The poppyblood killer

Chapter 9

A chill runs down my spine.

- We can save Clare if I solve the murders. But this message was sent by the Poppyblood Killer himself, I say in my head.

- Why would the killer want me to solve the case, I ask.

- Fascinating, Moriarty says.

- Indeed. I don't suppose it's you, Moriarty, Sherlock asks.

- Did you just accuse me of being a serial killer as if it's idle conversation, Moriarty asks.

- Challenging a detective to uncover your identity sounds like the sort of thing you would do, Sherlock says. Moriarty snorts and waves his hand.

- I would go about it in a far less sentimental fashion, Moriarty says.

- That's the only part you object to, John asks.

- What more did you expect, Moriarty asks. John lets out a huff and turns away.

- I should've known better, John says.

- I daresay you can't deny my deduction now, Kira, Sherlock says.

- You mean that the killer was trying to bait me, I say.

- Precisely. Unfortunately, we still don't know why, Sherlock says.

- Maybe he wants to be discovered, I say.

- Then why not just turn himself into the police, John asks.

- I don't know. For some reason, he's decided he wants me to be the one who does it, I say.

- It does seem as though he's asking you to catch him. The question remains. Why you, Sherlock asks.

- Could it have something to do with my past, I ask in my head.

- In any event, we should redouble our efforts to investigate the killer himself, Sherlock says.

- You say that as if we've been slacking. I certainly have not, even if you have, Moriarty says. Sherlock doesn't rise to the bait. His gaze is distant, as if there's something he's trying to figure out.

The next morning, I feel somewhat restored, though the events of the gala still weigh heavily on my mind. As I prepare for the day, children's laughter outside on the street catches my attention. I walk to the window and see a group of street children gathered around John. He hands one of them a flower from a bouquet and says something which makes them giggle. The rest of the children are eating baked goods from the local bakery.

- Did he buy that for them. How thoughtful, I say in my head. A warm feeling grows in my chest. I quickly finish getting dressed and hurry downstairs.

- Thank you, Dr. Watson, a child says. The last of the children scamper away as I make my way outside, while John waves goodbye after them.

- Be good now, John shouts. He turns at the sound of my footsteps and quickly hides the bouquet behind his back.

- Good morning, Kira, John says.

- Good morning, I say. I nod after the kids.

- They seem happy. I didn't realize you were so good with children, I say.

- Well, even though I no longer practice medicine, I still try to spread a little goodness in the world where I can. Those poor kids certainly deserve it, John says. I think back to my own adolescence, passed between foster homes after my parents were killed.

- His actions mean more to those children than he could possibly know. But I wonder why he stopped practicing medicine, I say in my head. It seems like a subject he prefers to avoid, so I don't press it for now.