Sophia Holmes and the Great Game (Sherlock's Daughter Fanfic) *Completed*

Chapter Fourteen - The Bruce-Partington Programme IV

It's obvious now that this is what Moriarty was distracting us from with his exciting and mysterious cases. It's the memory stick he wants.

As we arrive at Battersea station, I see maintenance scurrying around, obviously still trying to catch up with the amount of work that comes with suicide jumps. John can't have been here for long: despite parting at the gallery, the tube guard is still leading him up the tracks to where they found West's body.

We dodge their attention by hiding behind one of the maintenance buildings. From here, we can hear and see John's conversation.

"So this is where West was found?" John confirms, and I roll my eyes. There may not be much blood, but there is enough to tell that something happened here, even if it wasn't the death itself.

"Yeah," the guard confirms.

"Uh-huh," John says, utterly clueless.

"You gonna be long?" the guard asks.

"I might be," John replies.

"You with the police, then?"

"Sort of."

"I hate 'em," the tube guard continues, and I frown slightly.

"The police?" John questions.

"No," he replies, hastily. "Jumpers. People who chuck themselves in front of trains. Selfish bastards."

"Well, that's one way of looking at it," John says, gritting his teeth as he squats down to get closer to the track.

"I mean it," the guard persists. "It's all right for them. It's over in a split second – strawberry jam all over the lines. What about the drivers, hmm? They've gotta live with it, haven't they?"

I look the guard over again. He used to be a driver, but his conversation suggests he had an incident like this one and is still suffering from PTSD and memories which haunt him nightly.

John runs his fingers along the track and lifts his hand to examine the lack of blood.

"Yeah, speaking of strawberry jam," John says, standing up, "there's no blood on the line. Has it been cleaned off?"

"No, there wasn't that much."

"You said his head was smashed in," John says, doubtfully.

"Well, it was, but there wasn't much blood."

How stupid can this guy get? Even if he couldn't work out that West hadn't jumped, he should have known that a 'smashed in' head results in more than a few drops of blood.

"Okay," John replies, and I can see the strings drawing together slowly as he looks down the line thoughtfully.

"Well, I'll leave you to it then," the guard says and John ignores him, squatting down again. "Just give us a shout when you're off."

"Right," John acknowledges and the guard walks away.

Dad and I duck back in behind the building so he doesn't hear us, then make our way over to the manual switches by the side of the track, knowing the penny will drop at any moment.

"Right," John begins, standing up as he talks to himself, "so, uh, Andrew West got on the train somewhere – or did he? There's no ticket on the body. Then how did he end up here?"

I pull down on the leaver beside me and the points change and the tracks slide to form a new route. John bends back down again, curious at the sudden change.

"Points," dad says simply, and John springs up onto his feet.

"Yes!" he cries, suddenly understanding as he sees us.