Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"The huntsmen said, 'A wondrous beast is lying in the hollow tree; we have never before seen one like it. Its skin is fur of a thousand different kinds.'"
--Allerleirauh

Portland, Oregon. Missy Simmons pulled over oversized coat tight, wringing her hands. She was at an all-time low.

"This is a youth shelter," the man at the door said stubbornly. "Unless you're a youth, or with a child, you can't stay here. Adults go down to the other shelter on third."

"I'm only seventeen," Missy replied. "That makes me a youth."

"You have an ID?"

"No."

"Well, we gotta cut it off somewhere. And you don't look seventeen."

"She's with me. She's my sister."

Missy turned to see a teenage boy, about fourteen years old.

The man at the door shook his head and waved them both in. "Fine, fine."

"Thanks," Missy whispered to him. "I'm missy."

"Call me Ian," he said. "Nice to meet you."

She watched as Ian made the rounds, shaking hands and chatting, like he did this all the time. She decided he must be a local. Missy managed to squeeze in a goodnight to him before he settled down on a cot in the boy's side of the shelter.

It was just after lights out that she heard a crash of something being overturned. Shouting erupted, followed by audible panic. Everything escalated. Everyone was out of bed and thrashing. It was like an expanding field of frenzy covered the shelter.

Missy grabbed her stuff and ran.

 

Nick Burkhardt walked into the precinct early. He found Hank Griffin already at his desk, working.

"Anything good?" Nick asked.

"Nah, just putting this paperwork away while I've the chance," Hank replied.

"The more you do, the less I have to."

"You wish. You've got half to do just like always."

"Hey, a call came in," Wu interrupted.

Nick asked, "We got a body?"

"Yes. And no. Yes because seven people are in the hospital. No because none of them are dead," Wu replied.

"Seven?" Hank asked.

"Yeah. Looks like a second riot," Wu said. "This one was at a coffee shop during their early rush."

"Second riot?" Nick asked.

 

"First one was at the youth shelter last night. Similar reports. Everyone just started going crazy. Smashing things up, throwing things around. That kind of thing."

"They give a reason?" Nick asked.

Wu replied, "Nope."

"Guess we'll find out," Hank said.

 

As soon as they arrived, Hank and Nick saw that the word 'riot' didn't quite cover it. It was like the Zombie Monster Mash all over again: property damage, injury, and general mess. Tables were overturned; chairs were broken. A brittle combination of coffee and blood spattered the walls.

A stout man in jeans and a button-up shirt approached the two detectives.

"Portland PD, I'm Detective Griffin. You in charge?"

"No, that'd be Mr. Evans," the man replied. "I'm Steve. Steve Freedman. I was running the floor when this happened."

"Were you injured?" Nick asked.

"Luckily, no. I went to call nine one one as soon as the first scuffle started."

"This all started from one scuffle?" Hank asked.

"Mostly, yeah."

Hank said, "All right. Tell us what happened."

"I was in here, the middle of the shop, helping a few patrons with their bags. There were two people, don't think they were together, but they just started screaming at one another. A guy from over there joined in, then someone else... the woman just yanked the guy out of his seat. And I don't mean a hand up, I mean a violent grab. I gotta tell ya, at first I thought it was like a flash mob thing because it seemed to all be on cue. Then fists started flying."

"So the two people involved in this first altercation, they didn't start the fight?" Nick inquired..

"No, no, not at all. They were just the first ones I saw."

"You remember what the first yells were about?" Hank asked. "Animal? Vegetable? Mineral?"

"Sorry, I don't. I think they were both talking about someone, though. Something like, 'He's mine' maybe? But I didn't see anyone with either of them."

"Could you identify them?" Hank asked.

"One was in blue, the other was in gray. Shirts, I mean. Sorry, there was a lot going on," Steve replied.

"Do you remember if they interacted with anyone or anything before they fought? Maybe a staff member?" Nick asked.

"Actually, no," Steve replied. "'Cept for whoever rang 'em up. Oh, and that kid in the hoodie."

"Got a description on him?" Hank asked.

"Just a dark green hoodie. Matched his eyes, you know? Not very tall, maybe five four. Probably a teenager, but it was hard to tell, " Steve said. His eyes slide out of focus suddenly, like he hopped into a daydream.

"Mr. Freedman?" Nick prompted. "Mr. Freedman?"

"What? Sorry. Are we done?" Steve asked. His features carried a heavy haze.

"How about we have an officer take your statement?" Nick suggested.

 

Jeffrey Smith walked slowly towards the stern frame of the Glades. He glowered at its newest pile of rubble.

"Hey Keith," Jeffrey said.

"You staying the night?" Keith asked.

"Nah, just need to get out of the damn sun for a few hours."

"Good, we got a new guy with us for the night. Do me a solid, show him the ropes?"

"Sure. Which one is he?"

"That guy, green hoodie."

"Got it," Jeffrey said before approaching the stranger.

 

Hank asked, "Is it just me, or was that weird?"

"Definitely," Nick replied.

"Maybe we should test the food. See if that cafe was serving special brownies or Irish coffee," Hank joked.

Nick considered for a moment. Hank was right. It wasn't just the one interview; everyone they spoke to seemed a little off. All of them drifted off while talking or snapped into a daydream-like haze.

"Maybe something did affected them," Nick suggested. "Caused the fight, then the escalation, and then the residual affects leave them, well..."

"Slightly high?" Hank suggested. "What would cause that? You thinking my hash brownie idea is right?"

"Dunno. But Wu told me none of the people they've processed so far have records or any history of violence. It's not too crazy to think maybe they were exposed to something."

Hank shook his head as he got behind the wheel. "Not in this town it's not."

Nick was ready to ride shotgun, but something caught his eye. A young woman stood across the street from the coffee house. She hovered by the bus stop, but Nick could tell she was more interested in the cafe than the traffic.

"You got something?" Hank asked.

"Yeah, give me a minute."

Nick crossed the street as casually as he could, but she tensed up when she saw him coming.

"Wait!" Nick said as she turned away. "I'm with Portland PD!"

She stopped and let him catch up. "Can I see your badge?" she asked.

"Nick Burkhardt. You seemed to be looking for something. Or someone, maybe?"

"I guess."

"What's your name?"

"Look, I was just looking for someone," she said. "He dropped something."

"That's a long name."

"We both ran out of the shelter last night, and he dropped this. I picked it up," she repeated. "I asked around. Found out he works that shop sometimes. I'm not a stalker, I just want him to get this back." She held out an id.

Nick glanced at it: a California license for one Ripley Meador, age sixteen.

"I am not a creepy stalker, okay?" she said. "But he told me his name was Ian, not Ripley. Which makes me think he wants that back. Okay? So. Yeah."

She began to pace, and her eyes went out of focus, just like the coffee shop interviewees. But her behavior went from timid to aggressive in just a few seconds.

"Got it," Nick said as he pocketed the id. "Have you ever been downtown by the walking park? The non-smoking one."

"I know where it is."

"There's a Tea and Spice Shop. You know which one I'm talking about?" She didn't respond. "I know the shop owner. And if you go there and tell her Detective Burkhardt sent you, she could help you out."

"With what?" she snapped.

"You keep going like you are right now, with the pacing and the shaky hands and the loud voice, and someone's gonna notice. And not in a good way. Listen, listen," he said as he grabbed her arm to stop her. "Can you hear me?"

"The Tea and Spice Shop, downtown," she repeated, as if coming out of a deep sleep. "That's not far."

"No, do you need a ride?"

"I can walk."

"You sure?"

As if suddenly realizing who she was talking to, the woman became alert. She pulled away as she replied, "Yes, I'm sure."

Nick took out his phone and called Rosalee.

 

Rosalee wasn't sure what to make of her current phone conversation.

"You want me to treat someone?" she asked.

"Yeah, she'll tell you my name. You'll probably know her as soon as she's there," Nick replied.

"What do you think is happening?"

"I don't know. But all the people we interviewed? They all seemed really... off. Reminded me of how people reacted to Ziegevolk," Nick replied. "And she seemed very animated, agitated. Not aggressive or dangerous, but really odd really suddenly."

"Did it seem like a reaction to something?" Rosalee asked. "Or more of a withdrawal symptom?"

"As far as I could tell, nothing happened for her to react to. Something came over her," Nick replied. "She fought it, though. And after it passed, it was like how you were when the Ziegevolk lawyer used his pheromones on you. A little ill maybe?"

"Look, I can treat any symptoms she has, but without knowing what caused it, I can't be sure I'm doing any more than that," Rosalee replied. "Monroe is on his way in, so he can help me with research. But Nick, Ziegevolk don't cause riots. Not like the one you described."

"We saw one influence a jury," Nick replied.

"Twelve people is a lot for one Ziegevolk. And no one on the jury became violent," Rosalee replied. "So maybe this is Wesen, but plenty of Wesen can affect behavior."

"And plenty of drugs and gases can, too," Nick added. "But this girl, she's been on the streets and she's in bad shape. So even if it's not related..."

"No, of course, I understand," Rosalee replied. "I'll call you when I know more."

"Thanks."

Nick hung up.

Hank asked, "You think this Ripley Meador might be causing this?"

"He was at both riots," Nick replied.

"Wu texted an address," Hank said.

"Witness?" Nick asked.

"Nope, third riot. Abandoned building nearly burned to the ground. Possible bodies."

"A riot with a fire? Is your radio working?" Nick asked.

"Yeah, but the call came in while you were talking to our witness," Hank replied. "Problem is, we can't run down this kid and check out the new crime scene."

"Okay, drop me off. I can get someone to drive me back to the station."

"Sounds good to me."

 

"So, what are we doing?" Monroe asked as Nick pulled up to the scene. "Is that smoke?"

"Yeah, arson was involved in this riot," Nick replied. "Whatever's going on has a big area of affect. I thought maybe you could... you know?"

"Pick up a scent?" Monroe asked. "Dude, normally, maybe. But if they're ingesting something, depending on their metabolism...probably not. If it is like a pheromone hormonal surge influence thing, then that's... if I can smell it, chances are it will affect me."

"Okay, stay in the car, text me if you get anything," Nick said as he ducked out.

The smoke lingered in the air, and the forensic techs swarmed over the scene.

"Detective?" Sergeant Thomas Rider asked upon approach.

"Burkhardt," Nick said. "My partner is back at the station. Can you fill me in?"

Rider lead Nick into the scene as he spoke. "This place has been used by organized squatters for the past couple of months. Fire broke out about three hours ago; luckily, it was contained before the entire building went up. Two bodies, not identified. Paramedics took six people in, status unknown."

"We got anything on what started the fire?" Nick asked.

"According to the people I've spoken to? Nothing," Rider replied. "The fire spontaneously happened."

"Ah, reluctance to speak to police," Nick said. "When you were speaking to witnesses, did they seem..."

"High?" Rider prompted. "All of them were crazy-spacy. But that could've been the shock and the fumes."

"Was there a young man here in a green hoodie?"

Rider nodded. "Yeah. Said his name was Ian James. Too young for an ID."

"Where is he?"

"He's with Officer Spicer," Rider pointed. "You need anything else?"

"No, thank you," Nick replied.

Officer Spicer was about thirty with a spindly build. He paced as he drank his coffee, and Nick noticed no one was standing with him.

"Officer Spicer?" Nick asked. "You were speaking to a young man. Where is he?"

"Who?" Spicer asked, agitation bubbling up.

"Green hoodie, called himself Ian," Nick said. "Where is he?"

Spicer shook his head rigorously and pointed towards the woods beyond the south end of the building. "Said he needed to bleed the lizard. Didn't need a buddy."

"You let him leave?" Nick asked.

He didn't wait for a reply. He spotted a bit of green ducking into the tree line, and he ran for it.

"Stop! Police!" he yelled as he closed in.

The runner tripped and woged as he tried to get back to his feet. Nick didn't have a direct line of sight, but Ian James seemed to be an Eisbiber.

"Ian James! Stop!" Nick repeated.

Before he could get his feet under himself, Nick closed in on him.

"Ian James?" Nick asked. The boy didn't reply. "Ripley Meador?" Nick tried.

The jolt of recognition was all he needed.

 

Nick wrangled Ripley Meador back to the car, and as soon as he pushed him into the back seat, Monroe exited the front.

"What are you doing?"

"What am I doing?" Monroe asked. "You can leave me in a car with that guy! He's too potent."

"You've never had a problem with Bud," Nick said.

"What's Bud got to do with this?"

"I didn't get a good look a the kid, but he's definitely something like an Eisbiber."

"No way."

"Monroe, I know what I saw," Nick replied.

"And I know what I smell, as in presently. I can't be near that guy for long, let alone be in a confined space with him."

"I can't just leave you here," Nick pointed out.

"Well, then, make someone else take him in!"

"Or, I've got some stuff in the trunk: nose plugs for swimming, medical masks. Will that work?"

"Promise me you will drive fast," Monroe replied. "And he is not an Eisbiber."

"Then what?"

"Nothing I've ever met before."

 

After dropping off Monroe, Nick tried to get the kid to talk.

"You said your name was Ian James. Where did you get that?" he asked. When Ripley didn't reply, Nick continued, "Look, whatever's going on, you've been at three riots in the past day. You should really talk to me here."

His phone rang.

"Burkhardt," Nick said.

"It's Hank. You're not gonna believe this."

"Hit me."

"Just got off the phone with Seattle PD. Maxwell Meador, Ripley's father, was murdered a week ago."

"But his license is from California."

"That's where his mom is," Hank replied. "I called her and she's coming out."

"Right, I'll be back at the station in fifteen," Nick said as he hung up.

"My partner is looking for a next of kin. Mom, dad, anyone," Nick said to Ripley. "You have someone we can call?"

Ripley replied quietly, "No."

Despite Nick's efforts, he refused to say another word.

 

Hank and Nick took a moment before joining Ripley Meador in the interview room.

"So, this is the kid that started the riots?" Hank asked.

"Only guy at all three," Nick said. "And he tried to make a break for it from the last one."

Ripley sat back in his chair.

"Ripley, I'm Detective Hank Griffin," Hank said. "I was trying to contact next of kin, since you're technically a minor."

"He found your mom, she's flying up," Nick said.

"What? No, you can't!" Ripley said quickly, standing up. He moved so fast that his hoodie fell back. "Tell her you made a, uh, mistake or something! Tell her to turn around right now!"

Ripley woged, his face changing into the beaver-like Eisbiber, but curled horns erupted from his head.

"He's a Grimm! And... you... you can't just stand there, he'll kill me!" Ripley yelled as he plastered himself to the wall, trying to escape Nick.

"Calm down," Nick said.

"Wesen?" Hank asked.

"Yeah."

"What kind?"

"Dunno. Looks like a really weird Ziegevolk."

"Shut up!" Ripley shouted. "You don't know!"

"Then tell us," Hank said.

Ripley froze and didn't respond.

"We know about your father," Nick said. "Seattle PD connected his death to fourteen other people. Up until Hank here gave them a call, they thought you might be the fifteenth."

"You can't let my mom come! You just don't get it."

"We can help you, Ripley," Nick insisted. "Hank and I might be the only people who can. In terms of explaining your effect on other people, anyway. Part Eisbiber, part Ziegevolk. Am I right?"

Ripley kept his distance, but he replied, "Yeah. I went to live with my dad so he could... help me figure it out."

"Figure out what?" Hank asked.

"Being an Eisbiber? It's so simple. You've got the family and the lodge and the community. But Ziegevolk? Solitary. At least, the guys are. And most of us – them... whatever, when puberty hits... it's..."

"That's when the hormones start to surge, I've been there," Hank said.

"Most Ziegevolk have a parent to teach them how to handle it," Ripley said. "But my mom and dad, they were never really together. He only agreed to help when I showed him what was going wrong."

"So you're starting riots with teenage hormones?" Hank asked. "That's a new one."

"Pheromones," Nick replied. "Ziegevolk can influence people with them, but I thought you needed to eat toads to get that kind of result."

"Ew! No!" Ripley replied. "Toad-eating... that only happens after you peak. At least, that's what my dad said."

"Peak? You mean like, after you... peak? Really?" Nick asked.

"Dad said that it happens around twenty-one," Ripley said quietly. "Then I'd have to try to make people go crazy. Instead of doing it by just showing up. My mom can't take me home! I can't control it! I can't be around anyone, let alone my family."

"We know someone who might be able to help with that."

"Yeah, right."

"It's true. A friend of ours helped us neutralize a Ziegevolk who tried to sandbag a jury," Nick said.

"For serious?"

"Yeah, for serious," Hank said.

"Can you tell us about your dad?" Nick asked. "You were in Seattle when he was killed."

"I didn't... see it happen, if that's what you mean," Ripley replied. "But I found him. I had gone out for a run and when I got back, he was on the kitchen floor."

"The kitchen floor?" Nick asked.

"Yeah."

"The body was found in the living room," Nick said. "You sure you saw him in the kitchen?"

Ripley nodded.

Hank cottoned on quickly. "You didn't see him die, but you did interrupt the killer."

"I didn't see anyone else. I felt a sharp pain along my side and I just ran for it."

"Will you show us?" Nick asked.

Ripley nodded before lifting his top to reveal a long, thin gash from his rib almost up to his armpit.

"Whoa," Hank said.

"It wasn't deep," Ripley replied. "But this is why you can't tell my mom. I can become... a non-minor. Early adult. That's a thing, right?"

"You mean emancipated?" Hank asked.

"Yeah, I can do that," Ripley said.

"Ripley," Nick said. "Seattle PD is going to want to question you. You'll probably gonna be set up in protective custody. Trust me, you're gonna need your mom."

The door opened.

"Excuse me. Nick? Hank?" Captain Renard said sharply. "A word."

Nick and Hank nodded to Ripley, who finally took his seat again, before leaving the interview room.

"You wanna tell me why you were questioning a minor without parental consent?" Renard asked.

"He needs protective custody," Nick said. "He's the only witness in a serial homicide. An international serial homicide."

"You do not question or talk to minors without the parent's go-ahead," Renard said.

"He's Wesen," Hank added.

"Trying explaining that to a judge."

"No, but his circumstances... they're unique. We should probably isolate him until we can get Rosalee to help him out," Nick suggested.

"You better start from the beginning," Renard replied.

 

After an exhausting conversation with the Captain, Nick and Hank met up outside the precinct and waited.

"You think Ripley might be in danger?" Hank asked. "Or was he just in the wrong place?"

"Killer didn't mind slicing him down the side," Nick replied.

"But this guy killed at over a dozen people. If he wanted to kill some skinny kid, he'd've done it," Hank said.

"That's true. Maybe he just wanted to scare Ripley off."

Monroe's yellow Beetle pulled up. Rosalee, riding shotgun, rolled down her window.

"Hank, Nick," she said. "Take these."

She held a small sack out the window.

"We've got reservations for like, now," Monroe added from his seat.

"What are these?" Nick asked as he took the bag.

"Salamanders," Rosalee said. "They substantially reduce his pheromone production."

"But he wants that thing you did with the... whatever, the pheromone vasectomy," Hank said. "He told us that."

Rosalee shook her head. "He's in puberty. That would have devastating effects on his development. So until he's older, he'll need to take measures to prevent his – "

"Seriously, though, we need to get to the restaurant," Monroe said quickly. "Not to interrupt. Sorry."

"Okay, thanks," Nick said.

"Instructions are included," Rosalee said as she rolled up the window.

"On how to eat salamanders? There's a tutorial on that?" Hank joked.

"They probably... wiggle," Nick suggested.

"Gross. Come on, let's fill the kid in on his new dietary supplement."

Chapter Text

John Watson woke up to the incessant ringing of the doorbell. Though he'd never admit it out loud, he understood why Sherlock had shot the damn thing.

Twice.

He got out of bed and donned his bathrobe. As he descended from his bedroom, he wondered dimly why Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock weren't annoyed enough to yell at the door. As he passed the living room, a familiar buzzing caught his attention.

His mobile was on the far desk. Odd, he remembered leaving it on his bedside table. The buzzing meant that he received a text.

He discovered half a dozen texts, all from Lestrade in the past fifteen minutes. Strange.

He checked his outgoing messages. Three were sent to Lestrade around four in the morning. John read through them in rapid succession.

Not the husband. Killer is left-handed scuba diver. Rust on flat wrench will verify.

Ringsted explosion accidental: original investigation overlooked the tailor's fingers.

Tzompantli. Emptied library likely candidate.

John was too tired, and too irritated by the continuous ringing, to remember which cases the texts could be about. He switched to messages received.

No known scuba divers connected to the case.

Arson investigation still underway.

Come immediately: 3412 New Burlington Pl.

Answer your phone

Answer your door

"Mrs. Hudson! JOHN! Someone's at the door! Can't you hear the bell?" Sherlock yelled from his room.

John went down and pulled the door open.

"Well, where is he then?" Lestrade asked immediately.

"Good morning to you, too," John replied. "Come in."

Lestrade made short work of the stairs, calling for Sherlock on his way up.

"Why on earth are you here at five in the morning?" John asked.

"Sherlock didn't say?"

"If he did, I wouldn't be asking."

"We found two bodies, decapitated. Fingerprints burned with acid. Markings carved - "

"Ah, yes, the Head Case," John replied. He added, "Working title."

"We couldn't identify the victims, and the acid was inconclusive. So was the analysis of possible weapons."

"I take it you found the heads?" John asked.

"You've no idea. But I need to get Sherlock there before the forensics team closes the place down, and we don't have much time. Donovan is holding them up at the moment."

Sherlock stepped out his room, fully dressed. From the looks of it, he had been restringing his violin.

"Well John, don't hold us up! Put some trousers on!"

 

Sherlock and John took a taxi and followed Lestrade's squad car to a bookshop. It hadn't been in business for years, but the building remained well kept.

John had slept for most of the trip there, but he had the vague memory of Sherlock babbling on about a weapon with chemical traces.

"Come on, John!" Sherlock said.

John followed Lestrade and Sherlock into a high-ceilinged room that reminded him of older churches, the space above feeling somehow majestic.

Except for all the heads.

Across one wall, shelves upon shelves of skulls were displayed. John could tell by looking that they were genuine skulls; the most desiccated of them sat at the top. Newer skulls, some of which still bore fragments of flesh, stretched towards the bottom. Fully-fleshed heads populated the last two shelves entirely.

"Oh, brilliant!" Sherlock said loudly. "Tzompantli. I knew it."

Lestrade pushed ahead, "Any ideas?"

"Oh, dozens."

With his magnifying glass and far too much excitement, Sherlock scanned the shelves, getting entirely too close to the heads for John's comfort.

"Now I understand the texts and the doorbell."

John considered the heads, albeit from a distance. Those with enough flesh to still have faces had a very peculiar expression: a combination of surprise, horror, and despair with a gruesome, yet unmistakable, smile. Some of them had been fixed that way after rigor with pins. He allowed his eyes to drift upwards, covering the innumerable skulls above.

"How long has this been going on?" John asked. "Some of those skulls are completely clean. Either they were skeletonized on purpose, or they've been dead for decades."

"Yeah, well, that's just it. Yesterday, we had two bodies with no heads. Now we've, what? Sixty heads and no bodies."

"You need to look into any groups with purist agendas," Sherlock said to Lestrade. "Connect such a group to anyone who could be in possession of, or a caretaker to, these grounds, and you'll have if not your murderer, then the primary accomplice."

"Purist groups?" John asked. "You think this is about race?"

"No, of course not. It's probably something about religion, or bloodlines, or family ties. Not so obvious as skin color."

"You gotta give me more than that, Sherlock," Lestrade said.

"Look at how the heads are laid out. The pattern is obvious."

"Yeah, man, woman, man, woman. 'Cept for those two, which are both women," Lestrade replied.

"Precisely. The skulls continue in a similar manner. There are about four same-sex couples, but otherwise, the pattern remains – "

John interrupted. "Sorry, couples?"

"Obviously."

"You think someone is targeting couples that are somehow 'mixed' and chopping off their heads?" Lestrade asked.

"For quite some time," Sherlock remarked. "Of course, the older heads, as John pointed out, are quite old. Likely stolen from graves. Perhaps additional victims by someone else with a similar agenda."

"That doesn't explain how you managed the couples thing," John said.

"Oh, John. Clear pattern. Obvious variation. Roughly congruent to the ten percent rule. If these people were siblings, or parents and children, there would be more variation. Those two are the newest, probably belonged to the bodies we found. Been here about three days. The next two, maybe a week, both of them. And so on. Each pair killed within the same time frame, so our killer didn't just remove heads and arrange them for the sake of sexual equality. No, they were paired together, killed together. Couples, obviously."

"Could be business partners, or people – " John began.

"The most recent acquisitions all shared scents," Sherlock added baldly.

"Please don't tell me you – " John began.

"Of course I smelled them," Sherlock interrupted. "All we have are heads. I had to collect as much data s possible. That requires the use of all the senses available."

"So you think there're, what a dozen bodies around London? All from the last week or two?" Lestrade ventured.

"Unlikely. I suspect there's either a room here that can contain them – a freezer, a basement to bury them – or access the sewers."

"You think the bodies are nearby?" Lestrade asked.

"Frankincense and limestone," Sherlock replied. "Couldn't place it when we arrived. But both can be used to cover up the scent of decay. It's not in this room, the killer using embalming fluids of some kind. So, two potent fresheners used to cover a large amount of decay, not in the room with the heads, logical conclusion: the bodies are nearby and require cover as they decompose."

"Fantastic," John said quietly. "Except for all the dead bodies."

Sherlock continued. "Whatever these symbols are beneath the heads might be illuminating. John, take photos."

"What?"

"With your phone. Photos of the iconography. It will likely be key to identifying the murderer."

"All right, Anderson's forensic techs are here, so you lot better clear out. Call me if you've got something," Lestrade said.

"We should be getting to St. Bart's," Sherlock said happily. "Let's go, John."

John finished his photo-shoot and hurried after Sherlock.

 

On their way to St. Bart's, John asked, "Tzompantli, that's Mesoamerican, isn't it?"

"Indeed, a skull rack. Wall of skulls."

"So, this is about religion?" John asked. "Or ritual?"

"Doubtful. The two original bodies didn't leave much to deduce. The weapon didn't leave any indication of handedness or force. The killer added a cocktail of caustic chemicals to each of the wounds, or more likely, the bladed or sharp edges of the weapon were coated with the substance, making trace evidence nearly impossible to collect."

"Nearly impossible?"

"Molly has a number of samples. I believe we can extract more data from the particles now that I've stopped the progression the chemical compound."

"Is that why you had all the windows open at midnight last night?"

"Ventilation is vital when dealing with fumes. You should probably have a physical, just in case."

"Hang on, what?"

"Relax, the flat's fine now. But I was wearing a mask. It wasn't until Mrs. Hudson complained that I recognized how potent the chemicals were."

"Is that why she was gone?" John asked.

"Yes, she went... somewhere. That's not important. This killer decapitated two people and left virtually nothing in the way of evidence, despite the physical nature of the murders. This case, John, it's brilliant!"

"Missing heads. Evidence-chewing chemical compounds. What's not to enjoy?"

 

Molly Hooper was just getting in when they arrived at Bart's.

"You're no good to me this way," Sherlock said quickly.

"What?" Molly asked.

"You've bags under your eyes, you've not attended to anything in the way of hygiene in the past twenty hours or so, which means you've not slept. What was it? A drink with another coworker? A late night with – "

"I was here running your tests, Sherlock!" Molly said loudly. "Sorry. Not much sleep. All the results are down in your lab."

With that, she went for some tea.

"A thank you wouldn't have killed you," John said.

"For what?"

"Molly stayed here till this morning getting these results for you."

"Ah, yes, tell her for me, will you?"

 

John shared tea with Molly as Sherlock riffled through reports and spoke out loud at length about acids and chemicals, though he wasn't really speaking to anyone in particular.

Molly returned to her duties – she had several autopsies lined up – after about ten minutes, leaving John to Sherlock's devices.

"Right jacket pocket, small leather book," Sherlock said after about twenty minutes.

John extracted an older book that he'd never seen before. He opened to the middle and found the pages covered in handwriting.

"What is this?" he asked. "It looks like names."

"Family trees. I need you to run the names of the recent descendants."

"Wait. Where did you get this?"

"That's unimportant."

"Unimportant? Give me one good reason I shouldn't hand this over to Lestrade!"

"Because to him and the police, this is only a book. They'll dust it for fingerprints and find nothing. They'll examine the composition of the book and find it old but otherwise unremarkable. By the time they get through all the data, at least two more people will be dead. Probably closer to four."

"Four people? What are you on about?"

"John, you took the photographs of the images underneath the heads. Check the last dog-eared pages of the book. Surely that would be the obvious thing to do."

John flipped to the marked pages and glanced through the names. The symbols carved below each head were marked in the page corners. It was like each family tree had an associated symbol. The images were too clumsy to be a family crest, but their placement suggested some kind of correlation going back generations.

"What is this?" John asked. "This one looks like a bird. That one's kind of a wolf. This one? This one's just an ugly face."

"Completely irrelevant," Sherlock said dismissively. "I've already identified the six most recent victims, all of which were on display in that room. If I'm correct, and I always assume I'm correct, then the killer has been selecting individuals out of this book. Obvious, once you connect the symbols to the pages. I figured out the names in the cab using the photos on your mobile, which allowed me to assess the next likely victims. Assuming we're not too late, we should be able to prevent the next double homicide."

"Fantastic," John said. "How are we doing that, then?"

"According to the trace evidence, the killer could be anywhere in London."

"That's not help – " John began.

But Sherlock continued as if John hadn't said anything. "But the two bodies Lestrade discovered were killed where they were found. Blood spatter made that very clear, even Anderson didn't miss it."

"Hang on, which headless bodies?"

"The two headless bodies that lead us to the wall of heads, John! Are you paying attention at all?"

"So the guy decapitated them and just left the bodies?" John asked. "But all the other recent victims, you think they were killed there. Right? So why not these two?"

"You ask the stupidest questions," Sherlock replied.

"Thanks."

"It doesn't matter why they were killed elsewhere. What does matter is the trace evidence on the victim's shoes."

"Fine, what about it?" John asked.

"Our killer is a lazy multi-tasker. He stalks and hunts multiple targets based on simple geographical convenience. That will take us straight to him."

"Us? What about Lestrade?"

"And tell him what?" Sherlock asked. "That maybe the serial killer decapitating people could be out in South Lambeth hunting his next victims?"

"Pretty much, yes."

"Hardly," Sherlock said as he put his scarf on. "Are you coming?" he added as he made his way to the door.

 

The cab dropped them off outside of an apartment complex in Lambeth.

"There is no way, no way you got this address from trace evidence," John said.

"We're looking for someone in casual, oddly garish clothing. Large work boots," Sherlock said. "Long coat, certainly."

"You do realize that you're describing yourself, don't you?"

"Shut up."

The streets were filled with people coming and going in the mid-afternoon sunlight. Plenty had on work boots and long coats, but John spotted none with 'garish' clothing, whatever that meant.

"So you think he's here? About in broad daylight?" John asked.

"Obviously."

"Not being caught in broad daylight."

"Looking doesn't require speaking," Sherlock said quickly.
"Garish clothing? What does that even mean?"

"Decapitation means tremendous blood spatter. Any successful serial killer would require clothing that wouldn't drench or bog down with a viscous fluid. But the killer can't wear a poncho everywhere, even in London, so his clothing will attempt to be average but by necessity must be made with waterproof fabrics. So casual but garish. Obviously."

"Sometimes you just make things up," John said.

Sherlock suddenly walked away. John waited until his black coat swished around the block's corner before following. He nearly crashed into him.

"What're you doing?"

"Small van across the street."

"Yeah, one driver," John said. "What about him?"

"He's not delivering anything. Not driving, clearly. No, he's stationary, paying for parking his vehicle where it is, but not using it. Even you must admit that's obvious."

"Couldn't he be waiting to pick something up?" John asked.

"For the past six hours?" Sherlock asked.

"Don't even tell me, I don't want to know," he replied. "So, assuming you're right – "

"Always assume that I'm right," Sherlock interrupted.

"What is it you're planning on doing, then?"

"One of us should distract him."

"Distract the man whose been decapitating people and leaving their heads on display?"

"Yes."

"You do that."

"Good, you need to open the back of his truck."

"Sorry?"

"Lestrade needs evidence, John. Evidence!" Sherlock said as he went into the general direction of the van.

John pulled out his phone. "Lestrade? Yeah, you should come now."

"John!" Sherlock barked. "What are you doing?"

"Lestrade is on his way," John said.

"What?"

"So whatever we're going to do, we've got about five minutes," John said helpfully.

Chapter Text

"I will give thee a coat and a cloak, which during this time thou must wear. If thou diest during these seven years, thou art mine; if thou remainest alive, thou art free, and rich to boot, for all the rest of thy life."
-- Bearskin

Juliette took a moment to watch Nick sleep before she left the house. She didn't enjoy early morning surgeries, but it meant that her afternoon would be open. And she had a feeling it was going to be one of those days.

She grabbed some coffee and headed out, but as soon as she put on her seat belt, her body tensed. She didn't know why, but something felt wrong, like someone was looking over her shoulder.

She shook it off; after all, she had a sick cat named Tilly waiting for her.

 

Hank hadn't slept much.

Hell, he hadn't slept at all.

He'd worked serial cases before. With a Grimm as a partner, he'd seen more than his fair share of grisly crime, but the Tally Maker case was something else. For one thing, the unsub had dropped bodies on every continent, all within the last year. Hank couldn't think of any other serial case with that kind of geography.

Then there was the murders themselves: brutal yet precise with a substantial amount of overkill, followed by tallying the victim in their own blood. The most recent victims had all been in the United States.

So by the time he arrived at the station, he was tired and wired.

"Rough night?" Wu asked.

"I've had worse," Hank replied. "You see Nick?"

"Yeah, he's talking with your runaway before the feds take him and his mom into protective custody."

"That's happening already?"

"Apparently being the only witness in an international serial case makes the feds come running. Even had all the paperwork in order."

"That's good news for the kid," Hank said. "We got anything else today? Body? Another riot? Volcanic eruption?"

"Actually, no. Quiet all last night. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need the caffeine train."

Nick and Renard joined Hank.

Renard said, "Luckily, Ripley Meador's mother isn't concerned about your conversation with her son. Do either of you want to tell me why she's worried about protective custody preventing them from having salamanders?"

"Ah, the latest snack food," Hank replied.

"Do I want to know?" Renard asked.

"Ziegevolk snack. Prevents volatile emotions in people around him," Nick said.

"That almost makes sense," Renard replied. He dropped his voice, "Look, the FBI has jurisdiction on this case."

"How did I know you were going to say that?" Hank asked.

"But we need to look into this."

"Any particular reason?" Nick asked.

"The Tally Maker had a victim in Germany named Isaac Hoffman, and another in Russia, Alexander Golov. Both were members of prominent families."

"And?" Nick asked.

"Prominent Wesen families," Renard continued. "Two Wesen victims is one thing. But you add Maxwell Meador, and that makes three."

"Out of sixteen," Hank pointed out.

"Hard to tell if that's coincidence or not," Nick added. "Not like there're Wesen census numbers."

"That's true," Renard said. "But I don't think we should dismiss it as a coincidence yet. I haven't been able to find anything else out about the other victims, but I've put in a few calls."

Renard's phone ran.

"It might be prudent to enlist Rosalee and Monroe for help," Renard suggested. "I'll be coordinating for most of the day, so keep me posted."

"You think he's got something?" Hank asked.

"Could be. But it's not like there's a test to see if someone was Wesen. And even if all the victims are... that doesn't mean it's something we should be dealing with."

"You thinking the Tally Maker is another Grimm?"

"What? No," Nick replied. "No. I mean, I guess it's possible, but even if this guy is... I don't go around beating people to death and marking out tallies in their blood. Being a Grimm doesn't give you a pass on sixteen serial murders."

"Huh," Hank said. "Both of us have... tallied a few off the books."

"To save lives."

"Yeah, we know that. But from the outside looking in, who could tell?"

Nick shook his head. "No, no way. What we do and what this guy does? Not the same. And besides, we haven't even proven this has anything to do with Wesen yet, so let's just take this one step at a time, okay?"

"All right," Hank replied. "Where do we start?"

Nick said, "If Ripley Meador wasn't the fifteenth victim, somebody was. Maybe we can figure out who by starting with the other US victims."

"Let's split them up. I'll take Maddox Thrasher, Alexander Kincaid, and Jessica Kozlowski."

"That leaves me with Ingram Thibodeau and Denise Buckner," Nick said. "I'll put a call in to Monroe, see if he can help us out."

 

"Are you all set, Doctor Silverton?" asked Ralph, one of the technicians. His voice sounded more hoarse than usual.

"Yeah, thanks," she replied. "Are you all right?"

"Fine, fine, just allergies," he said. "Doctor Wilson asked me to see if you needed anything after your surgery today... he needs me to turn over the room for his surgery before he gets back from lunch."

"I'm done with the room," Juliette replied. "Thanks, Ralph."

She went back to her office and was surprised that it was nearly one o'clock. No wonder Ralph was so anxious to turn over the room.

There it was again, that feeling. Her skin pricked up; someone was watching her.

She glanced around. She checked the window. She even looked down the hall. No one was there. No one was around. So why did she feel like someone was looking over her shoulder?

She checked her schedule to find her entire afternoon open, short of an emergency call.

At the very least, she had the hour for lunch. So she grabbed her cell phone.

"Rosalee? It's Juliette. I know it's a little late, but I was wondering if you had eaten lunch yet."

 

"I think I got something," Hank said. "Maddox Thrasher was an apothecary. He worked in an herb shop in Kansas City. Sounds kinda like what Rosalee does."

"Yeah, but herbalists aren't limited to the Wesen community," Nick replied.

"Alexander Kincaid was an accountant in Milwaukee with no record. He had no family except for his girlfriend, Joanna Meyer. Jessica Kozlowski was a traveling performer."

"Traveling as in...?"

"Circus," Hank said. "Rap sheet for petty theft. But that's all I got on her."

"Ingram Thibodeau was a nurse, studying to be a doctor," Nick said. "And Denise Buckner worked as a chef. Neither of them had a record. Found a few local news articles on Thibodeau. Apparently she rescued three kids from a car at the bottom of a lake."

"That mean something to you?"

"Most people couldn't've managed the swim down and back, let alone with three kids. But some Wesen can swim fast or have expanded lung capacities for swimming underwater," Nick said. "Again, it's not proof. But it's something."

"The profile for the Tally Maker says it's likely he's using his victims as surrogates. The geography is all messed up, and the victims range between twenty and thirty-eight. Men and women. All different races. The only real consistency is the M.O. and the signature, the tally marks."

"And the weapon," Nick added. "All the victims were beaten then stabbed with the same knife."

"So, what do we do if we want to confirm these victims are Wesen? Is there a blood test or something?"

"No, as far as I know, the only way to be sure is to see them woge, and to do that, they need to be alive."

"You think we could convince their next of kin to tell us?"

"You and me? No. The Captain's right, we need to get Rosalee and Monroe on this."

As Nick gathered his coat, he said, "Before we go, I'll ask the Captain if he could call in a favor, see if Interpol has any aliases for us to look into."

 

Hank received a text as they approached the Tea and Spice Shop.

"The Captain got us some names," Hank said as he crashed head long into a passerby. "Sorry ma'am." The woman didn't reply.

"Names?" Nick prompted.

"E. Pike Millard and Vincent Stringer are both known aliases associated with the case, but there are no photos or video clips."

"Still, that's something," Nick said as he opened the door of the shop. "A place to start."

Rosalee was mixing something for a customer, but Monroe was waiting for them in the back room with Juliette.

"Hey," Nick said before giving her a kiss hello. "You're here."

"Yeah, I had lunch with Rosalee. And my afternoon was open."

"We could use all the help we can get," Hank said.

"Yeah, Rosalee filled me in a little on the situation. And I gotta say, we might not have much luck. Even if we can track down family members and confirm they're Wesen, that doesn't mean the victim was Wesen, too. And then there's the whole code of silence thing, which won't be much help."

"Code of silence?" Juliette asked.

"A kind of unspoken rule. You never reveal the identity of a fellow Wesen after they're dead, unless the circumstances are really, really, you know, dire."

"Why not?" Hank asked.

"Part of keeping ourselves hidden from people like this guy right here," Monroe indicated Nick. "Historically, at first, Grimms just hunted down Wesen who caused problems. Murder, mayhem, that kind of thing. But over time, the really cold-blooded Grimms started to think that they could prevent it in the future."

"You mean by wiping out whole species," Nick said. "You're talking about the Endezeichen."

"Yeah. They started off as a sort of eugenics movement. I mean, not any eugenics movement went off any better. I mean, yeah, those were a nightmare, too. Anyway, the point is that there was a time when certain parties wouldn't just hunt and kill whoever was killing or raiding or causing mayhem. They'd take out the whole family. Anyone in the lineage, even those who married into it. Sometimes whole villages. Nasty stuff."

"Certain parties?" Nick asked.

"Sometimes Grimms, but some Wesen were employed to do the same thing. Depending on the location, the time period. Interesting fact about the Roman Empire – " Monroe said.

"Right, so because of these mass murderers," Nick cut him off, "people stopped identifying fellow Wesen after death. For safety."

"Pretty much. Although now of days it's just considered general courtesy."

"So there's no one to keep track of that stuff?" Juliette asked. "Don't you have a committee or something?"

"Council. The Wesen Council, what about it?" Monroe asked.

"If a serial killer was targeting people who could be Wesen, would the council help us?" Nick asked. "Right now, the FBI and Interpol can't identify a victim pattern. But they don't know about Wesen. If that's the missing link, maybe a specific species, then it'd be just what we need to nail this guy."

"I dunno Nick, that's a long shot," Monroe said. "I mean, sure, they've warmed up to you as a Grimm who happens to be friendly to the Wesen community, but this?"

"We'll take a maybe at this point," Hank said. "We think the killer is after that teenager, Ripley. His father was one of the victims."

"So, what, you think all the victims are Ziegevolk?" Monroe asked. "I mean, that's what he was, right?"

"At this point, we don't know. You think you could talk to Rosalee about this? Maybe she could contact the council for us."

"We can ask, but, honestly, Nick, if there was a serial killer targeting Wesen, the council would already know about it," Monroe replied. "And they might not want your help, with, you know, dealing with it."

A cell phone rang.

"It's mine. It's work," Juliette said. "I've gotta go."

 

Less than thirty minutes later, Hank and Nick left the Spice Shop to follow up an alert on a lead: the name Pike Millard had come up on a rental car, picked up in California over a week ago.

They didn't even get to the car before a second alert came in.

"Whoa, hold on," Nick said. "Vincent Stringer checked into a hotel."

"When?"

"According to this report, his credit card was run less than an hour ago," Nick said.

"Is it me, or does that sound too good to be true?"

"Maybe we're just lucky."

"We're never lucky."

 

Juliette ducked back into her office. "Steve, I got called in for another appointment. Do you have the paperwork?"

Steve shook his head. "Sorry. Who called you?"

"Megan," she replied.

"She went for a smoke," Steve replied. "Back parking lot."

"Megan smokes?" Juliette asked.

Steve shrugged.

Juliette headed to the back door, but before she could open it, she stopped. That feeling... someone was watching her. Her hand hesitated over the door handle. She took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

Megan was over by her car. It didn't look like she was smoking.

After two steps, Juliette found a knife at her throat.

"Don't worry, Megan's fine," someone whispered in her ear. "Not her fault. But I need to borrow you for a moment."

 

Hank and Nick arrived at the Deluxe.

"Portland PD," Hank said. "We're looking for a dangerous criminal using the name Vincent Stringer."

"Room five oh four," the receptionist said. "But, uh, I didn't see him. Just his wife."

"Sorry, his what?" Nick asked.

"His wife checked them in. She said he was out in the car. She had the credit card and everything, but I didn't see Vincent himself." The receptionist passed off a room key card. "If that's important."

"Do you know if they're still in the building?" Nick asked.

"They must be. Just saw her going up about ten minutes ago."

"Thank you," Hank said.

The two detectives sped up, rushing to the fifth floor.

They knocked on room 504. No response.

"Vince Stringer! This is Portland PD. Open up!" Nick said.

Hank swiped the key card, letting Nick lead them into the room. It was empty.

"Damn," Hank said.

The room phone rang.

Nick answered it. "Hello?"

"Am I speaking with one of the detectives looking for a serial killer?" a woman's voice replied.

"This is Burkhart."

"Ah, Nick, isn't it?"

"Who is this?"

"I'm who you're looking for. And I've been looking for you."

"So you want to meet?"

"Yes."

Nick nodded. "Name the place."

"I hope you don't mind, but a person in my position needs some sort of... assurance. An escape hatch, if you will."

"What does that – " Nick began.

"Nick? Nick! Don't listen – " Juliette yelled.

"Juliette?"

"She's fine and will stay that way so long as I can safely leave our meeting."

"If you hurt her – "

"I have no intention of harming her."

"Where is she?" Nick demanded.

"She's safe. Unharmed. And she will remain that way. If you want verification, you could send your partner for her while you and I meet."

"What?"

"She's in the storage place down the street from her veterinary hospital. Unit one-one three four. You and me? We meet at your house. I'm almost there. Don't keep me waiting."

 

Nick took a black and white unit from the local patrol while Hank took the car to the storage place.

His heart hammered hard in his chest as he parked across the street from his house.

He should've known. They put an alert on two aliases of an internationally known serial killer, and less than an hour later, they get a hit? Of course it was a distraction!

He took a breath outside his own front door before stepping inside.

 

"Unit one-one three four," Hank said to the desk clerk. "Take me there, now!"

"Do you have a warrant?" the clerk asked.

"I said, take me there right now!"

 

The door was unlocked, but otherwise everything was in order. Nothing was broken or out of place.

"Detective Burkhardt?" a woman said from his sofa. "Glad you made it."

"If you're looking for the kid, you're out of luck," Nick said.

"I am here about the boy," she replied. "Do sit down."

Nick didn't oblige her. "He's long gone. You'll never get to him."

 

Unit eleven thirty-four was a medium-sized walk-in unit.

"I can't just open a unit!" the clerk yelled. "You need a warrant!"

"Listen," Hank said. "Can you hear that?"

The sound of desperate movement echoed from within: a muffled whisper, a groan.

"That's a woman in there," Hank said. "Now open the is damn door right now!"

The flabbergasted clerk grabbed some nearby bolt cutters and removed the padlock.

 

"I'm not here for the kid," the woman said. "I'm here about the kid."

"What's your name?" Nick asked.

"Call me Susan."

"Susan. Bit mundane compared to the Tally Maker."

"The Tally Maker is a work of fiction."

Nick's brain stopped at her response. All the profiles on this killer suggested someone intelligent enough not to get caught, yet she left a discernable signature at every crime scene. That usually translated to an underlying pathology, a compulsion, but nothing about this woman in front of him fit with any of that.

"Your work of fiction," Nick said.

"No, detective, not mine, and there's not a whole lot of time."

"Time for what?"

"To figure out what the hell is going on."

"You're a serial killer. That's what's going on."

"You got that kid to talk," she said. "Three other police officers pulled him – "

"Ripley," Nick said. "His name is Ripley."

"Ripley, then. They arrested him, held him overnight, but none of them figured out who he was. Yet you managed to. You got him to talk and simultaneously quelled an outbreak of riots."

"If you're expecting me to curtsey, you got another thing coming."

"Serial killers are sloppy because they're filling a need. Whatever their reasons, it's deeply personal for them, one way or another."

"So, what, you're a new kind of serial killer? Above it all?"

"No. I'm not filling a need. I'm filling my bank account. I'm not a serial killer, just well-employed."

Nick let out a laugh that had nothing to do with humor. "Right, and the signature you leave behind at crime scenes? That's just – "

"Part of the job," she replied. "An extra, if you will. The Tally Maker is a fictional character designed by my employer."

"Why would you sell out the person paying you?" Nick asked. "This is just some game you're playing."

"I would sell them out if the people paying me didn't pay me enough for what they're asking."

Nick had waited for a sign of a woge: a flutter, a movement, but there was nothing. She hadn't budged and inch.

He drew his gun.

"What are you?" he asked.

"Just a hired gun," she said. "A violent and savage one, certainly, but a hired gun none the less."

"No, I mean, what are you? Siegbarste? Drang-Zorn? Hundjager? Raub-Londor? Schakal?"

She stared Nick down with her light brown eyes. "If that's some kind of code, I'm not, how shall we say, in the know," she replied. "But I've heard something like those words before. I see I'm not wrong to leave this with you. Maybe you can figure it out."

Nick shook his head and trained his gun on her. "There's no way you could take out a Ziegevolk without being some kind of Wesen yourself. Or a Grimm."

The words passed her by like a foreign language. Whoever this woman was, she was not part of the Wesen community. She stood up.

"You think you can just leave?"

"You can shoot me, of course," she replied. "But what evidence is there that I'm anything more than an anonymous tipster?"

"You kidnapped my girlfriend!"

 

The unit was filled with dozens of file boxes. In the back, an old-school recording was tapped down, playing and replaying the same five-minute audio loop.

"It sounded like a person," the clerk said. "Why would anyone do that?"

"Because they wanted us to come here first," Hank replied. "I'm looking for a woman, early thirties. Dark hair and eyes. Her name is Juliette. Did you see anyone matching that description?"

The clerk shrugged. "Dozens of people come in and out of here – "

Hank interrupted, "Get me all of your security footage. I want the number on every box that was rented out in the past three days, starting with the most recent. NOW!"

As the clerk scrambled, Hank texted Nick.

 

Nick checked his phone. The message read: black hole.

In one smooth motion, he crossed the room and grabbed the lapel of Susan's shirt, yanking her up to her toes.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

"You mean your girlfriend?" she asked.

"Where is she?"

"Safe."

"Where?"

"I'll take you to her."

"Where?!"

"She's safe. And I can take you to her. You can even bring your gun."

"And what's the catch?"

"The catch is that once you're there, you'll need to give her a hand, affording me a chance to escape."

 

"Captain," Hank said into his phone. "We need a team down at the Oakland Storage Extras on Third Street. Wu and a few unis could take over."

"What's going on?"

"We crossed paths with someone who led us to a bunch of paperwork. Looks like a white-collar paper trail. But Nick needs me right now."

"Text me the address, I'll meet you there."

"Captain, I'm not sure if – "

"Hank, you wanna keep this quiet? I get that. But that means you need all the help you can get without raising any flags. That means me. Text me the damn address."

 

Captain Renard arrived at Fifty-one fifty-three Oak Leaf Ridge. It was a small house for sale, about ten minutes from Nick's house. The property was supposed to be vacant, but the power was on.

Hank's vehicle pulled up behind his.

"What's the situation?" Renard asked.

"The Tally Maker kidnapped Juliette. She set up a decoy and dragged Nick here. I can't get him on the phone, but his GPS tracked here."

"What?"

Hank shook his head. "I don't know."

"I called for an ambulance," Renard replied. "Let's hope we don't need it."

"What happened to keeping things quiet?"

Renard didn't respond, so Hank led him in, kicking the door down.

"Holy – " Renard breathed out.

Juliette and Nick were both manually ventilating people strapped to hospital beds.

"Thank God!" Juliette yelled. "We need a hand, and please tell me one of you can get a signal!"

"Yeah, I just made a call outside," Renard replied. "What do you need?"

"Ambulances. Six people. All were given high doses of opioids or sedatives. Those who were sedated are breathing on their own, but they might not be for long," Juliette said. "So we need counter agents. NOW! Call them NOW!"

"I got nothing," Hank said.

"Gotta be a cell phone blocker," Renard said. "Look, I'll get help, but you three need to get your story straight before the cavalry arrives."

He ran out the door.

"Where's the Tally Maker?" Hank asked.

"Don't worry about that, take this over," Juliette said, handing off a ventilator bag.

Hank grabbed it and followed what Nick was doing. One, two, squeeze. One, two, squeeze. "What the hell is this?"

"A distraction," Nick replied. "I could've taken her down, but if I did – "

"One of these people would be dead," Hank completed. "Yeah, I get it. You know who these people are?"

Nick replied, "According to the Tally Maker? Victims she refused to kill."

"What?"

"We can't worry about that now," Juliette said. "What's her pulse?"

"Mine?" Hank asked. "It feels slow."

"I need a number, Hank. Count!"

Renard came back in. "We got a half dozen ambulances on the way. What can I do?"

And so they worked and waited for the sound of approaching sirens.

Chapter Text

Sherlock Holmes had been an insufferable prat for the past three days.

Well, more of an insufferable prat than usual.

He had taken to plastering the walls with ridiculous cases plucked out of tabloids. The southern wall was covered with animal mutilations supposedly done by extraterrestrials. A series of deaths attributed to a werewolf plastered the east wall, and the north wall had dozens of missing persons, all ascribed to spontaneous combustion.

This recent epidemic of fantastical cases came about after Lestrade banned them from Scotland Yard for a week, to be followed by a 'probationary period' until Sherlock Holmes apologized.

It was hardly Lestrade's fault. John and Sherlock had attempted to break into a van to prove that the man who owned it was decapitating people. Their efforts proved fruitful, but nearly cost John his head, quite literally. It was dumb luck that Donovan and Lestrade arrived in time to stop the attack, which gave them cause to collect the van.

But it had landed them in the hot seat with Lestrade, who insisted that they had been reckless, even without knowing about the book Sherlock lifted.

So Sherlock had decided to leaf through tabloids to find something to solve, since his connection with the Yard would be on pause indefinitely.

"Peculiar," Sherlock mused.

"Sorry, we talking about the aliens or the combustion?" John asked.

"Don't be stupid, I only put those up to irk Mrs. Hudson. What I find peculiar is that Lestrade has yet to retract his unnecessary restriction – "

"It's been three days!" John interrupted. "Three. He's still pissed at both of us."

"That's hardly a reason."

"Hardly a – Hardly?"

"Nothing, John! There's nothing to do. No cases. No clients."

"What's all this then?" John said, indicating the latest wall decorations.

The bell rang before Sherlock could answer.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock suggested. "No, too tentative to be him."

John went to the door, expecting an angry neighbor or possibly Molly Hooper.

Instead, he found a man in a deep pallor, shaking on the front stoop.

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?" the man asked.

"He's upstairs," John said. "I'm John Watson. Come in."

"Arthur Morris," the man said. "I'm here about an incident with my wife."

John led Arthur up the stairs. "Sherlock, we've got a client."

 

"Start from the beginning," Sherlock said. "But quite quickly."

"My wife, Samantha, she was attacked three months ago," Arthur said. "Mauled, really. She's been in a bad way ever since."

"Naturally," John said. "Three months ago?"

"Yes, that's right."

"What John means is, what happened last night?" Sherlock asked. "Or rather early this morning, I suppose. You aren't a man who waits three months to investigate a crime. You're still exhibiting symptoms of shock, so whatever it is, it happened recently."

"Early this morning, she... well," Arthur produced an afternoon-release tabloid. The title read WEREWOLF PANDEMIC SPREADS AS VICTIM BECOMES ATTACKER.

"What's this?" John asked, taking the article. "Seriously?"

"Your wife was mauled by the so-called werewolf?" Sherlock asked.

"She was badly scarred. Not just physically," Arthur said. "She spent weeks in the hospital because she couldn't sleep without... it was bad, but she was coming up, you know?"

"What happened?" Sherlock demanded.

"She was fine. Fine, I mean that. But all this nonsense... this printed nonsense, I was able to keep it from her. But she found it, and it was like a.... a trigger. She went out and just..."

"She mauled someone?" Sherlock asked dispassionately.

"Hardly. She just bashed him up a bit," Arthur said. "God, that's me being awful, isn't it? She didn't bite and slash at him, she just beat him senseless..."

"Interesting," Sherlock said. "Did she do it with her bare hands?"

"Sherlock!" John warned.

"Yes, she attacked clobbered him. She kept yelling 'bad dog, bad dog!'"

"She believed she was defending herself from her assailant," Sherlock said in his 'bored' voice.

"Yes, but the police – "

"Bored. Get her treated for PTSD. Go away."

"I've already done!" Arthur said. "I didn't come here for a therapist. I came here for a detective."

"What's there to detect exactly?" Sherlock asked.

"I want to know about the sod who did this to my wife," Arthur replied. "And the Yard hasn't got a clue. Last they told me, it was some dozy dog!"

"Can't've been a dog, there weren't any claw marks in the other cases," Sherlock dismissed. "The attacks weren't done by a canine. Not exclusively."

"My wife called him the Big Bad Wolf," Arthur said. "He wasn't a man or a wolf, but something in between. And she drew all this pictures, see?" He held out several grotesque, hand-drawn illustrations. "The Big Bad Wolf."

"Fantastic!" Sherlock boomed. "We will begin working on this case right away. Come on, John! People to question! Killers to track down!"

 

St. Bart's had received all those injured or killed in the so-called werewolf attacks. The survivors came in as emergent patients; the dead came in as murder victims. There was a total of twelve in the past three months, four of which resulted in death.

Molly produced the bodies they still had, along with the medical records of those attacked. Thus, John stood apart from three mangled individuals, laid out on slabs.

"Sherlock, the Yard is actively work in on this," John said. "If Lestrade finds out, he will – "

"Lestrade is too busy being an idiot. If it were otherwise, he would've handed over his meager case file immediately after the first murder."

"The first murder? Why would he have done? At the time, it was just an animal attack," John said.

"Just an animal attack? Look at the wound patterns. Nothing about this is just an animal attack! All the victims – both living and dead - have the same basic configuration of injuries, so clearly the same assailant. Yet it wasn't until this month that anyone died from an attack from the Big Bad Wolf."

"What is it with you and the Big Bad Wolf?" John asked.

"What?"

"The Big Bad Wolf. It was like the 'monstrous hound' thing we went through on the Baskerville case, except this time, there's honestly no reason. Seriously. 'Big bad wolf' isn't uncommon enough to be interesting."

"John, John, John. How quickly you forget Moriarty."

"Oh, yeah. Easy to forget the evil git that poisoned my life for years, after nearly killing me by strapping me with explosives at a pool. Slipped my mind till this very moment."

"Consider, then, his final game. His last crafted criminal act."

"Stealing the crown jewels... no, hang on, pushing you to kill yourself? Getting you to be dead for two years?"

"No, John, before that," Sherlock said, clearly bored.

"Right. The kidnapping. Left that ridiculous bag of breadcrumbs and tried to kill the kids with chocolates, like Hansel and Gretel," John said. As if suddenly just realizing, he added, "Fairy tales. He was using fairy story motifs. Is that what this is, Sherlock? Is he back? Because he's dead. Dead."

"I doubt it's the man himself. It forgoes his dramatic elements: the messages, the endgame, and most of all, it lacks the man himself. If this was his plan, there would've been some hint of him. A cameo."

John said, "You sound disappointed."

Sherlock ignored him. He said, "Suddenly, an assailant content to maul his victims slays three in the past two nights. Clearly escalation."

"What about the first victim?" John asked. "The one attacked alongside Samantha Morris."

"Who?"

"The client's wife, Sherlock. Another man was attacked right in front of her."

"Right, that one, Nathan Zoth. He doesn't count."

"He doesn't count?" John repeated.

"No. Not at all. His injuries were serious, but he could've survived had he gotten himself to an ER. Instead, he jammed himself inside a rubbish bin, likely to hide from the assailant. Whatever the reason, he became unconscious in a concealed location. Bled out before anyone found him. No, his wounds were not nearly as severe as the most recent victims. His death was incidental; these last three were purposeful. The killer built up to it."

"The killer? We're not calling him the werewolf anymore?"

"Don't be an idiot. I know it's hard for you, but do try. No, the tabloids labeled this a werewolf simply because the time frame."

"Canine-like maulings during the three nights of the full moon," John said. "Yeah, that does spell it werewolf doesn't it?"

"No, it underscores the theme: the Big Bad Wolf."

John waited for Sherlock to elaborate. When he didn't, he asked, "And?"

"And what?"

"And why are we here? Did you drag me out here to look at mangled bodies?"

"No, you're here because I am here."

"Fine. Then why are you here?"

Sherlock stared at the bodies for several minutes in silence. John waited.

"Well?"

"There's something about them," Sherlock said. "They're similar."

John looked over the three bodies: one woman, two men. Two were white (olive complexion, Irish complexion complete with freckles), and one had medium-brown skin, perhaps Southeastern Asian. The more he looked at them, the more differences he collected.

"Sorry, what similarities?" John asked. "You seeing something I'm not?"

"See?" Sherlock repeated. "Oh, see!" he exclaimed.

Then he ran off to his lab.

John hesitated. He could just grab a cab and head home, leaving Sherlock to his own devices at his favorite playground. Before he made up his mind, Sherlock returned with a swab kit.

"You went to get that yourself?" John asked, confused. Given the opportunity to order someone around, Sherlock Holmes always went for the command.

"Delicate work, John. Can't trust you or Molly to do it without my hand in it," Sherlock said, unpacking the kit.

"You're swabbing armpits," John commented. "How is that delicate?"

"As ever, your untrained eye betrays your abject ignorance," Sherlock mumbled.

"I'm leaving."

"No, you can't," Sherlock said. "I need you to harvest sweat glands from each of these individuals, in case these samples fail to yield adequate results."

"Have you even run this by Molly?" John asked.

"No. Why? Not feeling up to the task?"

"No, Sherlock, because these are her bodies. Her responsibility."

"They're dead. They're nobody's responsibility anymore."

"Don't be daft. You'd be the first prat to piss all over everyone if the forensics of these bodies became compromised before you got in to see them," John said harshly.

"The difference is that me seeing evidence is actually effective for the investigation."

"Fine, I'll do it, then."

"Where are you going?" Sherlock demanded.

"I need better tools than your swab kit," John said as he exited. He decided not to mention a conversation with Molly Hooper.

 

John was normally quite good at 'collecting data,' as Sherlock called it. Unfortunately, he couldn't allow Lestrade to discover their inquiry, so he had to put together a history of the attacks without the resources of Scotland Yard or the luxury of speaking with witnesses.

So he mapped the attack locations by digging up information from local news articles. The process was incredibly slow. So Sherlock did... whatever the hell Sherlock was doing, as John collaged a series of news articles from the web.

"All the attacks were within a stone's throw of a tube station," John said. "That's something."

"Moorgate," Sherlock said.

"No, sorry. None of them were near – "

"Moorgate Station. Come on, John, we've only a few hours."

"What are you on about? There's nothing near Moorgate station."

"If you were to kill someone, would you do it near Baker Street?"

"Generally, I only kill people when they're trying to kill me. I don't pick the location."

"Yes, yes, fine. But if you could pick a location. Would you pick it just 'round from your front door? Or would you leave the bodies elsewhere?"

"So now I'm killing multiple people?" John asked, just to annoy him. "And leaving their bodies all over London? Is that what you're planning?"

"Droll," Sherlock said. "Boring. Let's go."

"Go where?"

"It's the last night of the full moon. We're off to collect our werewolf," Sherlock said as he slipped out the door.

 

"Last time you went off like this, it ended with me nearly getting my head chopped off!" John said loudly as they ducked into a cab.

"Rhino and Turret," Sherlock said to the cabbie.

"Hang on, the restaurant?" John asked

"Which one?" the cabbie asked.

"Moorgate," Sherlock replied. "You look surprised."

"That would be because I am. I am surprised."

"Really? I'm peckish."

They road in silence for several minutes. John didn't know why Sherlock would look for a werewolf, or any kind of wolf, in a popular restaurant. He still didn't understand why Sherlock wanted the sweat glands of the previous victims, let alone why the man thought that Moorgate was the place to start.

"So, you going to fill me in?" he finally asked.

"About what?"

"What we're doing. Where we're going. What we do when we get there."

"Ah, we're here. You have cash?" Sherlock said as he exited the cab.

John paid, fuming over being kept in the dark.

 

They were immediately seated at a respectable table. The decor was all dark wood and beige with hints of toned red. The lighting was dim, almost romantic. Almost.

It made John uncomfortable, but Sherlock seemed unphased.

"Dinner is on me," Sherlock said.

"It's barely four," John replied.

"Do stop thinking about food. We're here to catch a killer, John."

"How? Does he work here?"

"No. Why should he?"

"Then why are we here?"

"Didn't you look at the autopsy reports?" Sherlock asked.

Kevin, their waiter, dropped off a small dish for each of them.

"We haven't ordered anything," John said.

"Compliments of the chef," Kevin said before he left.

"Let me guess. You're going to tell me that I saw but didn't deduce. That I observed but failed to conclude. How 'bout you just skip it and get to the point?"

"I see," Sherlock said. "I do say that repeatedly to you, but only because it happens to be true very often. No, this time I was going to say that you didn't read the autopsies. Specifically stomach contents. Unremarkable except for the mix of truffles, steak, and a particular sauce, currently being served here compliments of the chef." Sherlock waved to his plate. "I've heard good things."

"The only place in London serving something with truffles and steak is this restaurant?" John asked. "Even you can't know that."

"All the bodies were found near tube stations. All of the surviving victims were attacked near tube stations. All of them, all of them, John, took the tube right before being attacked. Some of our victims had money, but none were particularly well off. Price range narrows down the possible locations considerably. Factoring time of travel, this is the only likely candidate."

"So, we're eating here?"

"It is a restaurant."

"Where the victims ate."

"I've just said."

"Then, I assume we're taking the tube, just like the victims."

"Is this a problem?"

"You're planning on him attacking us, is that it?" John asked.

"After dinner."

"Right. Of course, what else would we be doing?" John asked sarcastically. "How about we invite Lestrade?"

"We can't. Our werewolf never attacks more than two people at a time. Certainly wouldn't attack someone from the Yard, even if it was Lestrade in his off-duty attire. No, it has to be us, John. Now, dinner?"

 

The entire idea was absolutely mad.

It was one thing to try and draw out a killer; certainly, they'd done that before. But this particular killer followed the lunar cycle and apparently stalked his victims for quite a distance before attacking.

John noticed no suspicious activity while they ate. Sherlock seemed content to jibber on about the assailant's unique weapon and the clothing she or he must don to conceal it properly.

"Sherlock, has it occurred to you that this is a long shot?" John asked. "We still don't know how the killer selects victims."

"Fine point."

Sherlock produced a vial with a large eye dropped. He filled the dropped and thoroughly doused John's left sleeve.

"What are you doing?" John asked, withdrawing his arm from the table.

"You said it, John. You couldn't see any connection. It's not seeing. It's smelling."

"Seriously?"

"Big Bad Wolf. Werewolf. Acute sense of smell fits both. I need your other sleeve."

"What about you?"

"I've already done."

"You seriously think someone is hunting people using some kind of scent?" John asked.

"I was able to replicate it by using a – "

"I don't want to know," John interrupted.

"Your other sleeve."

 

Their tube ride was unremarkable. Sherlock led them around and around, keeping John on the tips of his toes.

"It's been almost half an hour," John said. "Maybe we should give it a rest?"

"He's waiting for proper darkness," Sherlock replied.

"Oh, right," John said. "Him. He. Who, Sherlock? Who?"

"That man, right there," Sherlock said.

Something hard slammed into John, throwing him off balance. He felt a sharp slicing sensation as he crashed into the hard rough of the pavement.

Sherlock rushed toward the struggle, throwing an awkward right hook. Whatever he did pushed the attacker back, giving John the time to turn back and get to his feet.

At a glance, the assailant was an enormously tall figure in a black coat. Sherlock managed to land a few solid hits, but the Big Bad Wolf retaliated and threw him back.

John grasped whatever he could, finally putting his hands on a broken piece of the sidewalk. It was awkwardly shaped and not terribly large, but it was all he had. He crouched down, lifted it, and then hurled the awkward object directly at the werewolf.

A harsh gruff sound emanated from the attacker as he dropped his weapon. The hood over his face fell back, and for just a moment, Sherlock and John caught sight of his face: thick eyebrows, red eyes, scruffy beard, and odd skin stippling.

But in the next instant, his face was pale and clean-shaven, and his dark eyes were wide in surprise. The Big Bad Wolf crashed to the ground.

John got up and checked his pulse: weak but there. His projectile had hit the wolf squarely under the jaw before continuing onto his neck.

Sherlock grabbed for the killer's weapon while John assessed the injuries.

"He could have a crushed larynx," John said. "Definitely head trauma. We should call for help."

"We've got our werewolf, John," Sherlock said. "All and all, rather uneventful."

"Uneventful? What about his attack dog?"

"What attack dog?"

"The dog he used to attack all the victims," John turned to look at Sherlock properly. "What? What is that?"

"His weapon. Obviously."

"It's a skull."

"Clearly."

"You said 'weapon.'"

"He's been using it to kill people. The term applies."

"It's a skull."

"All the victims were bitten and shaken."

"By a skull?" John repeated.

"Yes, John. A skull!"

"But it... Sherlock that doesn't make any sense."

"You should really call Lestrade. With the body and all. And the client."

 

"So, to be clear," Lestrade began. "You were walking around Baker Street. Not going anywhere, just walking."

"John insists upon me not smoking," Sherlock replied.

"They've got patches for that."

"Walking works as well," John said.

"Don't even talk," Lestrade said loudly.

"You brought us to the Yard to give statements without talking?" John asked. "Now you're just being difficult."

"You think this is a joke?"

"Of course it's a joke," Sherlock replied.

"You'd think that, not him," Lestrade said.

"Look. We were attacked. I had to do something, or he'd've killed us," John said. "He also happens to be a serial killer."

"Sherlock's fingerprints were all over that weapon. The same weapon that's killed four people."

"The hospital reports on the surviving victims all claimed 'animal attack,' but from the wounds, it was easy to deduce the killer used some kind of artifice to mimic the crushing of a bite. Not a real animal, but I needed to examine it to be certain."

"There was no need," Lestrade pointed out. "He was unconscious. There was no danger to you."

"We hardly knew that at the time," Sherlock said. "As I said, I needed confirmation."

"Confirmation? Confirmation?" Lestrade said loudly.

"Yes. Are we quite done? We've places to be."

"I should lock you up."

"Oh, for what?" Sherlock asked. "We just stopped a serial killer that you lot ignored for months. So, yes, do lock us up. Eventually my brother will be forced to collect us and will be completely insufferable about it."

"Get out," Lestrade said. "Just, go, the both of you. Donovan will deal with your statements later."

As Sherlock rushed out, John followed on his heels.

"You need to apologize," John said. "I know you're Sherlock Holmes, but let's face it. Without Lestrade, we're basically just rummaging – "

"What? No. We don't rummage. We deduce. I deduce, at least. Come on, John, we've got to tell our client that his werewolf has been tamed. Terrible, isn't it? This case had such promise."

Chapter Text

"Then she was placed with her accomplice in a ship which had been pierced with holes, and sent out to sea, where they soon sank amid the waves."
-- The Three Snake Leaves

Two days ago...
Monroe ran, hard, following the scent. It reminded him of his old hunting days.

"Monroe?" Hank yelled. "Monroe!"

"This way!" Monroe yelled back.

Hank managed to catch up with him by the river.

"He's not here," Hank said as he gasped for air.

"He's nearby. The river's messing me up, I think," Monroe replied. "We must be down wind."

"Which way?"

Monroe turned to the steep incline that led to a short waterfall. In the distance, he could make out silhouettes.

"There, he's there, come on!"

He scrambled up the incline, Hank on his heels. His heart hammered in his chest and pounded in his ears.

Echoes of voices came down from the water.

"Stop! Palomino! Stop!" someone yelled. It sounded like Nick.

A huge roar followed, and Monroe tried to push himself harder. They had to get to him before that guy went into attack mode.

He reached the top and turned to pull Hank up the rest of the way. But even though they were level with Nick now, he was still about a hundred feet away.

Monroe ran for it.

One silhouette lunged for another.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The attacker slowed, but he didn't stop.

Bang! Bang! Splash!

The second round of shots pushed the attacker back and dropped him, but he had gotten too close to the bank. So when he fell, he tumbled into the river.

"Nick!" Hank yelled. "Nick!"

Panting and wiped out, they finally caught up. Nick was at the bank, looking down the river.

"You okay?" Monroe asked.

"I tried to bring him in, but he wouldn't," Nick said. "Then he found out I was a Grimm, and he just attacked."

"You did what you had to do," Hank replied. "Who was he?"

"James Palomino. Damn it, his body – "

"Nick, it's okay, man," Monroe said. "Let them deal with the body. It's not like it's gonna disappear."

"We gotta call this in," Hank said.

"We shouldn't," Nick replied. "We should just leave."

"Nick, this guy was a suspect in a murder investigation," Hank said. "And he tried to kill a police detective. It was a good shoot. But we need to call it in, otherwise it'll look suspicious. Okay?"

Nick nodded, but his expression was blank.

Monroe reached out and put his hand on Nick's shoulder.

"Nick," he said. "You okay?"

"No, not really," he replied. "Monroe, you should go. Hank can call it in, and – "

"No way," Monroe replied. "I'm a witness."

"Nick's right," Hank said. "We'd have to explain why you were here, and we don't wanna do that. Go on, I've got this."

 

Now.
Rosalee ducked back into Juliette's and Nick's house, her arms full of books.

"I've got the stuff from the trailer," Hank said. "Monroe's looking through it."

"Okay, I've got his note, and, Rosalee?" Juliette said. "Is that everything?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Okay, okay," Monroe said. "So we've got his notes from the precinct. Notes from the trailer. Stuff at the shop. And stuff he left Juliette. But I'm confused. Like, royally confused, about all this."

"We all are, that's why we're here," Rosalee replied.

"What if we did that thing," Monroe suggested. "You know, the whole starting at the beginning of things... thing."

"The shooting was two days ago," Hank said. "And the case started, what? About five days ago. That's when this started."

"No, it was before that," Juliette said. "He's been keeping things from me. Lying, even. For over a week now."

"Since the Tally Maker's kidnapping," Rosalee said. "At least that's understandable."

"What? No it's not," Juliette replied. "I wasn't even hurt. We've gotten through a lot worse."

"That's true," Monroe said. "I mean, he's already faced a dragon, literally, to save Juliette."

"It's not the same thing," Rosalee replied. "The Dämonfeuer had a predictable behavior. Most Wesen crimes are like that."

"Most criminals are like that," Hank said. "They follow the pattern."

"But that's not what happened," Rosalee continued. "This serial killer didn't operate like a serial killer, or a hit man, or a Wesen on a mission."

"She didn't hurt Juliette," Hank replied.

"No, she didn't. But Nick acted like it was the worse possible thing. He stayed out late and didn't return my calls," Juliette said. "A few days ago, when I called you Monroe, you said he hadn't seen him."

"Right."

"But he told me he was with you the night before. So where was he?"

"Look, before we jump to any conclusions, let's just remember who we're talking about," Monroe said. "Where ever he was, I'm pretty sure it was to look into something criminal or something."

"Why would he lie about that?" Juliette asked.

Rosalee interrupted. "Monroe's right. We should start at the beginning. Let's say Juliette's right about the Tally Maker. What happened after the victims were picked up?"

"We went to the hospital," Juliette said.

 

Eight days ago...
People thronged the hospital: patients, police, nurses, FBI, and doctors in the halls and visitors in the lobby.

Juliette waited patiently for the checkup, the blood draw, and even the unnecessary x-ray of her chest to confirm that she did not, in fact, have broken ribs.

"Miss Silverton?"

"Juliette," she replied. "Sorry, Doctor – "

"Finley. You've been given a clean bill of health, so you'll be good to go as soon as the investigators give you an okay. There are some people who'd like to see you in the meantime, if that's alright."

"Yes, of course."

Finley waved in her visitors – Hank, Nick, and Renard – before he stepped out himself.

"You're all right?" Nick asked.

"Yeah. I'm fine. Just like I said."

"Listen," Renard began. "We've got a problem."

"What kind of problem?" Juliette asked.

"A woman who works with you, Megan, I think her name is. She reported your kidnapping. Said she was threatened by the kidnapper."

"I mean, yeah. That's all true. Why is it a problem?"

"Victims and their families can't investigate their own crimes," Nick said.

"With Megan's statement, you are officially a victim of the Tally Maker," Renard said. "And that means that Nick can't do anything related to the investigation."

"I thought this was an FBI case. Doesn't that mean Nick and Hank couldn't work on it anyway?" she asked.

"Technically," Hank said. "But the FBI will need local support on this case."

"I think you two should take the rest of the day," Renard said. "And tomorrow, too. It's important to keep our heads down right now. The last few times the FBI has worked with our precinct, it hasn't gone well for them, and they remember that."

"So what? We just let the killer get away as the Feds run down every loose end?" Nick asked. "Captain, they're going to treat this just like every other case, and by the time they do figure it out, if they do, she'll be long gone."

"Maybe. But if you go poking around in this, you will get caught," Renard replied. "And we can't afford that."

"I need some air," Nick said as he left his room.

Renard turned to Juliette and Hank. "It's not fair of me to ask either of you this. But I need someone to keep an eye on him, make sure he's not working this case."

"It's not like this is the kinda thing we just, let go," Hank pointed out.

"And Nick's right," Juliette spoke up. "If this is about Wesen, then he should be working on it."

"He's not the only person who can handle it," Renard replied. "And this is an international issue."

"What're you saying?" Hank asked.

"Another entity wants this case," Renard said.

"Like the Wesen Council?" Hank asked.

Renard's face betrayed his surprise.

"Nick asked Rosalee to contact them about the case to see if they'd help us," Hank said.

"The council has the connections needed to handle this, and if Nick gets in the way? Let's just say they're not in the habit of covering for Grimms."

"Then what should we do?" Juliette asked.

"Just keep an eye on him," Renard said. "Till this whole thing blows over."

 

Now.
Monroe returned to the dinning room table with water for everyone. Once he handed them out, he turned back to the notes from the trailer.

"So the Captain took him off the case," Rosalee said. "Monroe and I spent the night and next day with Juliette. Nick wasn't around much."

"I knew he was at the trailer a bit," Hank said. "But I took the day off like I was told. Figured a break would be good."

"That's not good," Monroe said. "He must've been looking into the serial killer. I mean, what else could he have been doing?"

"He could've been at the precinct," Hank suggested. "Filing paper work, that kind of thing."

"You think so?" Rosalee asked.

"No, but it's possible."

"Okay, okay. Before the shooting, you had a case, right? A new case," Monroe said.

"The one Nick told me that you were helping him with," Juliette added. "Which was a lie."

Rosalee spoke up, "Not entirely."

 

Three days ago...
Rosalee was closing up shop when Nick turned up.

"Good, you're here," she said.

"Thanks for helping me so late," he said as he came in. "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

"What's going on?"

"I'm thinking our guy is a Jagerbar," Nick said. "His sister is, and the crime scene was pretty savage."

"I'm not sure how I can help if that's the case," Rosalee replied.

"In the trailer, I've got recipes that can take down a Blutbat or a Lowen, but nothing for Jagerbars. Except for poison that kills them. I was hoping for something a little less fatal."

"Huh," she said. "Actually, we might be able to do that by modifying the poison."

"What do you mean?"

"We can add agents that counter-act the more fatal elements of the poison. It's a better method than watering down, and depending on the substrate, it should be pretty fast. We might have to modify the delivery system, too."

"Let's get started."

As Rosalee collected her materials and laid them out.

"So, have you spoken with Juliette?" she asked.

"What? No, sorry. I haven't had the time."

"I know it's none of my business, but she's upset. So if a Jagerbar isn't staring you down, maybe you should talk with her."

"I know I shouldn't put it off, but this... it's not like I can just ignore the giant bear attacking people."

"This is going to take some time to set up and simmer," Rosalee said. "And it's not like another pair of hands will help. Why not go talk to her now? This should be done in an hour. You can come back and pick it up."

Nick smiled. "Thanks, Rosalee. I'll be back in an hour."

 

Now.
Juliette shook her head as her frustration flared up. "He did NOT come home and talk with me. He didn't even call."

"I'm sorry."

"This was all he left," Juliette said, shoving a napkin forward.

Juliette
Will contact you soon.
Please don't try to find me.
Nick

"That's it?" Hank asked.

"That makes sense," Monroe said. "If he's trying to track down a Jagerbar, he wouldn't want any of us to go after him because we'd be walking into a – for lack of a better word – bear trap."

"What's a Jagerbar and why would he be looking for one?" Hank asked.

"It's a bear-like Wesen," Rosalee said. "And he did say the suspect from a case was like one. Can you tell us about it? All I know is that the killer was suspected to be a Jagerbar."

 

Six days ago...
Hank and Nick followed the officer up the stairs into the home office of Terrance Picket. The room bore the hallmark signs of a brutal fight: broken furniture, holes in the walls, and blood everywhere.

"Damn," Hank commented. "Looks like someone beat the hell outa him."

The body was splayed out on the floor. The back of his head was caved in.

"Looks like he didn't take just take it," Nick commented. "Defensive wounds on his arms, and check out his knuckles. Bet we'll find the same thing on his legs and feet."

Carolyn Winters, one of the M.E. assistants, spoke up, "I put time of death about two days ago, possibly three."

"Was he killed here?" Nick asked.

Carolyn nodded. "Once the M.E. is done, she can confirm. But the blood spatter and lividity seem pretty clear cut."

"That doesn't make any sense," Hank said. "This is the kind of fight that neighbors hear. So if he was killed three days ago, how come no one called it in?"

"Two to three days is a wide time frame. If all the neighbors work, he could've been attacked during the day."

Hank said, "Let's make sure the canvas asks about odd noises this week."

"The wife called it in?" Nick asked.

"Yeah, she's downstairs with Officer Ramirez."

Nick lagged behind Hank for a moment at the bottom of the stairs.

"You got something?" Hank asked.

"No, nothing. Just thought I saw something."

Hank continued into the kitchen.

"Mrs. Picket?"

"It's Rollins. Erin Rollins."

"Mrs. Rollins," Nick said. "We understand you found your husband's body today. Would you tell us what happened?"

"I, uh, came home from a business trip with my company this morning. I was annoyed with Terry because he hadn't returned any of my calls for the last couple days. I just thought he was avoiding me. And when I got home, he was..." She choked and put her head in her hands.

"When you got home, was the door unlocked or open?" Nick asked.

She shook her head, no.

"Besides his office, did you see anything else out of place? Anything missing?"

She shook her head, no.

"Does your husband have any enemies?" Hank asked. "Anyone who threatened him recently?"

"No, nothing like that," she replied.

"Does your husband have training in the martial arts or any kind of hand to hand combat?" Nick asked.

Hank turned his head; that was an odd question, even for Nick.

"When he was a teenager. Does that matter?"

"It can help us narrow down the suspects," Nick said. "Thank you for your time."

Nick left.

"Mrs. Rollins," Hank began. "You said you returned from a trip. Can you give us the flight number or the cab number?"

"I gave all that to the officers already," she replied.

"If you think of anything else," Hank said, handing off his business card. "Call us, any time."

 

Now.
Hank sat back.

"That martial arts question was weird, right? That's not Wesen thing is it?" Hank asked.

Monroe and Rosalee both shook their heads.

"Okay, maybe that was something else, but the weird part comes in the next day. He tells me he's out looking for leads on the Picket murder, so I cover for him. I've no idea where he is. He's got nothing when he gets back to the station. And then there's the Captain."

"What about him?" Rosalee asked.

 

Five days ago...
The Captain approached Hank at his desk.

"You see Nick?" Renard asked.

"He's following up on the Picket murder," Hank said. "The wife called about some contacts her husband had."

"You're not with him."

"I promised him I'd check in on the status of the Tally Maker investigation."

"Hank, you can't."

"Not the kidnapping or the murders, just the paper trail that we got in that storage unit. All that we know right now is that a lot of moving is moving around, possibly some kind of payoffs. But it all looks legitimate."

"What are you going to tell Nick?"

Hank shrugged. "The truth. No reason to tell him anything else."

"Good. Keep me posted."

"On this case, or on Nick?"

"Both."

"I'll admit it. I'm a little woried he's..."

 

Now.
"Boy howdy!" Monroe said loudly. "I don't mean to interrupt, but I think you'll all agree, this is kind of, you know, pressing."

"You find something?" Hank asked.

"Bad something," Monroe said. "We're talking a step below nuclear bad."

He held up a piece of paper marked over with a pencil, revealing a message written on the page above it. It was hard to make out.

"Nick wrote this, sometime today, maybe yesterday," Monroe said. "This is from the stuff you got from the trailer."

"Can you give us the CliffNotes version?" Hank interrupted.

"One word: Reinhiet," Monroe said.

"What?" Rosalee asked. "Did you just say – "

"I did."

"Sorry, what's this... German thing?"

"Eugenics," Rosalee said. "Basically, it means 'purity,' specifically of race."

"You mean like a Nazi kind of thing?"

"Wesen purity. Keeping the bloodlines 'untainted,'" Rosalee said.

Juliette spoke up. "There's also a name here: Susan Gamble. Who is that?"

"No idea," Hank and Monroe replied at the same time.

"We should look into obituaries," Rosalee suggested, "for Susan Gamble."

That prompted several seconds of silence.

"Because...?" Monroe prompted.

"Because this is the second time today I've had a conversation about the Reinhiet," she replied.

 

Six hours earlier...
Monroe took over the register. "I got it," he said.

Rosalee hesitated.

"It's okay. I've got the register. I've got the phone. I've got it covered."

She looked at the throng of people filling the store.

"Call me if you need help," she said.

She grabbed her purse and rushed out before anyone could stop her.

"It's just lunch. I'll live," he replied.

She grabbed her purse and left. The restaurant was about a five minute walk, so she checked her phone. She had twenty missed calls from the same number.

The same international number.

She dialed back as she walked.

"Miss Calvert?"

"De Groot, hello," she replied. "What's going on?"

"The council is responding to your request for information," De Groot replied. "Regarding the serial murders of Wesen."

"Oh," she replied. "I wasn't expecting a response."

"The council had a long deliberation, but they have agreed to share information with you, with the caveat that you will use your own judgment when sharing this information with the Grimm."

"Yes, of course."

"The serial murders are known to the council, and all have been traced back to organizations invested in the Reinhiet."

Rosalee stopped dead in her tracks. "Are you... are you certain?" she asked.

"Yes. I trust that you know the kind of panic this could inspire."

"I do. Don't worry. It's not the kind of thing I'd share."

"Good. There have been dozens of related murders recorded in the past five years."

"If you send me their names and locations, I could – "

"No," he interrupted.

"Those names could help us – "

"No. We cannot disclose the identities of departed Wesen, least of all to a Grimm."

"I am not a Grimm," Rosalee replied.

"No, but if we gave you those names, you would share them with Detective Burkhardt."

"He wants to stop this."

"A Grimm has no place dealing with the Reinhiet."

Rosalee moved into a nook to talk. "He's been able to help other situations – "

"Not like this," De Groot interrupted. "We want you to monitor the situation."

"You mean spy on my friend."

"Hardly. He asked you to call us for good reason, but he is ill equipped. Now you know what's at stake, I trust you will report anything pertinent to us."

"I suppose that's a reasonable request," Rosalee said. "But I want you to remember one thing."

"Yes?"

"The fact that Nick Burkhardt has never dealt with the Reinhiet before doesn't make him ill-equipped. It makes him the only person who can handle it. Everyone else is going to be too afraid, or on their own vendetta. Nick can be objective in a way none of us can."

"You have an odd faith in this Grimm, but I will remember what you have said."

The line disconnected.

 

Now.
"So, this Reinhiet thing," Hank started. "It's the kind of stuff that causes hysteria?"

"More like riots and revolutions," Rosalee said. "Remember when that intern posed as an Endezeichen Grimm? Killing and branding Wesen?"

"It's that bad?" Juliette asked.

"Worse," Monroe said. "A thousand times worse."

"Grimms are fairy tales to most of us, and the Endezeichen are horror stories. They're so rare that no one really believes in them. But the Reinhiet? That's very real. A lot of Wesen came to America to get away from it."

Monroe added, "Basically, it's like these groups that value purity of the bloodline so much that they think they need to reinforce the Old World fears with killing and maiming and skeletons on display."

"That's awful," Juliette said.

"It's bad. And if that's what Nick was tipped off to, then he's in trouble. A lot of trouble."

Juliette hesitated. "You said the council handles this, right? The Captain mentioned something about giving the case to people who could handle it."

"And he's been on me to report back to him about Nick," Hank said.

"You think it means something?"

"Think about it," Hank said. "He's been keeping things from all of us. He'd need someone to back him up, and it'd need to be someone with connections. Probably someone who could hook him up with some fake ids."

"The Captain would be the perfect person to do it," Rosalee said. "Connections to the Royals and the resistance. Resources."

"And him asking any of us questions about Nick wouldn't be weird," Juliette said. "Especially with Nick being so weird."

"This is good," Monroe said. "Well, technically not good. But better than terrible."

"Oh this is good," Hank said. "Because he might be a Zauberbiest thing and a Royal and the Captain, but there're four of us and only one of him."

"You think we should torture it out of him?" Monroe asked.

"I think Hank means we should just go ask him collectively," Rosalee said. "We'll resort to torture and threats only if absolutely necessary."

Chapter Text

John Watson waited not far from the Cypress Celeste, a five-star hotel known for its brunch and tea. It didn't take him longer to spot odd activity; far too many people moving in and out of the service entrance. Most of them were law enforcement: forensics, officers, and even Detective Inspectors, all in street clothing.

"They're keeping a lid on the kettle," Sherlock said as he appeared at John's side. "So to speak. The Yard has been ordered not to offend the clientele."

"Ah, so there's no way you're a part of this."

He took a moment to size Sherlock up. The man was up to something. He just that that look about him.

"You said you needed to pick something up?" John asked.

"Yes. As you may have spotted, a crime took place in that hotel last night," Sherlock replied.

"Hang on, you asked me here for a case?"

"No, no," Sherlock said. "As per your request, I will not take you away from your fiancée until after the honeymoon."

"Then why are we here?"

"I need assistance acquiring something. You were best suited to the task."

"Oh, fantastic."

"Half an hour. At the most."

"Seriously, Sherlock?" John asked. "If this is you trying to drag me into a case – "

"Not at all."

"The wedding is in less than three weeks, I can't be running around, dodging bullets or chasing serial killer cabbies or taking pictures of decapitated heads, you understand?"

"You have my every assurance, John."

And with that he darted across the street toward the hotel.

 

Nick Burkhardt had no idea what he was doing.

He followed coordinates to a high-end hotel, but he didn't see a flashing light or crime scene tape. He hovered outside, doing his best to take in the area.

Suddenly, his eye zeroed in on two people moving swiftly away from the hotel. They were both a little taller than average, and one of them wore a long, black coat.

Nick didn't know why, but he felt compelled to follow them.

 

"Apparently my calculation was incorrect," Sherlock said.

"Which calculation is that?" John asked. "The one where you added it up and decided that stealing security footage was a good idea, or the one where you though you should ask me along?"

"We're being followed."

John straightened up at that. He had noticed someone trailing them, but he thought the person had splintered off. "You sure?"

"He is persistent. We may need to run."

"Did he start following us from the hotel? Because, honestly, Sherlock – "

The rest of his sentence fell out of his mouth with a resounding OPFFF! as he crashed into the sidewalk. His left thigh ached like it had been crushed.

 

Nick knew he was following the right people when they tried to shake him. It seemed too effortless; whoever they were, they must dodge people for a living.

His instincts were stuck in overdrive. His peripheral senses gathered information like never before, allowing him to slip through crowds and catch up with his quarry.

They turned down an alley that ran between several close-quarter restaurants. It was cluttered with dumpsters and displaced furniture.

OPFFF!

The muffled cries barely made it to the sidewalk. Neither of the men saw it coming because the assailant descended on them from a rooftop.

The attacker was Wesen, fully woged while attacking. He (or she) moved rapidly and with a great deal of stealth: a Nuckelavee.

Nick didn't have time to think about it; he grabbed a discarded, rusted pipe and rushed in.

 

Sherlock ducked several punches only to receive a horrendous strike to the stomach. It was only after he crashed on the ground next to John that he realized he had been kicked.

In the micromoments between slamming into the ground and blinking, his mind filtered through all data.

Someone had followed them from the hotel, but he had dark hair and large sunglasses. The follower wore on boots and a brown coat over blue jeans. The attacker, on the other hand, had nearly white-blond hair with reddish highlights and wore black trousers with a beige shirt. Sherlock hadn't spotted him prior to the attack, and with that hair, he'd be hard to miss.

Conclusion: This man wasn't the one following them.

Yet neither John or – more to the point - Sherlock had noticed the man before he clobbered them. They alleyway was cluttered, but there was nothing immediately nearby. So there was nothing for him to hide behind before the assault. The two street exits remained visible, and no one passed by either one. Sherlock hadn't heard any doors open or close. The only remaining entry point was from above.

Conclusion: This man descended on them from one of the rooftops, the shortest of which was three stories.

As these thoughts clicked into his awareness, Sherlock considered the options. He had been in a fare share of fights, including exchanges with professional criminals and elements like the Black Lotus Tong, several of whom exhibited extra-human gymnastic skills. Yet, whoever was attacking them now stood out as incredible in every way. The man literally bounced off of, and between, the walls of the buildings, using them to gain height and force.

John put up a valiant attempt, but he barely struck the man's knee before being tossed bodily into the wall and ricocheted back, finally landing hard on top of Sherlock.

The consulting detective shifted him John, trying to move him off, but between the blow to his stomach and the crushing weight of John Watson, he couldn't manage it. His ears briefly registered the sound of heavy, fast steps.

Cacophony. The sound of thrashing and shouting echoed hugely. John jolted briefly out of his stupor.

"Get off me," Sherlock said. "John, you need to get off me. NOW!"

 

The problem with a Nuckelavee was the combination of speed and stealth. They had an equine lineage that gave them grace, patience, and incredible acceleration. When woged, a Nuckelavee's fists and feet became impossibly dense, like hooves, giving them a powerful weapon and the ability to walk over sharp objects or even fire without harm. In short, the Nuckelavee could bludgeon just about anything to death.

On the other hand, their speed and constant motion could be used against them.

As the Nuckelavee threw the shorter of the two men into a wall, Nick chucked a broken brick at him, which struck his shoulder. The attacker spun around and preened for a moment before charging him down.

Either he didn't know Nick was a Grimm, or he just didn't care. He jumped up and pushed off of the wall, flying into a spinning kick.

Nick sidestepped it, grabbed one of his legs, and yanked down. The Nuckelavee buckled and curled as he crashed into the opposite wall. It was a momentary victory, however, and he came back swinging, nailing Nick in the chest and stomach.

The Grimm retaliated, trying to get the right opening to use the pipe he stashed under his jacket, but the Nuckelavee moved too quickly for him.

Then, out of nowhere, the Nuckelavee screeched in pain; one of the men had crawled over and stabbed something sharp into the back of the Wesen's knee, which buckled.

Nick pulled out the pipe and swiped it across his face. That did it; the Nuckelavee used his hind legs to shoot up –

CRACK!

He dropped the pipe as hard as he could over the top of the Nuckelavee's head. Between the Wesen's attempt at rising and Nick's overhand swing, the force was more than enough to crack his skull. Disoriented and bleeding, he stumbled away, colliding headlong into a dumpster and vomiting. He only made it a few more steps before collapsing.

Either he fainted or was dead, so Nick turned to the two other men in the alley.

 

John's mind raced. His head hurt. His entire body ached. He tried to focus.

A screech and sickening crack startled him.

"Are you all right?" someone asked.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked.

"Me? Who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes. The man on the ground is Doctor John Watson. Why were you following us?"

"It's lucky I did."

"Hardly an answer."

"At the Cypress Celeste, you two seemed suspicious. Thought you might be up to something. So I followed you. Are you okay?"

"Obviously. Surely you can see that."

"What about your friend?" the other man asked. "Can you keep an eye on him and call for help?"

"I can," Sherlock replied. A moment passed before he added, "Will you... will you help me over to him?"

John wondered if this was a hallucination or some kind of weird dream. Sherlock Holmes, asking a stranger for help? Was he that badly injured?

Sherlock interrupted his thought by rolling John onto his back. He caught his first glimpse of the stranger. Hardly a scratch on him.

"Who are you?" John asked.

"Sebastian Cane," the man replied. He turned to Sherlock, "He needs a doctor."

"I am a doctor."

"Your man is escaping," Sherlock pointed out.

The man named Sebastian Cane turned around, and in the blink of an eye, he disappeared.

"Come on, John," Sherlock said, hoisting him to his feet. "The violent American is right. You need a doctor."

"I am a doctor," John repeated. "You should go. Stop the clubbing acrobat."

"Our assailant received blunt force trauma that cracked his skull," Sherlock replied in his 'bored' voice.

He forced his arm under John's armpit in a vain attempt to support his weight. So John put his attention on stepping forward, one foot at a time, for several minutes.

Then it occurred to him.

John asked, "You said he ran off. Couldn't've done with that kind of injury."

"No, he couldn't. Yet he did."

"We already got the Big Bad Wolf. What's this one?"

"Do be quiet. You're so tedious when you're addled."

Suddenly, John found himself being pushed into a taxi, but he didn't recall Sherlock waving one down.

"Saint Bart's," Sherlock said to the driver.

The cabbie replied, "If he's hurt, you need an ambulance. No sick people in my cab."

"He's drunk, not sick," Sherlock said tersely. "Saint Bart's. Now."

 

"Oh, sorry," Molly Hooper repeated for the fifth time.

"It's fine," John replied.

"Most of the people I work with are already dead," Molly said cheerfully. "No flinching or complaints."

"Don't make jokes, Molly," Sherlock said. "And do hurry up. We have a case. Two, actually."

"I'm not supposed to be on one case. The only thing Mary asked me to do is to help her with a few things for the wedding and to avoid major injuries."

"Oh, it's barely a scratch."

"Scratch? Bruised ribs, lacerations on his arms, and bruising is already started in on his back," Molly said. "Not to mention a concussion. He really should get checked in so they can monitor him through the night."

"The concussion was minor," John pointed out. "I just need fluids and bandages."

"I can set that up in this lab, but you'll have to be resting for the whole hour the bag takes," Molly said.

"So long as he is in the lab," Sherlock said as he walked back to his work area.

"You could always sedate him," John suggested.

"He's not as well-off as he looks," Molly warned. "He'll be limping in about an hour."

John wanted to kick himself. He should've noticed Sherlock favoring one side.

"He'll be fine," Molly said. "If you could keep him here for the night, that would be best. I'm going to get a suture kit and lines for an IV."

After she left, John asked, "How did you get this case?"

"I was hired."

"I guessed as much. By who?"

"If you hadn't moved out, you would know."

"Don't start that again."

"It's a simple statement of fact. If you had been my flat mate, you would've encountered the client."

"We weren't going to be flat mates forever," John said. "Generally, married people live together."

"You're not married," Sherlock replied.

"Fine. Don't tell me anything about this case. Or the man who attacked us. Or the man who followed us, then saved us. Not a word."

John walked away and set up a corner of the lab as a makeshift recovery room.

Ten minutes passed in silence.

Molly returned with supplies. She sutured the deep cut on his left arm, cleaned out the cut on his right, and set up the IV drip. It took over half an hour.

And Sherlock remained silent.

John was certain that the consulting detective wouldn't be able to resist showing off.

"Keep off your feet," Molly said. "And relax. I mean it."

"Thanks, Molly," John said.

"Sherlock, you all right?" she asked on her way out.

"Yes, good," Sherlock replied. Then he added, "Thank you."

Again, John wondered if he imagined it.

"Any time," she replied.

John caught a glimpse of her smile before she turned for the door.

"Sherlock? Is this you sulking?"

"Hardly."

"So what are you doing?"

"Cracking the encryption on this phone."

"Whose phone is that?"

"An American detective, possibly agent, though detective is more likely, investigating the double homicide at the Cypress Celeste."

"Where did you get the phone from an... hang on. Is this the man who was following us?" John asked. "Sebastian was his name, wasn't it?"

"He said that was his name, but that was clearly a lie. Weren't you paying attention?"

"Concussion," John said harshly. "How did you get this?" Then it occurred to him. "You asked him to help you over to me. Should've known when you got me to the taxi."

Sherlock said, "American from the jeans and accent. He took several hard blows, but he remained on his feet. He wasn't even breathing hard. So, conditioned for and acclimatized to violence. He described us as 'suspicious,' a word that is incredibly imprecise for most people, except for individuals with a law enforcement background, where the term collectively refers to activity and behaviors that evoke an instinctual curiosity as well as those that are actually suspicious. Then there's the matter of his pockets."

"His pockets?" John repeated.

"Empty. Completely empty, except for this phone. Any kind of investigator would have more than a single phone. Not to mention, were he part of some international cooperation, there would have been dozens of people to our rescue, not just him. So, safe to say, he's investigating illegally, then. Anyone with any kind of sense that's involved in illegal activity knows better than to use a real name. In his case, the false name prevents anyone from connecting him to anything done here, thereby protecting his job and quite possibly his employer should he find himself in any trouble, which clearly he has already. He told me that he saw us at the Cypress Celeste, and given its size and the traffic of that hotel, it would be highly unlikely that another homicide has take place there in the past twenty-four hours."

John started to ask a question, but Sherlock cut him off. "How do I know he's investigating a homicide? Because, John, most crimes require some level of inquiry. If a bank is robbed, how much was taken? If a person is kidnapped, were there any witnesses or signs of a struggle? But if someone is dead, their body is evidence enough. Assuming that he arrived in London today, which is reasonable given his state of his clothing: wrinkled from sleeping awkwardly. Likely, he took the red eye to Heathrow and slept against the window. So, he heard about the murders last night, very nearly to when they occurred, depending on which part of America he flew from. Furthermore, while plenty of crimes can attract international interest, there are few that would prompt an individual to risk his life and livelihood."

"Cheers," John said as he started to remove his IV. "What about the drive you stole from the hotel? Is there anything on that?"

Sherlock didn't reply.

"Sherlock?"

"I don't know," Sherlock replied harshly.

"What do you mean? We nearly got our heads smashed in for that. Was it damaged?"

Again, Sherlock didn't reply.

"He took it, didn't he? The American?"

"You made a deduction," Sherlock replied. "Statistically, it was bound to happen eventually."

"I've done it before."

"And as ever, you are wrong."

"So it was damaged?"

"No, the man who attacked us took it."

"So after all that, we've got nothing?" John asked.

"I should hope not," someone else said.

The speaker, a man in his forties, stepped inside the lab and shut the door.

"Who are you?" John asked.

"Ah, you managed to convince Doctor Watson," the man said.

"Convince me? Of what exactly?"

"My name is Lawrence Creevey," the man replied. "I work for Mrs. Elizabeth Pound, who asked me to hire Sherlock Holmes on the matter of her brother's death."

"Her brother? He was one of the people killed at the hotel?"

"Sir Alvin Thomas Wimble," Lawrence replied. "He was murdered alongside a woman with false ids. Plural. My employer wants to know what happened to her brother."

"What's this, then, about you convincing me?" John asked Sherlock.

"Mr. Holmes informed me that you weren't working on cases at the moment. But I insisted you be part of it."

"You smarmy bastard," John said to Sherlock. "All that was, what, something to reel me in? We were nearly killed!"

"I don't mean to interrupt," Lawrence said. "But I must insist."

"You've given me the details already," Sherlock dismissed. "There's no need for you here."

"Elizabeth didn't ask me to hire you," Lawrence replied. "She did want her brother's death investigated privately, but she would've had anyone do it. I was the one who picked you. Both of you."

"And why is that exactly? You want me to blog about this case?"

"Because it's the only way I can get a detective and a doctor in to see her."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Sherlock asked.

"Mr. Wimble believed his sister was being poisoned," Lawrence replied. "But the doctor has diagnosed her with Parkinson's. Any time I try to bring in a second opinion, the doctor is thrown out or suddenly refuses to examine her."

"Parkinson's is terrible disease," John said, "but you can't poison someone with it."

"She was diagnosed with Parkinson's, but that doesn't mean she has the disease. There's no family history. No genetic marker. And no chemical exposure or head trauma. Nothing."

"So you want us to diagnose her?" John asked. "Why not just bring her in to the doctor?"

"I've been trying to do that for the past year, even since she's showed signs of dementia. But with her husband dead, her brother is her legal guardian. When he's out of the country, he leaves her care to her lawyer, who handles her estate affairs as well. Five days ago, Alvin returned to the country and made arrangements to bring Elizabeth to a clinic for a second opinion. It was all set for next week. Half a dozen doctors running tests."

"But now that he's dead, he no longer has legal guardianship over her," John said.

"And her lawyer canceled the appointment for a second opinion, saying it was just going to torture Elizabeth for no good reason."

"So you hired Sherlock to, what, smuggle me in to see her?" John asked. "You seriously believe that will work?"

"Two renown detectives hired to investigate a murder. Doesn't seem out of place to me," Lawrence said. "Please, this is her only chance. With her brother dead, the lawyers will have power over her medical choices and her entire estate. It's only a matter of time before they fire me."

John wanted to punch Sherlock across the face, but part of him was intrigued by the entire situation.

"Fine. Just this case."

Sherlock jumped to his feet. "This is brilliant. A pervasive illness and a double homicide. The game is on!"

Chapter Text

"But when he blew through it for the first time, to his great astonishment, the bone began of its own accord to sing."
-- The Singing Bone

The Nuckelavee didn't make it very far.

He trailed blood as he ran several blocks. He turned down another alleyway and made to scale its walls, but his legs gave out.

He tumbled back onto the pavement, missing Nick by just a few feet. His attempts to rise resulted in collapse.

"Who are you?" Nick asked.

The Nuckelavee's body shivered, and his human form bubbled up. "Grimm," he muttered.

"Why did you attack them?" Nick asked. "Who are you?"

He didn't respond; he stopped breathing. Nick checked his pulse. Nothing.

He went through his pockets. The Nuckelavee had a wallet, large envelope, flash drive, burner phone, and a large keychain. As he pocketed everything, he noticed that his own burner phone was gone.

He couldn't risk spending more time with a dead body, so he took everything and walked to the nearest tube station as calmly as possible.

 

Nick felt oddly serene.

His first few hours in London were far more eventful than he anticipated.

He took the tube for three stops and got off to purchase an MP3 player for Internet and a new burner phone. While shopping, he noticed that his jeans made him stick out, so he went into a clothing store to find something more fitting.

After an awkward conversation wherein Nick learned the difference between the American and British usage of the word 'pants', he settled on semi-casual black trousers and a light-colored shirt.

As he left the shop, something caught his eye: a masked figure moving toward him.

He blinked. The figure disappeared.

The disappearance didn't bother him as much as the mask; he'd seen it before.

Nick returned to the tube station; he had to get back to his room.

 

When Nick boarded the tube car, it was empty. He sank into his seat, relaxed. Suddenly, that same masked person sat opposite him.

He started in surprise.

The individual who sat opposite him was a square-jawed woman who glowered at his sudden knee-jerk reaction to her.

Nick averted his eyes; he still had four more stops to go. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

The masked figure appeared out of shadow. The mask was thick, like it was made of wood, and its ornament was strange. It was a lopsided face, quartered into distinct shapes. The shadows receded, and each quadrant of the mask separated. Each partial element seemed so familiar...

Nick's eyes snapped open. He must've dozed because the cart was now full. Luckily, he hadn't missed his stop.

He rummaged through his pockets for receipts and a pencil stub. He did his best to sketch on the thin paper with no hard surface. His drawings were crude, but each one of the four elements in the mask represented a different Wesen: Damonfeuer, or maybe a Skalenzahne; a Hundjager; something similar to a Mellifer; and an avian species, like a Steinadler.

He didn't have time to consider it further. His stop was up.

 

Nick returned to his room and emptied his shopping bag, where he stowed not only his new pants – no, trousers - but also the large envelop and other pilfered items from the Nuckelavee.

The Nuckelavee's wallet had four hundred pounds in cash, a tube card, an unmarked security card, and an id for someone named James Smith. The key chain was filled with those belonging to padlocks, or similar old mechanisms, along with one skeleton key and one car key. All in all, nothing terribly revealing.

So he emptied the envelope.

Labeled photographs and small papers with notes were clipped or banded together. The photos included the two men that the Nuckelavee attacked, along with casing pictures for various locations. The notes were straight-forward:

Sherlock Holmes
John Watson

Saint Bart's Hospital
221 B Baker Street
Cypress Celeste Hotel

Relatives: Mycroft Holmes, Mary Morstan

Live-ins: Mrs. Hudson

Associates: Molly Hooper, Gregory Lestrade

The envelope convinced Nick that the Nuckelavee must've been hired to stalk and kill, or at least assault, these two people. By the handwriting, there were multiple contributors to this packet, which could mean more than one person was involved in the hire.

He scanned through the phone. All calls from the same number. He turned off the internal GPS; maybe someone would call and give him something to go on.

Nick wrapped up everything and stashed it.

The thumb drive.

The Nuckelavee clearly favored hard copies, so why did he also have a thumb drive? Seemed redundant. Nick hooked it into his new MP3 player; it contained footage from the Cypress Celeste. It was too high-quality to be generic security footage, but it was all captured by a single, still camera.

Nick streamed the footage to the TV to get a better picture. A woman waited a set table. The room was luxurious-looking, and from the small part of the window he could see, it had a great view, probably the top floor. A man joined her. She turned to greet him, and for the first time, the camera caught her face.

Nick paused it. He couldn't zoom in, but the image was very clear: the woman was Susan Gamble, the Tally Maker. He didn't recognize the man.

He pressed play. The rest of the footage documented a double homicide. Someone shot Susan Gamble with a sniper rifle. A second assailant stabbed the man several times just a few seconds after Gamble went down.

The knife-wielding assailant wore the Quadrant Mask that Nick had been seeing all day in the phantom manifestation.

He scanned through the footage; the masked attacker was, in fact, an individual wearing a mask, not a figment or a sign or a dream-figure.

Nick went over to his luggage and pulled out item he packed into the bottom of his case. He unwrapped the Quadrant Mask he acquired in Portland.

It was identical to the one on the screen.

"You'll know when it's time to start the Bone Song ritual. You'll feel it."

Nick pulled out a bag of powder from one of the hidden pockets of his jacket and slipped the thumb drive in its place; he might need it later. Then he mixed the powder into a glass of water and drank it down.

He focused, and he waited.

"Some say Bone Song taps into the blood line, the shared soul of your ancestors. Others say that it drums up ghosts, raising spirits from embers. But what it really does is pull up the songs from your bones so that you can finally hear them out in the open. Those songs know things long before you do, and if you listen right, they will guide you. Don't be fooled. Bone Song reaches into your inheritance, but your deepest nature can be more dangerous than an enemy. So be prepared."

 

Darkness covered everything. The place smelled of leaves, grass, and wood. Nick looked up. There were no stars.

The sound of moving water filled his ears.

Gun in hand, he stood near the river with his weapon aimed at James Palomino. He put his hands up.

"You need to help him. My boyfriend."

James woged, revealing his Jagerbar countenance.

"He's a good man. He needs help. Please!"

Nick fired.

"Wouldn't hurt a fly. "

He fired again. And again. And again.

"He's a good man. He'd do anything to save us."

James returned to his human face as his body collapsed. Everything moved so slowly here, like the darkness clogged all the movement. His body slid down the bank of the river.

"Don't hurt him. He's a good person..."

Hank and Monroe raced toward him, concern and confusion apparent in their faces. They spoke, but the roaring of the waterfall overcame everything else as the body cascaded down and down and down...

"My sister told me about you."

Nick leaned against the doorframe of a hospital room.

"My name is Kiera," the patient said. "My sister, she told me about you. Nick, isn't it?"

"Sorry, your sister?"

Kiera woged; she was a Lowen. Nick came closer.

"Jess Reilly. She's a corrections officer," Kiera said.

"I remember her."

"My boyfriend needs your help. He's the reason we were all kidnapped. We're leverage."

"Leverage for what?"

"I don't know."

"Start at the beginning."

The words fluttered by, like watching a film in fast-forward. Kiera described the attack, and the threat, and everything around them became a deep, mahogany red.

Nick said, "You need to keep his family and friends away. Unless I call you. And you need to tell me where he'd go."

"An old family friend has this cabin out in the woods."

The mahogany aged, then became duller.

Nick threw open the cabin door. It was an older building, and all its walls were natural wood. And the cabin was completely empty: no furnishings, no decor, no people.

Blood trickled down the walls from the ceiling.

James Palomino stood in the middle of the room. His eyes were infinitely sad.

"James Palomino?"

He nodded.

"Kiera sent me to help you."

James spoke, "I never wanted to hurt anyone."

"What are you talking about?" Nick asked. "What happened?"

"Looks like someone beat the hell outa him," Hank replied.

Nick was inside the home office of Terrance Picket. Hank, Nick, and Carolyn Winters spoke about the body, the forensics, the facts.

Hank led the way down the hall.

There was a framed photograph of Picket fishing with three men, James Palomino among them.

"I thought he was my friend," James said, standing right at Nick's elbow. No one else seemed to hear him. He floated alongside Nick as he walked.

Hank went first down the stairs. At the bottom, Nick hesitated. Something was wrong. How did he get from the cabin to this place?

"But he wasn't. He's one of them," James said.

Picket's wife, Erin Rollins, was in the kitchen, shaking. She woged briefly.

"He's part of the Reinhiet," James continued. "He was helping that... woman."

Wild bovine features with a blunted head. She was a Monitor. That meant Picket was likely a Monitor as well.

"You got something?" Hank asked.

James disappeared. The world was solid again. It was just Hank and Nick standing at the bottom of the stairs.

"No, nothing. Just thought I saw something."

A starburst filled the room, bleaching out all discernable colors and shapes.

He was back in the cabin with James.

"My grandfather was part of the resistance to the Reinhiet... they called themselves the Reife. I sort of inherited his work. I was so close... collecting information on their finances, trying to find who funding everything. Terry was my failsafe."

"He betrayed you?" Nick asked.

"When I realized what Terry did, that's when that woman came. She said she'd kill everyone I loved unless I gave her everything. Hard copies. Originals. Digital. But that wasn't enough for Terry. If people knew he was a part of the Reinhiet... he decided to kill me before I could tell anyone."

"Where are these records now?"

"Tainted. Bleached. Burned. Stolen."

"Those files Hank recovered at the storage unit," Renard said, "they're a money trail."

The world split in two. Nick stood half in the cabin and half in the Captain's office. Or, maybe he was in both places.

"FBI will get through it, but they won't find anything illegal," Renard continued.

James continued, "They funded hospitals, drug trials, medical research. All legitimate. Every penny, every line, everything in order. All around the world. I was so close. So close. So close."

"They won't even get close," Renard said.

"We have to get this information to Palomino," Nick said to Renard. "He's the one who put it together. If he can get us a name out of this, a place to start..."

"But now they know I killed Terry," James said. "Only a matter of time before they come for me."

"He confessed to a murder," Renard said.

"Self-defense," Nick pointed out.

"If I called the police, that woman would've killed my family," James said.

"Doesn't look like self-defense," Renard said. "And we can't connect the Tally Maker to Terrance Picket."

"It looks bad," Nick said to both of them. "But Captain, you and I both know this guy is our only real shot."

"No one can know," James pleaded. "Or everyone I know will be in danger. Forever."

"No one can know," Renard said. "And I mean no one. It's too dangerous."

"But Rosalee is connected to the council," Nick replied.

"The Reinhiet persecutes Wesen who marry outside their own species," Renard said. "Monroe and Rosalee are exactly who they'd target. You can't bring them into this."

"No one can know," James repeated.

"No one can know," Renard said.

The words echoed against one another, filling the world with vibrations. When it stopped, everything was tinted blue and green.

"Will you be home soon?" Juliette asked.

"Actually, I'm heading over to Monroe's for a bit," Nick replied. "Not sure how long I'll be."

"Saw you were in with the Captain. You got something on the Picket murder?" Hank asked.

"Just trying to figure out where the Tally Maker case is."

"Hey, man, you wanna join us for dinner?" Monroe asked.

"Actually, I've got plans with Juliette."

Rosalee asked, "What's going on?"

"I'm thinking our guy is a Jagerbar," Nick said. "His sister is, and the crime scene was pretty savage."

As she mixed things together, Nick pocketed a few items behind his back: a bottle of Knochenstaub, a packet of finely ground theraphosa blondi, and a vial of essentia messorem.

"You can't buy these ingredients. She'll want to know why. Or worse, she'll already know why."

He calculated how much he owed Rosalee. He'd have to pay her back.

"Listen, my brother's recent attempt to ruin your life can help us here," Renard said. "He set up a number of false identities to smuggle you out of the country. Credit history, passport, paper work, everything."

"No one can know," Nick repeated.

"No one can know. Since my brother is dead, there's no one to track this identity: Sebastian Cane."

James joined them in the woods. "No one can know. All I wanted was to protect my family. My grandfather thought the Reinhiet would die out by my generation."

"No one can know," Nick repeated.

"Once he's down stream, I'll get him to a safe house. Miss Reilly will have to take things from there," Renard said.

The Captain disappeared. It was just James and Nick at the river.

Monroe and Hank were screaming, but they had a ways to go.

"Are you ready?" Nick whispered.

James nodded.

"You need to hold your breath till you reach the waterfall. Don't forget the rope."

James nodded. His eyes were infinitely sad.

Then the yelling started. As Hank and Monroe closed in, James attacked, and Nick fired.

Again.

And again.

The sound of the waterfall became absolutely deafening.

 

Nick sat up in bed.

It was four in the morning.

The primary goal of Bone Song was to dig out revelations, and though Nick chose the serum specifically for the secondary byproduct – concealing his Grimm scent and identity from all Wesen for a period of seventy-two hours – he was disappointed by the experience.

He remembered the events and people that brought him to London; re-living the highlights of those experience revealed no new insights for him.

He turned to get out of bed.

James Palomino stood in his room, dressed in a stiff suit. Red eyes and a deathly pallor hung about him, and water dripped off of him continuously. He smiled.

"That clock is wrong. It's an optical illusion."

James produced a mask.

"My grandfather gave it to my mother, and she gave it to me. Never thought I'd have to use it. If you mean what you say, you'll need it before the end."

Nick blinked. He wanted to ask James how he got here and why, but he couldn't speak. So he took the mask.

"That clock is wrong, but the time is right."

The masked figure appeared. James Palomino turned to stone.

"Don't let them fool you," the figure spoke. The voice was familiar.

"Don't let them fool you."

Nick tried to move, but he couldn't.

"Some will fight in the name of an ideal, a belief, a religion, but it is merely a veneer, means to achieve whatever ends they wish."

The figure removed the mask. It was his mother.

"Don't let them fool you, Nicky," she said.

She left the mask in the air, and a body formed around it as she, too, turned to stone.

The masked figured danced and sang. Its voice was androgynous, almost electronic.

"The sounds of wind and rain build. The rain stops, but the wind continues: sharp billows, hushed gusts, indistinguishable bustles."

The masked figure cut off its own head and pranced with it in its hands. The head continued to sing.

"And somewhere in the rippling, a whine becomes a ring. That ring becomes a chime. And those chimes transform into a soft song that goes on and on for any ear that can catch its tune."

Splash!

"Nick." It was the voice of Sean Renard. "This is too dangerous, even for a Grimm. Even for you. You need to let this go."

"Whatever it is, you can tell me," Juliette spoke.

"I can help," Hank said.

"We can help," Rosalee spoke up.

"We can help." That was Monroe.

Their voices came together and built up one body: the same masked, dancing figure.

"Where are we?"

"We can help," echoed the voices of his four friends.

"Can you tell me where we are?"

"Under the earth," they said together.

It was true. Wherever they were, it was underground.

"I don't understand. Where are we?"

Lines of formed around the dancer; they turned red. Or maybe they were always red. Nick couldn't remember.

"Bond," the dancers replied.

"What does that mean?" Nick asked. But the world was bleaching white. Darkness was coming. The wind and rain curled around him. That song. He could hear it.

It was coming closer.

 

Nick woke up. He had fallen asleep on top of the covers, and his arms were wrapped tightly around the quadrant mask James gave him before he left for London.

It was morning.

Nick took a few minutes to adjust. He drank some water and washed his face. This was the real world, as far as he could tell.

So he had to figure out his next move.

According to James Palomino, the creators of the quadrant mask, the Reife, set up a primary hub in each major city under the protection of a legitimate business, usually something involved in the arts or historical preservation.

Nick considered the most abstract elements of his Bone Song experience. "Bond." That was what they said.

He pulled up a map of London. Bond Street. Seemed as good a place as any to start.

He wrapped the mask in a sweater and grabbed a bag. It would make an excellent conversation starter.

 

Nick explored Bond Street for about half an hour, looking in on every art gallery he saw. Nothing stuck out to him.

Something in the pit of his stomach tightened. He had pushed everyone away to get here. Susan Gamble was his only real connection, and now that she was dead, he had nothing to go on. Not without finding members of the Reife.

He felt like he was drowning. He couldn't fathom how his mother did all this, alone.

Just ahead of him, a sly smile caught his eye, as if thinking about his mother conjured her. She beckoned him, and he followed her to a gallery featuring London artists. She vanished in the doorway.

Bone Song. Apparently it worked.

"Can I help you?" someone asked as soon as he entered.

"Maybe," Nick replied. "I'm looking for some information about something I inherited. This looked like the place to do that."

"I'm Millie Beasley, and I'd be more than happy to help."

Nick produced the wrapped mask from his bag. Millie carefully unwrapped it, but she nearly dropped it when she saw what it was. Her eyes became huge, like an owl, as she woged in surprise.

But she didn't take any note of Nick.

"Oh, sorry, masks sometimes do that for me," she said. "Now, this was handcrafted. You said you inherited it?"

"That's right. My grandfather left it to me, but he didn't say anything about it. I think he meant my mom to do that, but she died when I was a kid, so..."

"Oh, I see," Millie said. "Well, I can ask one of our native art specialists. But she's not in today. How about I take a picture and your number and have her ring you up?"

"Oh, well, I'm only in London for few days. Any chance I could talk to her before then?"

"I can't make promises," Millie said, "but I promise she'll give you a ring."

 

Nick ducked into the tube station. If the members of the Reife were going to keep him waiting, he might as well check out the apothecaries, get a feel for the Wesen community in the area. Especially since the Bone Song didn't last forever.

He had sixty-six more hours before the effects wore off.

It was the first time he saw a Wesen woge so closely without getting a scream of terror. Being in the know without the yelling? It seemed too good to be true.

That's when he noticed it. Something was wrong. He suddenly became tense and alert.

Instead of heading for the platform, he veered away, and two people followed him. He turned a corner and found himself at a dead end.

"You're not from around here," one of the stalkers said. "I'm Jim. This is Bill."

"Why are you following me?" Nick asked.

"Ooo, this American doesn't got manners, now does he?" Bill asked. "The proper thing to say is, 'Hello Bill. Hello Jim. My name is ...' Give it a go."

"Hi, I'm Sebastian. Why are you following me?"

The two woged, revealing klaustreichs. Nick didn't flinch, but he didn't comment, either.

Jim snatched the bag from Nick.

"That's mine!"

"Looky here," Jim said. "Reife."

"Aw, that's too bad. Been a long time since I've seen a Bi-oju in London. But we don't let blood traitors live."

Jim pulled out a .22 caliber. Nick could handle two klaustreichs, but he didn't have a gun or weapon on him.

"You don't wanna do this," Nick said.

"Don't we?" Bill asked. "Sebastian is such a stupid name."

Bill charged.

His only hope would be to keep Bill between himself and Jim, so he parried Bill's full-force attack and knocked him back into his partner.

"Never knew a Bi-oju to fight," Bill said. "Shoot him already."

Nick tucked and rolled, desperately hoping to break past them so he could make a run for it.

"Ah!"

Suddenly, Jim was on the ground, gun-less, and Bill was tussling with a fuchsbau.

"Stay where you are!" a woman yelled.

Nick wondered, dimly, if he would have to deal with local police. When he got back to his feet, he saw Rosalee taking down Bill with a wicked spinning sidekick. The woman who took the gun from Jim was Juliette.

For a moment he wondered if the Bone Song was somehow responsible.

Juliette handed off the gun to Rosalee.

"Juliette?" Nick said. "What are you doing here?"

She slapped him.

 

"Ow."

"What the hell were you thinking?" she demanded.

"Uh, guys, maybe we should do this later," Rosalee said.

"You have any handcuffs?" Nick asked.

"Seriously?" Juliette replied.

"Then, Jim, Bill, you'll have to strip."

"What?" Rosalee asked.

"We can't tie them up, so if we leave them in their underwear, they'll be less likely to chase after us."

"Take this," Rosalee said as she threw them a vial.

"No way!" Bill said.

"Either drink that or strip. Relax, it's just a sleeping tonic."

Jim and Bill took equal gulps from the vial.

"What do I do with this?" Rosalee asked, indicating the gun.

"Depends. How fast does that stuff work?" Nick asked.

The two klaustreichs dropped.

"No way," Juliette said.

"Fast acting sleep tonic."

"Wipe the gun down and leave it," Nick said. "And let's get the hell out of here. Oh, and thanks."

Chapter Text

"Then she threw behind her a looking-glass which formed a hill of mirrors, and was so slippery that it was impossible for anyone to cross it."
-- The Water-Nixie

After apologizing profusely to Mary over dinner, John returned to 221B Baker Street so he could sift through the folder of information provided by Lawrence Creevey.

Sherlock had already begun. He covered the old alien abduction news items with information related to the double homicide at the hotel and the mysterious American whose phone he pilfered. The wall that once hosted a series of missing person cases (attributed to spontaneous combustion) had been stripped down to make room for a handful of medical reports.

Sherlock had his violin.

"What're you on about? We have a case," John said. "Two, actually."

"One case. The other is no more than a byproduct of tedious denial."

"Sorry, what? Whose denial?"

"Creevey's. Obviously."

"Sherlock, you nearly got me killed dragging me into this case because of this poisoning. All of a sudden you're saying it's nothing? And do you really think someone like Creevey is going to all this trouble to, what, keep his job?"

"Job? Weren't you playing attention? He referred to his employer as Elizabeth, not Mrs. Pound. Likewise with her brother. First name is quite intimate for your sister's personal assistant, isn't it? Conclusion: Lawrence Creevey is more than an employee."

"Hang on, if that's the case, why didn't he just marry her?" John asked. "Then all this is solved. He becomes her legal guardian and has power over her estate."

"I imagine if she can't so much as allocate funds, then it's safe to say that she doesn't have the legal capacity to sign a marriage license."

John didn't feel like arguing. "Fine. Then he stuck around as her employee to stay close to her. What's that got to do with this?"

"What do his motives for hiring us have to do with this? Well, as you know John, when two people love each other very much, they become idiots. And an idiot does things, like hiring detectives to investigate a nonexistent poisoning, which apparently has been going on for two years but didn't warrant inquiry until yesterday. And why should that matter? Because it just so happens that yesterday incurred a double homicide involving an international political consultant and a woman yet to be identified. It's the kind of case that investigators from across the world pour into London for. But you and I, John? We ignore it. Why? Because our client finds a medical diagnosis inconvenient to his climb up the social latter."

"What is he going on about?" Mrs. Hudson asked as she brought up a tea tray. She whispered to John, "It's worse when you're not around."

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock said.

He rushed into his bedroom with his violin.

"Ever since you moved out, he's not been quite right."

"Was he ever?" John asked.

"Good to have you again," Mrs. Hudson said. "Mind you keep it down."

She left.

John started to unpack the rest of the medical folder. Since Creevey didn't have proper access to Pound's medical files, he resorted to making copies of anything he could. It made for a hot screaming mess.

And, of course, Sherlock hadn't helped. For some reason he had pulled out every blood panel done and arranged them on the wall, chronologically.

A high pitch screeching emanated from Sherlock's room.

John was in for a rough night.

 

It was past midnight before Sherlock re-emerged.

"She was forty-one," John said.

"Who?"

"Elizabeth Pound. Fatigue, irritability, chronic colds, brittle hair and nails. Increasing frequency of headaches, general weakness. Unexplainable tooth decay."

"Mycroft has that. I believe it's called middle age."

"She had consistent care under Dr. Amulya Shastri, but then she was transferred to Dr. Homer Salyer. There's no mention as to why."

"Maybe she got bored with first doctor," Sherlock said. Then he sat up straight. "Could I trade you in for a less boring MD?"

"Funny, funny," John said. "Sherlock. When she was transferred to Salyer, she had completely different set of symptoms, but he decided that they were part of a progressive process."

"Oh, a sick person getting sicker. Forgive me John, this is highly interesting."

"Bradykinesia, fatigue, problems speaking, memory loss and confusion, and of course, tremor," John said to himself. "Certainly sounds like Parkinson's."

"Because it is!"

"No sleep disturbance," John said. "And no mention of anosmia until the most recent reports. And the weird thing is all these blood panels."

"Oh, goody, blood panels."

"Normally with this kind of case, you check for things like nutrient imbalance. The first doctor ran a full panel and corrected the imbalances, but the second doctor only ran limited panels."

John waited for Sherlock to make a snide remark. When it didn't come, he decided to pull a Sherlock.

He mimicked the consulting detective, "Why is that weird, John?" He continued, "Well, Sherlock, you see, the second doctor didn't bother checking minerals or other nutrients. It's like he identified marginally low dopamine levels and decided on Parkinson's."

Sherlock seemed less than amused.

John continued mimicking Sherlock. "The only way I'll find this the least bit interest is if you tell me this could be caused my poisoning. Otherwise I'll repeat that I'm bored."

"Oh, do shut up!" Sherlock said.

"Fine. But since you let that guy grab the only led we had on the double homicide, would it kill you to take a look at this? We've got an appointment to see Mrs. Pound tomorrow."

"Fine."

Sherlock pulled out his magnifying glass and went over the text posted on the wall.

"Boring," Sherlock said.

"Stop saying that."

"If she was being poisoned, why isn't she dead?" Sherlock asked. "What kind of poison leaves a person in such good health? It must be the worst poison in the world!"

Someone rang the bell.

"Who's coming around after midnight?" John asked.

"You're door's open," Molly Hooper said as she came up the stairs. "Did you know?"

"Yes, yes, niceties. Banalities. Did you bring it?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, but it's not complete," Molly said. She handed over a manila envelop. "I got copies of everything that was there."

Sherlock opened it gleefully.

"You all right?" John asked.

Molly smiled. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Crime scene photos, John!" Sherlock said loudly as he began to affix new items to the wall.

"These from the double homicide at the hotel?" John asked.

Molly nodded. "The lab got backed up. Apparently there's a bad flu and the lab techs are out in droves. Had to stay this late just to get the preliminary report."

"You didn't have to do that," John said.

"Of course she did!" Sherlock interrupted. "Otherwise, there would be no autopsy results until tomorrow, and tomorrow is too late."

"You're a bit peaky," John said to Molly.

"Long day."

"Yes, John, get alcohol and sandwiches and do shut up," Sherlock said.

Molly and John settled for whatever was in the cupboard and the only viable drink in the refrigerator: orange juice.

Sherlock sat upright in his chair with his elbows on the armrests and the tips of his fingers touching one another.

"You think he's breathing?" Molly whispered to John. "He's not blinked for a long time."

"It's half past one," John said. "You should stay. You can take my bed, I'll kip on the couch."

"I didn't realize I'd be here so late... thank you."

Molly went up to John's room for the night. John stretched out in his armchair and stared at Elizabeth Pound's medical reports.

 

The doorbell rang. Incessantly.

John opened his eyes.

His neck and hip cricked as he stood up. Apparently he'd fallen asleep in his armchair. Sherlock was still seated and staring at the walls.

"Someone's at the door!" Mrs. Hudson yelled. "And it's too ruddy early!"

She was right. It was five o'clock.

John went down to answer it.

It was a young woman and a bearded man.

"You have any idea what time it is?" he asked as he opened the door.

"Sorry to disturb you," the woman said. "We're looking for a friend."

Oddly, the man leaned in and took a deep breath.

"Did you just sniff me?" John asked.

"Standard procedure," the man replied.

"Americans," John said under his breath.

"We're looking for another American. Is he here?" the woman asked.

"Look, whoever you are, I promise you that we are not harboring any Americans. Please go away."

John shut the door, locked it, and went back up to the kitchen for a cup of tea.

Someone was on the stairs. Maybe the annoying Americans woke Molly, too. It was just as well; he might as well brew a full pot.

Then the yelling started.

John abandoned the teapot and grabbed a heavy metal pot as he raced into the living room.

Sherlock was standing on his armchair, threatening two people – a white woman and a black man - with his harpoon.

"Who the hell are you?" John asked.

The yelling died down as the two strangers realized that they were in danger of being harpooned on one side and beaten with a pot on the other.

"We're looking for Nick," the woman said. "That's all we're here for."

"Who the hell is Nick?" John asked.

"You can drop it," the man spoke up. "We know he's here."

"You are presently in the home of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. I assure you, there is no one here named Nick."

"Hang on, you're American," John said.

"Well spotted," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"No, there were two other Americans at the door just now."

"They're with us," the woman said. "My name is Juliette Silverton. This is Hank Griffin."

"How did you get in?" Sherlock demanded.

"Our friends rang the door to distract anyone who was awake. We got in through the basement apartment."

"Flat," Sherlock corrected.

"Why do you think this Nick person is here?" John asked. "Clearly you're pretty certain, with breaking in and all."

"We're tracking his phone," Juliette said. "See?"

She held up her own phone, which had a tracker app loaded up. "We need to find him."

Sherlock lowered the harpoon and stepped onto the floor. "The man you're seeking introduced himself as Sebastian Cane. And at the moment, yes, his phone is here. But he is not. We've no time for burglar Americans, so if you like, or even if you won't, get out!"

Hank asked, "Why do you have his phone? Where is he?"

Sherlock said, "John and I were attacked by a man with considerable acrobatic skill. Your friend intervened. There was no time for formalities, so I lifted his phone before he chased after our assailant."

"You stole his phone?" Hank asked. "Which means we can't track him. Damn."

But Juliette wasn't listening. She was staring, transfixed, at the double homicide wall.

She said, "That's her."

"You know hre?" John asked.

"Hell yeah we know this woman," Hank said. "Please tell me she's really this dead."

"Shot with a high-powered sniper riffle. Three times," Sherlock said. "Who is she?"

"The name she used in America was Susan Gamble," Hank replied. "But people call her the Tally Maker."

"Uhm, is there a reason you've got a harpoon and a frying pan?" Molly asked as she came down the stairs.

Sherlock said, "Molly, these are our American trespassers, Hank and Juliette. American trespassers, this is Molly. Quickly now."

"Hi," Molly said. "I'm... a pathologist. Nice to meet you."

"I'm a vet," Juliette replied.

John wasn't sure what to make of Molly getting on with the woman who just broke into the flat, but Sherlock seemed positively ecstatic.

"Oh, this is brilliant," Sherlock said. "Not only is she involved in illicit activities... she's a serial killer!"

"We should go," Hank said. "If Nick's not here, we've got to figure out another way to find him."

Sherlock replied, "Fine! Fine! I'll assist you. First, tell me about this woman."

"You can find him?" Hank asked. "How?"

"I assume he bested the attacker. Not hard to do after a skull fracture. If that's true, then he likely has the thumb drive," Sherlock said quickly. "You can use that to track this friend of yours. All you need is its companion device, which is synchronized with its GPS code and keeps constant tabs on the device's current location, much like your tracking app. I will give it to you once you tell me about this woman."

"Just tell him," John said. "He won't let up."

Juliette spoke quickly. "Fine. This is the Tally Maker. She's not actually a serial killer. She just pretends to be one. She's actually an assassin. Not a very good one. Because two weeks ago, she kidnapped me so I could ventilate the targets that she just, I dunno, didn't want to kill I guess. They were all comatose at the time. That's all we know. And we need to find Nick."

Molly whispered to John, "She's got Sherlock's number, now doesn't she?"

Sherlock handed them the burner phone that tracked the thumb drive. "Now go away."

Hank and Juliette took it and swiftly left the flat.

"Seriously?" John asked. "The last Americans to break in here didn't fare so well. I remember you throwing one of them out a window."

"This has been, well, interesting. But it's nearly six. I've got to go," Molly said as she walked down the stairs.

"Cheers," John said.

Sherlock stood, engrossed in the evidence wall. He glanced at the medical history of Elizabeth Pound, then returned to his obsessive staring at the double homicide.

"We've a meeting at half past nine. Will your current revelation be resolved by then?" John asked.

"Shut up, John! I'm thinking," Sherlock barked. Immediately after, he added, "John! Do you have Molly's mobile?"

"Yeah, of course."

"Ring her. Now!"

 

As Elizabeth's personal assistant, Lawrence Creevey took over more and more of her day-to-day activities as her abilities declined. Technically, this was his office now, but he still thought of it as hers.

Creevey paced.

It was nine twenty-seven. Three more minutes.

He stopped and straightened his clothing. In there more minutes, the consulting detectives would be in to see Elizabeth. For the first time in a year, Creevey had hope.

Two more minutes.

He casually walked over to the balcony overlooking the main hallway.

The primary hallway was an impressive feat, full of enormous paintings and ornate architectural elements. It also was the only public entry into Elizabeth's den, where she entertained guests. It used to act as her reading room, though some called it her private library, but now it served as her seated sick room, just as her bedroom was her lying-down sick room.

Steven Moss, the security man on in the mornings, led two gentlemen down the hall. Creevey didn't recognize either of them. One was a black man with a light mustache dressed to the nines. The other was a white guy with a full beard, dressed in a long black coat and ridiculous hat. Creevey guessed they must be the new financial officers hired to deal with Alvin's will.

Creevey checked his watch. Nine thirty-three. Holmes and Watson should've been escorted in, and Creevey handled the schedule. So who the hell were these men? And who authorized their entry?

Perhaps something came up and Watson and Sherlock had to wait downstairs. He decided to check with Steven before storming off to whoever modified the schedule with his approval.

So he went to the nearest staircase and made his way to Steven, who was waiting outside the door to the den.

"Mr. Creevey, is there something wrong?"

"Who changed the schedule?" Creevey demanded.

"Why should I know?" Steven replied.

"Who did you just escort in? Lawyers? Accountants?"

"Sherlock Holmes and his new assistant, Nicholas Lestrade."

"What?"

"Mr. Holmes insisted he'd cleared the new guy with you, so I brought them back. Didn't think there was anything to bother you about."

"That man was not Sherlock Holmes!"

Steven shook his head. "'Course it's him. I recognized the name from the papers soon as you told me about him the other day. So I cut this out so I could compare."

Steven held up a newspaper photo of Sherlock Holmes; he had his collar rolled up high enough to hide his eyes.

"See? Same coat, and that's definitely the hat," Steven said.

"Did it occur to you to check their ids?"

"Their credentials and identifications were verified at the front gate," Steven said. "By both the guards and the computers. It's them."

Creevey glanced at the time. Nine thirty-five. "We've no time for this. Whoever they are, they can't mean well."

He pulled the door open and entered with Steven on his heels.

"Elizabeth? Mrs. Pound?" Creevey called.

"Mr. Holmes? Mr. Watson?" Steven yelled.

"Where the hell are they?"

"I dunno. I brought them in, and you were there, they didn't come back out. This is the only door to this room," Steven said. "So they must be in here."

"You think they're playing hide and seek?"

Steven put his hand on Creevey's shoulder. "How's about you calm down, then? I'll search this room. You stand outside the door, so if they try to leave, you'll spot them. All right? Just calm down. If something has happened, we'll call security."

Creevey stepped outside as Steven instructed, but it wasn't to calm down. If he spent another minute with that idiot, he might strangle him.

His mobile rang.

"Lawrence Creevey," he answered.

"Ah, Mr. Creevey. This is John Watson," John said. "I need a favor."

"Favor? First you fail to show, now you're asking a favor?"

"I promise you, no," John said. "Don't call the police."

Creevey straightened up. "What would I be calling them for?"

"Listen. You were concerned someone was poisoning Mrs. Pound, and we believe you're right. We've also reason to believe that whoever's doing this might try to kill her. Soon."

"What are you talking about? Why would anyone do that?"

"Yes, right. We don't know exactly. But, we do believe it will happen soon. So to protect her, we arranged for her to be... relocated. Just until we identify the culprit."

"That was you?" Creevey hissed into his phone. "How dare you!"

"You came to us because you love her," John said. When there was no reply, he continued, "Well, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Then you'd do anything to keep her alive," John said.

"I would. Of course, I would."

"Look, we don't need much time. A day or two at most. Do you think you could find a way to keep her disappearance quiet? Just for now."

"I can try, but if her doctor or lawyers come by, I don't think I can."

"I promise you, Mr. Creevey, we will figure this out."

"I'll call if something comes up, but... please hurry."

Creevey hung up. He needed to invent some rather creative lies and quickly. Part of him hoped desperately that Steven was, in fact, that much of an idiot.

 

John pocketed his mobile just as Sherlock pulled the town car up to the guard's booth and rolled the window down.

"You leaving all ready?" the guard on duty, Emma, asked.

"What else could we be doing?" Sherlock asked.

"He means, yes, we've leaving. Mrs. Pound, well, she didn't have much to say," John replied.

Emma nodded. "Sometimes that happens. It's too bad. Worked here for years. She was always nice to me. You're both good to go. Have a nice day."

She activated the front gate to let them out.

As soon as the window closed, John said, "Creevey is pissed. I told you we should've asked for his help."

"No need."

Once they were out the front gate and passed the estate's cameras, John lowered the divider separating the driver's compartment of the town car from the passenger seats.

"We're clear," John said to the passengers. "You all right?"

"It's nice," Pound answered vacantly. She had a wide smile.

"Oh, fine," Monroe replied. "Not like I just abducted what looks like one of the richest people in the world with a hat, a coat, and a car with blacked-out windows or anything."

Hank replied, "It went well, which isn't a surprise. Smart plan. How did you know about that ambulance bay?"

"It was obvious. Rich woman becomes suddenly sick but refuses to live at hospital, so she converts her old library into a medical facility. Odd, given her bedroom would be a better candidate, unless you consider that the items in her library were, until recently, apart of WorldShare, an international interlibrary loan movement. Owing to the size and rarity of her collection, she required an expedient mechanism for moving books, especially when dozens of them were returned to her at a time. The easiest way to do that was to ensure her den had an industrial loading facility. Automobiles can pull right up to the loading bay. Now her choice of sickroom makes perfect sense. Her bedroom is on the second floor, completely inaccessible to any car or truck. Her den, on the other hand, is perfect for a new ambulance bay, should any life-threatening ill befall her."

"You could've just said that last part," Hank said.

"Are you kidding?" Monroe asked. "Then we would've missed out. I mean, come on, Hank. This woman put her entire personal library on WorldShare. That convinces me that she's one of the coolest people on the planet," Monroe replied.

"Oh, this is going to be a hella long day," Hank muttered.

John commiserated, but he said nothing.

Chapter Text

"If thou givest him thy hand, he will strike his claws into it."
-- Bearskin

Friday 10:00pm, at the Pound Estate
Donovan answered her mobile. "Lestrade? Yeah, I've taken two suspects into custody for attempted murder. Don't have proper names yet, but one goes by Mary, the other by Rosalee. I've got to finish up and take them in. Are you all right without me?"

Meanwhile, at Global Energy Management
"Uh, I suppose," Lestrade replied. "Honestly, I could use you here, but it seems like you've got your own mess. Keep me posted."

He hung up.

Anderson approached him. "Sergeant Riley wants me to tell you they've got descriptions of the accomplices out: white woman, black man, both mid-thirties, both with American accents."

"You think I care about that?" Lestrade said.

Anderson swallowed hard. "No sign of any bodies anywhere in the building, but, whoever they are, they lost too much blood to still be alive. Preliminary typing matches John Watson and Sherlock Holmes."

Lestrade bit his lip. "Are you saying... are you telling me that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are both dead?"

Anderson nodded. "DNA will take at least a day. But, yes. It's looking as if... they're gone."

 

Thirty-six hours previously...

Thursday 10:00am
"This isn't what I expected," Nick said conversationally as they arrived at a townhouse. "Very suburban."

"I double checked. This is the address Monroe sent me," Rosalee replied.

She knocked on the door. A woman with blond hair answered.

"Hi, John and Sherlock asked us to come here."

"Yes, they phoned about you. Come on in. My name's Mary by the way."

She ushered them into a lovely living room.

"Sorry, they're not here yet, spot of traffic. Would you like something to eat?"

"Uhm, sure," Rosalee said. "Thank you."

"Can I use your bathroom?" Juliette asked.

"Just upstairs. And I'll get some biscuits," Mary said.

Nick watched as Juliette went up the stairs. "How mad is she, Rosalee?"

"Believe me. She's hiding most of it."

"I'm guessing you're not happy with me, either."

"That depends. What have you done?"

"I was trying to protected you. All of you."

"Not that. When I woged, I saw you. You look like a Bi-oju."

"Is that an insult?"

"Bi-oju are Wesen, so unless Grimms grow long ears and big eyes in their mid-thirties, you've taken something."

Nick hesitated. "I couldn't go to you about it without bringing you in on the whole thing, so – "

"No, you couldn't go to me about it because I wouldn't have let you do something so stupid! What was it? Did you get a shot of commutatio? Saturate yourself in nube aquam? There are safer ways to conceal the fact that you're a Grimm. Don't even get me started your choice to pretend to be a Bi-oju!"

"It's not like that. It wasn't just the concealment. I did this Grimm ritual called Bone Song. And if Bi-oju is a kind of big-eyed rabbit, than one of them helped me put the ingredients together. I had no idea I'd wind up looking like one."

"Bone Song isn't safe," Rosalee said. "It can cause dizziness, hallucinations, mania – "

"I'm fine," Nick interrupted.

"Here we are," Mary said as she put down a tray of sandwiches. "So, what trouble have you gotten yourselves into? Must be pretty interesting if you've involved those two."

The bell rang.

"Why is he ringing the bell to his own home?" Mary asked as she went to the door.

There was a lot of noise, then a general movement up the stairs. Monroe and Sherlock came into the living room.

"Sebastian Cane. Or is it Nick?" Sherlock asked.

"Nick is fine," Nick replied. "Is there some reason you asked us to meet you here?"

"Well, you're not going to believe this, but this guy here is a consulting detective. He and his partner have a client that is being poisoned to make it look like long-term illness. And it's apparently connected to this whole Reinhiet thing," Monroe replied.

"They know about that?" Nick asked.

"We explained some of it to them," Rosalee replied. She whispered to him, "They're not Wesen."

John, Hank, and Juliette came down the stairs with Mary.

"We're all here. Good," John said.

"Are we sure we can trust these people?" Nick asked.

"I checked them out," Hank said. "They work with Scotland Yard. Apparently they closed a case involving a werewolf and another one involving a display of skulls. And that was just this month."

"It's us who should be concerned," John said. "We don't know anything about you."

Nick replied, "This is my girlfriend, and these are my closest friends. You can trust them like you trust me."

"And how's that?" Sherlock asked.

"I did save your life," Nick pointed out. "And you apparently stole my phone to thank me."

"There was hardly time for introductions."

"Let's watch the footage," John suggested. "See how are cases are connected."

 

Thursday 4:00pm
After watching the security footage, Mary and John set up three whiteboards in the living room. Rosalee and Monroe sketched out the impacts of the Reinheit and the Reife, or as much as they could without mentioning Wesen. John marked up the other board with information about the most recent cases in London.

The third board was still a bit bare:

ELIZABETH POUND (Aluminum toxicity / NSAID)
Physician: Dr. Homer Salyer
Acting guardian: Sarah Brewster, Sr. Associate at Gomez and Jung

Beneath that there were two columns, one titled 'Sir Alvin Thomas Wimble' and the other 'Susan Gamble / The Tally Maker.'

"We're missing something," Nick said. "If this Reinhiet is really killing anyone who steps outside their definition of pure, then there must be thousands of potential targets."

"Sure, but it's not like they can just, you know, slaughter all of us," Monroe said. "And by 'us,' I clearly mean, people who come from a specific heritage."

Silence fell.

Sherlock had his attention fixed on a computer screen; he was watching and re-watching the security footage.

Juliette spoke up, "I know both these murders happened at the same time and in the same place, but other than that, they don't seem connected. They were even killed by different people with completely different weapons."

Sherlock grunted twice.

"Use your words," John said quietly.

"It's obvious, once you factor in this footage."

"What about it?" Hank asked.

"John and I made a copy of this footage yesterday, approximately five hours after the murder. We made the copy from the central security desk, naturally when no one was looking."

"So you broke in to make this copy?" Monroe asked. "Awesome."

"Indeed," Sherlock said. His expression made it clear that he was unsure what to make of Monroe. "The footage is especially interesting because, first and foremost, it shouldn't exist at all. This entire capture was done inside of a guest's room. A hotel like the Cypress Celeste couldn't maintain its current clientele with this level of spying. Not to mention the angle of the camera. It's placed on an awkward angle and fails to afford a clear view of the room, complete rubbish for any kind of security, but for capturing the unique nature of this double homicide, it's perfect. The frame captures the corner of the window shattered by the sniper bullet as well as the small area here used for the stabbing. Conclusion: The security company added a camera to this room specifically for capturing these murders. How do I know the security company is involved? Quite simple: the security desk treated this feed as if it were just another camera, clever if you're a security company that tailors to special need clients. This new recording is handled just like any other, which means no one else gains access without a court order – "

"Unless they break in," John mumbled.

"Correct. Barring a break in, they would retain complete control, and in the event of any legal obligation, they supplement this feed with another camera, brand it a redundant duplicate or something to that effect. Which means this footage was captured for a reason. Someone, or multiple someones, at the Revolver Security Company recorded this double homicide. Given that the bodies were pretty clear confirmation, what possible reason could there be for also wanting to record the murders themselves? Certainly it proves the event, but it's far more likely the footage was intended to implicate someone else in the crime."

"That doesn't add up," Rosalee said. "The entire purpose of the Reinhiet is to send a message. To scare people into behaving like they want. A group like that wouldn't cover up their own work. It'd be counter productive."

"When you don't want a crime to be discovered, you have several options," Sherlock said. "You can pay people off. Only works if you have unlimited money. You can hide the crimes, making people disappear rather than killing them. Obviously that's not the case here."

"Stop saying 'obviously,'" John said. "Nothing you're saying is obvious!"

"Actually, what he's saying right now is just common sense," Monroe said. "I mean, we've already confirmed one assassin pretending to be a serial killer. Maybe that's what this werewolf and head-collector dude were doing. Killing specific targets for money, but shaping their crimes so everyone thinks they're these crazy bananas serial killers as opposed to, you know, stone cold killers who are in it for the money. What? It's not that far off."

"All right, let's say that is the case. How would that change things?" Hank asked.

"Another way to hide your crimes is to use a patsy. Arguably, something like that is happening here. Have your hit men pretend to be serial killers, and even if they are captured or identified, the authorities – and I do use that word loosely – believe they're chasing the wrong kind of killer. Brilliant cover. But, in this case, there is another method for handling multiple crimes: using a facade."

"Facade?" Nick asked.

"All this nonsense," Sherlock said, waiving his hand at the Reinhiet/Reife whiteboard, "is based on the idea that these two German-named factions are involved. It's the perfect distraction. It confuses people who are unfamiliar with the dichotomy and clearly inspires panic for those who are invested in the matter. It's like a magic trick. We're all looking over there and miss what's right here."

Sherlock produced three wallets.

"Oi, that's mine," John said.

"It was a demonstration," Sherlock replied.

"Gotta say, I'm loving the idea of abandoning all this," Hank said. "That leaves simple motives: money, power, revenge, love."

"What is it like in your heads? It must be so quiet," Sherlock said. "Think!"

Nick sat up. "You told us that Wimble thought his sister was being poisoned."

"Uh, yeah," John replied.

"They weren't being very stealthy about it," Juliette said. "I mean, since he figured it out."

"He didn't," Nick said. "He knew she was being poisoned, but he probably just didn't know what kind of poison. She's his only living relative, and she and her husband were immensely successful in business. Now, the estate has the kind of money that buys private islands."

"You think he was being blackmailed?" Hank asked.

"Blackmailed or leveraged," Nick replied. "If she died outright, he'd inherit everything. Probably. He's her only living relative. So killing her wouldn't be a good option."

"But if she lost mental status, then someone else takes over her legal estate, and even her medical care in absence of a legal guardian," John said. "There's got to be easier ways to blackmail somebody."

"Let's assume for a moment, however, that that is exactly what happened," Sherlock said. "According to our violent American friends, this Susan Gamble was unhappy with her employers. The reason isn't important. Now we have two unhappy international business people meeting. Is it a social engagement or two disgruntled employees plotting revenge?"

"That would only be true if they were both employed by the same group," Rosalee added. "And the Reife would never do that. If they had any chance at getting an ally, they would've."

"That's actually true. The Reife are many things, but they are not a stab or shoot first, then ask questions later kinda group. They're more of a beg, borrow, and blackmail kinda set up," Monroe said. "They'd wanna make friends with disgruntled members of the Reinhiet, or at least an alliance. Making them dead would be a waste."

Nick's mind was drowning in information. Maybe Rosalee was right about the Bone Song ritual; his head felt like it was made of water, running all over the place. His eyes drifted to the hallway. His mother was there, carrying the quadrant mask.

"Don't let them fool you, Nicky."

He blinked. She vanished, but her words from the Bone Song ritual whispered in his mind: 'Some fight in the name of an ideal... merely a veneer, means to achieve whatever ends they wish.' It was like his brain could finally make the connections he missed.

"He's right," Nick said suddenly.

"What?" Juliette asked.

"Sherlock, he's right," he said again. "They figured out that Susan Gamble and this Wimble guy wanted to take them down, so they decided to take care of them first, pinning everything on their so-called opposition. It gives the Reinhiet momentum. It also explains HOW..."

Nick's excitement was making him somewhat inarticulate.

So Juliette continued for him, "You mean, they used a sniper to kill Gamble because of how dangerous she was."

Hank nodded. "She's taken down guys three times her size and people with advanced combat experience. The only way to take her out would be to get her by surprise and, with any luck, at a very long distance. This Wimble guy wasn't an assassin. Right?"

"International business consultant," John said. "Only things he killed were jobs and hopes."

"None of this is what we think it is," Nick said as absolute certainty dawned on him. "Elizabeth Pound was being poisoned for control of her estate just as much for control of her brother. This isn't some entrenched prejudice rearing its ugly head."

"It's greed," Sherlock said. "Simple, really."

"You're making some big leaps," Hank said.

"Obvious deductions," Sherlock corrected.

"Please don't push it, he'll never shut up," John whispered to Hank.

"Whoever's doing this doesn't give a damn about purity or bloodlines. They're using the Reinheit to cover their tracks and goad support," Nick said.

"Oh, man!" Monroe said. "It's like the Crusades, or any other war fought in the name of religion. The goal of those wars was material: access to rare goods, control of the Holy Land, and in general, power and money. Yeah, plenty of soldiers and key players did actually believe they were doing good work in the name of God, but kings and queens and, you know, leaders in general have exploited those beliefs. They claim their agendas were what God wants, so it justifies bloodshed and destruction. It was like generating good PR back in the day, before that kind of thing had a name, or acronym as the case may be."

"But how do we prove it?" Juliette asked. "We'd need something pretty solid to tie them to any of these murders."

"And we need a who. Don't forget that," John added.

"Once we got a who," Hank said, "I think I've got an idea how to get this guy without running down a paper trail or waiting for the next body to drop. We'd be coloring outside the lines, but after this conversation, I'm thinking that's not too much of problem."

"I'd say," Mary replied.

"Aluminum poisoning," Rosalee said suddenly.

"Yeah, Molly did up the blood results," John said. "Also had a lot of NSAIDs in her system. Inhibits renal function so she can't pass the excess aluminum."

Rosalee said, "A form of aluminum is used to purify water supplies. Basically, it attracts and binds to organic elements, creating a sediment that can be removed with filtration. But traces of the aluminum are left in the water. If you wanted to subject someone to elevated aluminum levels on a continuous basis, that would be the way to do it."

"Oi, we could prove that," Mary said. "All we'd need is some chemicals and a few cameras."

"Even if it only gives us a minion, we could flip'em," Hank said.

"Do Americans always talk like that?" John asked.

"Do British people always talk like him?" Hank asked, pointing to Sherlock.

 

Friday 2:00am, at the Pound Estate...
Lawrence Creevey hadn't had such an odd day in all his life, and he wasn't sure he could take much more.

He rang up the normal line at Gomez and Jung.

"Yes, is Mrs. Brewster there?" he asked.

"Sorry, sir, she's out for the night."

"Well, listen, please. I've had to move Mrs. Pound to her summer home. Seems like some vandals have mucked up all the plumbing in the central wing, and till they're caught, I can't risk it. So wherever she is, will you please call her and tell her?"

"Yes, sir, I'll make sure she gets the message."

"Also," he said, "if there's someone on hand, I need authorization for a sizeable fund. For the repairs."

"I'll send these through. You should hear back by tomorrow."

Creevey hung up.

 

Meanwhile, at Global Energy Management...
Hank and Monroe waited outside the building, watching the members of Revolver Security Company.

"So this company pays off mass murderers?" Monroe asked. "It looks so normal."

"Payments to the werewolf guy, head collector, Wimble, and the Tally Maker trace back to subsidiaries of this company."

"I got some food," Juliette said as she got in.

"Really?" Monroe asked. "Oh, veggie steak."

"And burger," Juliette said to Hank. "You get anything?"

"They run a pretty tight ship. A lot of their guys smoke on a regular schedule, too," Hank said.

"They use security keys," Monroe said. "Actually, the whole building relies on them. I thought we could just grab one off a guy, but they turn in their cards whenever they leave the building."

"Even when they smoke," Hank said. "Like I said, tight ship."

"Turn them in where?" Juliette asked.

"Front desk," Monroe said with his mouth slightly full.

"Huh. Thanks. I'll be back in a few hours."

 

Friday 8:00am, at the Pound Estate...
Rosalee and Mary squirreled away in a large room that the Pound Estate used as a storage closet.

"It's been a long time since I've done surveillance," Mary said.

"You've done it before?" Rosalee asked.

"Well, nothing fancy. But, yeah, I did a bit. It was a real bore. Better to talk about it than actually do."

"I've recently found myself involved in investigations," Rosalee said. "Putting things together. Figuring them out. Setting up details to spy on people. It's..."

"Infuriating."

"Maddening."

"And so much fun."

"And oddly satisfying."

Mary asked, "You've not always been on the right side of the law, have you?"

"Uh, no. I had trouble with that," Rosalee replied.

"Me, too."

Someone new appeared on one of the feeds.

"Hey, who is that?" Rosalee asked. "She's in Creevey's office."

"Dunno. She doesn't look like house staff, does she?"

 

A few seconds ago, in the office...
Steven knocked on the office door. "Mr. Creevey?"

"Yes, Steven?"

"Miss Emily Dalton is here," Steven said. "She wants a word."

"Send her in."

Emily Dalton, an elegant woman in a fine suit, walked into the office. Usually the same lawyer, Sarah Brewster, handled everything, but she often mentioned Emily with deference.

"So sorry to hear about the mishap," Dalton said. "I see you didn't call the police."

"I thought our own security would deal with it without all the scandal."

"You've come around to my methods," Dalton said with a smile. "A year ago, you'd've run straight to the Yard."

"I would have done, yeah."

"The plumbers are here to fix the pipes. I made sure the repairs were paid for by a fund separate from the normal estate management."

"Thank you."

Dalton continued, "Apparently our teenage pranksters are well-versed in chemistry. They wrapped water-soluble pills around a corrosive chemical and dropped them into the water system. Each one flowed down the pipes till they got caught up at a water filter. Melted straight through the pipe, the filter, and anything near it."

"That's something," Creevey repied. "Creative, even."

"Well, I just came to tell you that we've gotten all the information. We'll find who did this. And, thank you for trusting us to handle this. We're better than the police. You should go and check on Elizabeth. She hasn't got any company."

"Right, I will, thanks."

Emily wiped her mouth, as if the corner of her lips were dry. Then she went closer to him and took his hand.

"Lawrence. I know we've had our differences, but you and I, we have so much in common. Maybe we could be more than just coworkers one day."

She reached up and touched his face.

Creevey stepped back. "You're right, I should get going. Good day."

 

Meanwhile, in the supply closet...
Rosale and Mary watched as the woman batted her eyes at Creevey, but he didn't respond to her flirting.

The woman woged.

Mary didn't react, so Rosalee bit her tongue.

Whoever this woman was, she was also a Musai. When she wiped her mouth, she collected the psychotropic secretions on her hand, so when she touched Creevey, she infected him.

"Damn," Rosalee whispered. "That's not good."

"What?" Mary asked.

"Sherlock said something about Creevey and Elizabeth, right?" Rosalee asked. "I kind of... drifted off when he was speaking. A few times."

"He said that he didn't think this was a case at one point because Creevey dated Elizabeth before she became ill. Thought he was just in denial."

"Because he loved her?"

"Sherlock would never say that," Mary said. "But it was implied."

Rosalee fumbled for her phone.

 

Friday 9:30pm, at the Pound Estate...
Donovan hated house calls, especially when they involved estates that had more money than the entire country. But Lestrade pulled rank, and she wound up in something called a 'port room' of the Pound Estate with a woman staring daggers at her.

"I'm Sergeant Donovan," she said. "Would you please give me your name?"

"Emily Marie Dalton," the woman replied.

"Can you tell me why you're here at the Pound Estate tonight, ma'am?"

"I just wanted to make sure everything was all right."

"You were concerned?"

Dalton nodded. "Mrs. Pound is very ill. And her brother died just this week. I can only imagine how hard it's been."

"Did you know about the vandalism to the plumbing?" she asked. "Or the pipe repairs?"

"Oh, I expedited the repairs, if that's what you mean."

"And while you were doing that, did you by chance lend a hand yourself?" Donovan asked. "Maybe install customized filters?" She held up a water purifier.

"Technically, that's a purifier."

"Did you install it?" Donovan asked. "It's a simple question."

"Even if I did, there's nothing wrong with adding a water purifier."

"According to Mr. Creevey, the reason Mrs. Pound has been ill is that she's been poisoned," Donovan replied. "He says this filter proves you're the one who did it."

"Sergeant Donovan," Dalton said. "I'm no doctor, but I'm fairly certain you can't give someone Alzheimer's or Parkinson's."

"Did you install this?" Donovan asked.

Creevey burst into the room, dragging two women in by their elbows.

"No, she didn't!" he said loudly. "I'm sorry, Sergeant, but these two are the ones who were tampering with the water supply. Their names are Rosalee and Mary."

 

Friday, 10:00pm, at the Pound Estate...
"Sorry, just to be clear," Donovan said. "You don't know these two women, apart from their first names. According to you, they were trying to frame Miss Dalton for poisoning Mrs. Pound."

"That's right," Creevey said. "Emily is too beautiful to be a criminal."

Donovan wondered if Creevey was high; then again, love could do that to you. She shrugged. "All right, just a few more questions – "

"No more questions!" Creevey interrupted. "You need to arrest these two... people and leave Emily and I be!"

"Excuse me," Steven said. "I know it's a bit crowded in here, but, uh, Dr. Amulya Shastri is here."

"Who is that?" Donovan asked.

"She's brought Mrs. Elizabeth Pound back from hospital," Steven said. "And she'd like a word."

"Dr. Shastri?" Donovan asked.

"No, uh, Mrs. Pound."

"That can't be right," Dalton said. "Mrs. Pound is very ill. Sometimes she can't speak. Most of the time she's not of a clear mind."

"I assure you, Mrs. Pound is in her right mind," Dr. Shastri said as she pushed a wheelchair in. "Though she still needs some help walking."

She helped Elizabeth Pound to her feet.

"I'm afraid I'm a bit shaky," Elizabeth said quietly. "But I assure you, I'm quite sane, Miss Dalton."

"That's good to hear," Donovan said. "I was called in to arrested the people who were poisoning your water. Apparently it was these two."

"Lawrence," Elizabeth said. "Is that true? Did these two strangers poison me?"

She walked over to him, clumsily and slowly, and nearly collapsed. Creevey caught her. It was like confusion was fighting to break out of his eyes; his face seemed wracked with guilt.

"I missed you," she whispered.

He nearly cried.

"It's her," Creevey said. "That... woman, Emily Dalton."

"You've now accused her twice," Donovan said. "Why the sudden change of heart?"

"We have proof," Rosalee spoke up. "Or, I mean, he does."

"Does he now?"

"Yes, security feeds," Mary said. "Got her on tape installing those filters. The feed is uploaded to a secure cloud, but he has access."

"Now that I can use," Donovan said. "Come on, I'm taking you in, Miss Dalton. And you two, I'll need statements. And full names."

Rosalee put her hand on Donovan's shoulder. "You don't know me. You've no reason to trust me. But whatever you do, don't let her touch your skin or kiss you."

"Trust me when I say, I won't."

She handcuffed Emily and got her to her feet.

Elizabeth turned to Mary and Rosalee. "Would you please thank Dr. Hooper for me? She's the one, right?"

"Hooper?" Donovan repeated in disbelief.

Dr. Shastri replied, "She was treating Mrs. Pound for aluminum poisoning. She also counteracted some of the unnecessary medications to speed her recovery. She's got a long road ahead, but it looks good."

"It was actually Dr. Watson," Rosalee said. "Mr. Creevey hired him and his partner to investigate. They discovered the illness."

Donovan nearly bit through her tongue.

"I shoulda known," she said as she walked Dalton out. "This whole thing has 'Sherlock Holmes' written all over it."

 

Friday 5:00pm, at Global Energy Management...
Juliette and Nick walked to the front desk of Global Energy Management dressed to the nines.

"Hi, Carol," Juliette said politely reading her name tag. "We're here for the fundraiser."

"Ah, right this way," Carol replied as she led them over to the elevators. "Mind, it's already started. But we don't have any issue with a fashionable entry."

She used her card to activate the elevator and then pushed the button for the sixteenth floor.

"It's straight down the hall in front of you," she said. "Have a good evening."

 

A minute ago at Global Energy Management...
Just as Carol walked away to take Nick and Juliette to the elevator, Sherlock and John slipped behind the desk, where a large metal lockbox was bolted to the floor. It had an old skeleton keyhole.

"I knew it," Sherlock whispered. "A bump key would be completely useless for this safe. An exact match is required."

"Oh, great, then what're we doing?" John asked.

Sherlock produced a skeleton key and unlocked it.

"How did you – "

"Not now, John! Hurry!"

They quickly emptied the contents of the safe: nearly a hundred security cards.

Just as they made it around to the other side of the desk, Carol returned.

"Sorry, can I help you?" she asked.

"Just a bit lost, sorry," John replied.

They left, and on their way out, they nodded to Hank and Monroe, who were decked out in full security uniforms.

"Looks like we're on schedule," Sherlock said. "It appears that our odd American friends are more than just hammers. One of them acquired this skeleton key from our would-be assassin two days ago."

"Cheers."

 

Friday 9:00pm, at Global Energy Management...
"Sir. Mr. Emmons," a security guard said.

"Yes, what?"

"We just received a call from our contact at the Yard," the guard said. "He believes your life is in immediate danger. We need to get you to safety. We have a car ready for you, and I can escort you now."

"No, no," Emmons replied. "I'm not going anywhere for some possible threat."

"The police are on their way to apprehend a suspect that is in this building," the guard said. "Please, sir, it's our job to keep you safe."

Emmons looked out at the busy ballroom. The fundraiser had been going so well.

"Sir?" the guard prompted.

"I'll go with you, but not to the car. I've a panic room in my office on the top floor. Take me there."

"Yes, sir."

Emmons exited his party and followed the guard to the executive elevator. He activated the door and the keypad with his security badge.

"I didn't think security had access to this lift," Emmons said.

"With an imminent threat on your life, we are afforded more access," the guard replied professionally. "I assure you, it's only in emergency cases."

"It's not a criticism," Emmons replied. "Just an... observation."

And they headed up to the fortieth floor. The entirety of the floor served as the Emmons' executive office suite.

The doors open and the guard started him down the hall.

The sound of something heavy falling echoed.

The guard doubled back to Emmon's desk.

"I'll clear the floor," the guard said. "Make sure no one else is here. And I've already locked the lift."

"Thank you," Emmons said.

The guard disappeared down the hall toward the panic room. Emmons sat behind his desk.

Suddenly, the wall behind him lit up, like a projection was thrown there. He adjusted so he could see it better. It was a film; there was no audio. It was hard to make out at first... but by the end, it was clear. A man and woman were killed. The footage repeated, silently.

"Ah, good, you're here," someone said.

"Who're you?" Emmons asked.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Am I supposed to be impressed?"

"That'd be a good start, yes."

"I'm John Watson, if you're interested."

"Get the hell out of my office! The police are on their way!"

"No, sorry," Sherlock said.

"But your life is in danger. Mostly your fault, of course, but all the same," John said.

"What are you on about?"

"For the past eighteen months, you have been funding the executions of your competitors across the world. Obviously, your resources have enabled you to cover your tracks, but your last little stunt was a bit of an overreach. The Reinhiet might not mind you using them as a bullet shield, but the Reife won't just let you get away with framing them for these murders."

"I've never heard of any of that," Emmons said, but he was clearly lying. "And I've never had anyone murdered!"

"You recognize this man?" John asked. "The one stabbed in this film? His name is Alvin Wimble. Until recently, he acted as a business advisor to your international branches. He came back here to help his sister."

"Yeah, I know who Alvin Wimble was," Emmons said. "We had to wrestle him away from our competitors. That move got me into this office – "

"Two years ago," Sherlock said. "CEO of Global Energy Management. Such a high position. It's a wonder you managed it with just one hire."

The projection turned off and the lights banged on, full blast.

"Put your hands up!" the security guard yelled, riffle at the ready.

John and Sherlock threw up their hands.

"Listen to me," John said. "This man has been funding hit men. He's been killing his competition, literally."

"Don't bother John. This man is just a foot soldier. Just following orders," Sherlock said.

"Shut up!" Emmons said. "What are you waiting for, kill them!"

"Get behind me, sir," the guard said.

Emmons ran behind the guard.

"See. He wants you to shoot us, even though we're not armed," John said. "Because we know what he's been up to. If you have us arrested, then the police will talk to us. We'll tell them everything. He can't have that."

"Shoot them!" Emmons shouted.

"Sir, they're not armed."

"They came here to kill me!"

"But they don't have the means to do it. I can only use deadly force to save a life," the guard replied.

"Maybe you can," Emmons said.

He grabbed the riffle and shoved the guard away.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

Sherlock and John both crashed to the floor.

 

Friday 9:30pm, at Global Energy Management...
"How much longer till the police are here?" Emmons asked.

"They should be here by now," the guard replied. "Sir, please. We can claim this as self-defense. I just need you to get to the panic room until they arrive."

"No, no! Don't you get it? This is what they want. This office turned into a crime scene. Suddenly everything in it is evidence."

"Sir, they're dead," the guard said. "We can't hide this."

"No! No!" Emmons yelled. He grabbed the gun and pointed it at the guard.

"Sir, it's the law."

Pop! Pop!

The guard joined the other bodies on the floor. Emmons could figure that out, no problem, but he couldn't leave everything as-is in his private office.

So he scrambled for papers, thumb drives, and files from around his office. He banded them together with clips and rubber bands.

He glanced over at the lifeless bodies turning his carpet red. The bastards.

With that, he ran to the panic room.

He nearly crashed into two people. One was in a beautiful gown; he remembered seeing her at the party. The other was in a security uniform.

"Who are you?"

"That's not really important," the woman said. "What is important is that we just had a peek in your panic room. There wasn't much. I'm guessing that that packet has what we're looking for."

"Get the hell out of my office!"

"Trust me sir," the man said. "You don't want us to do that."

"And why not?"

"Because we have this."

The woman produced a tablet with a movie loaded. She pressed play.

'I can only use deadly force to save a life.'

'Maybe you can.'

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

"Seems like you've got a problem," the man said. "Now, you can take your chances and give us those files. Maybe we can pin something on you, maybe you can't. But if you don't, we'll take this definite murder charge and send it to the Yard."

"It was self-defense," Emmons said.

"Hesitation. That was hesitation, wasn't it?" the woman said to the man. He nodded in agreement. "See the reason you hesitated is because the guard with the gun wouldn't shoot them. They weren't putting your life in danger anymore. They were unarmed. That's the beauty of capturing audio. You knew they weren't putting you in danger. Then you basically admitted to having evidence of criminal activity in your office."

"That's pretty bad," the man added. "And that's not even including you gunning down the guard on top of that. That's only a few minutes later on this video."

"So this is our offer. We give you the sole copy of the triple homicide for that packet," she said. "Take it or leave it."

"Ya hear those sirens?" the man asked. "Police are here."

Emmons glowered but handed over the packet. The woman handed him the tablet.

"I'll figure out who you are. And I'll come for you."

He went into his panic room and locked the door.

 

Friday 9:57pm, at Global Energy Management...
Hank and Juliette rushed into the main office.

"Cutting it close," Hank said. "We've got something like four minutes before the police get up to this floor."

The security guard stood up and shook it off; he pulled off the stupid had that came with the uniform.

"Hey, you look like you again," Juliette said.

"Is it the blood?" Nick asked. "It suits this uniform."

"Guys, this is a nice moment, but we need to finish this," Hank said.

Nick grabbed Sherlock's arms; Hank grabbed John's.

"Mind the sockets!" John hissed. "Hurry up, my blood bladder is nearly empty!"

"How was my British accent?" Nick asked as he pulled Sherlock to the office stairwell.

"Dreadful," Sherlock replied.

John said, "Being dead for a minute is one thing. Playing dead for thirty minutes is quite another."

"They're not gonna be able to get that stain off the floor," Hank said.

"Quite all right," Sherlock said. "The very least that man deserves is an exorbitant cleaning fee."

"Monroe is handling all the security equipment, but he may need a hand," Juliette said. "The bags and spare cloths are in the stairwell. Meet you down in the parking lot?"

"You bet," Nick said.

Juliette gave him a kiss goodbye.

"Touching," Sherlock said.

"Oh, this is yours," Juliette said to John as she handed off the packet she took from Emmons.

"This is everything he took from his desk?" John asked.

"Give us a few minutes, we can burn a disk of him frantically gathering everything," Hank said. "But we'd have to crop part of your dead body out of the frame, Sherlock."

"Wonderful. Can we go? How did you even get me to agree to this?" Sherlock asked.

"That's what I've been asking you all this time," John said.

 

Saturday 10:00am, 221 B Baker Street
The bell rang.

Again.

"Just a minute," Mrs. Hudson said. "Boys! You've a guest!"

Mary and John straightened up on the sofa. Sherlock was too busy with his violin to notice.

Lestrade came up the stairs.

"You bastards," he said. "You utter arses!"

"Sorry, we haven't met, I'm Mary."

"Mary. I'm Greg. You've met my partner, Sally Donovan."

"Ah, she was lovely."

"Sorry, you were saying we were asses?" John asked. "Any particular reason?"

"For one, you've not answered either of your phones for the past twelve hours."

"That was me," Sherlock said. "I was verifying an alibi. It required a landline phone and no fewer than seven mobile phones, only three of which could be burners. They had to be networked together to generate a concentrated burst of electricity. I'm afraid John and Mary sacrificed most of their portable electronic devices to my endeavor."

"Is that what happened to my MP3 player?" John asked indignantly.

"Don't act like you don't know," Lestrade said. "I thought you were dead."

"Again?" Sherlock asked.

"Really. So you're not going to admit to anything that happened at Global Energy Management?"

"You have anything in mind?" John asked.

"The CEO believes he shot both of you. And this morning, several incriminating files showed up at the Yard. Copies were sent directly to the doorstep of me and dozens of news reporters."

Sherlock replied, "Sounds like a terrible American action film."

"Fine, what about this case you worked on," Lestrade asked.

"Oh, that'd be Elizabeth Pound," John said.

"Lovely lady. Horrible what happened to her," Mary said.

"Her brother was killed. She was being poisoned. We intervened," Sherlock said. "Molly confirmed with blood work and shipped her off to a proper doctor. And as I understand it, Donovan caught the culprit red-handed."

"And that's it?" Lestrade asked. "So it just so happens that Emily Dalton, the PA to Darien Emmons, CEO of Global Energy Management, was the one poisoning Elizabeth Pound, your client, around the same time Darien Emmons says he's just had to shoot you and John in his office."

"That is strange," Mary said. "But let's be honest. Anyone can put on a funny hat and long coat and pretend to be Sherlock Holmes these days."

"Shut up," Sherlock said.

"So, the three of you are just, sitting here, having tea. Not answering your phones," Lestrade said. "If I searched your flat, would I find anything from Emmons or Global Energy Management?"

"In this mess?" John asked. "Good luck. Ever since I moved out, I can't find a thing here."

"Fine, then just tell me, who the hell are these people?" Lestrade said.

He produced several sketches: Rosalee, Nick, Juliette, and Hank.

"That's Rosalee," Mary said. "She's handy. Works at the Pound Estate."

"No, she doesn't."

"Oh, that's what she told me," Mary said.

"And you two?" Lestrade said. "You know any of these people?"

"No, sorry."

"Boring."

 

"I gotta say, this was the greatest vacation we've ever taken," Monroe said. "I mean, we've got intrigue. And London. And – "

"Hours of surveillance. Breaking and entering. Nearly inciting an all-out war between the Reife and the Reinhiet," Rosalee said. "Yeah, it was kind of amazing."

"Next time, Paris," Monroe said.

"Hawai'i is better," Hank offered. "Just sayin'."

A few rows back, Juliette stared out the window. Nick tried to catch her eye.

"Juliette," he said. "I'm... I am sorry. I know this whole thing has been a mess. And that's my fault. But if you - "

"Shut up," she interrupted quietly. "I'm going to talk now."

"Okay."

"I get why you couldn't tell me about being a Grimm," she said. "I remember when you finally tried. I thought you'd lost your mind. But it's weird. Since I was in the coma and lost my memory, that one, when it did come back, seemed like it wasn't mine. Like it belonged to someone else. So I get it, Nick. I remember how bad it was. But I also remember what it was like to forget you. To feel like I had lost my mind because one person had been erased from my life and I couldn't figure out why."

"Juliette, I – "

"I'm talking now," Juliette said. "Now that I know what I know, I don't want to forget. And you cannot protect me by leaving me in the dark. If you haven't learned that by now, I don't know what has to happen to make you see it."

"I don't want to leave you in the dark, but sometimes, sometimes being a Grimm is like having a giant neon bulls eye on me, and I don't want it getting on you."

"Too bad," she said. "That's what it's gonna take from now on. If you and I are going to work, then I'm standing in the middle of that bulls eye with you, and I'm the one who decides when I step out. And if you lie to me the way you die last week... I will. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I do," Nick said. "I never wanted to put you in any danger. But from now on, I promise... you'll know what I know. When I know it."

She put her hand over his.

"We stopped an international conspiracy," she said.

"We did."

"And saved a woman from being poisoned."

"Yeah, that too."

"And managed to break into a multimillion dollar company."

"I guess we did."

"I'm saying we did it," she said. "Imagine what we'll do next."