The pink phone has neglected to ring all night, leaving us restless, so in the morning we retreat from Mrs Hudson's constant pestering and find ourselves in a cafe somewhere.
John orders a cooked breakfast because apparently he's 'starving', while dad and I just wait impatiently for the phone to ring.
"Feeling better?" I question as he begins to dig into his meal.
"Mmm," John agrees. "You realise we've hardly stopped for breath since this thing started?" He takes another forkful of food and looks thoughtful. "Has it occurred to you ...?"
"Probably," dad interrupts, and I laugh slightly.
"No - " John persists, "has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope; breaking into the other flat; the dead kid's shoes - it's all meant for you."
"Yes, I know," dad replies, smiling.
"Is it him, then?" John questions, obviously picking up on what I said in 221C the other day. "Moriarty?"
"Perhaps."
Our train of conversation is cut short as the pink phone finally decides to ring.
Dad picks it up immediately, and I lean over to look as the Greenwich pips sound twice. As the picture comes up on the screen of a smiling, middle-aged woman, our excitement falters.
"That could be anybody," I state but look up to see John smiling.
"Well, it could be, yeah," he smirks, obviously happy that he knows more than we do. "Lucky for you, I've been more than a little unemployed."
I frown - when did he become unemployed?
"How d'you mean?" dad asks, unhappy that it's turned around to him asking the questions.
"Lucky for you, Mrs Hudson and I watch far too much telly."
He stands up and walks over to the counter, and dad and I watch with a puzzled stare as picks up the remote lying idle on the side and flicks the tv on, beginning switch channels before finding what he was looking for: the news.
The woman from the photograph is onscreen, obviously partway through one of her shows, a make-over one by the looks of things.
She gestures to someone offstage before beginning to talk. "Thank you, Tyra! Doesn't she look lovely, everybody, now?"
I divert my attention away from the screen as the pink phone begins to ring.
"Hello?" dad asks as he opens up the call.
"This one ... is a bit ... defective." It's an elderly woman with a distinct, trembling, Yorkshire accent. "Sorry. She's blind. This is ... a funny one." I don't look up as John walks back over, but I can sense his smug face drop and he sits quietly down opposite us. "I'll give you ... twelve hours."
"Why are you doing this?" dad asks.
"I like ... to watch you ... dance," the woman sobs in terror. T
he line cuts and dad shakes his head at John before we look up to TV, where the news is still playing the clip.
"... and I see you're back to your bad habits."
The rest of her dialogue is cut over as a voiceover replaces her voice. The bottom banner reads quite clearly:
Make-over Queen Connie Prince dead at 48
"... continuing into the sudden death of the popular TV personality, Connie Prince," the newsreader says, and I tune my ears over the bustle in the cafe to listen. "Miss Prince, famous for her make-over programmes, was found dead two days ago by her brother in the house they shared in Hampstead. A spokesman for the family, houseboy Raoul de Santos, commented in a report that it was a 'freak accident' caused by a cut to her hand by a rusted nail..."
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Sophia Holmes and the Great Game (Sherlock's Daughter Fanfic) *Completed*
FanfictionBook 4 After a short trip away from work, Sherlock and Sophia are back, and when an apparent 'gas leak' sets off an explosion opposite 221, the pair, along with their blogger John Watson, are hurtled into a game in which several hostages are in ris...
