch, “I have two minutes before I have to go. When we were at the homes of the two other survivors to question them, I looked around. I chequed their medicine cabinets. I need to have someone cheque the homes of the deceased victims and cheque for a prescription from Royal Sussex County Hospital for oxycodone.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Demetri questioned. “What does a depressant have to do with this?”
“Two depressants mixing can cause unconsciousness.” Sherlock said, “Now do it.” He looked at his watch, “Until later. Phone me in two hours.”
Demetri looked to officers, “Well, go and search.” He said. He scratched his chin, “Two depressants...” He looked to the paramedics in the other room, “Cheque her system for any depressant, other than oxycodone.”

******************************
“I lost my parents when I was in the university.” Sherlock told the therapist, Amber Evans. “That loss never really affected me. I didn’t really need them anymore, I was too independant. My brother, Mycroft, was the same as me. Neither of us really needed them, and accepted their deaths.”
“How did they die?”
“A fire.” Sherlock said, “My mother had a heart attack whilst baking. Things got out of control and a fire started. She died of the fire and smoke inhalation, my father died trying to save her.”
“I can see, like you’ve said, it hasn’t affected you. Let’s move on to more recent events.” Amber said, “We’ve covered Mr. White. Covered most of Ms. Williams. Now, Doctor Watson?”
“I’m afraid that if he moved out, or if I moved out, that I’d lose him as a constant mate. However, I know I’d still have him. I’d still see him. We’d still be mates, still have our connection.”
Amber nodded, “And if his wife wants to move out of London? Or wants him to stop with you and focus on being a doctor?”
“I’ll still see him.”
“But will the lack of seeing him depress you into using drugs again?” Amber asked, “Could you accept the fact of, let’s say, you see him once a month for the rest of your life? Can you accept that?”
“I can’t.” Sherlock easily admitted, “I would have to find another person.”
“You already mentioned the man who recommended help for you. Mr. Young.”
“Jack Young.” Sherlock confirmed, “MI6, an American operative. He helped me on my last case.”
“And that means you have a current case?” She asked.
“I do. And I had one before it.” Sherlock said, “In my first case since leaving London, I joined Mr. Roy Mason, a detective in Westham, East Sussex. Then there was Jack Young in Swindon, and now I’m working with Demetri Wright here in Brighton.”
“What about any of them?” Amber asked, “Couldn’t you get one of these men to join you? You obviously have had connections with them, if you worked with them so well.”
“I could...but they have their own work, their own lives.” Sherlock said, “John is the only one for me. He and Phillip...they were different. They were good changes from normal people. Whilst these three other men were great in their own right...they aren’t the same. It wouldn’t work the same.”
“I understand.” Amber said, “Well, have you made any progress on Ms. Williams?”
“I don’t know what to do yet.” Sherlock admitted.
“You should figure it out soon.” Amber said. She looked out the window, “Our time is up.” She said, rising.
Sherlock rose and looked outside, “What is it?” He asked.
“I missed the sunrise the last two days.” She said, “I’m usually up by that time to see it. These last two days, though...at least I’ll see this next one.”
Sherlock nodded, “The sunrise is glorious. I saw it the last two mornings.”
Amber nodded, “Well, I have another client.”
“I have work.” Sherlock said, walking out, “Hopefully I can finish this case before the sunrise.”

******************************
“Anything?” Sherlock asked as he called Demetri. He stepped out of the cab and walked towards the Royal Sussex County Hospital.
“Yeah, the same prescriptions.” Demetri confirmed.
“Then my pattern is sound.” Sherlock said, “I’m chequeing on something right now. I’ll phone when I’m done.”
Sherlock walked inside and headed to the nearest desk, “Is Doctor Tully here?”
“He’s in his office.” The receptionist told him.
“Can you tell me where that is?”
Sherlock nodded as he got the directions and headed up to the second floor. He knocked on one of the doors.
“Doctor Tully?” He asked.
The man was a little on the stocky side, with thin brown hair and a saggy face. He had brown eyes that had no light to them. He appeared to be in his mid to late forties.
“Who might you be?” He asked in a Scottish accent.
“Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock said, “Consulting detective. We have had six victims, three of whom are dead, who all have a prescription of oxycodone, prescribed by you from this hospital. Now, can you tell me about that?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Holmes.” Doctor Tully replied, “Are you accusing me of something?”
“I’m accusing you of raping and draining the blood of those women.” Sherlock said.
“Why would I do that?” He questioned.
“I can tell the type of person you are. You’re the kind who wants power. You have power over those women. Maybe you just can’t control your lust. You find women whom you’ve prescribed depressants to, use that to your advantage, and rape them when they’re on the drug.”
“You said something about draining blood…”
“Drain it to remove most traces of the evidence.” Sherlock said, “I’ve figured out your game. You drain the blood from two holes in the neck that you make. Make it look like a vampire, for some reason. The blood will hold the evidence of the drugs in the system, and without enough blood for us to cheque, we won’t find it as easily.”
“Whilst that is a good theory, you have the wrong man.” Doctor Tully said, “Now, could you please excuse me? I’m working a case.”
“It’ll be your last.” Sherlock said, “I’ll get you, Doctor Tully.”
As Sherlock turned to leave, the doctor spoke.
“We share records and information with the therapists around Brighton. I know your file, Mr. Holmes.”
“Let’s see what good that does. It’s hardly a threat.” Sherlock said, walking out.

******************************
Sherlock awoke in the middle of the night when there was frantic knocking at his door. He slipped his dressing gown on and answered, finding Demetri standing there.
“What is it?” Sherlock questioned, “Another victim?”
“Yes. Fresh, hurry!”
Sherlock dressed quickly into a dark blue shirt and his suit jacket. He pulled on his boots as he closed the door behind himself and rushed after Demetri to the car.
A few minutes later, they were at a very familiar building. Sherlock rushed off ahead, ignoring Demetri’s shouts.
Sherlock reached the room and opened it, praying that he was wrong. When he opened it, he found officers inside with a corpse.
“A janitor found her.” Demetri said, “Stabbed in the neck, and then raped. Two holes in the neck, but no blood drawn out.” He reported, “She died a few minutes after being stabbed, we figure.”
Sherlock looked down at the body of his therapist, Amber Evans. He shook his head, “No…no! That damned doctor!”
“Sherlock…”
“It’s Doctor Tully!” Sherlock shouted, “We need to arrest him!”
“We can’t.” Demetri said, “We have no proof.”
“The pills are the bloody proof!” Sherlock shouted.
“That isn’t enough.”
“Get an alibi!” Sherlock shouted, “We need to get this man!”
“Sherlock…”
Sherlock shook his head, “No…no…” He stopped and remembered something. He rushed to Amber’s desk and pulled out a phonebook. He paged through and stopped.
“No…”
“What is it?” Demetri questioned.
Sherlock rushed out, closing the book as he went, preventing them from finding what he had looked at.
“Get him!” Demetri shouted to an officer. The officer ran after Sherlock, but was immediately lost in the dark hallways, allowing Sherlock to get out without being followed.
He couldn’t be followed.

******************************
“I was surprised that you called me, Mr. Holmes.”
“Doctor Tully…” Sherlock muttered. They stood at the beach, looking out at Celtic Sea. The sun was just going to be rising soon. It had taken time for him to arrange this meeting. He wasn’t surprised that Tully had shown up.
“I heard about Ms. Evans’s death. A shame.”
“You bastard…why her?”
“If I had to guess, she was killed to prove a point to you, Sherlock.”
“She wasn’t even on the oxycodone. That’s why you stabbed her. You just did everything to show that it was you! You didn’t have to, but you wanted to leave the calling card.”
“Again, I’m not the rapist.”
“Then why meet me here? Why would you be up? Here so quickly?”
“I was working.”
“The sounds on your phone weren’t a hospital.”
“Look, Sherlock. I was a dentist.” Doctor Tully said, “There’s one answer for you. Suction in the tooth fang I made. I used Rohypnol as my drug to inject. It’s another depressant. You already knew that two combined could cause unconsciousness. If it didn’t work for that, then the drug would render the injected unconscious either way. Either way, I won.”
“You bastard…”
“You already said that, Sherlock.” Doctor Tully turned to face Holmes, “She was just a message. Don’t try to stop me. I have your records; I can make things so much worse for you. And don’t think that you can stop me. You have no proof of this confession. You’re not the type to have a recorder on you right now.”
“You’re right about that.” Sherlock said.
Doctor Tully turned to look out at the sea.
“The sun is rising.” He said.
Sherlock looked at it. He remembered how Amber had wanted to see the sunrise that morning. How she was dead now. How this monster was seeing it in her place.
“Doctor…what do you think of the sunrise?” Sherlock asked, almost unable to form the words.
He turned to look at Sherlock, grinning with a grin of victory.
“Glorious.”
Sherlock drew his gun from inside of his suit jacket, lifted, and fired.

******************************
Sherlock knocked on the door before him. There was a bell, but he didn’t want to ring it. He simply waited for the door to open.
The address he had chequed at Amber’s office. The one he confirmed.
It was time for him to change his life. Time to plead for one more chance.
“C-can I…may I please…come in…?”
McKenzie opened the door for him. Sherlock stepped inside and closed the door.

[Cass Hoban]

The Adventure of E3I798B

Things were right. Sherlock was happy as he climbed out of bed and walked downstairs to the door. Wearing his dressing gown, he wasn’t prepared to meet with DI Demetri Wright, who stood at the door.
“Sherlock…” Demetri said.
“How did you find me?” He questioned.
“We had to use your records from Ms. Evans’s office, but we found this location, at last.” Demetri said.
“I have no interest in whatever you have to say.” Sherlock said.
“You know, it’s odd.” Demetri said, “We found the corpse of Doctor Tully after getting the evidence needed against him. Any idea how that happened?”
“I hardly know what you’re talking about.” Sherlock said.
Demetri gave him an all-knowing look, to which Sherlock had to fold.
“What do you want?”
“Your help.”
“The case is over. You looking for the killer?”
“We both know that’s not the case.” Demetri answered.
“Then what?”
“May I come in?” Demetri asked.
“I’d rather we talked out here.” Sherlock said.
“Then get dressed.” Demetri said, “We need to get going.”
Sherlock closed the door and walked upstairs. He only had a few things with him, having only returned to the Avalon for a few items to clothe himself with.
As he started to dress in his white shirt and black waistcoat, he noticed that McKenzie was beginning to awaken. He pulled his boots on and waited for a moment.
“I have to go and see the police.” He said simply, softly.
“What about?” She asked.
He hated having to put his job first. That was what ruined things the first time. This woman, this beautiful young, blond woman deserved better than him. Deserved better than the life that he had to keep up with.
“I don’t know.” He said, “I’ll be back soon, though.”
She didn’t answer. Was this as a result of their past? Of how she knew him? That his job always seemed to come first? Or was it something else?
This was no time for Sherlock to think of it now. He had to go.
He walked outside where Demetri waited in his black suit, gray shirt and black tie. He nodded to the police car that was parked nearby. He got into the passenger’s seat whilst Sherlock was forced in back.
“Tell me…what do I need to do?” Sherlock questioned.
“Did I pull you away from something?” Demetri asked.
Sherlock didn’t answer. Demetri found him via the address of the woman he was with. He knew what Sherlock was doing there. He knew he was interrupting something.
“Whatever this is had better be good.” Sherlock told him.
“It is.” Demetri said. He pulled out a slip of paper, “E3I798B.”
“What’s that?” Sherlock questioned.
“The latest designer drug on the market in Brighton.” Demetri answered, “And one that’s very dangerous. We’ve had at least seven deaths from it in the last two weeks.”
“Why not mention it earlier?” Sherlock questioned.
“Tully was more important.” Demetri answered, “And it wasn’t too bad. We were searching…”
“What happened?”
“DI Hector Jarvis, the man we had searching for the distributor, or distributors, and maker…he turned up dead this morning.”
“How did he die?” Sherlock questioned, straight to the point.
“Poison, of a sort.”
“What do you mean?”
“We found him at a factory believed to possibly be the manufacturing plant. Nothing was there when we arrived after he failed to report in. We knew he would be there, you see. Ventilation was open all the way everywhere, most exits were sealed, only a few were open, no doubt to transport equipment.”
“Moscow Theater hostage crisis?” Sherlock questioned.
“Using a drug, pumping it through the ventilation system, and killing. Yes.” Demetri answered, “They pumped their drug through the ventilation systems, sealed him in, and let him die on their creation. They’ve committed actual murder now, something greater we can charge them with.”
“Is this designer drug a legal issue?” Sherlock questioned.
“No legal action taken, but we are trying to get it made illegal. It’s legal…but deadly. That’s the point. Most don’t know, and won’t listen.”
“So, you want me to find the murderer…or murderers of DI Jarvis, and find the makers of this drug. Correct?”
“Yes.” Demetri answered, “We need it off the streets.”
“Any leads?”
“Yes.”
“The factory?”
“No. We searched. Literally nothing. I’m doubting it was even used as their distribution centre, or where they made it. I think the doors were opened as a trick to make us think so, and they spread false information.”
Sherlock nodded, “Ok then. I’ll look into whatever leads you have.”
“Chemical composition.” Demetri said, “We got some of the drug, and chequed its composition. We got another and chequed again. Newer. A different element was on it. We think it’s a sign of where it was from.”
“I’ll look into it.” Sherlock said, “Get me to the lab for the data.”

******************************
Sherlock looked at the data on paper, and then into the microscope again. He looked up from his work, “Interesting chemical makeup.” He said, “That extra instance is also interesting.”
“Do you know where it could be from?” Demetri asked.
“It has to be from the tracks.” Sherlock said, “Any nearby?”
“Brighton Rail Station.” Demetri confirmed.
“Then let’s be off.”

******************************
Upon arriving at the Station, they were greeted by some officers and an ambulance.
“What happened here?” Sherlock questioned of Demetri.
The DI shrugged, “I don’t know.” He rushed forward and got into the investigation scene, finding a corpse with the remains of the drugs in hand.
“He used the drug.” Sherlock said, standing behind Demetri.
“Ironic, based on the location.” Demetri said.
“Not really.”
“Why?”
“Look at him. He’s transporting the drugs. That’s why some have these instances of the Station.”
“How?”
“Wearing a coat. It’s July. We’re pushing it, you know, overdressed, most likely.” Sherlock told Demetri, “That means that the place where he was had to be cold. Based on some of the chemical makeup of the drug, I’m assuming it’s made in a colder location. The warehouse has to be cold for the drug to be made, so he was just there.
“How is he dead, then?” Demetri questioned, “Assuming you’re right so far.”
“Someone knew that we were getting close. Someone sent a message.” Sherlock crouched down and pulled up the man’s sleeves, “Bruising. Someone overpowered him and made him inject himself. Do you see the awkward turn of the wrist? It’s broken. Someone really forced him to inject himself. Nobody saw, it seems, or they were afraid.”
“Where do we go from here?” Demetri questioned.
Sherlock chequed the man’s pockets, and then rose with a folded slip of paper. He opened and skimmed it before handing it over.
“Client list.”
“When do drug dealers have lists?” Demetri questioned.
“When they aren’t looking for random buyers. This was set up.” Sherlock said.
“Killed by the buyers?” Demetri questioned.
“Possible, but I don’t think so.” Sherlock said, “Regardless, let’s cheque the location. The name?”
Demetri read the name, “Susan Hersh.”
“Then let’s find where this woman lives and cheque the home.” Sherlock said.
Demetri took his phone and placed a call, “I need an address. The name is Susan Hersh.”

******************************
Sherlock and Demetri walked up the front steps of the sizeable house. This woman had some money, or her family did. That was apparent.
“Why drugs?” Demetri questioned.
“Boredom through money?” Sherlock suggested.
“Fine, why designer drugs? I hate to admit it, but others are safer, even if illegal.” Demetri said.
“Thrill of danger? Maybe they just didn’t do it for her anymore?” Sherlock suggested, “Regardless, it’s not for us to figure out.”
Demetri nodded, “Right.” He pounded on the door, “Police! Open up!”
Nothing.
“Could you turn your back?” Sherlock questioned.
“Why?”
“Just please, turn your back.”
“Why?” Demetri questioned again.
“It makes it much more difficult if I tell you why.”
“Just tell me!”
“I can’t. The less you know, Demetri. The less you know.”
“Fine.” Demetri turned his back.
Sherlock crouched down and pulled out his leather case from his breast pocket. He began fishing around in the lock with his picks, soon unlocking it. He sealed his tools and replaced them before telling Demetri to turn back.
“I’m not going to ask.” Demetri said, walking inside, “Police!” He shouted.
Sherlock followed behind and looked around. Some of the furniture was toppled; there were cans and bottles of beer and other liquor all around them. Signs that people had been there recently, very recently.
Now there was no one around.
“Better be safe.” Sherlock said, drawing his gun and cocking it.
Demetri nodded, “Yeah.” He drew his and held it in both hands, pointed down. He moved to the stairs leading upstairs whilst Sherlock looked around the rooms connected to the main room.
Demetri went up quickly and quietly, glancing carefully around every corner. He rushed up to the actual floor, finding more signs of people having been there recently. He noticed that one of the doors was partially open, all of the others were closed.
He walked into the partially opened door, putting his gun back into his waistband. He rushed inside, finding a corpse in the tub. He quickly moved to the other rooms, gun drawn, and chequed each, finding nobody.
Sherlock soon came up, “Find anything?” He questioned.
“Corpse in the tub.” Demetri answered, “Insertion marks from a needle. The E3I798B claimed another life.”
Sherlock put his gun away and walked inside, looking at the corpse. He nodded, “The owner, no doubt.”
“Why do you say that?” Demetri questioned.
“Pictures of this woman downstairs.” Sherlock said, “Pictures of others, yes, but this woman had the most.”
“I’ll call it in.”
“How did we get in, though?” Sherlock questioned.
“We heard that someone was in trouble.” Demetri said, “They’ll buy that lie.”
As Demetri called it in, Sherlock looked around the medicine cabinet. He pulled out a needle and observed the fluid inside.
“This has to be the drug.” Sherlock said.
Demetri looked at it, “Yeah, looks like the samples we have.”
Sherlock set it down carefully, “Do you have a fingerprinting kit?”
“In the car. Why?”
“Prints off of this, off of the corpse, and off of the dealer. We need to find anything we can.”
Demetri nodded, “I’ll get it.”
“Do hurry.” Sherlock said.
Demetri walked out of the room. Once Sherlock was sure that he was down the stairs, he rushed to the corpse and pulled the closed eyelids back, looking into her eyes.
He felt the skin, getting a rough estimate of how long she had been dead for. Based on the dealer at the Station, she couldn’t have been dead for long, since they were connected.
“Party must have lasted into the day.” He murmured to himself, “Dead for…half an hour, maybe. Neighbors? They’d have had to have seen something. But the others don’t matter…” He said, talking to himself, “All that matters is this woman’s connection. Now, if she left to get the drugs, we can find that out. We’ll have to ask neighbors if she left, if they saw her leave.
“Pupils are dilated. Fingernails are black.” He said, turning over the hand, “Rapidly onset, then. This drug probably has a thirty percent chance of killing. It’s supposed to kill…” He said the last part more slowly than the rest as it dawned on him.
Demetri soon returned with his case. Sherlock turned to him, “The drug is designed to kill. It’s not a designer drug for recreational use, with the occasional death. It’s meant to kill!”
“How do you know that?” Demetri questioned.
“I looked at the corpse when you were gone.” Sherlock said, “We need to fingerprint quickly and get searching.”
“Are you sure about this?” Demetri questioned.
“I’m sure.” Sherlock said, “Now, prints!”
Demetri began to work as Sherlock looked out the window. He held his hand out, “Badge, please?”
“Why?”
“Need to talk to the neighbors for something.” Sherlock said.
Demetri didn’t question him. He handed is badge over, allowing Sherlock to leave and question the neighbors under the guise of a DI.
He returned a few minutes later, “Neighbors report seeing her leave about an hour ago and return about ten minutes later.”
“Works into the timeline of the dealer’s death.” Demetri said.
“And gives enough time for her to have been dead for half an hour, and for it to kill her fast enough. Must have died downstairs, they put her in the tub, and fled.”
Demetri nodded, “Got some prints.”
“Let’s get these back, then.” Sherlock said, dealing with the prints for their corpse. He took the copies of the prints and put them with the rest. Demetri and Sherlock left as the officers arrived to tape off the house. They headed back for the testing of prints.

******************************
“The prints from our dealer match one set on the needle.” Demetri reported that night over the phone to Sherlock, “They also match the woman, Susan Hersh’s, prints. No other prints.”
“So she was the only handler.” Sherlock said, “That gets us nowhere if we don’t have prints to use to find our target.”
“We’ll find something.” Demetri told him.
“I’m sure we will.” Sherlock said. He looked back at the bed. He looked out the window again, “I’ve got to go.”
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
He looked again.
He wanted to say “No”. He wanted to throw this case away, to let the police handle it. He had helped enough, hadn’t he? He just wanted to be happy, to be with McKenzie Williams. How could he keep leaving her? His work life was what destroyed their relationship before, he didn’t want it to happen again.
“Sherlock?”
Instead of answering Demetri, he hung up and got into bed silently beside her. How could he leave? How could he help with this case when he had her to be with?
But he had to. He had to help save lives.
He had no choice but to help Demetri.

******************************
“Worked all night, I see.” Sherlock said, based on Demetri wearing the same clothes as the previous day. Sherlock wore the same style from the previous day, but with a blue shirt.
“We have a lead.” Demetri said.
“Good. What is it?”
“With your observations of the corpse, we looked at the chemical makeup of the drug again. We found something that shouldn’t be there, hidden deep in the makeup.”
“What?”
“A poison called Ipozine.” Demetri said.
“Ipozine?” Sherlock questioned.
“Lethal, but survivable.” Demetri said, “Adds up to what you figured out with the lethality rate. The other chemicals are suppressing the Ipozine from always killing, but sometimes it will kill. It’s a roulette. The drug is addicting enough to make you come back for more, so you keep going, and will eventually die.”
“And the drugs you guys tested?” Sherlock questioned.
“None of them were actually lethal.” Demetri said, “Those were where the Ipozine was suppressed. The one from Hersh, though, obviously wasn’t. It was easy to see.”
“Ok, so, what does this lead mean? I’ve never heard of the poison.”
“There are only a few places they can be.” Demetri said, “Adding in the cold factor, we’ve narrowed it down to only one location.”
“The warehouse, or factory, rather?” Sherlock questioned.
Demetri nodded, “We’ve got them. We’re going after them in a few hours, when our warrant comes in.”
Sherlock didn’t want to, but he had a duty.
“I’m coming.”

******************************
It was over quickly. Demetri, Sherlock, and the team they had brought had stormed the factory. A cold warehouse, perfect for making the drug. About ten people making it, three of whom had weapons. They didn’t expect anything, and were taken by surprise.
Two men died in the ensuing firefight, and the other eight surrendered. The drug was taken off the street as a result of the raid, with the law giving maximum penalties to the men responsible for everything due to the Ipozine poison inside of the drugs being intentional killing methods.
After the long two days of work, Sherlock returned to McKenzie’s home. He tried the door, but found it locked, so he knocked, thinking she must have locked it since she was alone, or maybe she was out. He didn’t have a key, either.
When she came to the door, he was going to enter, but she stood in the doorframe.
“Sherlock…”
It took him only a moment to read her.
“What…what have I done…?”
“Your life, Sherlock.” She told him, “I…I can’t handle the life you have. The constant comings and goings, the amount of time you have to invest into such ventures. I’m sorry, Sherlock. Your things are here.” She reached back and passed a suitcase out to him.
“I…I can change things…” He stuttered.
“You tried.” She told him, “You can’t. Because you are you, Sherlock. You can’t change that, even for me.”
“I can!” He shouted, losing control of his emotions, “Please, let me try!”
“I’ve given you a second chance. I’m sorry, but no more.” She said, closing the door on him.
He stood alone on the front steps, shaking from how he had destroyed his life once more. How Demetri had caused his life to be destroyed again by forcing him to work.
He had only gotten this far by killing Tully. By killing Tully, he was forced to work with Demetri. By working with Demetri, his love life ended again.
He had only himself to blame, it seemed.

******************************
“Sherlock, you’re back.” John said when Sherlock walked into the rooms of 221 B Baker Street, “How was your travelling?”
“Mary?” Sherlock questioned.
“Out.”
“Your living arrangements?”
“We’re moving into a house soon, not too far away. I can still work with you, until I get my practice going again. Sherlock…what’s wrong?”
Sherlock sat down, produced his fags and lit a match, to John’s surprise.
“I had to let things go.” Sherlock said. He stared out the window, and then turned back to John, his eyes watering, despite his best efforts to keep himself strong, “That’s all, John.”
“Sherlock…what happened?”
“Nothing that hasn’t already happened before.” Sherlock said, “But this time…no second chances.”
“What?”
Sherlock rose, “John…let’s put this out of mind…please?”
John nodded, seeing his friend’s pain.
“I’m fine.” Sherlock said.
“Do the math someday, Sherlock.” John said.
“If I do…then I’m not fine.” Sherlock said.
The two looked out the window into the vast city of London. Sherlock had rebuilt parts of his life, but they were destroyed again.
The status quo was permanent, it seemed. But he had John’s friendship, at least. And the crimes of London would keep him going, keep him busy. At the least, he had that.