Although you and Sherlock had solved the case, you'd lost this round.

     While you told Lestrade who the murderer was, Sherlock had updated his blog: Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox.

     It wasn't long before the pink phone rang again. "Help me!" The old woman had wailed.

     "Tell us where you are," Sherlock instructed, speaking slowly and clearly. "The address."

     "He was so...His v-v-v-voice..."

     "No- no- no! Don't tell me anything about him!"

     "Sherlock, hang up!" you'd shouted.

     "He sounded so... soft."

      The call ended.

     At that moment, that exact moment, unbeknownst to you, an explosion went off on the seventh story of a block of flats. Twelve people died. Because of one terrified old woman.

     This wasn't a game anymore.

     That afternoon, Sherlock and John sat in their honorary chairs staring at the telly. You'd taken your seat on the couch, and were dully watching the news about the explosion.

     "We did solve the case," Sherlock muttered.

     "What does that matter? Twelve pe- Twelve people, Sherlock." John shook his head slowly. "Dead."

     Sherlock almost looked guilty for a second, but he quickly recovered. "He killed the old lady because she started to describe him. Just once, he put himself in the firing line. Usually, he must stay above it all- he organises these things, but no one ever has direct contact."

     "What's your point?" you snapped. 

     "He arranged the Connie Prince murder."

    "Yes, we know," you answered. John looked alarmed. Okay, so he didn't know, but that was unimportant.

     "What if... What if he fixes up crimes like booking a holiday, outside of these cases? We just don't know about it?"

    You narrowed your eyes. "Like a... Like a consulting criminal."

     "Yes. Novel," Sherlock whispered. He looked over at the pink phone, which lay alone on the table beside him. "He's taking his time this time," Sherlock murmured. "(Y/N), did you find anything on the Carl Powers case?"

     "Nothing .All the living classmates check out spotless, no connection, far as I can tell."

     "What if the killer was older than Carl?" John suggested.

     "Thought had occurred," Sherlock responded. 

     "So why's he doing this then?" John asked. "Playing this... game with you two. Do you think he wants to be caught?"

     "I think he wants to be..." Sherlock couldn't quite find the words.

     "Distracted," you finished. "Entertained." Despite yourself, you couldn't help but smile. Whoever this was, they were clever, and they were just like you and Sherlock.

     John scoffed and shook his head. He stood up. "Well, I hope you'll all be very happy together," he muttered. He was halfway into the kitchen when what he said finally got through yours and Sherlock's heads.

     You blinked. "Sorry, what?"

     "There are lives at stake, (Y/N)!" John shouted angrily. "Actual human lives! J-just so I know, do either of you care about that at all?"

     "Will caring about them help save them?" Sherlock countered quietly.

     John stared at him for a good second. "No! No, it won't," he answered, his voice quiet but intense.

     "Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."

     "Sherlock..." you muttered.

     "Don't pretend you have any more of a heart, (Y/N)!" John snapped at you. Your eyes widened. "You two find this sort of thing easy, don't you? Just playing along while people are dying. You enjoy it!"

     Your offended expression morphed into a scowl. "Yes, John, we do. Is that news to you?"

     Although he laughed, there was no humour behind Watson's eyes. "No."

     You and Sherlock glanced at each other, then back at John. "We've disappointed you," said Sherlock.

     "That's a good deduction. That's a good deduction, yeah."

     "Don't make people into heroes, John," you spat. "Heroes don't exist."

     "And if they did," Sherlock added coldly, "we wouldn't be ones." At that moment, the pink phone beeped. "Excellent!" He picked up the phone and turned it on. There was one short beep and a long one. "The Thames. South bank." 

     You got up to take a look at the photo. "Somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo," you murmured. Louder now, you said, "Sherlock, you look online. John, can you check the papers?"

     John stared at you, still pissed off, and then pointedly looked back at the floor and said nothing.

     "Oh, I see," you said wryly. "You're angry with us, so you won't help." He only stared at the ground stubbornly in response. "Not much cop, this caring lark. Fine, I'll check the papers." You got up to do just that as Sherlock went to work searching on his song.

     "Nothing of interest except Andrew West found on a train line," you muttered, after flipping through a few pages.John heard you and looked up with sudden interest.

     Sherlock sighed with defeat. "Forget it." He dialed something into it and brought the now ringing phone to his ear. Whoever it was, they answered quickly. "It's me. Have you found anything between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo Bridge?"

     "Do you reckon this is connected then, the bomber?" Lestrade was asking as he led the group along the the river. It was the exact same scene from the photo, with he exception of the policemen scattered about. Oh, that, and the dead body.

     "Must be," Sherlock answered. "Odd, though, he hasn't been in touch." He gave you a sideways look. "Unless..?"

     You shook your head. "Nothing on my side."

     "Then we must assume there's some bugger primed to explode, yeah?" Lestrade started rubbing his hands together to keep them warm.

     Sherlock's reply was short. "Yep."

     The body was damaged from its time in the river, a lot of evidence and data washed away. It was of a middle-aged man wearing a watch, which was in amazing condition, considering.

     "Any ideas?" Lestrade asked. He and John looked at you and Sherlock expectantly like two little puppies waiting for guidance.

     "At least seven," Sherlock answered as you crouched down to inspect the watch with a gloved hand.

     "Five," you countered. "He's a security guard with regular night shifts. Narrows it down a bit." You stood up. "John?"

     For a second, John looked startled, but he understood your meaning. As he got down on his knees by the dead man, you noticed Sherlock messing about on the screen of his phone. Good. "Dead... about twenty four hours," John decided. "Maybe longer." Looking up at Lestrade, he asked, "Did he drown?"

     "Apparently not," Lestrade answered. "Not enough of the Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated."

     John lowered his gaze to the body. "Yes, I'd agree," he murmured thoughtfully. He frowned as if he'd noticed something. "Quite a bit of bruises around the nose, throat and mouth."

     "Yes, fingertips," you said. 

     "That lost Vermeer painting's a fake," Sherlock put in. Everyone stared at him in confusion at the sudden turn in conversation. "We need to identify the corpse. Find out about his friends and associates."

     "Wait-wait-wait-wait." Lestrade brought his hand to his head like he was having a headache. "What painting? What are you- what are you on about?"

     "It's all over the place, haven't you seen the posters?" was Sherlock's answer. You shot him an annoyed look that prompted him to elaborate. "Dutch Old Master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago. Now, it's turned up out of nowhere. Worth thirty million pounds."

     "Okay, but what's that got to do with the stiff?" asked the DI.

     "Everything." Sherlock smiled knowingly. "Ever heard of the Golem?"

     "Jewish folklore," you answered. "It was an animated anthropomorphic made from clay."

     "It's also the name of an assassin- real name, Oskar Dzundza. One of the deadliest assassins in the world. And that-" Sherlock pointed at the dead body that lay in front of you- "is his trademark style."

     "I've heard of him," you said. "He squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands." Personally, you preferred fire. It destroyed the evidence better than most other methods of murder. Not that you'd murdered people. People, plural. You shook the memories away. "So- so this a hit."

     "But what has this got to do with the painting?" Lestrade questioned, his tone betraying his impatience.

     "Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock snapped.

     "I don't see-"

     "You do see- you just don't observe!"

     "All right, all right, girls." You crossed your arms and glared at the two boys. "Calm down. Sherlock, you better take them through it."

     Sherlock sighed, exasperated. When he spoke, he spoke quickly. "What do we know about this corpse? Killer's not left us with much; just the shirt and trousers. Pretty formal. Trousers heavy duty, polyester, nasty, same as the shirt- cheap. 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. I considered a tube driver, but then (Y/N) told me about the alarms on the watch and she deduced that he was a security guard, which is reinforced by the signs that there was some kind of badge or insignia on the shirt front that the Golem tore off, suggesting the dead man worked somewhere recognizable. Some kind of institution." He smiled at you. "(Y/N) found ticket stubs in his pocket, so he worked in a museum or gallery. Hickman Gallery reported one of its attendants as missing, Alex Woodbridge. Tonight, that gallery unveils the rediscovered masterpiece I just mentioned. Why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant?"

     "The dead man knew something about it, the painting, something that the owner didn't want getting out," you realized. "The picture has to be a fake. Fantastic!" 

     "Meretricious." Sherlock smirked proudly. Maybe he was excited to have been ahead of you for once. 

     "And a Happy New Year!" Lestrade said. He frowned down at the body. "I'd better get my feelers out for this Golem character, hadn't I?"

     "Pointless," you told him. "You'll never find him. But I know some people who can."

     "Who?"

     Your bright, intelligent eyes flicked from John to Sherlock and back to Lestrade. "Us."