A Consulting Detective, Ex Army Doctor, and Child Mercenary Walk Into A Room

Chapter 8: The Great Game

We were home, back at 221B, and the TV was turned on. A news report showed stock footage of a devastated building. Disaster teams were on the case. Twelve had died in the 'gas explosion'. We were grimly watching the news. I sip the tea Mrs. Hudson made for us. "A whole block of flats. Glasgow this time. He gets about." Sherlock - a little angrily - grabs the remote and turns the volume down. "Yes. Well I suppose I lost that round. Though technically I did solve the crime so -" John is angered by his friend's reasoning. "What the hell does that matter? People are dying!"

Sherlock ignored John, thinking. "He killed the old woman because she was starting to describe him. Not 'them', John. Him. Just for once, he's put himself in the firing line." "What do you mean?" I ask. "Well, usually he must stay above it all. He arranges these things but no one ever has direct contact ..." "What? Like Connie Prince's murder? He arranged that? People come to him to get their crimes fixed up? Like booking a holiday?" "It's a novel," I said.

John points to the TV news. Raoul is being bundled out of his house and into the waiting police car. Paparazzi cameras flash. Sherlock was drumming his fingers on the table next to him. "Taking his time, this time." The cold-bloodedness gets to John - but he's trying to get past it. "Anything from the Carl Power lead?" he asks. I looked at my laptop screen. "Nothing. All his living classmates check out. Spotless. No connection." "Maybe he was older than Carl," John said. Sherlock brushed the suggestion away. "The thought had occurred."

"So why is he doing this? Playing this game with you? You think he wants to be caught?" "I think he wants to be distracted." Sherlock's eyes are shining. John is disturbed, even angry. He glances at the smiley face on the wall. "I hope you'll be very happy together." John's getting up - restless, suddenly wanting to be a very long way from Sherlock. "I'm sorry, what?" "There are lives at stake. Actual, human lives. I just want to know, do you care about that at all?" This fight would not be a good one. It was like watching your two parents getting a divorce. Not that I could relate.

"Would caring help save them?" "No." "Then I'll continue to avoid the mistake." "Find that easy, do you?" "Very. Is that news to you?" "No. No." John's gone to the window. Agitated, doesn't want even to look at Sherlock. "You're disappointed in me." "Oh, good. Good deduction." "Don't male heroes out of people, John. Heroes don't exist. And if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

The bomber's phone beeps: New message. Sherlock is instantly all action. "Excellent!"

Beep. Beep.

Sherlock clicks on it. There is a picture of a riverside view. "That's the Thames. Near St. Paul's. Check the papers, John. Lune and I'll try online." John just glowers at Sherlock. "Oh. You're angry so you won't help me. Not much cop, this caring lark." John realizes Sherlock is right, like he usually is. John goes towards a pile of newspapers, Sherlock taps away at his phone, and I at the laptop. John flicks rapidly through page after page of newsprint.

"Archway suicide."

"Ten a penny."

"Two kids stabbed in Stoke Newington. Um ... that dead bloke found on the railway line. Andrew West -"

"Nothing!" Sherlock grabs his phone and speed-dials. "It's me. Anything been found near St. Paul's? Or the river?" He listens then nods to us.

...

Plastered over the buildings by the riverside, posters: 'Hickman Gallery. The Lost Vermeer.' Sherlock, John, and I walk along the exposed shore of the Thames. A police tape has cordoned off most of the area. Lestrade nods to us, a body bag lies at his feet. "You reckon this is connected then? The bomber?" "Must be."

Sherlock pulls the pink iPhone from his pocket, he's checking it for a message. "Odd though, he hasn't been in touch." "But we must assume some poor bugger's primed to explode, yeah?" "Yes."