His Favorite Melody

And Breathe

Melody looked around the cafe, her fingers toying nervously with the hem of her shirt. A proper greasy spoon. Plastic ketchup tomatoes, smeary menus. A battered TV on a shelf, sound turned down, showing bland daytime TV.
John sat opposite her, shovelling bacon into his face. Sherlock sat beside her, anxiously biting his nails. The pink iPhone sat on the table in front of them.

"Feeling better?" Sherlock asked John, looking pointedly at the man's plate.

"Mm! Christ, we haven’t stopped for breath since this thing started. Mel, you sure you're not hungry? " John asked. Once she shook her head, he continued on eating.

"Has it occurred to you -" John started.

"Probably." Sherlock quipped. He looked at Melody, who looked rather pallid and distant.

"The bomber’s playing a game with you. The envelope. Breaking into the other flat. The dead kid’s shoes. Flirting with Melody.  It’s all meant for you. To get to you. Under your skin. To unnerved Mel."

"Yes. I know."

"So? What you talked to Lestrade about. Is it...them?"

"Them?"

"This...organization. Whatever! Moriarty."

"Perhaps."

The iPhone beeped. Sherlock, Mel, and John exchanged glances.

"You have one new message. Beep. Beep. Beep."

Another picture appeared. A hard-faced, middle-aged woman with heavily mascara-covered eyes.

"Could be anyone." Sherlock shrugged.

"Could be. Lucky for you, mum loves trash telly." Melody said, looking a bit worse for wear.

"What do you mean?"

"She means lucky for you that Mrs. Hudson and I watch far too much telly while you two are off on your own." John said, getting up and swiping the grubby TV remote from the stand. He flicked through
the channels, searching for one in particular.

The pink iPhone rang and Sherlock watched Mel's face go from expressionlessto grim in a matter of seconds. He answered and leaned close enough for her to hear.

"Hello?"

The tremulous, frail old voice that answered was enough to make Melody slap a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. "This one...is a bit...defective. Sorry...she’s...blind. This is...a fun...one. I’ll give you...twelve hours..."

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock demanded.

"I like...to watch you...dance. You and...the princess do..the most...beautiful... dances." The line went dead in Sherlock’s ear, and Mel let out a quiet string of curses. He glanced over at her, and watched in silence as she rubbed her face quite violently with her hands. This was taking a far worse toll on her than he could've imagined.

Meanwhile, John had found what he was looking for. A news channel with the same, hard-faced woman prominent on the screen. Under the photo a running strap-line” “Make-over queen Connie Prince dead at 48”. A clip of a ‘Ten Years Younger’ type show with Connie supervising a make-over for a plump, vaguely camp man played as Johnraised the volume. John turned to look at his friends and noticed Sherlock’s unsure expression along with Melody, who looked like she was mere momentsaway from rippingher hair out. John quickly approached them and put a hand on Melody's shoulder.

"Hey. Hey, come here. What happened?" John asked, wrapping his arms around her as he looked at Sherlock.

The Detective explained the situation and John's face fell. "Listen, you've not eaten or slept properly since this started. Go back to the flat or to Mycroft's and sit this one out. Surely Sherlock and I can handle this one ourselves. We need you well, Melody. Doctor's orders." John instructed.