Chapter Text
Scotland Yard – 21:47, Incident Room
The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, washing the Yard in that sickly half-light that made everything look worse.
Enola pushed through the heavy glass doors, flashing her identification card — black leather, sharp edges, the unmistakable glint of the Royal Seal.
The desk officer straightened instantly, his expression snapping from boredom to brittle attention.
"Good evening, Miss Holmes," he said stiffly, already logging her visit without being asked.
She nodded once — perfunctory — and continued inside, boots tapping a quiet rhythm against the scuffed floors.
Official clearance had its perks.
No security checks.
No questions.
No waiting.
She was halfway to the archive wing when she caught a flash of movement — a hunched figure in one of the bullpen offices, papers scattered across his desk like a miniature crime scene.
Lestrade.
Still here.
Still working.
He hadn’t noticed her yet — too absorbed, frowning down at a wall filled with photos, strings, and scribbled notes.
Enola slowed.
She could walk past — flash her clearance at the records officer, collect the Moriarty testimonies, and vanish into the night.
But something about the grim set of Lestrade’s shoulders, the heavy, exhausted way he leaned over the chaos, made her pause.
Curious.
She drifted closer, silent as a shadow.
Photos.
Victims.
A pattern — and yet no pattern.
Different ages. Different backgrounds. Different disappearances.
And then — pinned separately — grainy photos of human remains.
But not the missing people. Not even close.
It was like...
Like someone was discarding parts that didn't matter.
Enola tilted her head, studying the board the way a hawk might study battlefield maps.
Lestrade finally noticed her.
His head snapped up, eyes narrowing — not with suspicion, just weariness.
"Miss Holmes," he said, voice rough. "Didn’t expect you tonight."
Enola smiled faintly — not warm, not cold. Just... amused.
"That’s becoming a pattern, isn’t it?"
He gave a low, tired chuckle — surprised into it despite himself.
"What brings Her Majesty’s Wild Card to my crime scene?" he asked dryly, gesturing at the mess.
She lifted her official clearance badge just enough for him to see.
"Research," she said simply. "Moriarty files."
Lestrade scrubbed a hand over his face, exhaling heavily.
"Of course," he muttered. "Of course it’s Moriarty."
She studied him — the tightness around his eyes, the stress grinding down the edges of his usually steady presence.
She looked back at the photos.
And something in her — something cold and calculating and curious — clicked.
"You know," she said lightly, "your corpses aren’t your missing people."
Lestrade raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself.
"Worked that out already, did you?"
Enola shrugged one shoulder.
"Obvious."
He slumped back in his chair, exhaustion dragging at every line of him.
"Obvious, maybe," he muttered. "Useful? Not yet."
He gave her a long, appraising look.
A thought crossed his face — you could almost see it happen — cautious, calculating, desperate.
"You’re already here," he said carefully. "You’ve got clearance."
He gestured at the evidence board with a weary wave of his hand.
"Mind taking a look?"
Enola considered.
She could say no.
She could take her files and leave.
But...
Moriarty thrived in chaos.
And chaos was exactly what she saw scattered across Lestrade’s desk.
Maybe — just maybe — this mess connected to the bigger storm she could feel building.
And besides —
Lestrade had asked.
Not demanded.
Not ordered.
Asked.
Respect, not control.
It mattered.
(She’d never admit that aloud.)
She wandered closer to the board, hands in her coat pockets, eyes scanning every scrap of information with surgical dispassion.
"Fine," she said, almost lazily. "But I want the testimonies unredacted."
Lestrade snorted.
"Deal."
Behind him, the rain tapped against the windows — cold, steady, patient.
London holding its breath.
And so the strange new alliance began.
Lestrade leaned back in his battered chair, rubbing a hand over his face like he could wipe the exhaustion away.
Enola stood at the evidence board, arms folded, posture deceptively casual.
"All right," he muttered, grabbing a folder off the desk and flipping it open. "Here’s what we know — which isn’t bloody much."
He tapped a few photos.
"Six missing persons. Different boroughs. No obvious connection — no shared workplaces, no shared social circles. No shared vices. Not all addicts. Not all homeless. Not all runaways."
He flipped to another sheet — grim, water-stained.
"And then... four dumpsites. Human remains. But the remains aren’t the missing people. DNA matches no one in the database."
He looked up at her — grim.
"And they’re not full bodies either," he added quietly. "Just... what’s left over. Like someone’s cutting off the parts they don’t want and tossing the rest."
Enola said nothing.
Just watched him.
"Right now," Lestrade continued, "best guess? Two different groups. Missing persons over here" — he gestured to one side — "and the remains over here. Maybe linked. Maybe not."
He dropped the folder on the desk with a dull thud.
"And if they’re linked..."
They both knew what that meant.
Harvesting. Trafficking. Experiments. Worse.
Enola cocked her head slightly, scanning the faces on the board.
"Do any of the missing people have families?" she asked.
Simple.
Cold.
Precise.
Lestrade grimaced.
"Yeah," he said slowly. "Some. But not... not much to write home about."
He pulled another sheet from the pile — a list of next of kin.
"Most of ’em were alone. Foster care dropouts. Orphans. Aged out of the system. Drug histories. Criminal records. Bad homes, if they had homes at all."
He shook his head.
"And the ones with families —" he let out a short, bitter laugh, "if you can call a mum on her sixth stint in rehab or a dad serving time for assault a ‘family.’"
Enola’s eyes narrowed slightly.
"No one to notice if they vanish."
Not a question.
A conclusion.
Lestrade nodded grimly.
"Exactly."
The rain outside beat harder against the windows, like London itself was listening.
Enola turned back to the board.
Her voice, when she spoke again, was low and even:
"Someone’s picking off the invisible ones."
Lestrade leaned back, watching her.
Something about the way she said it — cold, clinical, but with an edge under the ice — made a shiver crawl down his spine.
She understood.
Too well.
And somewhere deep inside, he understood too:
This wasn’t just a case to her.
Not anymore.
Enola tilted her head, her grey eyes scanning the messy map pinned to the evidence board.
"Four dumpsites," she said, more to herself than to Lestrade. "Different boroughs. No repeating locations."
Lestrade straightened, grabbing a marker.
"Yeah — we thought about that. Might be spreading it out to avoid detection. Random pattern."
Enola’s mouth curled — not quite a smile.
"Nothing about this is random."
She stepped closer, tracing an invisible line between the red pins.
"The remains aren’t left at the closest dumpsters. They’re left just over borough lines. Just enough to shuffle jurisdiction — Metropolitan Police, then local divisions, then back."
Her voice was clinical. Steady.
"Different departments. Different case files. Different forensics."
Lestrade’s brow furrowed.
"So... he’s making sure no one connects them?"
She nodded once.
"A jigsaw puzzle scattered across different tables. No one notices the missing pieces because no one’s looking at the full picture."
She plucked a sticky note from the board and placed it firmly in the center.
A new word written in sharp, quick letters:
HERDING.
Lestrade stared.
"Herding?"
She turned to him properly now, eyes alight with cold focus.
"Someone’s collecting," she said. "Separating the ones no one will miss. Disposing of the parts they don’t need. And testing the Yard’s blind spots at the same time."
She tucked her hands into her coat pockets, rocking back slightly on her heels.
"Testing you, Lestrade."
He stiffened — not out of offense, but because he knew she was right.
Someone was probing the police’s weaknesses.
Preparing for something bigger.
The lab lights hummed overhead — stark and cold against the darker smear of human remains under plastic.
Enola stood near the evidence table, gloves already snapped on, scanning the tagged bags with detached precision.
Behind her, a door slammed.
Heavy footsteps.
Donovan.
She stopped just inside the room, arms crossing over her chest.
Her voice was stiff — clipped — a brittle edge barely hidden under official courtesy.
"I wasn’t informed Her Majesty’s Special Clearance Division would be assisting tonight."
Lestrade, hunched over a tray of teeth samples, didn’t even look up.
"She’s vetted," he muttered. "Let her work."
Donovan’s mouth pressed into a thin, bitter line.
Enola turned slowly, meeting her gaze — calm, cold, untouched.
"No need to roll out the carpet, Sergeant," Enola said lightly. "I’m just here for the scraps."
The words hit sharp enough that Donovan’s hands twitched once against her sleeves.
Still, she kept her voice neutral — professional on the surface, resentment simmering underneath.
"Stay out of the way, then."
Lestrade finally looked up — exasperated but bone-tired — and muttered:
"Christ, Donovan, she’s already done more in five minutes than the whole unit has in five days."
Donovan flushed, jaw tightening.
But she said nothing.
Because they both knew it was true.
Because this wasn’t like last time — she couldn’t bark orders or dismiss Enola without consequences.
Not anymore.
Instead, Donovan shot Enola a final glare — low, hot, hateful — and turned her focus back to the evidence tray, stabbing notes into her clipboard like it personally insulted her.
Enola smiled faintly to herself.
Not mockery. Not triumph. Just quiet satisfaction.
Then she turned back to the remains — the real puzzle.
The only thing that mattered.
The smell hit her first — even through layers of evidence bags and chemical scrub.
She stood by the examination table, arms loosely crossed, posture deceptively relaxed.
Inside the bags:
Hair.
Teeth.
Nails.
Fragments of ear and nose cartilage.
Coils of large intestine, already collapsing into themselves.
The waste parts.
No muscle. No heart. No liver. No body.
Just scraps.
Lestrade stood nearby, jaw tight, fatigue dragging at his features.
"Organ trafficking," Donovan said crisply, pulling her gloves tighter. "Classic signs. Took the useful bits. Dumped the rest."
Anderson nodded absently, tapping at the evidence tray with a pen. "Third case this month. Same pattern."
Enola said nothing.
Only her eyes moved — slow, clinical.
Something didn’t sit right.
Organ traffickers didn’t bother separating scraps.
They didn’t leave random teeth behind.
And they certainly didn’t vanish the body itself.
Usually, they worked fast. Dirty.
Bodies hollowed out. Dumped. Delayed discovery.
This wasn’t that.
This felt deliberate.
Curated.
She shifted her gaze, zeroing in on the loose molars — discarded like pebbles.
Teeth were valuable.
Black market dentistry. Identity forgeries. Occult rituals.
And yet... thrown away here, without care.
If this was just an organ job, why leave anything behind?
Especially something as profitable as teeth?
The others could keep chasing the obvious explanation.
Enola filed the questions away — quiet, careful.
For now, there were bigger pieces still missing.
The body.
The story.
The real motive.
She straightened from the evidence table, peeling off her gloves with a sharp snap.
Donovan was still scribbling notes furiously, pretending not to glance at her every few seconds.
Lestrade, ever the reluctant peacekeeper, rubbed the back of his neck and cleared his throat.
"All right," he muttered. "We need a way forward. Ideas?"
Donovan didn’t miss a beat.
"I’ll pull online chatter," she said crisply, flipping to a fresh page in her notebook. "Deep web auctions, dark web forums. If someone’s moving organs, body parts — hell, even human scraps — they’re talking about it somewhere."
Enola arched an eyebrow, almost amused.
"Digital ghosts," she murmured, voice soft and almost indulgent. "How quaint."
Donovan shot her a sharp look. "It’s standard procedure."
Enola tilted her head, eyes gleaming faintly with something too sharp to be called humor.
"Of course it is," she said, almost purring. "Because everything illegal happens neatly online, doesn’t it?"
Lestrade sighed heavily. "Girls—"
But Donovan was already bristling.
"You have a better idea?" she snapped.
Enola smiled — faint, maddening.
"As a matter of fact, I do."
She stepped closer to the center of the room, boots tapping softly against the tile.
"There’s a market," Enola said simply. "A real one. Physical. Hidden in London’s bones. Somewhere the forgotten things go to be sold."
Donovan let out a short, incredulous laugh.
"You think there’s a physical black market running under our noses and we haven’t noticed?"
Her tone dripped with sarcasm.
Enola’s smile widened — cool and wicked.
"I think," she said, "you haven’t been looking in the right places."
Donovan opened her mouth — clearly ready to unleash a tirade about how this wasn’t Sherlock’s fantasy novel — but Lestrade cut across them, voice sharp.
"Enough."
Both women turned slightly toward him — Donovan tense, Enola maddeningly relaxed.
Lestrade exhaled, tired but firm.
"Donovan, pull your online chatter. Cast the net wide. Use the new clearance tags — if anything pings weird, I want to know."
Donovan bristled, but nodded stiffly.
"And you," he said, turning to Enola, "if you think there’s a... physical market out there, fine. Start digging."
He gave her a small, grim smile.
"Quietly."
Enola dipped her chin in acknowledgment — a soldier accepting orders she would obey only as far as they suited her.
Donovan gathered her notes with quick, sharp motions, shooting one last glare at Enola.
"You’ll see," she muttered under her breath, stalking toward the door. "Fairy tales don’t solve murders."
Enola watched her go, expression unreadable.
Then, once Donovan was out of earshot, she murmured — almost to herself:
"Only because you’re too scared to follow the breadcrumbs."
Lestrade caught it — barely — but decided wisely to pretend he hadn’t.
Instead, he simply muttered:
"Do you need backup?"
Enola paused, one hand on the doorframe.
"No," she said — steady, unbothered.
But something made her hesitate.
Not fear.
Not doubt.
Just... awareness.
She turned back slightly — just enough to catch the way Lestrade was slumped over his desk again, tired, boxed in by fluorescent lights and endless paperwork.
A man built for motion, for street grit and cigarette breaks and walking crime scenes until his knees ached — trapped behind forms and procedure.
Something tugged at her.
Irrational.
Unnecessary.
Still.
She tilted her head, studying him for a beat longer than necessary.
"Would you like to come?" she asked simply.
Lestrade looked up, surprised.
For a second — just a second — he looked almost young again.
Like someone had offered him a door out of a burning building.
Then he masked it — old instinct — into a gruff little huff.
"You sure?" he asked. "Thought you preferred working alone."
Enola gave the faintest shrug — elegant, careless.
"I don't mind company," she said.
"Besides," she added dryly, "Sherlock gets an assistant. I don’t see why I shouldn’t have one."
(Which, coming from her, might as well have been an engraved invitation.)
Lestrade straightened, snagged his battered jacket off the back of his chair, and grabbed his badge out of habit.
"Where are we headed?" he asked, half-wary, half-wry.
Enola's smile was small. Sharp. Dangerous.
"Down," she said simply.
And together — without backup, without orders, without permission — they slipped out into the cold, wet London night.
Where the city’s veins ran deepest.
Where the real market waited.
And where, very soon, the hunt would begin.