Chapter Text
Sherlock Holmes was a very busy man. A mind full of structured solutions and informations, he liked to use it all the time. He needed to use it all the time. And the heavy rain that had been going on for two days straight did not seem to understand that…
The rain indirectly disturbed Sherlock’s peace of mind. There were no crime scenes and no calls where he was needed, and it was slowly driving him mad.
This persistent boredom made Sherlock do everything he could in his small flat, excluding interacting with other people—not that it would cure the boredom because of their lack of knowledge—but a chat with John would have sufficed. Except, John was also trapped in his house by the heavy rain, and he had his wife to take care of. With John’s decreasing visits, and Mary approaching her labour, it was another minus for Sherlock’s luck.
Another activity was playing his violin, which lasted for hours, until his brain began to itch again for structure, for reeling, weighted information. Sherlock dropped the violin and went to the kitchen for another round of experiments.
Midnight came and went—a time when people should have retreated to their beds long ago—but Sherlock could not sleep. His body did not need sleep, not right now. What it truly needed was adrenaline pumping and blood rushing through his face, but such an activity was a luxury in this kind of weather.
By the time morning approached, he was still in the kitchen, absorbed in his experiments—a slightly acceptable activity for his mind, even though it demanded more and more every second. At around eight in the morning, Sherlock finished his last experiment, cracked his neck and knuckles, and stood up, feeling useless and annoyed. He went straight to the shower.
What should have been a peaceful, relaxing shower only made him more irritated, the pounding of the water too similar to the rain that had made his past few days miserable.
After the shower, still in a foul mood, he dressed in his usual white button-up shirt and black trousers and returned to the living room, completely without purpose. He hoped to find a lead in today’s newspaper, accompanied by a cup of bitter coffee.
At least it had not rained since dawn. The weather forecast predicted rain again around 9.00 a.m.—they were often wrong, and that sparked a small flicker of hope in Sherlock.
As he flipped through the newspaper, finding nothing of interest, someone knocked on his door. It could only be one person. Mrs. Hudson, his landlady, her footsteps echoing through the flat with her sensible shoes. The familiar three knocks came, followed by a pause due to the lack of response, before she let herself in anyway.
“Sherlock, you’re up early on a Sunday morning,” she said, walking over to where he sat in his armchair and stopping at his left.
“Up? I was never down to begin with,” Sherlock replied shortly. He discarded the newspaper onto the small table beside him and began fiddling with his phone, switching it on and off, waiting for a call—any call.
“Oh, that’s not healthy, dear. And have you eaten breakfast? I’m not even sure there’s food in that stuffed fridge…” Mrs. Hudson grimaced, likely thinking about the unusual items that were not meant to be stored there.
Sherlock did not reply. He kept flicking his phone on and off, his eyes glued to the screen, his free fingers tapping rapidly against the armrest. He could practically hear his mind ringing.
Mrs. Hudson shifted her weight back and forth a few times before breaking the silence. “Anyway, I’m here to tell you—”
RING!
A call. Sherlock sprang out of his chair, startling Mrs. Hudson and earning an “oh, my!” He answered immediately.
“Morning, is this Mr. Holmes’ phone number? We got it from D.I. Lestrade.”
“Yes, this is Sherlock Holmes,” he said as he paced across the living room, leaving Mrs. Hudson standing beside the armchair where she had remained since entering.
“We’re from the CTP. There’s been a terrorist attack not long ago at the Palace of Westminster. We can’t identify the bomber, and—”
“Alright. Tell me the details when I get there,” Sherlock cut in, already moving toward his wardrobe as he ended the call. He pulled on his vest, coat, and scarf, ready to head out. A giddy sensation rose in his chest, and he could not help the small smirk that appeared on his face.
When he passed back through the living room, Mrs. Hudson was still standing there, utterly bewildered. He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.
“I’ll be off now, Mrs. Hudson. Have a wonderful day.” with that, he walked out of the flat, leaving her alone.
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Hudson murmured to the emptiness of the room, “sometimes I worry for that boy…”
She never even got the chance to tell Sherlock why she had come.
“Taxi!” Sherlock waved his hand as he watched one nearing.
“The Palace of Westminster,” he said as he got in and made himself comfortable.
The weather felt damp and chilly, the clouds covering the sun and casting a gloomy pall over the day. It was a sharp contrast to how Sherlock felt now. One quick glance at him and you would see him practically glowing, one knee tapping incessantly with mounting excitement.
When they arrived, the place was crowded with onlookers and reporters clustered around the police line. Sherlock forced his way through, bumping into others and murmuring an irritated, “Does no one here have anything better to do?”
He finally reached the crime scene, ducking under the police tape. Someone from the crowd shouted, “Hey, you can’t go in there!” Sherlock ignored it entirely. Explaining would be a waste of time.
As he approached the damaged side of the building, a tall blond man stepped toward him. Long legs, wide shoulders, but swift movements—former gymnast or acrobat, perhaps.
“Ah, you must be Mr. Holmes?” The man sounded uncertain, though his expression suggested he already knew what Sherlock looked like, likely from Lestrade.
“Yes. Sherlock Holmes.” He raised his hand, and the man shook it. The grip was calloused—a sign of frequent fieldwork.
“My name is Constable Harry Jones. Shall we discuss the attack?” He gestured for Sherlock to follow him toward the damaged section of the Palace.
The damage was far from fatal. The blast radius was small, the device clearly handmade and underdeveloped. Only a corner of the Palace was affected, part of the wall blown open, grass scorched and torn, the destruction stopping just short of the Thames. Sherlock reconstructed the incident in his mind, his gaze drifting inexorably toward the river.
“Mr. Holmes?” Jones snapped him back to attention, astonished by the lack of response.
“Sorry. What were you saying?” Sherlock asked just to be polite. After all, this man had saved him from boredom-induced insanity.
Jones repeated himself. “The attack happened nearly two hours ago. We arrived fifteen minutes after the explosion and no one was seen nearby. The bomb was crude, nothing sophisticated. But we can’t identify the bomber. The CCTV failed about twenty minutes before the explosion—likely intentional. We’ve checked everything.”
Sherlock nodded along, feigning interest. This is clearly child’s play.
“Allow me to dig… deeper,” he said, forcing a polite smile despite the irritation rising within him at their lack of thorough examination. This wasn’t Scotland Yard. These people weren’t used to his methods.
He walked toward the Thames. Earlier—before Jones interrupted him—he had noticed clumsy footprints in the damaged grass. It showed a moment of hesitation, with one particularly prominent footprint stopping just at the river’s edge.
Sherlock peered down at the water; his reflection warped beneath the grey sky.
Amateur. Teenage boy, judging by the shoe size. Panicked movements, no structured escape plan. Realised too late he’d brought evidence. Threw it into the river last minute—likely a backpack. The CCTV failure suggested outside help: a hacker, perhaps a radical group.
Sherlock walked back to where Jones was talking with his two subordinates.
“So, did you find anything, Mr. Holmes?” he asked immediately upon seeing Sherlock approach. The two subordinates turned their heads toward him—one a heavy smoker, betrayed by premature wrinkles and yellowed teeth. The other an anxious thinker, his nails bitten down to the quick.
“You’ll find the terrorist’s identity in the river,” Sherlock said lightly.
“You mean he drowned?” the heavy-smoking officer asked skeptically.
Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, calming himself as an outburst threatened to rise. “No. His identity. There’s a bag thrown in the river.”
“But Mr. Holmes, surely he wouldn’t be naïve enough to dump evidence there,” Jones said.
“Oh, but he was,” Sherlock replied sharply. “An amateur. Evident from the underdeveloped device alone.”
“But you haven’t even seen the bomb...” Jones pressed.
“The damage speaks for itself,” Sherlock snapped, arms crossed, his foot tapping rapidly as he gestured toward the building.
“We checked the riverbank and found nothing,” the anxious thinker officer added.
“That’s because— Oh, for God’s sake!”
That was the moment Sherlock had had enough. He had no patience left for their doubts or questions. They couldn’t even see what was happening right under their noses!
He strode to the river’s edge, shrugged off his coat and scarf, and kicked off his shoes and socks.
“Amateurs. Them and the bomber,” he muttered.
“Mr. Holmes, are you sure?” Jones called.
Sherlock shot him a glare and plunged into the Thames.
He swam along the edge until his hand brushed against fabric—a black backpack lodged in the shallows. He retrieved it easily and hauled himself back out, tossing the bag onto the ground.
Jones and some of his subordinates watched silently as the scene unfolded.
Sherlock slicked his hair back, shivering as the cold seeped in. The wetness clinging to him was another annoyance, but it quickly paid off when Jones and his subordinates realised that Sherlock had been right.
“Be my guest,” he said, gesturing grandly to the bag.
Jones and his team rifled through it. One officer handed Sherlock a towel at Jones’ instruction. Sherlock accepted it without thanks. because they were the ones who should be thanking him.
Inside the backpack, they found: a wallet, an ID, a phone.
Elliott Davies. Nineteen. Scrawny. Radical affiliations confirmed after bypassing the phone’s lock.
While they busied themselves with the findings, the sudden heavy winds dried Sherlock’s clothes unevenly. It was a clear sign a rain would follow soon.
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” Jones said carefully, once the investigation was wrapped up. “We apologize that we didn’t immediately… consider your words.”
“All done?” Sherlock was already moving. He neither acknowledged the apology nor the gratitude. He draped the towel he had been using over Jones’ shoulder, pulled on his socks and shoes, slung his coat over one still-damp shoulder, and walked away.
He walked through the police line once more, now mostly empty, with only a couple of passersby lingering nearby. The wind was picking up, and Sherlock walked on, scanning the street for a cab.
Suddenly, a vibration came from his coat. Sherlock pulled out his phone to find Lestrade calling.
The moment he answered, Lestrade burst into speech. “Sherlock, can you come and help us find a missing woman? She’s supposed to still be in her house, but we’ve searched for hours and can’t find her.”
“The address?” Sherlock replied shortly, brushing his damp hair out of his face as the wind tugged at it.
“32 Grosvenor Square, Mayfair.”
“Alright, I’ll be—Taxi!” he called as one pulled up nearby, ending the call abruptly without finishing his sentence.
As he slid inside the cab, he couldn’t stop another surge of excitement from climbing up his spine. Two cases in a day, after two days of nothing? Practically a gift. He wouldn’t call the terrorist attack a case though—it barely required any work, offering none of the usual satisfaction. It had been too simple, taken only because he had been desperate that morning, willing to accept anything without question.
But this—this was Scotland Yard. And Scotland Yard cases were usually interesting enough to keep him entertained...
A fifteen-minute cab ride had left his clothes fully dry thanks to the air conditioning. Sherlock put his coat back on and paid the cabbie as they arrived, stopping in front of a rather elegant house. The front door stood wide open; Sherlock could already see Lestrade and several of his officers inside. He climbed the short steps and entered.
“Sherlock, just in time! I knew you’d come straight here after helping Harry,” Lestrade greeted him immediately, patting Sherlock on the shoulder.
Harry? Oh—Jones. Sherlock almost instantly forgot the moron’s name.
“Yes. I’d had enough of them,” Sherlock replied, his brows knitting at the lingering irritation.
Lestrade didn’t press further. “Anyway, the woman’s name is Maya Murks. She worked as an HR manager at Bright Spot, married to Keith Murks, a butcher. Two children, both in school. Her co-worker filed the missing report—she’s been gone for two days, and neither her husband nor her children know where she is. The next-door neighbour said she last saw her enter the house, and she hasn’t seen her leave since. That’s why we cleared the place, she must still be in here.” Lestrade’s confidence faltered slightly as he continued, “But we haven’t had a clue where she might be. All we found out is that her husband likes to drink.”
That much was obvious, Sherlock thought. Several empty vodka bottles littered the area near the sofa. By the smell of it, one had been opened recently—probably that morning. Keith Murks clearly loved to drink and hadn’t bothered hiding it from his children.
As Sherlock sank deeper into thought, Anderson ruined the moment. “Don’t you dare play around with any evidence,” he snapped from behind the sofa.
“Seeing someone new, Anderson?” Sherlock said mildly. “The floral perfume and the lipstick stain inside your collar rather give it away. Donovan out of town?” He glanced at Lestrade for confirmation.
“Y—yes,” Lestrade answered awkwardly. “Her sister’s getting married in Greenwich.”
Anderson gaped, then trudged back to the corner where he’d been standing.
As Sherlock surveyed the ground floor, he found nothing that qualified as a real lead. Only that Keith was a drunken mess who liked to damage furniture and had anger issues. The children lacked toys, and Maya clearly didn’t cook—judging by the abundance of microwavable meals crammed into the fridge.
“Show me their bedroom,” Sherlock said at last.
“Nothing interesting up there. We’ve already checked,” Lestrade replied.
“Then I’ll show myself,” Sherlock said, already heading for the stairs.
“Wait—Sherlock, I’ll follow you!” Lestrade called, hurrying after him.
The bedroom was tidy, despite the lingering stench of vodka and the familiar cluster of empty bottles on Keith’s side of the bed. There were no wedding photographs on the walls, just like downstairs. No family portraits anywhere. However, on Maya’s side of the bed sat a small picture frame. It showed Maya with her two children, though the photo itself looked incomplete, a part of it had been torn away.
An unhappy marriage.
From the signs now falling neatly into place, Sherlock concluded that Maya had been the family’s backbone, while Keith was the freeloader. Worse than that, he was resentful of her success, jealous, and prone to confrontation.
Still studying the photo, Sherlock noticed a slip of paper protruding slightly from behind the frame. He opened it at once and pulled the paper free.
A lottery ticket.
It was registered under the name Maya Harrow—her maiden name. No association with her husband. She had won one million pounds. Five days ago. The ticket had already been signed and cashed.
“Lestrade,” Sherlock said calmly, “I need you to check Maya’s bank account.”
Lestrade, who had been quietly observing, crossed his arms. “And why would I do that?”
“To find a missing wife whose husband isn’t concerned in the slightest.”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at…” Lestrade said, raising an eyebrow.
“You don’t need to be. Just get a laptop and do as I say.” Sherlock’s tone brooked no argument.
Lestrade sighed, recognising that look, and finally nodded. “Alright.”
“Oh—and don’t bring anyone else up here,” Sherlock added.
Lestrade didn’t reply. He headed downstairs and returned shortly with a laptop. He sat on Maya’s side of the bed while Sherlock took the spot beside him, watching closely as Lestrade accessed Scotland Yard’s financial records and pulled up Maya’s account.
“There,” Sherlock said sharply, pointing at the screen. “One million pounds deposited. And two days ago, every last penny transferred out.”
Lestrade blinked. “That’s a lot of money. Where did she get it from?”
“Check where it went,” Sherlock replied, ignoring the question.
Lestrade clicked through the transaction details. His expression shifted.
“Keith Murks…” they murmured at the same time.
Sherlock immediately rearranged the scene in his mind, step by step, until it all finally clicked.
“Of course,” he muttered. “There’s only one thing left to check.” he straightened abruptly and half-ran downstairs.
“Wait—Sherlock!” Lestrade hurried after him, snapping the unused laptop shut and tucking it under his arm.
Sherlock moved straight to the kitchen, scanning every angle. His gaze locked onto a high shelf that sat just slightly askew.
“He tried to hide it,” Sherlock said under his breath.
He pulled the crooked shelf forward. Plates and bowls clattered noisily against one another, the sound echoing through the kitchen. It was loud enough to draw Anderson in.
“You’re just letting him wreck someone’s house, Greg?” Anderson said incredulously, staring at Sherlock.
“Stay out of this, Anderson,” Lestrade snapped, holding him back. Even he could tell Sherlock had found something important.
Sherlock tuned them out completely. With one final shove, the shelf slid aside, revealing what he had been looking for.
A freezer room.
“A butcher would have a freezer room in his house,” Sherlock said flatly, glancing back at Lestrade, who still looked uncertain about how this related to the missing woman.
Sherlock opened the door. A blast of icy air hit him immediately—far colder than the river had been that morning. He shivered once but didn’t react further. Lestrade followed him inside, and Anderson hovered close behind, clearly determined not to be excluded.
The room was meticulously organised. Identical white Styrofoam containers were lined up in neat rows.
But one of them emitted a faint but unmistakable odour…
Sherlock approached it without hesitation and lifted the lid.
Inside was Maya’s mutilated body—precisely cut, carefully packed into the container. Sherlock’s expression didn’t change. He had already anticipated this from the evidence that had led him here.
Lestrade leaned in behind him. “What is it, Sherlock?” he asked then nearly retched when he saw.
“We’ve found Maya Murks,” Sherlock announced casually, straightening as he moved on to check the remaining containers.
Anderson arrived late to the party, peering over Lestrade’s shoulder. His face drained of colour. He immediately began rifling through the other boxes Sherlock had already opened.
“L-look—livers. Intestines,” Anderson stammered, pointing with shaking hands. “Keith Murks must be a cannibal. He’s collecting organs—he planned to eat her too. We need to catch him!”
“A murderer,” Sherlock corrected coolly, shoving his freezing hands into his coat pockets. “Not a cannibal. Those are cow livers and intestines. I’d be embarrassed if I were you, making accusations without even checking your facts.”
Anderson fell silent. Shock had clearly made him even less coherent than usual.
Sherlock left the freezer room, with Lestrade and Anderson trailing behind him. Lestrade immediately ordered his officers to secure the container.
He then asked Sherlock to walk him through the sequence of events, which Sherlock did succinctly, leaving Lestrade to jot it down for the report.
“I’m done here,” Sherlock announced at last, already heading for the door.
“Do you want Anderson to give you a lift?” Lestrade called after him.
“Over my dead body,” Sherlock replied flatly. He would rather throw himself under the bus than spend another minute with that minuscule brain.
“Someone else, then? It’s raining hard, Sherlock.”
Yes, Sherlock was aware. He wasn’t blind.
“No. I’ll take a taxi,” Sherlock said, stepping out the front door. The wind-driven rain immediately soaked him as he descended the steps.
He shivered violently, the cold from the freezer room still clinging to him, now worsened by the harsh weather. He straightened his collar to shield his neck and walked forward without looking back, aiming to find a cab.
As he walked further, there were no signs of life on the streets—only the occasional residential car passing by. Everyone seemed to have chosen the comfort of their houses.
Sherlock crossed his arms against the cold and ducked his head deeper into his collar. He could feel the chill piercing straight into his bones.
Fifteen minutes passed. At this rate, he wouldn’t be finding a taxi anytime soon. So, he hugged himself tighter and decided to walk all the way home through the heavy rain. It wasn’t as if this was the first time he’d walked home drenched, right?
Precisely thirty minutes later, he arrived at his beloved flat. What had felt suffocating that morning was now something he longed for, a shelter and a warm greeting. Except when Sherlock stepped inside, he felt no such warmth. Instead, he sneezed three times in quick succession. The cold clinging to his frame made him shudder violently.
But he couldn’t afford a hot shower now. He had another case waiting—an appointment he’d made two days ago with the German police. So, Sherlock stripped off his wet clothes, toweled himself dry, and pulled on his blue-and-white striped pyjamas. He ruffled his still-wet hair with the towel, deeming it acceptable once it was only partially wet. Even though, when he walked back to his desk, droplets still occasionally fell from his curls.
Sherlock didn’t care. The simple relief of dry clothes and the slight easing of the cold was enough for him. He opened his laptop and began reading the information from the German police. A runaway mafia case.
Half an hour in, as he focused on the details, his head began to spin violently. A pounding sensation followed, accompanied by another wave of shivers—twice as sharp as before.
This is not normal, Sherlock thought distantly.
He tried to ignore it once the spinning settled. But soon the words on the screen blurred, swaying unnaturally. A cold spread from the crown of his head down to the tips of his toes, and his teeth began to chatter.
Useless transport. Sickness was inconvenient, an utter waste of time. And Sherlock knew he would loathe every second of it.
The pounding became unbearable. Sherlock dropped his head, pressing his forehead into the desk. But the movement left his back exposed to the cold air, and he slowly lifted his heavy head again.
He slumped back into his chair, every bone aching. That was when he finally accepted defeat and pushed himself to stand, intending to retrieve some pills from the bathroom.
The moment he stood, the room tilted violently. He swayed, nearly toppling into the desk.
Sherlock pressed a hand to his pounding head and moved slowly, gripping whatever he could reach to keep himself upright. The bathroom suddenly felt too far away.
Instead, he turned toward the sofa.
As he managed to stop in front of the sofa, he immediately slumped down, shivers wracking his body violently. Sherlock tried to find something that might warm him. He ran a hand blindly over the sofa until his fingers caught on fabric. He cracked his eyes open slightly and saw a jumper.
John’s jumper… he thought blearily.
He slowly shifted, sitting more securely on the sofa, and wrapped the jumper tightly around his feet. It still wasn’t enough. The cold clung to him stubbornly. He called out weakly, “Mrs. Hudson… some blankets, please…”
His voice came out so faint that he barely recognised it.
No answer.
So, he tried to make himself comfortable. The exhaustion he had built up by neglecting his own welfare was finally catching up to him. He curled in on himself, hugging his own frame with shaking arms, until consciousness slipped away.
His fevered sleep was just as restless as his waking hours. Before Sherlock could register it, it twisted into a nightmare he was unaware of.
He was back by the Thames.
But this time, Mycroft was there with him—an unusual, wrong detail. Mycroft hated fieldwork.
Without warning, Mycroft plunged into the water.
“No—Mycroft!” Sherlock shouted.
The river widened unnaturally, the current steepening, darkening. Mycroft didn’t resurface.
The water crept toward Sherlock’s feet, cold fingers curling around his ankles. It pulled harder, dragging him forward, swallowing him whole as the river stretched into a vast, endless sea...