THE BAKER STREET TRIO (SHERLOCK X READER)

Chapter 13; The Great Game

Sherlock shouted at Mrs. Wenceslas. “This kid will die. Tell me why it’s a fake. Tell me!” He bellowed. “No, shut up! It only works if I figure it out.”

“Seven…”

Y/N scanned the painting over and over again, thinking about what John and Sherlock had said about the case. Professor and guard. Astronomy. Astronomy! The night sky…the stars…

“Six…”

“Woodbridge knew, but how?” Sherlock shouted.

“Five…”

Y/N’s eyes widened, and she grabbed Sherlock’s arm. “Sherlock it’s-”

“No!” He cried in anguish. “I have to figure it out.”

She bit her tongue, panic and fear coursing through her veins. Sherlock looked at her, not the painting, and she tried with all her might to develop telepathy in an instant.

“Four…”

“Oh!” He said, realization dawning. He walked away from the painting and pressed a few keys on his phone.

“Three…”

“This is beautiful. I love this!” Sherlock said with glee.

“Two…”

“Sherlock!” Y/N yelled.

He grabbed the pink phone and said four magical words. “The Van Buren Supernova.”

“Please, is somebody there? Somebody help me.” The little boy cried.

Sherlock handed Lestrade the pink phone. “There you go. Go find out where he is and pick him up.”

Sherlock turned back to the painting. “The Van Buren Supernova, so-called. Exploded star. Only appeared in the sky in 1858.” Sherlock explained.

“So how could it have been painted in the 1640s?” John laughed breathlessly. Y/N sighed, letting some of the tension out of her neck and shoulders. Another one solved.

~

Once again, Y/N was sat with Sherlock and John in Lestrade’s office while he questioned Mrs. Wenceslas.

“It was just an idea. A spark which he blew into a flame.”

“Who?” Sherlock asked. Y/N sat up straighter in interest.

“I don’t know.”

Lestrade scoffed.

“It’s true!” She insisted. “It took a long time, but eventually I was put in touch with people. His people.”

Y/N and Sherlock looked at each other, thinking the same thing.

“There was never any real contact. Just messages. Whispers.” Wenceslas said.

“And did those whispers have a name?” Sherlock practically growled.

She nodded slowly, painfully. “Moriarty.”

~

Andrew West: a smart young man beloved by his fiancée, and on track to bigger things at his job.

Then he had his skull smashed in by a train. Supposedly.

Upon her visit to the sight where the body was found, Y/N came to a different conclusion. There was barely any blood on the tracks, and the body lay at a curve in the route. He hadn’t been killed by the train. He’d been killed before landing in Battersea.

So then what, or rather who, killed him?

The Bruce-Partington plans hadn’t left the country, so the person in possession of them likely didn’t know what to do with them. Y/N was pretty sure she knew where to find the elusive memory stick.