Emilia
Sherlock lead the way into Scotland Yard after stopping off at the flat to pick up a package. Of course, when I asked what the package was, he didn't tell me. It was a medium sized, brown, paper folder, stuffed with papers and documents. I walked quickly behind the much taller detective with John beside me as Sherlock held up the package, spotting Lestrade just outside of his office. "Raoul de Santos is your killer. Kenny Prince's house-boy. Second autopsy shows it wasn't tetanus that poisoned Connie Prince, it was botulinum toxin." Sherlock spoke and walked up to Lestrade, handing him the package. Lestrade looked back and forth between Sherlock and the package as Sherlock leaned closer, his voice going quieter, yet deeper and more intimidating. "We've been here before. Carl Powers. Tut-tut. Our bomber's repeated himself."
I stood beside John, confused to all hell what he was going on about, watching and listening to their conversation unfold. "So how'd he do it?" Lestrade asked.
"Botox injection." Sherlock said simply, as if it was obvious to everyone in the room.
Greg frowned just slightly. "Botox?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and let out a sigh as he stood up taller. "Botox is a diluted form of botulinum. Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the home office gave me the complete records of Raoul's internet purchases." He went on to explain. So Sherlock had to have known this all before John and I went to Kenny Prince's household. On one hand, we looked like fools, and on the other, a poor, blind old-woman was strapped up in a bomb for hours, terrified she was going to be killed! "He's been bulk ordering botox for months. Bided his time, then upped the strength to a fatal dose."
I glanced at John, who held the same concerned and frustrated glare as I did while we listened to the conversation. "Are you sure about this?" Greg asked to clarify.
"I'm sure." Sherlock quickly responded.
Lestrade sighed and gave a nod, tucking the package under his arm. "All right, my office." he said and walked around Sherlock, going into his office to talk with us more.
Sherlock turned and took a step toward the office and I moved into his way, putting my hand up on his chest to stop him. His brows furrowed and he looked down at my hand, and even through the pounding of my heart beat drumming in my ears, I looked up at him with irritation. "How long have you known?" I asked, my hand still on his chest and jaw tight.
"What?" He lifted one brow as he looked me in the eyes.
"How long have you known?" I repeated a little slower this time, my eyes narrowing threateningly.
I could feel his heart beating beneath my fingertips, even through his soft button-up shirt. "Well this one was quite simple actually. Like I said, the bomber repeated himself. That was a mistake." His deep voice turned my attention away from the feeling of his chest beneath my fingers.
"Yeah, but Sherlock, the hostage- the old woman, she's been there all this time!" John joined in. Realizing he was still there too, I quickly dropped my hand to my side, my fingers itching to feel his chest again, to feel his heart beating beneath my touch.
"I knew I could save her." Sherlock snapped, leaning closer to John as he spoke quietly, yet harshly. "I also knew that the bomber had given us twelve hours. I solved the case quickly, that gave me time to get on with other things. Don't you see? We're one up on him!"
I frowned up at Sherlock. I mean, he wasn't wrong by any means, but it was still a horrible thing to do, leaving that old woman in fear for hours. He glanced at me quickly before brushing past me to get to Lestrade's office. I sighed and looked down at my feet with a frown, John pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand as his other hand rested on his hip. "Come on then." I mumbled and turned around, going into the office with John.
Sherlock was sat behind Lestrade's desk, using his laptop to get to his own website. Lestrade stood behind him and looked over his shoulder as I made my way over there, watching as he typed. John stood beside me as we read the message Sherlock posted. 'Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox.'
Almost as soon as he pressed submit, the pink phone rang loudly and Sherlock was quick to answer it. "Hello?" He asked, listening to the voice on the other side. I watched his features as he spoke to the old woman on the phone. "Tell us where you are. Address?" I looked up at Lestrade, concern laced across my face and he looked back at me, stress in his tired eyes. "No, no, no, no! Tell me nothing about him! Nothing!" Sherlock said, his eyes growing wide with panic. My features fell as he froze, his eyes emptying of all emotion, his lips pressed tightly together in a frown.
"Sherlock?" I asked quietly, knowing exactly what happened. Sherlock stared straight ahead, taking the phone away from his ear and setting it down on the desk. For being a man who claimed he didn't care, he seemed to care a lot more than he let on. I felt my own heart drop into my stomach and I closed my eyes, letting out a breath as my fingers began to shake. That whole case, everything we had done, was for nothing. The poor, old woman, terrified for hours, was killed. She didn't even get to die in peace. She died crying and scared, which is the worst possible way. "I need to go." I whispered shakily and swiftly left the room, going outside to get myself a cab back to 221b Baker Street.
Once I saw one coming down the road as the nighttime air bit at my cheeks and nose, I stuck my shaking hand out to get it's attention. My heart pounded in my ears, and I felt like I was gasping for air. The cab pulled over and I opened the door, climbing in as tears blurred my vision. "T-two.." I gasped, trying to say my address as I shut the door.
The door on the other side of the cab opened and a flash of black fabric filled my vision as Sherlock climbed in beside me, closing the door on his side. "221b Baker Street." He stated, making the driver nod and pull out into the street again. I looked up at him as tears rolled down my cheeks, my heart racing and breathing heavy as my body trembled and shook. I felt like I was falling out of the sky into a never ending pit, the pounding of my heart filling my ears and driving out any of my thoughts as I started having an anxiety attack. As the cab drove, Sherlock looked over at me with soft eyes and scooted closer, putting his arms around my shoulders and hugging me close. "It's okay. You're alright. Just breathe." He said calmly. "Remember the steps to relax."
I nodded, clinging to the lapel of his massive coat as I leaned against his shoulder, squeezing shut my eyes as I tried to relax, my body slowly starting to stop shaking. "W-where is J-John?" I asked as soon as I felt like I could breathe a little bit again.
"I told him to get his own cab." Sherlock said, patting my back as I began to calm, my tears drying and leaving salty stains on my cheeks. I nodded a little bit, and didn't want to move away from him through the whole ride back home. But eventually, the cab came to a stop and we got out, parting from each other and going inside, John returning home not long after.
**********
Sherlock sat in his chair, eyes on the telly, and John doing the same from his chair. We were watching the news report on the explosion from the old woman's flat.
"The explosion, which ripped through several floors, killing twelve people... Caused by a faulty gas main-"
"Well, obviously I lost that round." Sherlock grumbled from his seat, clicking off the telly with the remote. "Although, technically I did solve the case." He huffed. I looked over at him with widened eyes from where I stood behind John's chair. So did he not care about the lives lost? He only cared if he won or lost? "He killed the old lady because she started to describe him. Just once, he put himself in the firing line." Sherlock mumbled, pressing his fingertips together as he rested his elbows on the arm of his chair.
"What do you mean?" John asked, looking over at him.
Sherlock glanced at John and started to explain. "Well, usually he must stay above it all. He organizes these things, but no one ever has direct contact."
"What, like the Connie Prince murder, he arranged that?" John said with a slight grimace.
"So people come to him wanting their crimes fixed up like booking a holiday?" I spoke up, shaking my head in disgust.
Sherlock's eyes became distant as he smirked ever so slightly, his hands palm-to-palm in front of his lips. "Novel." He whispered. I rolled my eyes at his response. Of course he would be enjoying this, this horrible game the bomber was playing. "Taking his time this time." Sherlock said, coming back to the real world as he glanced down at the pink phone resting on his knee.
"Anything on the Carl Powers case?" John asked out of boredom, tilting his head slightly as he spoke.
Sherlock shook his head and sighed. "Nothing. All the living classmates check out spotless, no connection."
"Maybe the killer was older than Carl?" I shrugged and looked over at the detective curiously.
"Thought had occurred."
"So why is he doing this?" John shook his head. "Playing this game with you. Do you think he wants to be caught?" He blinked a few times in complete frustration that we had no way of knowing the bomber's motive.
Sherlock smirked again. "I think he wants to be distracted."
"Oh." John scoffed as he stood up, his jaw clenching a little bit as he paced toward the kitchen, my head turning so I could watch him. "I hope you'll be very happy together." He said.
"Sorry, what?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes, staring over at my brother.
John turned around as his cheeks flushed red with anger. "There are lives at stake, Sherlock!" he yelled and came back to the main room, standing beside me. "Actual human lives!" He continued. John wasn't wrong, either. Hell, I had just had an anxiety attack the night before because of it! And Sherlock found the whole thing bloody amusing! My fingers dug into the orange fabric on the back of John's chair as my own anger bubbled up inside me. "Just so I know, do you care about that at all?" John questioned angrily, glaring at Sherlock.
"Will caring about them help save them?" Sherlock cocked his head, his eyes narrowing questioningly.
"Nope." John huffed.
"Then I will continue not to make that mistake!"
I scoffed as a lump formed in my throat. Then why had he helped me in the cab the night before? "And you find that easy, do you?" I ask shakily, my brows creased.
He looked up at me with cold, emotionless eyes. "Yes, very. Is that news to you?"
"No, no." I shook my head, angry amd disappointed in his words. I couldn't believe that even Sherlock had zero emotions. That wouldn't make sense. Why would he help me, then?
His eyes softened just slightly as he stared at me. "I've disappointed you."
"That's good." I laughed dryly, pointing at him. "That's a good deduction, yeah." I nodded.
He sighed and steepled his hands under his chin as he stared at me, his eyes void of any feeling. "Don't make people into heroes, Emilia. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them." He snapped.
That was it. That was the straw that broke the camel's back. Tears welled in my eyes and I scoffed, staring him dead in the eyes. "But you know what? You were mine. You were my hero." I said shakily, shaking my head and walking out of the room promptly to hide away in my room. I slammed shut my bedroom door with a huff and slumped down on the edge of my bed, running my hands through my hair.
It didn't make any sense! Why did it bother me so much? The thing that bothered me most was the fact that Sherlock doubted himself as a hero. But why? Why did it make me so angry that he acted like he didn't care, when obviously he did through his actions the night before? He made me so angry all of the time, yet I still only wanted to make him happy in all things. There had to be something wrong with me. There had to be some sort of issue. Maybe I had been drugged, maybe I was just going insane. I couldn't logically figure it out. I must have sat alone in my room for a good fifteen minutes until John knocked at the door.
I slowly got up with a sigh and opened the door. "We've got another case." He said softly.
"Of course we do, why else would you be coming to my room?" I said sarcastically, in a bad mood after the earlier conversation with Sherlock.
John sighed and looked at me disapprovingly. "There's a body found between Southwark and Waterloo bridges. Got a tip from the bomber- another photo."
I sighed and nodded, running my hand through the mess called my hair. "Fine. Just give me a moment, I'll be right out." I said, shutting the door on him and shaking my head. Even though I was absolutely frustrated, and exhausted, I wasn't about to abandon this case. Biting my lip, I glanced in the mirror on the wall beside the door, nodding at myself for reassurance. My hair was down and semi-wavy, framing around my face. I had little makeup on, just mascara and a bit of red lipstick to match with my warm, black turtle-neck and skinny jeans with ankle-high black boots. The weather for the day was going to be cold, so I had to dress warmly. Opening my door and going out to the main room again, I let out a breath and shot Sherlock a glance. "Alright, let's go."
**********
The morning air bit at my skin as we walked down to the bank of the Thames river, the shore a rocky, muddy beachside. The gravel crunched beneath our feet and Sherlock's coat rippled at the bottom from the breeze. Just ahead, Lestrade stood over a dead body, hands on his hips and jacket zipped up to keep out the cold. There were officers around the perimeter, reflective yellow vests over their uniforms. "Reckon this is connected, then, the bomber?" Lestrade asked as we got closer.
"Must be. Odd, though, he hasn't been in touch." Sherlock said, stopping just in front of the body. It was the body of a man, rotund and looking quite gray. He wore a white, buttoned shirt that was poorly fit and tucked into black slacks, which also were poorly fitting. He was face down, head pointed toward the water that sloshed up gently against the rocks.
Lestrade nodded. "Then we must assume some poor buggar's primed to explode, yeah?"
"Yes." Sherlock stated, glancing down at the body. I was only there for the case, so any frustrations I had with Sherlock before were put on hold.
"Any ideas?" Lestrade questioned, raising his eyebrows curiously.
Sherlock walked around the body, looking down his nose at it. "Seven so far." He stated, digging out his little magnifying glass from his coat pocket and leaning down toward the body to begin his work. After knowing Sherlock for some time now, I was not at all surprised that he had seven ideas.
"Seven?" Lestrade scoffed in surprise, Sherlock paying him no attention. I sighed and waited for Sherlock to finish up his work as I glanced at John quickly, who was watching Sherlock, then I looked out toward the water. I imagined that the sun would beautifully glint off the water surface if it weren't for the thick blanket of clouds in the sky, making the entire sky look pale gray. After a bit, Sherlock stood upright and shoved his magnifying glass into his pocket, taking out his phone right after and stepping away from the body as he stared down at the screen, probably looking up something on the internet.
John looked up at Lestrade, silently asking to look at the body. Lestrade gave a nod and John walked around toward the head while I did the same on the opposite side, checking over the body as well as I could. "He's dead about twenty-four hours." John said with a small grimace, looking at the poor bastard's face. "Maybe a bit longer."
"Did he drown?" I asked, noticing the dampness of his clothes.
Lestrade shrugged and shook his head. "Apparently not. Not enough Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated." He sighed.
I looked down at the body again as I squatted beside it, looking for any sign of drowning. "Yes, I agree." I nod after a moment, narrowing my eyes and leaning closer as I looked at the discoloured spots around the nose and mouth. "There's quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth." I said, seeing more spots on his neck. "More bruises here and here." I pointed at them.
"Fingertips." Sherlock mumbled nearby, looking down at the small, circular bruises.
I glanced up at him, pursing my lips a little as John continued to examine the body. "He's late thirties, I'd say, not in the best condition." My brother said.
Sherlock turned to face us, looking up from his mobile phone. "He's been in the water a long while. The water's destroyed most of the data." He said and looked at the body before his eyes moved upward to Lestrade's face with a mysterious glaze across his eyes, a little smirk on his lips. Those lips... Stop it, Emilia! "But I'll tell you one thing; that lost Vermeer painting is a fake."
"What?" I asked at the same time as Lestrade, my nose scrunching as I stood up quickly in confusion. John stood up as well while Sherlock slipped his phone into his pocket and looked over the three of us.
"We need to identify the corpse, find out about his friends and associates." Sherlock spoke, completely surpassing our question.
Lestrade scoffed and shook his head. "Wait, wait, wait, wait!" He huffed, waving his hands at Sherlock. "What painting? What are you on about?"
Sherlock looked at Lestrade as if the D.I.'s head just fell off right then and there. "It's all over the place, haven't you seen the posters?" He questioned. Hell, I didn't even know what he was on about, but I wasn't about to say so. "Dutch old master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago. Now it's turned up, worth thirty million pounds."
I crossed my arms and walked closer to him, tilting my head curiously. "Okay, so what's that got to do with the stiff?" I ask him, looking up into his shimmering blue eyes.
He returned my look and smirked, sending chills over my already cold body. "Everything." He said in a deep, rumbling tone. "Have you ever heard of the Golem?"
"Golem?" Lestrade crossed his arms and furrowed his brow.
"It's a horror story, isn't it?" John asked, stepping closer as well. "What are you saying?"
Sherlock quickly glanced at him and smirked a little as he began to explain, "Jewish folk story. Gigantic man made of clay. It's also the name of an assassin. Real name, Oscar Dzundza. One of the deadliest assassins in the world. That is his trademark style." Sherlock said, pointing at the corpse. So the bruises were left by fingertips when the Golem killed the poor man.
"So this was a hit?" Lestrade frowned and glanced at the body.
"Definitely." Sherlock nodded quickly, his curls bouncing around his forehead just slightly. "The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands."
Lestrade nodded before he frowned again, looking up at Sherlock questioningly. "But what's that got to do with the painting? I don't see-"
"You do see," Sherlock cut in sharply, "You just don't observe!"
"Yes, all right, all right, girls. Calm down." I said, putting my hand up to stop their argument before it got heated. I sighed and looked over to Sherlock once I had their attention. "Sherlock, do you want to take us through it?" I asked, motioning to the corpse laying beside us.
Sherlock took a breath and gave a short nod as he calmed down a bit. He looked down at the body and took a step toward it, pointing down at the dead man. "What do we know about this corpse? The killer's not left us with much, just the shirt and the trousers. They're pretty formal, maybe he was going out for the night. The trousers are heavy duty; polyester. Nasty. Same as the shirt. Cheap. They're both too big for him, so some sort of standard-issue uniform. Dressed for work, then. What kind of work? There's a hook on his belt for a walkie-talkie." He said, speaking quickly and pointed to each item as he spoke. My eyes never left him as he deduced every bit of the man laying on the ground, his eyes lit up with excitement as he worked. It was the only thing he loved, the only thing his heart truly desired, and it was brilliant. Sad, and brilliant. But somewhere, deep inside my body, it almost hurt to know this oh-so obvious information.
"Tube driver?" Lestrade asked, tilting his head curiously. Sherlock grimaced and looked between John and I for a bit of help.
I bit my lip and thought. What could it be? I was thinking so much about Sherlock, I couldn't really think about the case. "Security guard?" John spoke up, thankfully.
Sherlock nodded and looked back at the body as he let his movements be quick and bouncy with joy. "More likely. That'll be borne out by his backside!" He chirped and pointed at the body.
"Backside?" Lestrade asked. He really did ask quite a lot of damn questions.
Sherlock half rolled his eyes. "Flabby. You'd think he'd led a sedentary life, yet the soles of his feet and the nascent varicose veins in his legs show otherwise." He said, glancing between us and the corpse. "So, a lot of walking and a lot of sitting around. Security guard is looking good. The watch helps too. The alarm shows he did regular night shifts."
"Why regular?" Lestrade questioned again, making me roll my eyes and sigh as I crossed my arms. "Maybe he just set it like that the night before he died."
"No, no, no. The buttons are stiff, hardly touched. He set his alarm like that a long time ago, his routine never varied. But there's something else." Sherlock paused, his eyes wandering around as he thought. "The killer must have been interrupted, otherwise he would have stripped the corpse completely. There was some kind of badge or insignia on the shirt front that he tore off," He said. I glanced down at the visible pocket on the shirt to see an odd patch of whiter fabric that the badge must have been sewn over. "Suggesting the dead man worked somewhere recognizable, some kind of institution. I found this inside his trouser pockets." He said, taking out a wadded up ball of what looked like paper. There were printed colours and letters on it, and the paper was slightly glossy. "Sodden by the water but still recognizably-"
"Tickets?" I perked up, tilting my head at him.
"Ticket stubs." He nodded, pointing at me momentarily. "He worked in a museum or gallery. Did a quick check. The Hickman gallery has reported one of it's attendants missing. Alex Woodbridge. Tonight, they unveil the rediscovered masterpiece. Now, why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? Inference, the dead man knew something about it, something that would stop the owner getting paid thirty million pounds. The picture is a fake."
A smile spread across my lips in amazement. I was completely taken back by just how quickly he managed to work all of that out. Somehow, everything I was angry at him for almost disappeared. "Fantastic." I grinned.
"Meretricious." Sherlock smirked in reply.
"And Happy New Year." Greg half chuckled.
John sighed and looked down at the corpse, shaking his head and putting his hands on his hips. "Poor sod." He muttered. I nodded in agreement and glanced down at him, pressing my lips together and sighed through my nose.
"I'd better get my feelers out for this Golem character." Lestrade smirked a little, standing up a little taller.
Sherlock shook his head. "Pointless. You'll never find him. But I know a man who can." He smirked cunningly.
"Who?"
I already knew Sherlock's answer, and the hero I had admired so much had returned as he said it: "Me."