(Alice’s POV STILL: )

MORNING

We were all sitting at a table in a café the next morning. The night before I had gone home and got a change of clothes and a shower since I skipped the day before. I was wearing a purple jumper and black skinny jeans and my regular boots.

John was tucking into a cooked breakfast and had a mug of tea in front of him while Sherlock was drumming his fingers impatiently on the table across from John waiting for the pink phone – which was lying on the table – to ring. I sat next to Sherlock, sipping my coffee.

“Feeling better?” Sherlock asked, referring to John’s earlier complaints about hunger.

“Mmm. You realize we’ve hardly stopped for breath since this thing started?” He asked, shoveling another forkful in and looking thoughtful. “Has it occurred to you...?” He began after swallowing.

“Probably.” Sherlock interrupted.

“No – has it occurred to you that the bomber’s playing a game with you? The envelope; breaking into the other flat; the dead kid’s shoes – it’s all meant for you.” John said, still thinking.

“Yes, I know.” Sherlock answered, him and I both smiling slightly.

“Is it him, then? Moriarty?” John asked again, getting a bit solemn.

“Perhaps.” Sherlock replied. For the first time I didn’t understand. I gave Sherlock a confused look and John was about to explain when the mobile beeped a message alert. Sherlock switched it on and it sounded two short Greenwich pips, followed by the longer tone, and a photograph of a smiling middle-aged woman appeared on the screen.

“Connie Prince…” I murmured, not loud enough for even Sherlock to hear me.

“That could be anybody.” Sherlock complained. I rolled my eyes. He never watched the telly.

“Well, it could be, yeah. Lucky for you, I’ve been more than a little unemployed.” John said, taking a bite and waving his fork around in the air.

“How d’you mean?” Sherlock asked.

“Lucky for you, Mrs. Hudson and I watch far too much telly.” John replied, standing up and walking to the counter. Smiling at the woman behind the counter, he picked up a remote and switched on the small television that hung on the wall. He switched through the channels a couple of times before finding what he wanted. The woman from the photograph was on the screen, partway through her make-over show. She was gesturing to someone off-screen.

“Thank you, Tyra! Doesn’t she look lovely, everybody, now?” The woman announced on the telly. The pink phone rang. “Anyway, speaking of silk purses and sows’ ears...” She continued. I handed Sherlock the phone and he answered it.

“Hello?"

“This one...is a bit...defective. Sorry.” An old woman spoke tremulously in a Yorkshire accent. “She’s blind. This is...a funny one.” John walked back over to the table. “I’ll give you...twelve hours.” Sherlock and I looked at John as he sat down again. The woman was speaking a bit more quietly than the others, so I leaned closer to the phone, earning a suggestive look from John.

“Why are you doing this?” Sherlock asked.

“I like...to watch you...dance.” She replied. I scowled. Sherlock lowered the phone and shook his head at John, then dropped the phone onto the table as he turned to look at the TV.

“...and I see you’re back to your bad habits.” Connie said. As the footage continues, a voiceover replaced her voice and a news headline at the bottom of the screen read: Make-over Queen Connie Prince dead at 48. “...continuing into the sudden death of the popular TV personality, Connie Prince. Miss Prince, famous for her make-over programmes, was found dead two days ago by her brother in the house they shared in Hampstead...”

BART’S MORGUE

Connie Prince’s body had been laid out on a table in the morgue, with a sheet covering her and leaving only her arms and upper chest bare. Lestrade lead us into the room, reading from a file as he went.

“Connie Prince, fifty-four. She had one of those make-over shows on the telly. Did you see it?” Lestrade said, looking up at Sherlock when he asked if he watched the telly.

“No.” Sherlock answered, seeming irritated at the question.

“Very popular. She was going places.” Lestrade replied.

“Not anymore.” I snickered, receiving a stern look from John. I childishly stuck my tongue out at him.  

“So: dead two days. According to one of her staff, Raoul de Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden. Nasty wound.” Sherlock deduced, choosing to ignore John and I’s interactment. Sherlock and John looked at the deep cut in the webbing between her right thumb and index finger.

“Tetanus bacteria enters the bloodstream – good night Vienna.” I finished, not bothering to inspect the wound.

“I suppose.” John said.

“Something’s wrong with this picture.” Sherlock announced.

“Eh?” Lestrade grunted.

“Can’t be as simple as it seems, otherwise the bomber wouldn’t be directing us towards it. Something’s wrong.” I said, looking at the DI with my hands in my jean pockets. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he looked down at the body, then bent closer to look along Connie’s right arm as he took his magnifier from his pocket. There were several scratches on her upper arm which looked like claw marks. He moved up to her face and noticed some tiny pinpricks on her forehead just above her nose. He looked at them through the magnifier.

“John?” Sherlock asked.

“Mmm.” He answered in his usual way.

“The cut on her hand: it’s deep; would have bled a lot, right?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah.” John shrugged.

“But the wound’s clean – very clean, and fresh.” Sherlock looked up, his eyes flickering as he thought it through. He then straightened up and clicked the magnifier closed. “How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?” He asked.

“Eight, ten days.” John replied. Sherlock quirked a one-sided grin and turned to John and I, waiting for him to put it all together. It didn’t take him long, thankfully.

"The cut was made later.” John realized. I nodded beside him supportively.

“After she was dead?” Lestrade asked.

“Must have been. The only question is; how did the tetanus enter the dead woman’s system?” I said, looking at Lestrade knowingly. John looked along the body thoughtfully.

“You want to help, right?” Sherlock asked.

“Of course.” John nodded, looking back at his friend.

“Connie Prince’s background – family history, everything. Give me data.” Sherlock ordered.

“Right.” John said, offering for me to come with him. I would have, but I didn’t like cats, so I stayed with Sherlock. He looked at Connie’s body one more time, then turned and left with me behind him. 

“There’s something else that we haven’t thought of.” Lestrade said before we could leave.

“Is there?” Sherlock asked casually.

“Yes. Why is he doing this, the bomber?” Lestrade confirmed. Sherlock stopped, keeping his back to the inspector and me but looking a little anxious. I was contemplating telling the DI myself. “If this woman’s death was suspicious, why point it out?” Lestrade continued.

“Good Samaritan.” Sherlock said nonchalantly, looking over his shoulder. His eyes caught mine for a second. He turned his head back and tried to move away again, but Lestrade persisted.  

“...who press-gangs suicide bombers?” He asked.

“Bad Samaritan.” Sherlock said sarcastically.

“I’m – I’m serious, Sherlock. Listen: I’m cutting you slack here; I’m trusting you – but out there somewhere, some poor b*stard’s covered in Semtex and is just waiting for you to solve the puzzle. So just tell me: what are we dealing with?” Lestrade demanded. Sherlock looked away thoughtfully then smiled in delight.

“Something new.” He said. We left, but not before I gave Lestrade a sympathetic glance.

Kay, sorry this took a bit to update... I had a long, exhausting weekend. Please comment and vote to make me happy :P Thank YOU