A thorn by any other name would hurt just as deep, or whatever the saying is.
~~~
Greg Lestrade would say Sherlock Holmes was always the smartest in the room. Whether at 221B or Scotland Yard, no ordinary person ever came close to compete with his...
While you were happy to meet him at the crime scene, Sherlock insisted it was no big deal to accompany you to your flat. Save money on a cab and spend more time with the detective? Were you really going to complain?
Of course, you were thankful you had done a good cleaning two days before, or else the flat Sherlock would go to could be mistaken for a garbage dumpster.
So after a quick walk, coat protecting from the icy sting of the morning air, you both reached a recently modernised building, your flat being on the second floor. "Welcome to my humble abode," picking up a scarf to hang up again, you quickly drag Sherlock into your flat, "tea, kettle, sugar, milk," you point everything out, "help yourself to any snacks or make yourself something,"
Sherlock was left in silence, other than the quiet sound of water running from the bathroom. It was cosy and well-decorated, especially with the throw blankets and pillows. He had never felt more welcome in a space.
Taking up most of the space was bookshelves, some shelves filled with photos or decorations to compliment the colour scheme of the walls and couch. He looked at photos from when you were younger, filled with faces he didn't recognise, but none of anyone older than a few years. No family photos, nothing further than University except the occasional few of yourself at one of the many wonders of the world.
It almost made him frown. You were such a brilliant person, so well achieved, yet you felt so alone, and he hated to say it showed. He examined the shelves more, seeing a few photo albums he assumed were from university and high school. Sherlock was tempted to pull one out and snoop, but with your usual demeanour, he decided against it.
Maybe eventually.
~~~
Pulling up at the address, you could see police tape closing off a section under a bridge. "Donovan, Anderson, how nice to see you two here," Sherlock drawls, passing by without another look sent their way. "Thorn?" You and him finally reach Lestrade, who stands over the body.
"And Moriarty," he holds up a card.
"Lovely," he kneels while you watch with a gentle smile at his process. It was a morbid duality, the detective you had become well acquainted with and the body you put there.
"Anything?" You kneel with him.
"Thorn is smart, putting the bodies where most evidence would either wash away or get lost," he gestures to the piles of trash and litter in different areas.
"Do you think Thorn does this all? Wouldn't that Moriarty guy do it?" You inquire, doing your best to play along.
"I assume Moriarty does, but I'm not giving him the satisfaction of attention," he chuckles, looking at you for a second with a gentle look. "Hope this isn't too boring,"
"It's my day off. I was going to end up seeing you or Greg eventually," shrugging off his concern, you follow him to the evidence table. It was scarce, besides a wallet, ID and some business cards.
"So what do we do?" Greg interrupts, "We can't just keep letting this Thorn guy get away with it,"
"Unless you have a plan, Lestrade, there isn't anything to do," Sherlock says bluntly.
"He isn't wrong. If Thorn's identity is secret and Moriarty is part of the whole grand scheme, then from what I heard, it's impossible," you elaborate, "unless Moriarty is going to give up a name any time soon, Sherlock is your best bet at a lead,"
"Great..." Lestrade sighs, walking away to talk to the responding officers for a while longer.
~~~
The vast marble foyer allowed acoustics to be heard from the kitchen to the top-floor bedrooms, especially when a giant vase was thrown against a wooden door. In no time, Sebastian runs to assess the ruckus and its source, which turns out to be Moriarty.
He had enjoyed his morning, walking down the stairs with a subtle smile until he saw Mycroft's recent messages. That was something he used as weekend entertainment until he discovered the photo.
Seeing you cuddled close to someone he resented triggered an instant surge of anger. There he was with heavy breathing and a vein practically popping out of his head, ignoring the muffled voice of his trusty sniper, Sebastian.
"He's dead." Moriarty hisses, "now clean this up,"
"Boss- Boss, wait!" Seb ran after Jim, who stormed to his office. "What happened?" All he receives is a phone flung his way, his fast reflexes catching it just to the left of his face. "What could- oh..."
Not many things made Jim as mad as this, so he was surprised that he didn't instantly conclude it was concerning you.
"I knew this would happen- I did say, didn't I?!" He slams his fist down on the table, "I want him dead, Sebastian. You hear me? I want him gone."
~~~
"Gone?" You laugh, sipping at your drink as Sherlock nods, "I can't believe it. That's brilliant!"
"Isn't it? I thought so too, but John says talking about cases like that isn't good," Sherlock continued to eat his lunch, finally finding enjoyment in such a mundane task.
"No, I suppose it isn't," you agree, "but at least it's solved, all thanks to you," the past hour in this little cafe consisted of you listening to cases Sherlock found interesting. He had been doing it for years, and it seemed he never got bored of his lifetime of stories.
"What about you?" He then wipes his lips with a napkin. "I know nothing about you,"
This took you by surprise; the deducing detective not only asked but seemed interested in your life, so you open your arms, "Ask away, Mr Holmes,"
"Where did you grow up?" It was a simple question, but it was also overly complicated. You and Jim had been good friends since high school. Would that lead him to find out you were Thorn? No, it couldn't possibly. But if you didn't tell the truth and he found out otherwise, that would cause more harm than good.
Beyond that, you hadn't ever told anyone. At least the full truth. An isolated childhood, independent teen years, amateur criminal university days and double life as an adult.
But he only asked for where you grew up. Nothing else.
"Southampton," you smile, "but then I moved to Brighton for school," you explain after another sip of your drink, confused by the sudden widening of Sherlock's eyes. "What?"
"Did you go to Brighton College?" his words struck a panic in you. He knew. You had finally done it.
~~~
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