After the bomber/murderer's hostage was rescued, John insisted on stopping somewhere to eat. You and Sherlock agreed to go somewhere nearby, somewhere it wouldn't be hard to dash out of in case the pink phone rang again. Speaking of the phone, Sherlock had it laying in front of him on the table, and was scowling at it as if he expected it to crumble at his cold blue stare and give him a new case; a new game to play.

     John paused from shoveling bacon into his mouth. "Has it occurred to you-"

     "Probably," you and Sherlock answered at the same time.

      "No. Has it occurred to you-"

     "Definitely," you and Sherlock once again harmonized.

     "Listen!" John sighed. "I can't handle the two of you at once. Just let me speak. What if the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope, breaking into the other flat, Power's shoes. It's all meant for you two."

     "Yes. I know," you said. Beside you, Sherlock smiled faintly.

      "Oh. So is it... them?"

     Sherlock gave John a weird look. "Them?"

      "This... organization. Crime Ltd...Whatever!" John glanced around the room and then leaned in. "Moriarty."

     Sherlock and you exchanged thoughtful looks. You considered it. "Perhaps..."

     The iPhone beeped.

     "You have: One new message."  The all too familiar Greenwich pips sounded, but this time it was two short beeps and one long one. Then, a picture appeared.

     Sherlock scowled at the photo, which was of a middle-aged woman with heavy makeup. "Well, that could be anyone."

     "Oh, could be, yeah," John said. He smirked. "But lucky for you two, I've been more than a little unemployed." You gave him a quizzical stare. "Lucky for you two, Mrs. Hudson and I watch far too much telly." He scooted back the chair and went up to the counter where a small black remote lay. John picked up the remote and started flipping through the channels of the TV in the corner. Soon enough he stopped, and on the screen was the same woman from the picture! You and Sherlock watched with puzzled expressions. Suddenly, your personal iphone rang. You winced. Mycroft? Could be. Bomber? Well... 

     You took your phone out of your pocket and answered it, noting Sherl's annoyed expression. Clearly he believed it was Mycroft.

     "Hello?" you said into the phone.

     A trembling voice spoke haltingly. "This juan's... a bit... defective. Sorry... she's blind." It was a frail, old voice. "This is a funny one. I'll give you... Twelve. Hours."
     "Why are you doing this?" The calmness of your own voice surprised you.
     "I like... to watch you... Dance." The hostage woman began sobbing.

     The call ended.

     Connie Prince was a popular TV personality who recently died. Foul play was not suspected, but you and Sherlock knew better than Scotland Yard (what else is new)? The bomber wouldn't've set you on this trail if it wasn't murder. You, Sherlock and John just needed to find out how it was done.

     "Aged 54," Lestrade stated, staring at some papers on his clipboard as he led the group to Connie's body. "Had one of those makeup shows on the telly. Seen it? She was going places." You and Sherlock examined the pale corpse.
   
     "Not anymore," John remarked. He seemed to realize what he had said a moment later and a horrified expression spread across his face. You smirked. Oh, JAWN.

     "Dead two days," Lestrade said. "According to one of her staff, Raoul de Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden. Nasty wound."

     There was, indeed, a long gash in Connie's hand. "Tetanus bacteria enters the bloodstream," muttered Sherlock, "and it's good night, Vienna." You rolled your eyes.

"But it can't be as simple as it seems," you reasoned. "Otherwise the bomber wouldn't be directing us toward it."

     "Something's wrong with this picture," Sherlock agreed, whipping out a small magnifying glass and beginning to inspect the body closer.

     "And we've got twelve hours to find out what," you said. You didn't need a magnifying glass-those things hardly help anyway- Sherlock basically just kept them around for special effect. Such a little kid.

     "Twelve hours?" asked John and Sherlock at the same time.

     You winced. "Yeah, I forgot to mention. The bomber called my personal cell and gave me a little message. He's taken another hostage."
   
     "Your persona-?" Sherlock scowled. "But Mycroft gave you that phone specifically to call HIM. Nobody else should have that number."

     "I know," you said. It was still a mystery. It wasn't possible that Mycroft had told the bomber. (Was it?) So how? You decided to focus on the matter at hand and turned your attention back to the body. "The, uh... The wound on her hand." You still felt a little uneasy. "Deep. Would've bled a lot, right, John?"

     "Yes."

     "But it's clean. Very clean, and fresh." You narrowed your eyes. "How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?"

     "Oh, eight, ten days," John answered.

     "So the cut was made later, after she was dead," Sherlock concluded. "Must have been. But the question remains- how did the tetanus enter her system?" He seemed to think for a moment and then smirked at John. "You want to help?"

     "Of course."

     "Connie Prince's family history, background, everything. Get me the data."

     "Right." John nodded dutifully and then walked out of the room with a little bounce in his step, excited to be set to work.

     "There's something else we haven't considered," Lestrade said, as soon as John had left. "Why is he- or she- doing this? The bomber? If a woman's death is suspicious, why point it out?"

     "Good Samaritan," Sherlock offered, trying to appear nonchalant. But you saw the worry swimming in his pale green eyes. Green? They'd changed color again.

     "They killed Carl Powers and have taken multiple people hostage," you pointed out.

     "Bad Samaritan?"

     "Sherlock, this is serious," Lestrade said with a sigh. "Look, I'm cutting you slack here- both  of you- and I'm trusting you, but out there somewhere, some poor old woman is wrapped in Semtex, just waiting to either be rescued or blown up!" By the end of Lestrade's sentence, the distress in Sherlock's eyes had spread to the rest of his face. You almost felt bad for him. "So tell me, what are we dealing with here?"

     Sherlock looked at you uncertainly. He didn't know. He didn't like not knowing.

     So you answered for him. "What are we dealing with?" You looked at Lestrade and smirked slyly. "Something new."

     The next few hours were busy. This case was easy in comparison to the usuals, and you couldn't figure out why the bomber had made it that way. Were they testing you? Was it just a mistake on their part?

     Well, you were determined to use it to your advantage. 

     It was easy enough to solve. The Botox injections were the best and easiest way to kill Connie, so you had Sherlock run a second autopsy. It revealed that the cause of death was not tetanus, but a botulinum toxin. Same as Carl Powers. The bomber had repeated themselves, but why? It didn't make sense. Was it just a mistake? They were too smart for that. Were they testing you? 

      Well, if this was a test, you were determined not to fail. 

     You got in touch with a friend from Home Office (Well, okay, not a friend. You could only make so many.) who gave you the purchase records of Raoul de Santos, the staff member that Lestrade had mentioned. Why him? Well, the fansites about Connie said that she and her brother, Kenny Prince, had a falling out, and that Connie threatened to cut her brother from the inheritance. Raul was Kenny's, and he'd grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle, so... Anyway, he'd been bulk-ordering Botox. He was, among other things, in charge of Connie's weekly injections, which you and Sherlock had found out thanks to John's research. All Raoul had to do was up the percentage to one final, deadly dose.

     So, like I said, you solved the case easily. With hours to spare. With the last two cases, as soon as the case was solved, Sherlock had posted the solution on his blog. 

     But this time, you convinced him not to.

     With hours to spare, remember? Hours. Why not use that time? Your plan was to do exactly that, to work on finding who exactly this bomber was and what their next move was while you still had time. Sherlock hesitantly agreed to hold back the solution for a while, and in the meantime, everyone set to work trying to make connections between each of the cases.

     And that was what you were doing now.  While Sherlock and John worked on it in their flat upstairs, you were downstairs working alone. You preferred it that way, although for some reason Sherlock enjoyed the company of someone else. John was your friend, but if he got in the way of a case, well...

     Unfortunately, it seemed Aunt Hudson was taking John's place. She chattered away while you did research on the Study in Pink case as well as the new ones from the bomber. You were considering that the perpetrators of said cases were the same person.

     "I liked her," Mrs. Hudson said as you scrolled down a page about Connie, a fansite indispensable for gossip. "The Queen of Makeup! Taught you how to do your colours. Apparently, I should never wear cerise. Drains me! Oh, and in the winter time, you shouldn't wear any bright sort of shade of green, (Y/N). She said it on her show. Your colour hair never goes with bright greens in the winter! That's a fact! She taught you what goes best with what and such. She was a pretty girl, but she messed about with herself too much. They all do these days. People can hardly move their faces!" Much to your displeasure, your aunt started giggling. "It's silly, isn't it?"

     "Yes," you replied, rolling your eyes. "Absolutely ludicrous." You glanced down at the clock on the bottom right hand corner of the screen. You only had an hour left. Had you really been searching that long for clues? You'd barely made any progress. You could only hope that the boys had gotten farther, but considering their brainpower, it was doubtful.