One More Miracle

The Thrill of the Chase

Author's Note: Hello, readers of this story! Sorry about how long it took for me to update this, I've been having a sort of writer's block lately. Anyways, thanks for all the reads, votes, and comments! This is just kind of a filler/explanation chapter, so it'll be kind of short, but the next one should be pretty interesting. I have a few ideas.  

P.S. Sorry for all the cliffhangers. 

Chapter 12: Sherlock's POV

I was faster than this man, and he knew it. Nevertheless, he kept running down the street, moving as fast as his damaged leg would allow. Still, no matter how fast he ran, I was closing in; I would catch him in under a minute. 

But this guy wasn't going down without a fight. He was taking every opportunity to trip me up-- literally. He would turn over trash cans and knock over boxes at random, though fortunately I was able to jump over then before I tripped and fell. 

When I was only a matter of meters away from the suspect, he took a sharp turn down an alleyway. I skidded around the corner, almost losing my balance in the process, but I stayed upright and kept running. I didn't have to run much further, though, as the alley dead-ended quickly. The man that I had been chasing obviously hadn't expected this, as he was frantically clawing at the brick wall in front of him--like he could tear it down with just his hands. 

I slowed to a stop just behind the suspect, doubled over to catch my breath. After a second, I spoke to the man's back, because he still hadn't turned around to face me. "Gotcha," I said breathlessly. 

The man turned around, and I saw his face for the first time. Tan skin, even in the winter, close-cropped brown hair, brown eyes. His features were relatively ordinary and easy to forget; that was good for a murderer. When he saw me, though, his eyes widened. "I know you," he said, pointing a shaking finger at me. "I read about you in the newspaper. You're supposed to be dead."

"Yes, well supposed to be dead and actually dead are two completely different things," I responded smoothly, now having caught my breath. "Sherlock Holmes. Pleased to meet you. But now I'm going to have to arrest you." 

"You're not a police officer," the man argued, and I noticed that he clutched his leg in the process. 

Bullet wound. 

"I might not be, but there are several just over there," I said, pointing back down the alley. "I could go fetch one, if you like. Or maybe a doctor?" I eyed his leg suspiciously. 

The man followed my gaze down to his leg. "What, you mean this? It's nothing. Just a flesh wound," he said, but the fist he was making with his other hand suggested otherwise. It was clenched so tightly that the knuckles were white. 

I decided to cut the small talk and get down to business after that. "Why'd you do it? Why'd you kill Matt and Martha Jenkins?" 

The man took a deep breath and muttered something that wasn't audible. "What was that?" I asked impatiently.

"They made me," the man said again, and now when I looked at him I could see him how he really was: scared. 

Softening my voice so as to make him feel safer, I asked, "Who? Who made you?" 

The man just shook his head. "They'll kill me if I tell you. They already shot me in the leg." 

"Why?"

"They needed Matt and Martha Jenkins dead; I didn't know why, but they came to me. Said they would do it, but it was too soon, whatever that means. They knew about me--I had...I had done some work like this before. But I was done, I swear," he stated, hastily trying to cover up for what he had just said. He continued, "Still, they wanted my help. And these aren't the kind of people you can refuse help to. So I did it. They told me what to do, so I did it. I...killed the Jenkins couple. And they left."