Networks

Chapter 2- Sherlock

'Mrs Hudson! I require a can opener.' I yelled, hearing her hurried steps up the stairs.

'Sherlock.' She said in that familiar, exasperated way she usually spoke my name. 'I'm not your housekeeper!'

'I know, Mrs Hudson.' I said, intently fixed on the task at hand.

'Are... are you making baked beans? I didn't know you- well, I don't know if you could really call it cooking- but even knew how to use a microwave!' I glanced up at her. There was a substance- milk- that had dried at the corner of her mouth. It wouldn't have been there from the tea she had before she went to bed, so it must have been from this morning, which meant she had got up very early, maybe 6:12 a.m. and not been out of the house yet.

'I am not planning on eating them, Mrs Hudson. Up early and I thought you didn't take milk in your tea.' I noted, ignoring her disapproving look. 'Where is John?'

'Here.' John said, appearing behind Mrs Hudson, and smiling warmly at her. My eyes roved up and down him, automatically observing things. He slept on his left, in the centre of the bed. It took his a while to fall asleep though, as he still looked tired, though it was 8:23 a.m. and he had left for bed at 11:19 p.m. the night before after writing up a new article for his website.

'I do take milk in my tea, Sherlock. Not that you would have any reason to know that.' She muttered, sounding almost scolding.

I looked up from the beans in my hand, not understanding her, but feeling that this was more than a passing comment. 'What do you mean?' But she'd already bustled off. 'What does she mean?' I asked John, who would surely know what she had meant.

'I think she was implying you never make her tea.' He said, sitting down in the sitting room and flicking open his newspaper.

'Yes, I do.' I lied. 'What's happened?' I asked.

'In the news?' He paused as he scanned over the front page. 'Hmm... murder in East London. Victim stabbed repeatedly. Thought to be gang-related.'

'Next.' I said.

'There are 32 dead!' My head shot up. 'Oh, that's in New Zealand. There was a bomb. Terrorist attack. Do you remember that one in Australia a few years ago? Oh, that's awful.'

'Is it?' I asked mildly. I had immersed myself again in trying to open the beans by using a knife. 'Next.'

He sighed, turning from the front page. 'Uh... a cat missing. Oh, what's this? Gardener found dead in central London. Looks like suicide. Umm... Oh! Your brother's mentioned!'

'What? In the gardener case?' I asked, nearly chopping off my finger with the knife. I laid it down on the bench and leapt from my seat.

'Looks like someone made a threat. They want to kill the top 10 richest people in London. They sent a list to the police. Your brother is number one. Wow, number ten, nine, eight and seven are already dead.'

I walked over and snatched the paper from his hands. There was a small picture of Mycroft next to a picture of the list that had been sent in.

1. Mycroft Holmes

2. Maeve Belyse

3. Lachlan Harold

4. Steven Jared

5. Robert Westcott

6. Lionel Bradford

7. Margaret Highton

8. Thomas Shandon

9. Alexander Tinstone

10. Henry Yards Junior

I took a mental photograph of the image and scanned through rest of the article. Though the newspaper didn't tell much, I was able to deduce quite a lot. All of the people except number two had been located and precautions were being taken. They were being taken in order; from tenth upwards. They had been found dead in all manner of ways; strangled, poisoned, stabbed and drowned. The seventh, one of the two women on the list, had been raped, though they couldn't find DNA. They had little to no leads, and would require my help.

'Call Lestrade.' I demanded, flipping through the rest of the paper.

'Seriously? You're taking it on?' John asked, fumbling for his phone.

'Of course.' I said curtly, containing my excitement. I loved these cases. The time-running-out, kill-lists and murderer whose motive is unknown.

'Not... because it's sort of personal?' John looked up at me, a small smile on his lips and eyebrows raised.

'What do you mean?' I asked, not understanding his implications.

His smiled widened. 'Feeling the need for some brotherly protection, perhaps?'

I shot him a glare and swept to my bedroom to get dressed. I heard John talking on the phone.

'Yes... yep... yes, he wants to take it... no, not because of Mycroft... No, I don't think he cares its Mycroft... no, he's not going to struggle because it's Mycroft! Seriously... oh, seriously? Just now? Yep, we'll be there in half an hour... Yep, bye.'

'What is it?' I shouted from my room, swinging my coat around me.

'They found the sixth dead. Lionel Bradford. He was on his way to the Police station in a taxi. Shot through the window.'

'YES!' I skipped down the stairs. 'Come on, Watson!' I called out a hasty goodbye to Mrs Hudson and swung open the front door, leaving it open behind me.

'I'm coming, Sherlock.' John called out, racing to follow.

I leapt out onto the street, feeling a smile on my face. 'Taxi!' I called, waving my arm at one as it soared past. The one behind it pulled up to the curb.

'John! What's the address?' I called as he toppled out onto the street, closing the door behind him.

'Calm down, Sherlock.' He said with a grin. 'It's only a serial-murderer.'

I felt my smile widen until it matched John's. 'Come on. Let's go find them.'