The Great Game [Reader Insert]

Us

     Although you and Sherlock had solved the case, you'd lost this round.

     While you told Lestrade who the murderer was, Sherlock had updated his blog: Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox.

     It wasn't long before the pink phone rang again. "Help me!" The old woman had wailed.

     "Tell us where you are," Sherlock instructed, speaking slowly and clearly. "The address."

     "He was so...His v-v-v-voice..."

     "No- no- no! Don't tell me anything about him!"

     "Sherlock, hang up!" you'd shouted.

     "He sounded so... soft."

      The call ended.

     At that moment, that exact moment, unbeknownst to you, an explosion went off on the seventh story of a block of flats. Twelve people died. Because of one terrified old woman.

     This wasn't a game anymore.

     That afternoon, Sherlock and John sat in their honorary chairs staring at the telly. You'd taken your seat on the couch, and were dully watching the news about the explosion.

     "We did solve the case," Sherlock muttered.

     "What does that matter? Twelve pe- Twelve people, Sherlock." John shook his head slowly. "Dead."

     Sherlock almost looked guilty for a second, but he quickly recovered. "He killed the old lady because she started to describe him. Just once, he put himself in the firing line. Usually, he must stay above it all- he organises these things, but no one ever has direct contact."

     "What's your point?" you snapped. 

     "He arranged the Connie Prince murder."

    "Yes, we know," you answered. John looked alarmed. Okay, so he didn't know, but that was unimportant.

     "What if... What if he fixes up crimes like booking a holiday, outside of these cases? We just don't know about it?"

    You narrowed your eyes. "Like a... Like a consulting criminal."

     "Yes. Novel," Sherlock whispered. He looked over at the pink phone, which lay alone on the table beside him. "He's taking his time this time," Sherlock murmured. "(Y/N), did you find anything on the Carl Powers case?"

     "Nothing .All the living classmates check out spotless, no connection, far as I can tell."

     "What if the killer was older than Carl?" John suggested.

     "Thought had occurred," Sherlock responded. 

     "So why's he doing this then?" John asked. "Playing this... game with you two. Do you think he wants to be caught?"

     "I think he wants to be..." Sherlock couldn't quite find the words.

     "Distracted," you finished. "Entertained." Despite yourself, you couldn't help but smile. Whoever this was, they were clever, and they were just like you and Sherlock.

     John scoffed and shook his head. He stood up. "Well, I hope you'll all be very happy together," he muttered. He was halfway into the kitchen when what he said finally got through yours and Sherlock's heads.

     You blinked. "Sorry, what?"

     "There are lives at stake, (Y/N)!" John shouted angrily. "Actual human lives! J-just so I know, do either of you care about that at all?"