Hooked (teenlock)

Chapter Thirteen

"No one questions it?"

"Certainly not. They're idiots."

I nodded. "And I'm not."

Mycroft smirked. "I may have been a bit too generous with my previous compliment. You're not a complete idiot."

I sighed, tired by my brother's constant irrelevancy. "You're implying that Loraine was innocent, then?"

"Of course she was. The woman wasn't smart enough to pull off anything even half as tricky as this murder."

"Obviously. The murderer's out there, then. So use your governmental powers that you're so unbearably proud of and-"

"Certainly not, little brother. This is your responsibility. You took the case. I want nothing to do with this. You may show yourself out."

"So much for a brotherly chat."

"I think we're both aware that neither of us would really want that, Sherlock."

With a roll of my eyes, I exited the manor and headed home. I found that both of my parents were out and about (most likely downtown, seeing as both of them had taken their jackets and scarves to brace themselves against the near-winter chills), leaving me free to do as I pleased.

As it turned out, 'as I please' simply meant shutting myself in my room and picking up my violin. The strings bit into the pads of my fingers due to my lack of practice. Still, the notes played, sharp and strong, through the room as I began to drift into my mind palace.

Almost as soon as I'd met the guy, my mind palace had begun to fill itself with John. Facts, images, thoughts, ideas. He was practically in the air around me no matter where I went. He was unavoidable in the best of ways.

Every corner I turned in the palace, he was there. Sometimes smiling, sometimes looking concerned. Most of the time, he was kissing me- which is terribly romantic and I hate to admit that it was so, but the truth is the truth.

John's presence in my mind was rather impressive, and though I loved having him there, he was rather distracting. It was impossible to unwind him from the case because he was so involved. There was no distinguishable line where his existence ended and Molly Hooper's murder began. Still, I managed as best I could to unravel them, starting from the beginning.

Creative murder that still left no clues whatsoever- murderer had to be brilliant. Local, since Molly had no enemies back home. Someone who didn't kill for money, so a middle or higher class citizen. Certainly I would have noticed if the killer was around us often. No one I knew, then? It was impossible to tell- there was no way to know exactly how smart the killer was. A brilliant local who killed for fun that neither John nor Moriarty nor I knew. It seemed easy- easy and incorrect.

I sighed. The recap of ideas was going horribly. No matter how many times I reviewed what I knew, tried to connect the dots, nobody came to mind. The murderer was simply too smart.

John. JohnJohnJohn. He was back in my mind, crowding my thoughts once more. Creeping in like a fog over a valley. This time, I welcomed him with open arms (and, admittedly, welcoming lips).

Shaking fingers, nervous breakdowns. PTSD from the car accident so many years ago. Surely it couldn't have affected him so harshly. His mother was just a person. A dead one now, but a person all the same. John had seen death. He was familiar with it when we saw Molly. And yet, he still seemed to care that she was dead. Emotional. Human, perhaps.

Whoever killed Molly and pulled off this entire thing must have been there from the start. To learn, to keep track of where we were on the case, to make sure we kept off their trail. They would need a distraction. A diversion. Someone who could take the fall for them, if necessary.

Inside my mind palace, a door opened. Upon further inspection, I found it to be a replay of Loraine, tumbling off of the cliff onto the cold beach beneath us. Of course.

She was the perfect red herring, and she took the perfect fall.

Images of Moriarty flashed in my mind. He had always, always argued that Loraine was guilty. He pushed it. He knew.

Still, as every image of him passed through my mind, a single word accompanied it. Innocent.

I would have known if he was guilty. I would have read it on him immediately. My brother was correct (for once in his life) - I wasn't a complete idiot. The killer would have had to be near us always, but couldn't have interacted, or I would know everything. But of course, the faces of strangers are the most difficult to remember.

And then a door opened.

Molly and I in the grocery store. She was a total bother. I complained.

Words were scratched onto the wall of the palace. London is not a small town. Seeing a stranger more than once is no coincidence.

Another slam of an opening door. The Attendant.

Yet another smash of wood against the wall. Not all strangers make their faces visible. Virtual worlds. Digital connections.

Always there, always watching. Hardly ever speaking. Of course, it was-

My cell phone buzzed, pulling me out of my mind palace. I quickly answered it, frustrated.

I sighed into the device. "If you don't mind, I'm a bit busy being brilliant."

It was Moriarty's voice that responded, but I hardly recognized it. It quaked like San Francisco in 1906. He was weak- and actually showing it, for once.

"Sherlock. Please. I need your help."