𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐄𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫 || 𝐁𝐁𝐂 𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤

25: Confrontation

I was beginning to feel slightly unsettled.

This morning I received the same text I had been getting for several months now. A file containing a picture of a joker card.

However, for some reason, this time the card was on a table, splattered in what she knew to be blood.

A joker card splattered with blood.

Frowning, I looked at it closely. "What the hell? I murmured to myself. This was the final straw.

Where I had previously discarded these pictures as nothing more than a childish prank by someone no doubt wanting to elicit a panicked response, by ignoring it, I assumed they'd get bored and stop.

Yet it never did, and it seemed harmless enough so I just ignored them.

I cocked my head, wondering whether it was worth it to trace the number and saw Sherlock look at me inquiringly. I gestured vaguely at my phone.

"Connection issues." After locating my computer from under my pillow and logging in, I began to trace the messenger, which proved trickier than I anticipated. For spam, the individual, or group, was hard to trace, with the location struggling to narrow down to a particular area.

The whole process took around ten minutes, during which time I analysed the joker card in the photo. It looked like your average joker card from a standard pack of playing cards. Nothing unusual or significant.

If anything, it could be a message?

But what?

Could it be a calling card? If so, why?

My computer beeped, indicating that the trace was complete. I sat back in my chair and I studied the screen. The photos had been coming from an area in Croydon, more specifically, an abandoned steel warehouse. I pondered to myself whether I should go check it out, weighing up the potential risks. Glancing at my watch, it was late, and no trains were running at this time. My best bet would be to head there tomorrow morning and investigate. I wondered if I was overreacting, which was plausible considering how I felt that I was stagnating in this damn flat, unable to leave without Mycroft raining down hell on me.

I briefly wondered whether Moriarty could be the culprit, but quickly dismissed the idea. After all, these messages had been coming for a while, much before Moriarty even knew that I was still alive.

I memorised the address and closed the laptop. Tossing my phone onto my pillow, before landing face down on the bed, my hair fanning around my face messily. I lay there for a while, my eyes closed, delving deep into my mind palace, going over the wealth of information I had on, well, almost everything. Hunting down the person who sends me spam pales in comparison to the person who informed me of the existence of my brother. If I find him, then I'll be closer to finding the only family I had.

But it had been three years, and time has a habit of wearing you down. What was the point of telling me about my brother and withholding information, such as where he is?

Turning over, I gazed at the ceiling, absent-minded, tracing the long pink scar on my forearm, remembering how I'd gotten it.

That day.

The attack. Where I nearly died.

My first brush with death was fleeting, but seeing my parent's dead bodies and running from the attacker, this wound was the only token I had to remember that day.

Not that I would ever forget it.

But how come I forgot I had a brother?

I lay there, attempting to sleep, but my mind was working overtime, thinking and analysing constantly.