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“Where the bloody hell is everyone?” John exclaimed, hurrying around the room searching for any sign of the people who had been there moments ago. “We weren’t gone for that long.”

You regard him for a moment, leaving him to search while you walk over and sit in Sherlock’s chair, picking up his violin and plucking a little tune as you thought. “Sherlock said that you were searching for a murderer that performs serial suicides,” you think out loud, “and that leaves no trace of who or whom they might be. But in order to do something of that magnitude, the murderer would have to be close to the victims, or at least have some degree of trust. But who do we have complete and utter faith in if we don’t even know them?”

John, having completed his search to no avail, shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“Cab,” said Mrs Hudson, who was standing by the doorway.

You stood from Sherlock’s chair to move closer to Mrs Hudson in curiosity. “What did you say?”

“I heard that you were looking for Sherlock. While you and John were downstairs, someone knocked at the front door of the building and I didn’t want you or the others to bother; you were all busy with more important things, so I answered it while the kettle was on. He was a funny little man who said he had a cab for Sherlock. I asked Sherlock, but he was very sure that he hadn’t ordered one. I told the man but he was very insistent he climbed up the stairs. And without saying anything, Sherlock just left with him. And the police left shortly after that.
You stare at her for a moment, before clapping your hands with realisation. “Of course!” you say, sweeping Mrs Hudson up for an embrace before shepherding her out of the door. “How could we be so thick? God, it’s so simple!”

John looked at you, confusion in his eyes. You sigh, remembering that ordinary people were a little slower than you or Sherlock. But unlike Sherlock, you weren’t going to antagonise John for his lower intellect. “The cabbie. He’s the murderer. Think about it John! When we get into a cab, we put all of our trust in a person that we have never met before. They can talk to us, and we will have complete faith in whatever they say, but they can stay anonymous because we see them as an object for us to use. It’s an absolutely brilliant cover!”

“That may be so, but what good does that do us? We know that the murderer is a cabbie, but like you said, we have no idea what he looks like, or where he is now.”

You frown, turning your attention to the flat. “Sherlock wouldn’t just go diving in to a situation like this without leaving some breadcrumbs to his location. Search everywhere; look for anything that might tell us where he has gone.”

Both you and John searching thoroughly, with some difficulty as Sherlock’s belongings are strewn across the entire flat, but no luck. You groan, flopping onto the couch, dread slowly starting to clog your mind. “Sherlock’s life depends on this, think (F/n), think.”

John, after giving a concerned glance at you, slumped at his desk with a huff. And that is when he noticed his computer monitor. “I don’t believe it,” John says, relief clinging to his voice. “Is an exact GPS location good enough?”

You spring from the couch, grabbing the screen so tightly that you almost broke it in two. “The Education Collage? The murderer has Jenifer Wilson’s smart phone, and Sherlock used the email addresses on her case to use the tracker so we could find him. What are we waiting around here for?” You dance away from the computer, shrugging on a coat. “Come on John, Allons-y!”

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You and John arrive at the education collage, the dual buildings casting vast amounts of darkness before them, jumping out of the cab to be greeted by an identical one parked outside. You stared at it, your (e/c) eyes narrowed. “I knew that was a cab engine I heard back at the flat,” you say, scolding yourself not for paying better attention.

“What now?” John asked, looking at you for guidance. “If we go bursting in there, who knows what could happen, considering we have two crazy people locked up in there.” He noticed you stiffen when he said “two”, shooting you an apologetic look.

“There are two buildings, we both search one,” you say quickly, ignoring it. “You start, I will contact the police and then search the building that you haven’t, we should be able to cover a lot more ground that way.”

John nodded, sprinting to the building on his left. Pulling out your mobile, you dialled the police, informing them of the current situation. Luckily, it was the handsome man from the flat, Detective Inspector Lestrade who answered, making it easier as he knew Sherlock and the importance of the case. You thanked him, slipping your phone back into your pocket and running into the building on the right, only to be stopped by a piercing gunshot. Feeling your heart quicken with panic, you run faster through the labyrinth of hallways until you reach a dual set of heavy doors that were chained together.

You peered inside through the little window on the door to see Sherlock looming over an older man with blood flowing out of his shoulder, staining the floor crimson. You could only just hear their conversation “Tell me this,” Sherlock said, impatience lacing his voice, “your sponsor, who was it? The one who told you about me, my fan, I want a name.”

“No,” moaned the man, his voice coming out as an almost inaudible croak.

“You’re dying, but there’s still time to hurt you. Give me a name.”

The man shook his head, the pool of crimson spreading further. Sherlock’s face screwed up in anger, his foot reached out and apply pressure to the man’s wound, his screams echoing off the walls. “A name!”

You cringed, unable to watch for listen to it anymore. Sherlock had been known to use such methods to get information, but still, knowing that your brother was capable of torturing another human being for words made your heart ache. You turned away to the sound of sirens, missing the last word to escape from the dying man’s mouth.

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You carefully approached Sherlock, who was sitting in the back of an ambulance with a blanket draped over his shoulders, an annoyed look on his face as the paramedics doted over him. He shooed them away as you approached, his face blank. “Jeff Hope. Terminal. Had a brain aneurism, and not much money. He was used to stage for four serial “suicides” which were really elaborate games of chance. Every kill sent money to his children from an unknown higher authority.”

“You tortured him,” you say hollowly, taking a seat beside him.

“I... had hoped you wouldn’t see that,” he says, hesitantly wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “It was absolutely necessary, and I took no pleasure in doing so, and I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“You aren’t deaf (F/n). I apologised. For my hurting of you.”

You sigh, knowing that was the best he was going to give you. “So, did he give you a name? Who’s your “fan”?

He pulled away from you, standing and regarding you with his deducing look. After a moment, he responded. “I don’t know. He bled out before he could tell me anything relevant.”

And with that, he sauntered away to greet Lestrade, who started bombarding him with questions, leaving you to ponder. Sherlock was hiding something from you, you knew that much. It was something important, he usually told you everything. But what? Frowning, you stand and began chatting to John, trying to get rid of your feeling of foreboding.

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*Moriarty’s POV*

Everything was going to exactly to plan. Jeff Hope had been killed, meaning one less fly in his web to worry about. Sherlock had learned his name, and had only just scraped the surface of what he was capable of. What he had done had perked the detective’s curiosity, and that was a key element in his plans. There were many more steps, many more ways of roping Sherlock in, but first, he had to get to you. Without you, there would be no plan, no way of crimpling him. You were everything, the beautiful jewel in the crown that was Sherlock’s downfall, and Moriarty was going to take time to do things correctly.