(So Sherlock sent me on a mission to gather information about Connie Prince from her brother Kenny Prince. Although it was supposed to be John's but Sherlock later on changed his mind and told me to do it. I suppose now he's trying to see how I do on my own. Well let's see)

(So currently I find myself sitting inside Connie Prince's house talking to Kenny who was sitting on a sofa opposite to mine, looking peaky)

Kenny: We're devastated. Of course we are.

Raoul: Can I get you anything, ma'am?

(Y/N): Oh no thank you. I'm good

Kenny: Raoul is my rock. I don't think I could have managed.

(He looks down sadly)

Kenny: We didn't always see eye to eye, but my sister was very dear to me.

(His cat was already up on my lap and it started to meow loudly in protest after I picked it up and put it down beside me)

(No offense...but that's one ugly looking cat)

(Y/N): And- and to the public, Mr. Prince.

Kenny: Oh, she was adored. I've seen her take girls who looked like the back end of Routemasters and turn them into princesses.

(God...this damn cat..)

Kenny: Still, it's a relief in a way to know that she's beyond this veil of tears.

(Y/N): Right of course...um

(I put the cat down on the floor this time)

(Kenny gets up and goes by the fireplace, looking thoughtfully at a framed photograph of Connie holding her TV award)

(Y/N): Right um..It's more common than people think. The tetanus is in the soil, people cut themselves on rose bushes, garden forks, that sort of thing. If left un...

(I didn't even notice exactly when Kenny walked across the room and plonked down beside me on the couch, staring at me intently)

(Y/N): ..treated...

Kenny: I don't know what I'm going to do now.

(Y/N): Uh huh....

Kenny: I mean, she's left me this place, which is lovely...

(It really isn't...I hate the decor)

Kenny: ..but it's not the same without her.

(Y/N): Th-that's why my paper wanted to get the, um, the full story straight from the horse's mouth.

(I move away from him a bit but he just keeps coming closer)

(What the hell is his problem?)

(Y/N): Sir, are you sure it's not too soon?

Kenny: No.

(Y/N): Right. Okay then

(He's still staring at me intently)

Kenny: You fire away.

(Oh God...why did I agree to this?)

(I rub a nose a little bit because that's usually the thing I do when I'm nervous but I noticed a certain smell on my fingers, realising that they're probably from the cat)

(Y/N): Could you um...excuse me for one moment?

(I say as I carefully get up from the couch and make my way in another room. I take out my phone and call Sherlock)

Sherlock: (Y/N)?

(Y/N): Yeah okay...I think I might be into something so can you get here please? And uh do you have a pen?

Sherlock: I'll remember-

(Y/N): And get here quick okay? He's freaking me out

Sherlock: I thought you could handle pressure

(I can just hear him smiling from the other side of the phone)

(Y/N): Guns, bombs, killers yeah I can handle. But if 'pressure' also involves me getting hit on by 60 year men with the worst taste in home decor and pets then uh sorry Sherlock, I think I should resign

(He laughs a bit at that)

Sherlock: I'm on my way

(I put the phone down)

(Is it just me or I make him smile a lot more than usual?)

_________________________________________

(After a little while Sherlock barges in through the door, holding a huge ass camera)

(Y/N): That'll be him.

Kenny: What?

Sherlock: Ah, Mr. Prince, isn't it?

Kenny: Yes.

(They shake hands quickly)

Sherlock: Very good to meet you.

Kenny: Yes; thank you.

Sherlock: So sorry to hear about...

Kenny: Yes, yes, very kind.

(Well that was an abrupt response)

(Y/N): Shall we, er...

(Sherlock nods and immediately starts taking some closeup photographs of Kenny's face making him blink furiously)

Kenny: Not too close. I'm raw from crying

MEOW~~~

Sherlock: Uh who's this?

(The cat meows at Sherlock's feet)

Kenny: Sekhmet. Named after the Egyptian goddess

Sherlock: How nice, was she Connie's?

Kenny: Yes

(Y/N): Sherlock. Uh. Light reading?

Sherlock: Oh

(He starts taking the pictures again and while Kenny was distracted by the flash, I took the time to smell the cat's nails)

Kenny: What's going on??!

(Y/N): Uh yes thank you I think we've gotten everything we need. Sherlock let's go? Now?

Kenny: What?

(Y/N): Thank you sir!

(Sherlock and I bolted from there and I start laughing excitedly as we walk down the pavement towards the main door)

(Y/N): I think I just solved the case!

(Sherlock continues to smile)

Sherlock: You think it was the cat. It wasn't the cat.

(Y/N): What? No, yes. Yeah, it is. It must be. It's how they got the tetanus into her system. Its paws stink of disinfectant.

Sherlock: Lovely idea.

(He replies sarcastically)

Watson: No, he coated it onto the paws of her cat. It's a new pet, bound to be a bit jumpy around her. A scratch is almost inevitable. She wouldn't have...

Sherlock: I thought of it the minute I saw the scratches on her arm, but it's too random and too clever for the brother.

(Y/N): He murdered his sister for her money.

Sherlock: Did he?

(Y/N): Didn't he?

Sherlock: No. It was revenge.

(Y/N): Revenge? Who wanted revenge?

Sherlock: Raoul, the houseboy. Kenny Prince was the butt of his sister's jokes, week in, week out, a virtual bullying campaign. Finally he had enough; fell out with her badly. It's all on the website. She threatened to disinherit Kenny. Raoul had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle, so...

(I stop in my tracks and he does as well and faces me)

(Y/N): No, wait, wait. Wait a second. What about the disinfectant, then, on the cat's claws?

Sherlock: Raoul keeps a very clean house. You came through the kitchen door, saw the state of that floor, scrubbed to within an inch of its life.

(He takes a quick sniff and looks down the road)

Sherlock:...You smell of disinfectant now. No, the cat doesn't come into

(I smell my shirt a bit. Holy shit, I really do)

Sherlock:...Raoul's Internet records do, though. Hope we can get a cab from here.

(He starts to trot again as I sigh hard and look down)

(Great..the one time I thought I actually figured something out by myself...)

________________________________________

SCOTLAND YARD

(We were back in the station again as Sherlock converses with Lestrade while giving him some files)

Sherlock: Raoul de Santos is your killer. Kenny Prince's houseboy. Second autopsy shows it wasn't tetanus that poisoned Connie Prince, it was botulinum toxin.

(Lestrade gets up from a chair and starts to head into his office while we follow him)

Holmes: We've been here before. Carl Powers? Tut-tut. Our bomber's repeated himself.

Lestrade: So how'd he do it?

Sherlock: Botox injection.

Lestrade: Botox?

Sherlock: Botox is a diluted form of botulinum. Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the Home Office gave me the complete records of Raoul's Internet purchases. He's been bulk ordering Botox for months. Bided his time, then upped the strength to a fatal dose.

(Sherlock sits down on Lestrade's chair to which Lestrade was completely fine with)

Lestrade: You sure about this?

Holmes: I'm sure.

Lestrade: Right

(Lestrade goes out of the office for a bit as John goes towards Sherlock)

John: Hey, Sherlock. How long?

Sherlock: What?

John: How long have you known?

Sherlock: Well, this one was quite simple, actually, and like I said, the bomber repeated himself. That was a mistake.

John: No, but Sherl... The hostage... the old woman. She's been there all this time.

Sherlock: I knew I could save her. I also knew that the bomber had given us twelve hours. I solved the case quickly; that gave me time to get on with other things. Don't you see? We're one up on him!

(John look at me in exasperation and I only shrug to which he purses his lips in frustration)

(Lestrade sat down in front of the desk as John and I were on either side of Sherlock, who was sending the message through the laptop)

(Raoul De Santos, the house-boy, Botox)

(The pink phone rang instantly and Sherlock put it on speaker)

Sherlock: Hello?

Old Woman: *In an anguished voice*Help me.

Sherlock: Tell us where you are. Address.

Old Woman: He was so... His voice...

Holmes: *urgently* No, no, no, no. Tell me nothing about him. Nothing.

Old Woman: He sounded so... soft.

(Suddenly the phone instantly goes dead)

Sherlock: Hello?

Lestrade: Sherlock?

(Y/N): What just happened?

(But he doesn't say anything and instead stares ahead of himself)

(Oh god no....the bomb...it went off. Only because she was describing him?)

(We all had our heads down, knowing that we failed)

_________________________________________

221B. BAKER STREET

(It was morning. I took a shower, changed into some new clothes, ate some food, and started to walk up to Sherlock's flat. The door was open and I could see the boys sitting in their arm chairs looking at the TV Screen above showing an apartment building with a couple of floors just blasted and exposed in the air)

News Reader: The explosion, which ripped through several floors, killing twelve people...

(Y/N): Um..Morning

John: Hey

Sherlock: Morning

John: Old block of flats.

(Y/N): Yeah I can see...

News Reader: ..is said to have been caused by a faulty gas main. A spokesman from the utilities company...

John: He certainly gets about.

Sherlock: Well, obviously I lost that round, although technically I did solve the case.

(Sherlock turns the TV on mute. I make my way into the kitchen and clean the table a bit)

Sherlock: He killed the old lady because she started to describe him.

(He puts his finger up)

Sherlock: Just once, he put himself in the firing line.

John: What d'you mean?

Sherlock: Well, usually, he must stay above it all. He organises these things but no-one ever has direct contact.

John: What... like the Connie Prince murder - he-he arranged that? So people come to him wanting their crimes fixed up, like booking a holiday?

(Sherlock replies softly, his face full of admiration)

Sherlock: Novel.

John: Huh.

Sherlocl: Taking his time this time.

John: Anything on the Carl Powers case?

Holmes: Nothing. All the living classmates check out spotless. No connection.

John: Maybe the killer was older than Carl?

Sherlock: The thought had occurred.

John: So why's he doing this, then - playing this game with you? D'you think he wants to be caught?

Sherlock: *smiling* I think he wants to be distracted.

(John shakes his head in frustration and gets up from his chair, readily to leave the room)

(Does he like...not care at all? About all these people who are being taken hostage? All these people who just died from that explosion?)

(I snapped)

(Y/N): Well aren't you two a match made in heaven...

(John stops and looks at me. Sherlock does as well)

Sherlock: Sorry, what?

(Y/N): There are lives at stake, Sherlock! - actual human lives... Just - just so I know, do you care about that at all?

Sherlock: *irritably* Will caring about them help save them?

(Y/N): *bitterly* I guess not...

Sherlock: Then I'll continue not to make that mistake.

(Y/N): And you find that easy, do you?

Sherlock: Yes, very. Is that news to you?

(I smile bitterly)

(Y/N): No. No.

(I look away and John looks at Sherlock with an expression that clearly said "Stop fighting")

(Sherlock locks eyes with mine for a second)

Sherlock: I've disappointed you.

John: Both of us. That's good, that's a good deduction, yeah.

Sherlock: Don't make people into heroes, (Y/N). Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them.

(The pink phone beeps again as Sherlock takes it and this time it was one short pip and one long time, and a photograph appears showing a river bank)

Sherlock: Excellent! View of the Thames. South Bank - somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo.

(He reaches inside his jacket for his own phone)

Sherlock: One of you check the papers; I'll look online...

(I put my hands on John's chair and look down, trying to calm down as John slightly taps my back)

Sherlock: Oh, you're angry with me, so you won't help.

(I finally raise my head and shrug)

(Might as well do this shit. I signal John that I'm okay and go to the couch and sit down. I open today's papers to see if I find anything. John looks at Sherlock for a second, who is completely focused on his phone, and then continues to go inside the kitchen to make some coffee)

Sherlock: Not much cop, this caring lark.

(Y/N): Archway suicide.

Sherlock: Ten a penny.

(Y/N): Two kids stabbed in Stoke Newington. Ah. Man found on the train line, Andrew West.

(Sherlock doesn't give a fuck about anything I just said and instead calls someone on his phone. Maybe Lestrade)

Sherlock: Nothing!.... It's me. Have you found anything on the South Bank between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge?

_________________________________________

(We're currently on the south bank of the river Thames, there was the the body of a large man wearing black trousers, a white shirt, black socks and no shoes)

(Forensics and other officers were already on the scene as we reach the body. I out on my gloves and start observing the man a bit)

Lestrade: D'you reckon this is connected, then? The bomber?

Sherlock: Must be. Odd, though... he hasn't been in touch.

Lestrade: But we must assume that some poor bugger's primed to explode, yeah?

Sherlock: Yes.

Lestrade: Any ideas?

(After looking at the body closely as well, Sherlock straightens up)

Sherlock: Seven... so far.

Lestrade: Seven?!

(Y/N): He's been dead about twenty-four hours - maybe a bit longer. Did he drown?

Lestrade: Apparently not. Not enough of the Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated.

John: Yes, I'd agree. There's quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth. More bruises here and here.

(John points to the body)

(Sherlock takes out his phone and searches something)

Sherlock: *thoughtfully* Fingertips.

(Y/N): In his late thirties, I'd say. Not in the best condition.

Sherlock: He's been in the river a long while. The water's destroyed most of the data.

(Sherlock grins)

Sherlock: But I'll tell you one thing: that lost Vermeer painting's a fake.

(Uh....the what now?)

Lestrade: What?

(Y/N): Painting?

Sherlock: We need to identify the corpse. Find out about his friends and associates...

Lestrade: Wait-wait-wait-wait-wait. What painting? What are you - what are you on about?

Sherlock: It's all over the place. Haven't you seen the posters? Dutch Old Master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago; now it's turned up. Worth thirty million pounds.

Lestrade: Okay. So what has that got to do with the stuff?

Sherlock:*grinning* Everything. Have you ever heard of the Golem?

Lestrade: Golem?

John: It's a horror story, isn't it? What are you saying?

Sherlock: Jewish folk story. A gigantic man made of clay. It's also the name of an assassin. Real name: Oskar Dzundza. One of the deadliest assassins in the world.

(He points at the fingerprints on the dead man's face)

Sherlock: That is his trademark style.

Lestrade: So this is a hit?

Sherlock: Definitely. The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands.

Lestrade: But what has this gotta do with that painting? I don't see...

Sherlock: You do see, you just don't observe!

(I finally stand up on my feet, annoyed by their fussing)

(Y/N): All right, all right, girls, calm down. Sherlock? D'you wanna take us through it?

(He waits for a moment before responding. He points to the body)

Sherlock: What do we know about this corpse? The killer's not left us with much, just the shirt and the trousers. They're pretty formal, maybe he was going out for the night. The trousers are heavy duty. Polyester, nasty, same as the shirt, cheap. They're both too big for him. So some kind of standard-issue uniform. Dressed for work, then. What kind of work? There's a hook on his belt... for a walkie-talkie.

Lestrade: Tube driver?

(Sherlock throws Lestrade a look which blatantly said 'Idiot')

John: Security guard?

Sherlock: More likely. That'll be borne out by his backside.

Lestrade: Backside?!

Sherlock: Flabby. You'd think that he'd led a sedentary life, yet the soles of his feet and the nascent varicose veins in his legs show otherwise. So, a lot of walking and a lot of sitting around. Security guard's looking good. And the watch helps, too. The alarm shows he did regular night shifts.

Lestrade: Why regular? Maybe he just set his alarm like that the night before he died?

Sherlock: No, no, no. The buttons are stiff, hardly touched. He set his alarm like that a long time ago. His routine never varied. But there's something else. The killer must have been interrupted, otherwise he would have stripped the corpse completely. There was some kind of badge or insignia on the shirt front that he tore off, suggesting the dead man worked somewhere recognisable, some kind of institution.

(He reaches inside his coat pocket)

Sherlock: Found this inside his trouser pockets. Sodden by the river but still recognisably...

(Y/N): Tickets?

Holmes: Ticket stubs. He worked in a museum or gallery. Did a quick check. The Hickman Gallery has reported one of its attendants as missing.

(He points at the body again)

Sherlock: Alex Woodbridge. Tonight they unveil the re-discovered masterpiece. Now why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? In reference, the dead man knew something about it, something that would stop the owner getting paid thirty million pounds. The picture's a fake.

(Oh wow.....)

John: *admiringly* Fantastic.

(Y/N): Amazing...

Sherlock: Meretricious.

Lestrade: And a Happy New Year!

John: Poor sod.

Lestrade: I'd better get my feelers out for this Golem character.

Sherlock: Pointless. You'll never find him. But I know a man who can.

Lestrade: Who?

Sherlock: *grinning* Me.

(He replies and starts to walk away as we follow him)

(Here we go again....)