"Clostridium botulinum!" Sherlock shouted, slamming his hands down on the table.
"It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet." He continued. John entered the room, looking confused. Sherlock shot up, going over to the shoelaces hanging from a wire with the rest of the shoe parts.
"It could be easily introduced into his medication. Two hours later, he comes up to London and the poison takes effect. Paralyzing the muscles and he drowns." Sherlock explained, typing rapidly into his computer. He typed an update on his blog reading: Found. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989). Botulinum poison still preserved. Apply to 221B Baker Street.
"Get the bomber's attention." Sherlock muttered. "Stop the clock." The pink phone rang. Sherlock answered it and the crying woman sobbed over the line. She begged for someone to come and find her and John phoned Lestrade. Thus closing the case of Carl Powers, much to my relief.
➳➴➵➶➷➸➹
We were back at Scotland Yard. As Sherlock and Lestrade talked over the case, I stared out the window. This is too familiar. He's targeting Sherlock. My mind wandered off to a faraway place, the gears in my head whirring.
"We've found it!" Lestrade shouted, bringing me out of my thinking state.
"What?" I said, confused as to what was happening. Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed my wrist, pulling me out of my chair and out the door. He dragged me out of the building and into a cab, John right behind us. He didn't inform me on what was happening until we arrived at our destination.
"He's sent me another puzzle. Eight hours to figure it out." Sherlock said as we walked through the almost empty parking lot. It was taped off with police tape and police cars surrounded the area. I perked up, becoming interested.
"What's the puzzle?" I asked.
"Ian Monkford. Hired a car from Janus Cars and it ended up here, covered in his blood. No body found yet." Sherlock explained.
"What do you have on him?" Sherlock asked. I scanned my file on Ian Monkford.
"Born October 6, 1983. City boy, banker. Married to Helen Scott. Unhappily though. Up to his eyeballs in debt. Status: Unimportant." I informed him. Sherlock's eyes darted back and forth. He suddenly walked up to Monkford's wife, leaving me and John by the car.
"Wow. How do you keep all that information?" John asked curiously. I chuckled sadly. You don't want to know. I was saved from answering his question when Sherlock walked back up to us.
"Something's up. She's in on it. Come on. We're going to Janus Cars." Sherlock said, walking away.
➳➴➵➶➷➸
I would inform you on the trip to Janus Cars and the conversation with the owner, Mr. Ewart, but to be honest I dozed off for most if it. Sherlock took care of the deductions, and I didn't offer any help. I was letting him have his fun. Besides, these "puzzles" that were being directed to him were suspiciously familiar and I wanted to stay out of it, if at all possible. We traveled to the place where the car was being temporarily kept as Sherlock delivered his final explanation. He elucidated that Ian Monkford was in some sort of financial trouble, so he hired Janus Cars to help him disappear. Gave a pint of his blood to spread on the seats. His wife was in on it too. Sherlock solved the puzzle.
"I am on fire!" He exclaimed as we exited the alleyway. Once we were back at the flat, Sherlock updated his blog, and the hostage called him. Letting him know where he was. Thus concluding the case of Janus Cars. As I was sitting in my room that night, I was thinking hard about the recent days events. Why is he targeting Sherlock? Why is he being so patient? There was a knock at my bedroom door. When I opened it, John was standing there. He handed me a sealed envelope.
"It's addressed to you. Sherlock tried to grab it but I got to it before him. I suggest you read it before he comes up here." He said. I took it, looking over it carefully.
"Thanks John. Goodnight." I said with a smile. He smiled back warmly.
"Goodnight Jax." He said, walking down the steps. I closed the door securely and sat down on my bed. My name was written on the front in spirally handwriting. First class stationary. Written with a 4x4 Ontrak fountain pen. I ripped it open and slid the single piece of paper out. It was a piece of sketchbook paper, with a detailed drawing of a spider web extending to the edge of the paper. On the web was a spider with elegant long legs. It loomed over the insect that was tangled helplessly in it's web. A delicate butterfly with azure blue wings was the spider's prey. I stared at the drawing for a solid minute, my heart in my throat. After a while, I ripped my eyes from the drawing and shoved it in a drawer in my desk. He loves to play games. He has to stretch out the anticipation for as long as possible. Taunt me and make me jump out of my skin. Why can't he just make his move instead of slowly driving me insane! I shoved the thoughts away, grabbing my jacket and the drawing. I shoved it inside my pocket and raced down the stairs. As I passed the boys flat, I felt their stares boring into me.
"Where are you going?" John called.
"Just for a walk." I answered, rushing down the steps and into the night air. I walked briskly down the sidewalk to a nearby park. Hardly anyone was there this late at night, so I was free to pace around and mutter to myself like a crazy person. I stuck a cigarette in my mouth and lit it, it instantly helping me think. I looked across the street to an alleyway, doing a double take. I could've sworn I saw a curly black-haired head and the end of a coat whip behind the wall a second ago. Oh my god. I'm so paranoid I'm seeing things. Can you hear the little voice in your head? You're out of milk and eggs. No, not that one. The one telling you you're going crazy. Oh, yes the one that never shuts up.
You should totally go insane today, it says.
I would love to, but unfortunately...no. I reply.
Come on, it's a perfect day to go crazy. Not too gloomy, not too sunny. It says.
Let's not, and stick with that story. I say.
You've got plenty of emotional trauma and past experiences. You're practically crazy already!
My advisors have come to the unanimous decision of "No" on that.
Come on, not even a little crazy? Just a little? Just enough to freak Sherlock and John out.
Offer declined.
Fine. Maybe another day then. The voice disappears. In case you were wondering, I like to have conversations in my head sometimes to relieve the boredom. Also to relive some of the tension. It worked didn't it? My thoughts were cruelly snapped back to the situation at hand. That stupid drawing. I put out my cigarette. Taking the drawing in my hands, I savagely ripped it in two. Then ripped it again. Then ripped it again. I threw the pieces in a nearby trashcan. After taking a deep breath, I started to make my way back to the flat.
➳➴➵➶➷➸➹
~THIRD PERSON POV~
Jax made her way up the stairs to her bedroom, passing the boys flat. John saw her enter her room and shut the door. A few minutes later, Sherlock came into their living room.
"Was that really necessary?" John asked him. Sherlock shrugged off his coat and took a seat in his chair.
"Of course." He answered. John raised an eyebrow.
"You really had to follow her?" John asked.
"Yes. She's been acting strange this entire time and then she gets a mysterious letter? You know me, John. I'm a man that has to know everything." He explained. John rolled his eyes.
"That's just another way of saying "I'm a huge creep who invades people's personal lives."" John said. Sherlock rolled his eyes in response. There was a pause.
"So, what did she do?" John asked, unable to contain his curiosity. Sherlock scoffed.
"Who's invading personal lives now?" He mocked.
"Just answer the question." John snapped. Sherlock leaned back in his chair.
"She smoked a cigarette. Paced around. Talked to herself and ripped up a piece of paper." Sherlock said.
"Did you see what was on the paper?" John asked.
"No, too far away."
"What did she say to herself?" John asked.
"Something about going crazy. I don't even think she realized she was doing it." Sherlock said. John sighed.
"She's a strange one." John said.
"Yes, but that's why we like her." Sherlock said. John laughed a little.
"Right again, Holmes."
➳➴➵➶➷➸➹
~JAX'S POV~
The next day, I ate a quick breakfast and made my way down the stairs to the door. Sherlock stopped me.
"Where are you going?" He asked just before I could reach the doorknob.
"To the library." I answered, turning around to face him.
"But what about the bomber?" He said.
"Oh, come on, Sherlock. You can handle him and his silly puzzles. I'll only be gone for a little while." I said, opening the door. Sherlock huffed in annoyance as I closed the door behind me. I walked the London streets as my mind wandered off. The walk was calming and occupied me for a few minutes. I entered the public library and disappeared in the maze of shelves. The silence was blissful. I needed a day away from the chaos. The bomber and his stupid puzzles were starting to eat away at my sanity. I spent my time browsing and picking up random books. I hadn't realized that hours had passed until Sherlock and John showed up. I was sitting on the floor, leaning against one of the shelves when they came up to me.
"Sherlock, John." I greeted them. "What are you doing here, has something happened?"
"A lot has happened in the past few hours." John said. They explained to me the process of solving the murder of Connie Prince. Apparently, the house boy killed her through her daily Botox injections due to the internet bullying campaign on her brother.
"And this concerns me how?" I asked once Sherlock had finished explaining.
"There's been another one." He said, pulling out his phone. He showed me a picture of the Thames.
"So?" I asked.
"So, Lestrade's found a body. Come one, let's go." Sherlock said.
"Who said I was coming?" I said setting my eyes back on my book. Sherlock snatched it from my hands.
"Rude." I muttered.
"I solved the Connie Prince murder by myself, now you're coming with us to this one." Sherlock explained. I groaned.
"You don't even need my help, you can solve the case just fine without me." I said. Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance.
"He just needs someone who is just as smart as him to show off to." John said. I nodded my head.
"That makes sense." I said.
"Look, the case gets solved faster if you're there. And like I said, I dislike being outnumbered by stupid people." Sherlock said. I huffed, getting up from the floor.
"Fine. I have a condition, though." I said.
"What?" Sherlock snapped.
"You have to let me have a shot at this one." I negotiated. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
"Oh, come on! I'm bored! I need stimulation!" I whined.
"Fine. Let's go." Sherlock sneered, making his way out of the library. I smiled triumphantly and skipped along beside John.
"Good thing you're here. He's been cranky all day." John whispered so Sherlock wouldn't hear. I chuckled.
"Sorry you had to deal with him without my moral support." I said. John smiled in response. There was a skip in my step as we followed Sherlock down the sidewalk.
"I'm excited. Sherlock's going to let me have a go at this one." I said, practically bubbling. As we sat in the cab, Sherlock showed me the picture of the Thames again.
"Somewhere on the South Bank, between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge." I muttered to myself. A few minutes later we were walking along the pebbled shores of the Thames. The area was taped off, and police officers and photographers were mulling about. Lestrade was waiting for us as we came up to the dead body lying flat on the ground.
"Do you reckon this is connected to the bomber?" Lestrade asked.
"Must be. Odd, though. He hasn't been in touch." Sherlock answered. His eyes raked over the body.
"Jax, on you go." Sherlock said, gesturing to the body. I smiled and knelt down the examine.
"You're letting her do it?" Lestrade asked.
"She's just as qualified. Besides, she insisted." Sherlock explained.
"Sherlock, can I see your magnifying glass?" I asked, not taking my eyes off the body. He tossed it to me, and I caught it without even looking up. I inspected the bruises around his mouth and nose. Fingertips, I thought. Strangled, asphyxiated to death. I reached in his pocket to find a balled up wad of ticket stubs. I took off his sock, examining the veins in his legs and the state of his feet. Sherlock stood there, watching me intently as I worked. I reached into Sherlock's jacket pocket and took out his phone, quickly looking up local museums and gallery's with missing employees. After I had found out what I needed, I tossed the phone back to Sherlock. I stood back as everyone stared at me.
"Well?" Lestrade said suddenly.
"Hmm? Well what?" I replied. He rolled his eyes.
"What did you find out?" He demanded. I looked at Sherlock, who nodded in approval. He was still staring at the body, trying to work it out himself.
"Quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth. Fingertips. Strangled, asphyxiated to death. He's wearing heavy duty polyester pants and a shirt that's too big for him. Standard uniform for work. What kind of work? The soles of his feet and the nascent varicose veins in his legs means a lot of walking and sitting around. There's a hook on his belt for a walkie-talkie and these ticket stubs in his pocket are from a museum or gallery. Security guard. The Hickman Gallery is missing one of its attendants. Alex Woodbridge. I actually don't have a file on him, probably because his status is unimportant in the scheme of things. Now, moving on to why he was killed. The front pocket of his shirt has been ripped, someplace for a badge or insignia. Meaning he worked someplace recognizable and the killer didn't want us to know where. He was murdered by one of the deadliest assassins in the world. The Golem, real name Oscar Dzundza. That is his trademark style. Now, I do have a file on serials killers and assassins. So, this is a hit. Why would someone hire an assassin to kill a completely ordinary security guard, and then strip the corpse of everything recognizable about the place of employment. There's a lost Vermeer painting that has been found at the gallery where he works, worth £30 million. This man must have known something about the painting, something that would stop the owner from getting paid all that money. Conclusion: the painting's a fake." I said in a very fast voice. Sherlock looked over the body again, checking to see if I was right.
"Fantastic." John said, staring at me. I smiled modestly.
"Meretricious." I replied. I exhaled.
"Well, that was fun. Thanks for letting me figure that one out Sherlock." I said.
"Well, I better start looking for this Golem character." Lestrade said.
"You'll never find him. But I know someone who can." Sherlock said.
"Who?" Lestrade asked.
"Me." Sherlock said with a smirk. He made his way back and we followed him. In the cab ride, Sherlock turned to me.
"Do you happen to have where he is in your file?" He asked me.
"No. He's always moving, never stays in the same place twice." I answered. I sighed.
"Well, now that I've had my fun, I think I'll go back to the library." I said.
"No, no, no you're coming with me to the gallery. We have to investigate that painting." Sherlock said.
"Where's John going ?" I asked.
"He's going to Alex Woodbridge's house to get more data." Sherlock answered. I leaned my head back on the seat and groaned. I just wanted to go back to the library and stay out of this. A few minutes later, we dropped John off at Woodbridge's house and Sherlock and I drove to the gallery. I was about to enter the double doors, when Sherlock stopped me.
"We need disguises." He said. I rolled my eyes as he pulled me off to the side.
"You find something to wear and meet me inside by the painting." Sherlock said. Before I could reply, he disappeared around the corner. I made a sound of irritation. I found the entrance to the staff room and picked the lock on the door. Inside, I found a uniform of a museum tour guide. I stripped off my jeans and button up and quickly changed into the uniform. The outfit consisted of a black pencil skirt, a tight white button up shirt that I tucked into the skirt, a pair of practical black heels, and a red scarf that I tied around my neck. I rolled up the sleeves of the shirt to my elbows and threw my hair up into a tight bun. I looked like a flight attendant but a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. I stashed my real clothes into an empty locker and exited the room. I slipped into the gallery with ease, all the security guards believing me to be an employee. The gallery was big and empty and quiet. I didn't see another living soul throughout the many rooms. My heels clacked loudly on the polished wood floor. I took my time walking through the museum, gazing at all the paintings and sculptures. After wandering around for a while, I spotted a figure against the white walls. He was tall and thin and dressed like a security guard. I recognized the black curly hair. The sound of my heels clopping echoed throughout the room. I strode up to him and stood next to the painting.
"And here, ladies and gentlemen, we have a Vermeer Dutch old master. It was thought to have been destroyed centuries ago, but has unexpectedly turned up again. Worth 30 million pounds. And if you'll follow me this way, we'll have a look at the Renaissance period." I announced in my best impression of a tour guide. Sherlock cracked a small smile before turning his eyes back to the painting.
"What's wrong with it?" He mumbled. I set my eyes upon it, titling my head in concentration.
"I have no clue." I admitted. I looked over his outfit. He had the collar of his jacket turned up. I chuckled.
"You look different." I said.
"As do you. You look like a flight attendant threw up on you." He said.
"Hmm. The security guards at the front certainly seemed to like the tight skirt." I joked. I heard the sound of approaching footsteps.
"Don't you two have something to do?" A woman's voice called through the silence of the gallery halls. We both turned. She was dressed in a tight black dress, one hip jutted to the side.
"Doesn't it bother you?" I said.
"What?" She asked in confusion.
"That the paintings a fake." Sherlock said. We both started to stride up to her.
"What." She snapped.
"It has to be. It's the only explanation." Sherlock said calmly.
"It's not a fake." She attempted.
"It is a fake. That's why Alex Woodbridge was killed by the Golem. Did you hire him?" I asked. Her expression was getting more and more annoyed.
"What are you talking about. You know I have could have you two sacked on the spot." She sneered.
"We don't work here. Just popped in to give you some friendly advice." Sherlock answered. He turned to leave, with me right behind him.
"Who are you two?" She demanded.
"Sherlock Holmes." He said, taking off his hat and letting it drop to the ground.
"Jax You-don't-need-to-know-my-last-name." I answered, ripping off the scarf and letting it fall to the floor.
"Am I supposed to be impressed?" She called.
"You should be." Sherlock and I said at the same time. We exited the gallery, leaving the woman staring after us. Once we were outside, we burst out laughing.
"You just did that to show off." I said I between laughs.
"Oh, her face." Sherlock laughed. After we had composed ourselves, we changed back to our regular clothes and caught a cab back to Baker Street where we met up with John. He hadn't found out anything particularly helpful, only that Alex Woodbridge was a bit of an amateur astronomer and he had a vague message left for him on the phone.
"Where to now?" I asked.
"We're going to a cozy little spot underground where we will hopefully find the Golem." Sherlock answered.
"Oh great, just great. Assassins are my favorite type of people." I said.
"Do you have to be so sarcastic all the time?" Sherlock replied, annoyed.
"Well, I don't have to be. But the world has given me so much material and I wouldn't want to be wasteful." I replied with a little smirk. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to leave. I groaned and followed him. Time to go hunt an assassin. Yippee.
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