An Age of Silver (20/23)
"An Age of Silver" (20/23)
Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5a / Part 5b / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8a / Part 8b / Part 9 / Part 10 / Part 11 / Part 12 / Part 13 / Part 14a / Part 14b / Part 15 / Part 16 / Part 17 / Part 18 / Part 19
Sherlock marked one year since the beginning of the case quietly.
In fact, he might not have remembered it at all if he hadn’t been sorting through some of his old notes one afternoon and caught sight of a card on which he’d scrawled 10 August 2027 - unidentified woman from SH.
What an interesting thing a year was. There had been so many changes in his own life, and yet very little that could be said about the case that started it all. It seemed as though they had only added to the mystery rather than shed any light on it.
But Sherlock did his best to remember the good, and wished that Stanley could do the same. The case was horrid, the crimes were unspeakable, and yet… he had Stanley now.
He would have Stanley forever.
Stanley was twenty minutes late to lunch on an afternoon in mid-August, but Sherlock took one look at his face and wisely didn’t comment on it.
“Bad day,” Stanley eventually offered when they were halfway through their salads. “Children, this time.”
“Do you have a lead?”
Stanley nodded. It wasn’t much of a comfort, but it was something. Sherlock pressed his leg against Stanley’s under the table, and Stanley gave him a thin smile. They both knew that the sooner this latest case could be closed, the sooner Stanley could get back to the serial killer.
“I heard from an agent today,” Sherlock said, steering them on to safer territory. “They’re interested in a book.”
“Of - what? Your cases?”
Sherlock nodded. “They’re interested in hearing about some of the more famous ones from my point of view. And, of course, there are ones I’ve solved since John and Lestrade moved away that John never got the chance to write about.”
Stanley chewed in contemplation for a moment. “Literary agents don’t normally reach out like that.”
“No.”
“They must really be interested. Do you think you’ll do it?”
“I -”
Sherlock was interrupted by Angelo.
“Mr Holmes!” he exclaimed, grabbing Sherlock’s hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “It has been too long!”
Sherlock frowned. “We ate here two weeks ago, Angelo.”
“And your fiancé!” Angelo turned around and engulfed Stanley in what appeared to be a bone-crushing hug. Stanley shot Sherlock an alarmed look over Angelo’s shoulder.
“Angelo, who did you hear that from?”
“Your landlady, of course!” Angelo said happily, releasing Stanley. “She said it happened last week! When were you going to tell me? Imagine that - Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, finally conquering one of life’s biggest mysteries - love.”
Stanley choked on his water and hid his chortle behind his napkin.
“Angelo, really, we’d rather not -” Sherlock started in an undertone, casting a furtive glance around the room. The restaurant was mostly empty at this late lunch hour, but the patrons present were staring openly at them.
“Here, have some wine,” Angelo said, cheerfully plucking a bottle from the hands of one of his wait staff. “On the house!”
“I - well - we’d -”
“Thank you, Angelo,” Stanley said finally, stepping in smoothly and saving a flustered Sherlock. “That’s very thoughtful.”
“Have you decided on a date?”
Stanley shot a glance at Sherlock, who gave a tiny nod. “We’ve been talking about sometime in the winter.”
“So soon!”
Stanley couldn’t seem to help the smile that split his face. “No. Not soon enough.”
They chatted amiably for a few moments longer before Angelo finally moved away to check on the other diners. Stanley touched Sherlock’s hand.
“You all right, old man?” he asked, a small smile tugging at his lips. Sherlock shook his head in disbelief, and then he laughed.
“All this fuss,” he said in wonder. He glanced at the wine and nodded his approval. “That’s a good year.”
“It will have to wait,” Stanley said regretfully. “I’m due back at the Yard soon. Save it for dinner?”
“I look forward to it.” Sherlock returned to his meal. “I’m afraid the slip was mine.”
“Oh, Alice would have figured it out anyway. Besides, I already told my parents.” Stanley chewed for a moment. “We weren’t keeping it a secret, were we?”
Sherlock shrugged. “No. But I didn’t make it a point to advertise it.”
“You at least told John and Lestrade, I hope.”
Sherlock scowled. “John guessed.”
“Gosh, I wonder who he picked that up from.”
“Shut up.”
Stanley smirked. “We should probably tell the others, then. Sally’s going to kill me.”
“Not if she kills me first. I’ll tell Molly if you tell Dimmock.”
“She’ll hear it from him first, seeing as they’re married, smartarse.”
“Gregson’s going to have a heart attack.” Sherlock thought for a moment. “Guerra probably won’t, though.”
“I think he saw it coming before we did.” A thought appeared to occur to Stanley. “You don’t think Mycroft’s going to kidnap me, do you?”
“It’s always a possibility,” Sherlock said, just to see Stanley pale. Then he flashed a quick smile. “No, he won’t. If he hasn’t done it by now, you have nothing to worry about. He set up a meeting with you, for God’s sake. He respects you, Stanley.”
“God knows why.” Stanley folded his napkin, set it on the table, and then pulled out his phone. “Right, we should probably pick a date for this, shouldn’t we?”
Sherlock’s answer was immediate. “December twenty-seventh.”
Stanley blinked at him. “Well, that was quick. Dare I ask why?”
“That was the date of the Christmas party.”
Stanley laughed. “And you want to commemorate the kiss that never happened? What does that signify - a lifetime of interruptions by phone calls?”
Sherlock snorted, but quickly sobered.
“No,” he said quietly. “It’s the date I realised I wanted nothing more than to kiss my closest friend. I had always known that I wanted you in my life, but it wasn’t until then that I realised it was because I had fallen for you.”
Stanley swallowed visibly.
“Right, then,” he said quietly. “December twenty-seventh it is.”
----
They were in bed together one evening, Stanley on his front with his head resting on pillowed arms while Sherlock kissed beads of cooling sweat from between his shoulder blades.
“We’re keeping this bed,” Stanley said drowsily. “I don’t care about which home we live in or whose furniture gets discarded, but we are definitely keeping this bed.”
“Agreed.” Sherlock rested a cheek on the back of Stanley’s shoulder and draped an arm across his back. “Talking of that, where would you like to live?”
Stanley gave a slow shrug. “Hadn’t thought much about it, to be honest. I think here. The Great Detective belongs in 221B. That’s what all the stories say.”
“Is it?” Sherlock turned his head and pressed his lips to salty skin. “Do the stories also talk about Henry the poison dart frog, noble inhabitant of 221B?”
Stanley snorted. “I suppose not. They must have missed that bit.”
“Hm. And what about the dashing Inspector Hopkins, as clever as he is brilliant?”
“Dashing, am I?” Stanley said, sounding amused. He yawned, and then added, “I suppose I like that better than John’s early descriptions of me. I sound rather over-eager.”
“It was endearing,” Sherlock assured, and Stanley snorted. He twisted his head around for a kiss, and then rolled onto his back so that Sherlock could lie on top of him. He was just reaching for the waistband of Stanley’s pants when a mobile went off, and Stanley groaned when he recognised his ring tone. Sherlock grabbed the device off the bedside table and tossed it to him.
“Hopkins,” Stanley answered gruffly. Sherlock couldn’t make out the caller’s words, but it turned out he didn’t have to. At once, Stanley’s eyes snapped open and he sat up abruptly. “I’m on my way. Wake the rest of the team; call them in.”
“Another?” Sherlock asked, sitting up as Stanley got out of bed and started rooting through the wardrobe for clothes.
“Almost,” he said.
“Almost?”
“She’s not dead yet,” Stanley said briskly. “She’s just been abducted. Come on, get dressed. We need to go.”
The newest victim was named Margaret Hayes, and by the time they got to the Yard, two hours had passed since her initial disappearance. That meant that, for the first time, they were working against a clock. She was going to turn up dead in forty-six hours, giving them less than two days to track down where she might have been taken - and who might have done this.
“How do we know this is connected to the serial killer?” Sherlock asked when Stanley’s team had finally assembled. He was addressing Donovan, who had made the initial call to Stanley.
“We don’t,” she said. “But given the fact that everyone’s sensitive about missing people right now, our serial killer was the first thing that came to mind, and we can’t exactly disprove it. This latest victim was with a companion at the park. When she didn’t return from the toilets, her absence was noticed immediately. We were called in at once.”
“He only kidnaps and murders unknown victims,” Sherlock said. Donovan shrugged.
“He also doesn’t leave evidence behind - except when he does.” She glanced at Stanley. “We have no reason right now to believe it’s not him.”
“He might be doing this on purpose,” Stanley said. “We’re no longer keeping quiet about what we know, so now he’s not bothering to keep his abductions a secret.”
“That’s risky,” Sherlock pointed out. “Almost too much so.”
“He might be tired of playing it safe. It only got him so far.” Stanley looked at Donovan. “Where is her companion right now?”
“At home.”
“Right. I’m going to be sending two of you over there to interview her,” Stanley said. “I want to know every detail about everyone she might have seen at the park. We need to figure out where he might have taken her. Every detail is important. The rest of you - start going over security footage taken from the park tonight. Maybe our serial killer isn’t quite as clever as he would have us believe.”
Sherlock approached him as the rest of the team set about their assigned tasks.
“Any thoughts?” Stanley asked in an undertone. Sherlock shook his head.
“I don’t think I can offer anything more than what has already been said. You have a point - he might be doing this on purpose, now. Either that, or he’s just so desperate for a kill that he abducted the first person who gave him a window of opportunity, unknown or not.” Sherlock pushed his hands into his pockets. “Look, until there’s something new, I don’t think I’ll be of much use to you.”
Stanley nodded. “I understand. Go home, get some rest. I’ll call you the moment we have anything that you can analyze. And once they’re done with the initial interview of the victim’s friend, I might send you over for a second round of questioning. Just to be sure we got everything from her that we can.”
Sherlock nodded and, when the room had cleared, leaned in to give Stanley a brief kiss.
“Be safe,” he said softly. “I mean it.”
“I will be.”
Sherlock called Mycroft anyway on his way home from the Yard, and he secured his brother’s reassurances that Stanley’s security team was in place, and that they had noticed nothing unusual.
“Are you expecting something to happen, brother dear?” Mycroft sounded almost amused. Sherlock swallowed back bitter irritation.
"There are too many variables in this case. I have no idea what to expect,” he said shortly.
“Rest assured, Stanley is safe,” Mycroft said, almost gently. “I wouldn’t allow any harm to come to my future brother-in-law.”
Sherlock couldn’t think of what to say to that, and he rang off without offering a goodbye.
Stanley was in contact with him three hours later. Sherlock hadn’t gone to bed as instructed, but was going over the evidence from the earliest victims - the ones who hadn’t been unknowns. He was sitting in the kitchen when the vid screen lit up, and for once he answered the video call without hesitation.
“We’ve got a recording of the interview with the victim’s friend,” Stanley said. He was sitting at the desk in his office, his tie and jacket removed. He had unbuttoned the first button of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. “I’m sending it over to you. Let me know if you can deduce anything from her answers. We don’t think they’re of any use - she didn’t actually see anything happen - but you might have a different opinion.”
“I’ll look at it right away,” Sherlock assured. “Where is she right now? I may need to ask her some additional questions.”
“She’s at home with an officer standing watch.” Stanley shook his head. “She’s spooked, and I can’t say I blame her.”
“We don’t even know that this is the serial killer,” Sherlock tried to reassure.
“For the moment, we’re operating as though it is,” Stanley said firmly.
Sherlock knew he wasn’t going to budge on that point, so he decided to move on. “Will you be home tonight?”
Stanley shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’ll kip on the sofa here if I need to; otherwise, I’ll crash at my house for a bit. It’s closer to the Yard. But the clock’s ticking on this one, Sherlock. I probably won’t get the chance.”
“I know.” Sherlock reached for his glasses, the ones he hated to wear. “Send the video over. I’ll be in touch.”
Margaret Hayes’ friend was named Stephanie Finn. She was a meek, unassuming woman of medium height and medium build. Her dirty-blonde hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, and her eyes were bloodshot from the amount of crying that she’d done. Stanley, unfortunately, was right - she hadn’t seen anything actually happen, and so her testimony was of little use, especially given the fact that this was a deviation from the serial killer’s norm. They had nothing to compare this to, and so couldn’t say for certain what was useful and what was not.
“You didn’t find anything,” Stanley said when Sherlock called him later.
“How did you know?”
“If you had, you would have come all the way over here just to tell me.”
Sherlock snorted. “You have a point. Anything?”
“Nothing new,” Stanley said irritably.
“Did you post officers at the kill site?” Sherlock asked. “The last time, he waited until you had left that scene before making his next kill.”
“I thought of that already,” Stanley said. “I’ve got an entire team over there. They haven’t seen anything.”
“Not yet,” Sherlock amended.
“If we don’t figure something out soon, I think Guerra’s going to try to figure out a way to pin the whole thing on me,” Stanley muttered. “The man’s desperate for a break in the case. His supervisors are one heartbeat away from having an aneurysm over this, and they’re taking it out on him.”
“Do you want me to come down?’
“What, so we can both wait for no news together?” Sherlock could almost hear Stanley shaking his head. “No. Thanks, though.”
“A potential new case came through the website today,” Sherlock said. “I’ll be working on that here for a while.”
It was his way of saying, I’ll be here if you need me.
Stanley gave a soft huff of bitter laughter. “Life goes on, right?”
“She is not the only woman suffering in London today,” Sherlock pointed out, hoping that his words would be soothing.
“That doesn’t really help, but I appreciate the effort.” Stanley sighed. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll call again if we have any new information for you to look over.”
Sherlock went over to the nearest computer interface and printed off the grainy images of the mysterious man from McCormack Industries, the one whose visage had been captured on a few seconds of security footage and who had yet to be identified. Sherlock glared at the image for several seconds as he held it in his hands. He hoped that this latest victim would be found in time, but probably for different reasons than Stanley did. He had no reason to wish harm on her, of course, but his reasons for wanting her alive were more practical than Stanley's. Sherlock knew that, if she was found alive, she would be the sole living eye-witness in this whole case, and the only person on the planet who had any idea of who her abductor might be.
This made her imminently valuable, and her survival was of the utmost importance.
Sherlock took the grainy photograph to a nearby alley that he knew Bo frequented during the evenings when the weather was still decent, and he handed it to the befuddled man.
“Circulate that among the rest of the network,” he instructed. “I know it’s not much, but I’ll need anything you can tell me about it.”
“Not promising anything,” Bo said, looking at the image sadly. Sherlock pressed a handful of money into his hands anyway.
“I know. Do your best.”
It was his only option.
Sherlock texted Stanley when he got back to the flat, and then he swam to bed. He’d intended to wait up for a reply, but his mind had other ideas. He had been awake since the middle of last night, at this point, and his body shut down of its own accord. He woke with the dawn, cotton in his mouth and his bladder uncomfortably full, only to find that his phone had been silent for the six hours he had been unconscious.
He called Stanley this time and left a curt message. He then glared at the phone for a few minutes after, but it was stubbornly quiet, and so Sherlock finally set it aside.
Checkers came upstairs for a visit later that morning, and he watched Sherlock from the sofa, his head resting on his paws and his golden eyes tracking the progress of each stage of Sherlock’s experiments. The only thing that interrupted the silence was a phone call from Donovan, but Sherlock ignored it. She wasn’t the police officer he was looking to talk to.
Evidently, however, Donovan had other ideas, because she called three more times after that. Finally, on the fourth attempt, Sherlock answered the phone out of pure irritation.
“Outside,” she snapped before he could say anything. “Right now. I’m going to be there in a minute, and you’re getting in the car.”
She hung up before he could answer, and Sherlock realised that the only way he was going to get any answers was if he followed her instructions.
Damn.
Donovan was already waiting impatiently in the idling car when Sherlock came outside.
“What’s going on?” Sherlock demanded as he slid into the car. Donovan peeled away and forced her way into the heavy morning traffic.
“Hopkins is missing,” she said without preamble. Sherlock’s heart stumbled in his chest.
“What?” he hissed. “You’re certain?”
“Absolutely, unless you’ve been hiding him,” she said dryly. “When did you last see him?”
“The last I saw of him was at yesterday’s meeting. He wouldn’t have been staying here, not with the newest developments to the case.” Sherlock blew out a sharp breath between his teeth. “We spoke yesterday afternoon, but I haven’t heard anything since.”
Donovan nodded to herself.
“I sent him home at two for a few hours of sleep,” she said. “He couldn’t have had more than three or four, if he got any at all. He was supposed to be back in the office by seven. When he didn’t show up, I sent someone ‘round to check on him. His place was a mess--there were obvious signs of a break-in and a struggle.”
“Is it related to -”
“Our current case?” She shook her head. “Hell if I know. But it’s suspicious timing. This is the only major case that the team is working at the moment, as everything else was set aside as soon as news of this abduction came through. So, yeah, it's probably related.”
Sherlock went quiet for a moment, doing the mental calculation. At worst, Stanley had been gone for eight hours now - that was if he was abducted immediately after leaving the Yard. It meant that they had only about forty hours to find him before he ended up like all the others.
He swallowed hard then, because he knew with intimate detail what the victims suffered at the hands of their captor. One year of living with this case had seared those facts into his mind, and he knew them all too well. Stanley had been drugged at this point; he might have even suffered a few blows. They had no timeline for anything beyond the time of death, so Sherlock had no idea when the rest of the torture would occur - sexual assault included. But it would be coming.
“There’s more,” Sherlock prompted at last, for Donovan had picked him up for a reason. She nodded. “You’ve found something.”
“We found traces of dirt on the carpet in Hopkins’ main room, tracked in by someone who wore shoes some sizes too big for the Inspector. When we tested it, we managed to match it to the Brickwell Shipyards.”
Sherlock frowned. The Brickwell Shipyards had manufactured low-Earth orbit craft for both shipping companies and the private consumer, and they had operated on the east side of London for nearly ten years prior to going out of business in 2025. As far as he was aware, the entire complex had been empty these past three years.
“I suppose it’s a convenient spot for a murder,” he admitted as last, ignoring the sharp look Donovan shot him before returning her eyes to the road. “He could easily have set up shop in one of the empty shipping containers. No one would hear his victims that way. But... it doesn’t make much sense. Nothing prior to this has hinted at even a connection to the shipyards. And why kidnap Stanley? That would only make us more determined to find him.”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Donovan agreed. She cast a sidelong glance at him. “But at this point, do you particularly care?”
Sherlock didn’t even hesitate.
“No.”
----
Part 21
Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5a / Part 5b / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8a / Part 8b / Part 9 / Part 10 / Part 11 / Part 12 / Part 13 / Part 14a / Part 14b / Part 15 / Part 16 / Part 17 / Part 18 / Part 19
Sherlock marked one year since the beginning of the case quietly.
In fact, he might not have remembered it at all if he hadn’t been sorting through some of his old notes one afternoon and caught sight of a card on which he’d scrawled 10 August 2027 - unidentified woman from SH.
What an interesting thing a year was. There had been so many changes in his own life, and yet very little that could be said about the case that started it all. It seemed as though they had only added to the mystery rather than shed any light on it.
But Sherlock did his best to remember the good, and wished that Stanley could do the same. The case was horrid, the crimes were unspeakable, and yet… he had Stanley now.
He would have Stanley forever.
Stanley was twenty minutes late to lunch on an afternoon in mid-August, but Sherlock took one look at his face and wisely didn’t comment on it.
“Bad day,” Stanley eventually offered when they were halfway through their salads. “Children, this time.”
“Do you have a lead?”
Stanley nodded. It wasn’t much of a comfort, but it was something. Sherlock pressed his leg against Stanley’s under the table, and Stanley gave him a thin smile. They both knew that the sooner this latest case could be closed, the sooner Stanley could get back to the serial killer.
“I heard from an agent today,” Sherlock said, steering them on to safer territory. “They’re interested in a book.”
“Of - what? Your cases?”
Sherlock nodded. “They’re interested in hearing about some of the more famous ones from my point of view. And, of course, there are ones I’ve solved since John and Lestrade moved away that John never got the chance to write about.”
Stanley chewed in contemplation for a moment. “Literary agents don’t normally reach out like that.”
“No.”
“They must really be interested. Do you think you’ll do it?”
“I -”
Sherlock was interrupted by Angelo.
“Mr Holmes!” he exclaimed, grabbing Sherlock’s hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “It has been too long!”
Sherlock frowned. “We ate here two weeks ago, Angelo.”
“And your fiancé!” Angelo turned around and engulfed Stanley in what appeared to be a bone-crushing hug. Stanley shot Sherlock an alarmed look over Angelo’s shoulder.
“Angelo, who did you hear that from?”
“Your landlady, of course!” Angelo said happily, releasing Stanley. “She said it happened last week! When were you going to tell me? Imagine that - Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, finally conquering one of life’s biggest mysteries - love.”
Stanley choked on his water and hid his chortle behind his napkin.
“Angelo, really, we’d rather not -” Sherlock started in an undertone, casting a furtive glance around the room. The restaurant was mostly empty at this late lunch hour, but the patrons present were staring openly at them.
“Here, have some wine,” Angelo said, cheerfully plucking a bottle from the hands of one of his wait staff. “On the house!”
“I - well - we’d -”
“Thank you, Angelo,” Stanley said finally, stepping in smoothly and saving a flustered Sherlock. “That’s very thoughtful.”
“Have you decided on a date?”
Stanley shot a glance at Sherlock, who gave a tiny nod. “We’ve been talking about sometime in the winter.”
“So soon!”
Stanley couldn’t seem to help the smile that split his face. “No. Not soon enough.”
They chatted amiably for a few moments longer before Angelo finally moved away to check on the other diners. Stanley touched Sherlock’s hand.
“You all right, old man?” he asked, a small smile tugging at his lips. Sherlock shook his head in disbelief, and then he laughed.
“All this fuss,” he said in wonder. He glanced at the wine and nodded his approval. “That’s a good year.”
“It will have to wait,” Stanley said regretfully. “I’m due back at the Yard soon. Save it for dinner?”
“I look forward to it.” Sherlock returned to his meal. “I’m afraid the slip was mine.”
“Oh, Alice would have figured it out anyway. Besides, I already told my parents.” Stanley chewed for a moment. “We weren’t keeping it a secret, were we?”
Sherlock shrugged. “No. But I didn’t make it a point to advertise it.”
“You at least told John and Lestrade, I hope.”
Sherlock scowled. “John guessed.”
“Gosh, I wonder who he picked that up from.”
“Shut up.”
Stanley smirked. “We should probably tell the others, then. Sally’s going to kill me.”
“Not if she kills me first. I’ll tell Molly if you tell Dimmock.”
“She’ll hear it from him first, seeing as they’re married, smartarse.”
“Gregson’s going to have a heart attack.” Sherlock thought for a moment. “Guerra probably won’t, though.”
“I think he saw it coming before we did.” A thought appeared to occur to Stanley. “You don’t think Mycroft’s going to kidnap me, do you?”
“It’s always a possibility,” Sherlock said, just to see Stanley pale. Then he flashed a quick smile. “No, he won’t. If he hasn’t done it by now, you have nothing to worry about. He set up a meeting with you, for God’s sake. He respects you, Stanley.”
“God knows why.” Stanley folded his napkin, set it on the table, and then pulled out his phone. “Right, we should probably pick a date for this, shouldn’t we?”
Sherlock’s answer was immediate. “December twenty-seventh.”
Stanley blinked at him. “Well, that was quick. Dare I ask why?”
“That was the date of the Christmas party.”
Stanley laughed. “And you want to commemorate the kiss that never happened? What does that signify - a lifetime of interruptions by phone calls?”
Sherlock snorted, but quickly sobered.
“No,” he said quietly. “It’s the date I realised I wanted nothing more than to kiss my closest friend. I had always known that I wanted you in my life, but it wasn’t until then that I realised it was because I had fallen for you.”
Stanley swallowed visibly.
“Right, then,” he said quietly. “December twenty-seventh it is.”
----
They were in bed together one evening, Stanley on his front with his head resting on pillowed arms while Sherlock kissed beads of cooling sweat from between his shoulder blades.
“We’re keeping this bed,” Stanley said drowsily. “I don’t care about which home we live in or whose furniture gets discarded, but we are definitely keeping this bed.”
“Agreed.” Sherlock rested a cheek on the back of Stanley’s shoulder and draped an arm across his back. “Talking of that, where would you like to live?”
Stanley gave a slow shrug. “Hadn’t thought much about it, to be honest. I think here. The Great Detective belongs in 221B. That’s what all the stories say.”
“Is it?” Sherlock turned his head and pressed his lips to salty skin. “Do the stories also talk about Henry the poison dart frog, noble inhabitant of 221B?”
Stanley snorted. “I suppose not. They must have missed that bit.”
“Hm. And what about the dashing Inspector Hopkins, as clever as he is brilliant?”
“Dashing, am I?” Stanley said, sounding amused. He yawned, and then added, “I suppose I like that better than John’s early descriptions of me. I sound rather over-eager.”
“It was endearing,” Sherlock assured, and Stanley snorted. He twisted his head around for a kiss, and then rolled onto his back so that Sherlock could lie on top of him. He was just reaching for the waistband of Stanley’s pants when a mobile went off, and Stanley groaned when he recognised his ring tone. Sherlock grabbed the device off the bedside table and tossed it to him.
“Hopkins,” Stanley answered gruffly. Sherlock couldn’t make out the caller’s words, but it turned out he didn’t have to. At once, Stanley’s eyes snapped open and he sat up abruptly. “I’m on my way. Wake the rest of the team; call them in.”
“Another?” Sherlock asked, sitting up as Stanley got out of bed and started rooting through the wardrobe for clothes.
“Almost,” he said.
“Almost?”
“She’s not dead yet,” Stanley said briskly. “She’s just been abducted. Come on, get dressed. We need to go.”
The newest victim was named Margaret Hayes, and by the time they got to the Yard, two hours had passed since her initial disappearance. That meant that, for the first time, they were working against a clock. She was going to turn up dead in forty-six hours, giving them less than two days to track down where she might have been taken - and who might have done this.
“How do we know this is connected to the serial killer?” Sherlock asked when Stanley’s team had finally assembled. He was addressing Donovan, who had made the initial call to Stanley.
“We don’t,” she said. “But given the fact that everyone’s sensitive about missing people right now, our serial killer was the first thing that came to mind, and we can’t exactly disprove it. This latest victim was with a companion at the park. When she didn’t return from the toilets, her absence was noticed immediately. We were called in at once.”
“He only kidnaps and murders unknown victims,” Sherlock said. Donovan shrugged.
“He also doesn’t leave evidence behind - except when he does.” She glanced at Stanley. “We have no reason right now to believe it’s not him.”
“He might be doing this on purpose,” Stanley said. “We’re no longer keeping quiet about what we know, so now he’s not bothering to keep his abductions a secret.”
“That’s risky,” Sherlock pointed out. “Almost too much so.”
“He might be tired of playing it safe. It only got him so far.” Stanley looked at Donovan. “Where is her companion right now?”
“At home.”
“Right. I’m going to be sending two of you over there to interview her,” Stanley said. “I want to know every detail about everyone she might have seen at the park. We need to figure out where he might have taken her. Every detail is important. The rest of you - start going over security footage taken from the park tonight. Maybe our serial killer isn’t quite as clever as he would have us believe.”
Sherlock approached him as the rest of the team set about their assigned tasks.
“Any thoughts?” Stanley asked in an undertone. Sherlock shook his head.
“I don’t think I can offer anything more than what has already been said. You have a point - he might be doing this on purpose, now. Either that, or he’s just so desperate for a kill that he abducted the first person who gave him a window of opportunity, unknown or not.” Sherlock pushed his hands into his pockets. “Look, until there’s something new, I don’t think I’ll be of much use to you.”
Stanley nodded. “I understand. Go home, get some rest. I’ll call you the moment we have anything that you can analyze. And once they’re done with the initial interview of the victim’s friend, I might send you over for a second round of questioning. Just to be sure we got everything from her that we can.”
Sherlock nodded and, when the room had cleared, leaned in to give Stanley a brief kiss.
“Be safe,” he said softly. “I mean it.”
“I will be.”
Sherlock called Mycroft anyway on his way home from the Yard, and he secured his brother’s reassurances that Stanley’s security team was in place, and that they had noticed nothing unusual.
“Are you expecting something to happen, brother dear?” Mycroft sounded almost amused. Sherlock swallowed back bitter irritation.
"There are too many variables in this case. I have no idea what to expect,” he said shortly.
“Rest assured, Stanley is safe,” Mycroft said, almost gently. “I wouldn’t allow any harm to come to my future brother-in-law.”
Sherlock couldn’t think of what to say to that, and he rang off without offering a goodbye.
Stanley was in contact with him three hours later. Sherlock hadn’t gone to bed as instructed, but was going over the evidence from the earliest victims - the ones who hadn’t been unknowns. He was sitting in the kitchen when the vid screen lit up, and for once he answered the video call without hesitation.
“We’ve got a recording of the interview with the victim’s friend,” Stanley said. He was sitting at the desk in his office, his tie and jacket removed. He had unbuttoned the first button of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. “I’m sending it over to you. Let me know if you can deduce anything from her answers. We don’t think they’re of any use - she didn’t actually see anything happen - but you might have a different opinion.”
“I’ll look at it right away,” Sherlock assured. “Where is she right now? I may need to ask her some additional questions.”
“She’s at home with an officer standing watch.” Stanley shook his head. “She’s spooked, and I can’t say I blame her.”
“We don’t even know that this is the serial killer,” Sherlock tried to reassure.
“For the moment, we’re operating as though it is,” Stanley said firmly.
Sherlock knew he wasn’t going to budge on that point, so he decided to move on. “Will you be home tonight?”
Stanley shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’ll kip on the sofa here if I need to; otherwise, I’ll crash at my house for a bit. It’s closer to the Yard. But the clock’s ticking on this one, Sherlock. I probably won’t get the chance.”
“I know.” Sherlock reached for his glasses, the ones he hated to wear. “Send the video over. I’ll be in touch.”
Margaret Hayes’ friend was named Stephanie Finn. She was a meek, unassuming woman of medium height and medium build. Her dirty-blonde hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, and her eyes were bloodshot from the amount of crying that she’d done. Stanley, unfortunately, was right - she hadn’t seen anything actually happen, and so her testimony was of little use, especially given the fact that this was a deviation from the serial killer’s norm. They had nothing to compare this to, and so couldn’t say for certain what was useful and what was not.
“You didn’t find anything,” Stanley said when Sherlock called him later.
“How did you know?”
“If you had, you would have come all the way over here just to tell me.”
Sherlock snorted. “You have a point. Anything?”
“Nothing new,” Stanley said irritably.
“Did you post officers at the kill site?” Sherlock asked. “The last time, he waited until you had left that scene before making his next kill.”
“I thought of that already,” Stanley said. “I’ve got an entire team over there. They haven’t seen anything.”
“Not yet,” Sherlock amended.
“If we don’t figure something out soon, I think Guerra’s going to try to figure out a way to pin the whole thing on me,” Stanley muttered. “The man’s desperate for a break in the case. His supervisors are one heartbeat away from having an aneurysm over this, and they’re taking it out on him.”
“Do you want me to come down?’
“What, so we can both wait for no news together?” Sherlock could almost hear Stanley shaking his head. “No. Thanks, though.”
“A potential new case came through the website today,” Sherlock said. “I’ll be working on that here for a while.”
It was his way of saying, I’ll be here if you need me.
Stanley gave a soft huff of bitter laughter. “Life goes on, right?”
“She is not the only woman suffering in London today,” Sherlock pointed out, hoping that his words would be soothing.
“That doesn’t really help, but I appreciate the effort.” Stanley sighed. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll call again if we have any new information for you to look over.”
Sherlock went over to the nearest computer interface and printed off the grainy images of the mysterious man from McCormack Industries, the one whose visage had been captured on a few seconds of security footage and who had yet to be identified. Sherlock glared at the image for several seconds as he held it in his hands. He hoped that this latest victim would be found in time, but probably for different reasons than Stanley did. He had no reason to wish harm on her, of course, but his reasons for wanting her alive were more practical than Stanley's. Sherlock knew that, if she was found alive, she would be the sole living eye-witness in this whole case, and the only person on the planet who had any idea of who her abductor might be.
This made her imminently valuable, and her survival was of the utmost importance.
Sherlock took the grainy photograph to a nearby alley that he knew Bo frequented during the evenings when the weather was still decent, and he handed it to the befuddled man.
“Circulate that among the rest of the network,” he instructed. “I know it’s not much, but I’ll need anything you can tell me about it.”
“Not promising anything,” Bo said, looking at the image sadly. Sherlock pressed a handful of money into his hands anyway.
“I know. Do your best.”
It was his only option.
Sherlock texted Stanley when he got back to the flat, and then he swam to bed. He’d intended to wait up for a reply, but his mind had other ideas. He had been awake since the middle of last night, at this point, and his body shut down of its own accord. He woke with the dawn, cotton in his mouth and his bladder uncomfortably full, only to find that his phone had been silent for the six hours he had been unconscious.
He called Stanley this time and left a curt message. He then glared at the phone for a few minutes after, but it was stubbornly quiet, and so Sherlock finally set it aside.
Checkers came upstairs for a visit later that morning, and he watched Sherlock from the sofa, his head resting on his paws and his golden eyes tracking the progress of each stage of Sherlock’s experiments. The only thing that interrupted the silence was a phone call from Donovan, but Sherlock ignored it. She wasn’t the police officer he was looking to talk to.
Evidently, however, Donovan had other ideas, because she called three more times after that. Finally, on the fourth attempt, Sherlock answered the phone out of pure irritation.
“Outside,” she snapped before he could say anything. “Right now. I’m going to be there in a minute, and you’re getting in the car.”
She hung up before he could answer, and Sherlock realised that the only way he was going to get any answers was if he followed her instructions.
Damn.
Donovan was already waiting impatiently in the idling car when Sherlock came outside.
“What’s going on?” Sherlock demanded as he slid into the car. Donovan peeled away and forced her way into the heavy morning traffic.
“Hopkins is missing,” she said without preamble. Sherlock’s heart stumbled in his chest.
“What?” he hissed. “You’re certain?”
“Absolutely, unless you’ve been hiding him,” she said dryly. “When did you last see him?”
“The last I saw of him was at yesterday’s meeting. He wouldn’t have been staying here, not with the newest developments to the case.” Sherlock blew out a sharp breath between his teeth. “We spoke yesterday afternoon, but I haven’t heard anything since.”
Donovan nodded to herself.
“I sent him home at two for a few hours of sleep,” she said. “He couldn’t have had more than three or four, if he got any at all. He was supposed to be back in the office by seven. When he didn’t show up, I sent someone ‘round to check on him. His place was a mess--there were obvious signs of a break-in and a struggle.”
“Is it related to -”
“Our current case?” She shook her head. “Hell if I know. But it’s suspicious timing. This is the only major case that the team is working at the moment, as everything else was set aside as soon as news of this abduction came through. So, yeah, it's probably related.”
Sherlock went quiet for a moment, doing the mental calculation. At worst, Stanley had been gone for eight hours now - that was if he was abducted immediately after leaving the Yard. It meant that they had only about forty hours to find him before he ended up like all the others.
He swallowed hard then, because he knew with intimate detail what the victims suffered at the hands of their captor. One year of living with this case had seared those facts into his mind, and he knew them all too well. Stanley had been drugged at this point; he might have even suffered a few blows. They had no timeline for anything beyond the time of death, so Sherlock had no idea when the rest of the torture would occur - sexual assault included. But it would be coming.
“There’s more,” Sherlock prompted at last, for Donovan had picked him up for a reason. She nodded. “You’ve found something.”
“We found traces of dirt on the carpet in Hopkins’ main room, tracked in by someone who wore shoes some sizes too big for the Inspector. When we tested it, we managed to match it to the Brickwell Shipyards.”
Sherlock frowned. The Brickwell Shipyards had manufactured low-Earth orbit craft for both shipping companies and the private consumer, and they had operated on the east side of London for nearly ten years prior to going out of business in 2025. As far as he was aware, the entire complex had been empty these past three years.
“I suppose it’s a convenient spot for a murder,” he admitted as last, ignoring the sharp look Donovan shot him before returning her eyes to the road. “He could easily have set up shop in one of the empty shipping containers. No one would hear his victims that way. But... it doesn’t make much sense. Nothing prior to this has hinted at even a connection to the shipyards. And why kidnap Stanley? That would only make us more determined to find him.”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Donovan agreed. She cast a sidelong glance at him. “But at this point, do you particularly care?”
Sherlock didn’t even hesitate.
“No.”
----
Part 21