Chapter Text
Chapter 1
When Sherlock first got the call from Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, he'd been as excited as ever. He, along with almost every other person in London had heard about the recent murders. The first had been two weeks ago, a young man, maybe early twenties. He'd been military, home on leave. The second had shown up exactly a week later. A female this time, the victim was in her late thirties.
Clearly, the killer didn't have an age or gender preference. Though Sherlock didn't yet have enough evidence to say for certain, he would have put money on the fact that the killer was what criminal psychologists would call an omnivore. This term simply meant that the killer would kill indiscriminately. So far, the only thing connecting the two victims was the fact that they were both British and Caucasian. That and, of course, how they died.
Both victims had been drained of blood, completely.
Sherlock had been restless for days, waiting for the call from Lestrade. He knew it was coming, it was just a matter of time. When it finally did come, in the form of a reluctant phone call, Sherlock nearly whooped with joy and raced out of the flat. It had been exactly a week since the last killing, two weeks since the first. If he was very good, he might be able to save another life.
Lestrade met him on the cement outside of the morgue as he stepped out of his taxi. Sweeping past the man and into St. Bart's, Sherlock took note of how haggard the other man looked. Clearly, this case wasn't going well for him. Couple that with the DI's current divorce and Sherlock was surprised it took him this long to call.
"Where's John?"
Sherlock barely looked up from his phone to answer.
"Clinic. He's being positively boring about not leaving early, as if catching a killer weren't more important than a few colds."
He wrinkled his nose in disgust because, really, did John even think about what he was doing? He was clearly overqualified for the position, an army doctor should not come home just to treat the sniffles, and it wasn't like he even needed the work anymore. Thanks to John's blog, though Sherlock would never admit it aloud, they were getting plenty of traffic for cases. The fact that many of them paid quite well meant that neither of them had to work outside jobs.
Still, John insisted on keeping up with his silly locum work at the surgery, claiming something or other about how he owed Sarah for everything she'd put up with. Ridiculous. Sherlock swept the thought from his mind as he burst into the morgue, causing Molly to jump and nearly spill coffee all over herself.
"Where are they?"
Recovering quickly and getting right to work, one of Molly's best attributes in Sherlock's opinion, the young woman pulled the two bodies out of their respective drawers and positioned them on the tables for Sherlock to examine. He began with the male victim, supposedly the first to die.
According to his file, his name was Darren Clark and he'd been born and raised in London before heading off into the military at 18. He was home from his five year contract for only a few months before he shipped out again. No real family to speak of. Brunette hair, bleached somewhat from exposure to the sun, was cut short, but still played off his tanned skin rather well. Sherlock noted in an offhand way that he would probably be considered rather handsome. You know, if it weren't for the whole 'being dead' part.
Glancing at the other body, Sherlock took note of her rather attractive features as well. Possible correlation?
Liz Tolbert, the woman lying on the other table looked a bit worse for wear, despite her looks. Unlike Darren's clean-shaven appearance, the woman had dirt under nails that were bitten to stubs. Bags under her eyes looked almost bruise-like. He rotated her arm to look at the inside of the elbow and quickly found the expected track marks, an addict then. Shoulder-length hair was un-kept, a molt of blonde and dark brown. It had been dyed so many times that not even Sherlock could quite identify what its original color had been. Clearly she'd been on the outs for several years, if not longer, likely since she was a teenager.
Each victim had a dark bruise on the back of their left hand. Even just a cursory inspection revealed a needle mark in the center of the bruise. This was obviously the location from which the killer took the blood. Odd. For all intents and purposes there were a number of easier places from which to extract the blood. Taking it from the back of the hand and still managing to get all of the blood out would take time and machinery.
A further inspection of each body showed that there were no ligature marks, meaning no ropes or ties were used to restrain them. There were also no other injuries present on either victims, so they were subdued quickly and without overt force. They hadn't been knocked out by a blow to the head. Sherlock supposed soft leather restraints could have been used, there were types designed for the bondage community that were meant not to leave a mark, but he considered drugs more likely.
"Toxicology?"
Molly jumped at his sudden question, but leaned forward eagerly with her answer. It was these contradictions in her personality that drew Sherlock to her. Not romantically, of course. That still wasn't his area.
"Totally clean. Nothing popped."
Sherlock could feel the frown etching itself onto his features. No drugs? That brought him back to the leather restraints. So how did he get them on the victims? Surely, these two had not voluntarily allowed the restraints to be used on them. Factoring in how long it would take to arrange the binds, it was unlikely to be a surprise attack.
Furthermore, what had they been attached to? Judging by the looseness of the joints and skin, the restraints hadn't been attached to each other. They would have had to have been tied to something else.
"I need the crime scene photos. Likely they're useless, but maybe one of your bumbling team inadvertently caught something."
Lestrade produced the file with minimal grumbling. It seemed he'd finally gotten over that pesky phase of trying to defend his team's incompetence. That had been irritating.
Examining the pictures, Sherlock paid close attention to the ground around the victims. Each had been found in an alley, not all that unusual for murders. However, these alleyways were just off of busy areas. Both were even well-traveled. It took only a quick glance at the pictures for Sherlock to determine that the ground hadn't been disturbed around the victims by a struggle. Killed elsewhere, then.
That would corroborate with the method by which the blood was extracted. Draining a body of blood through the back of the hand was time consuming, but also very difficult without proper equipment. The killer likely used some sort of suctioning device at a fixed location before dumping the bodies. Sherlock bent over the man's hand to examine the bruise more closely.
As he'd observed before, the bruise centered around a small injection point. What was odd about the situation, though, was that there was bruising at all. Because the bodies had been drained of their blood, a bruise should not have been able to form. Sherlock initially chalked the anomaly up to the sheer amount of time it would take for the blood to be drained but he wanted to take a closer look to see if he could nail down any more details.
It was during this analysis that he spotted a difference in color between two parts of the bruise. True, bruises were in and of themselves discolorations, but this was different. Through his pocket magnifier, Sherlock was able to trace the hint of an outline that was some sort of design on Darren's hand. The bruise made it difficult to make out the complete design, but there was definitely something there. He wasted little time in checking Liz's for the same.
Sure enough, the bruise lay over a design. Several of the lines coincided perfectly with those of Darren's hand. Finally, a connection. Sherlock had been starting to think these victims had been picked at random. Once again, he turned towards Lestrade.
"What did your team find out about the stamps on their hands?"
"Stamps? You mean the bruises?"
"Ah. I see. You didn't notice them. Why am I not surprised?" He pointed at the back of each victim's hand. "There's a pattern under the bruise that appears to be some sort of stamped design. There is enough visible of each pattern that I should be able to reconstruct the original. Molly, do you have a pen and paper handy?"
"Of course!"
Molly handed over the requested items and Sherlock got to work mapping out the lines he could find under the bruises. He could practically feel the Detective Inspector leaning over his shoulder, trying to take a look at the bruising. A voice in the back of his head that sounded suspiciously like John told him not to snap at the man.
A few minutes passed in relative silence as Sherlock worked. It wasn't long before a clear picture began to form. Though incomplete, it didn't take a genius to fill in the missing areas. (Okay, maybe it did, but Sherlock was a genius, so it wasn't like it caused any problems.) He held out the sketch to Lestrade.
"A sun and a moon?"
"They're combined into one picture. The crescent moon covers a portion of the sun. Generally, this would indicate that the night is exerting power over the day, but the sun's rays surround the entire piece, clearly displaying that it still holds great power."
"So you think the killer is marking his victims with these stamps before he kills them?"
"Oh, don't be so dull, Inspector. What I believe is that these stamps came from a specific place, likely where the killer found his victims. Don't you understand? There's finally a connection!"
In his excitement, Sherlock's gaze swept the room, eyes searching for someone who wasn't there. It seemed more and more often now that he came to expect John's presence. Though their separation was unusual, the younger Holmes still felt a flash of irritation every time he turned to say something to the man only to find he wasn't there. Who was he to have wormed his way so concretely into Sherlock's life?
It would likely come as no surprise to anyone, but Sherlock was not the type to get connected to people. Sentiment was a weakness and a luxury that he had no desire to indulge in. He'd known many people throughout his life, but John was the first he truly cared about. True, he had a fondness for Mrs. Hudson and even Lestrade, but neither of them could compare to how he felt for John.
They weren't romantic feelings, per se; Sherlock didn't go through life wanting to jump his flat mate's bones. However, this was the first time Sherlock had ever had someone he could actually consider to be a friend before. He'd faked friendships for cases in the past but that was hardly the same. John affected him in ways he'd never encountered before. To be honest, he wasn't entirely sure he'd be able to tell the difference between romantic and nonromantic emotions. He had no personal experience with either.
Furthermore, it hardly mattered which they were when John's chosen sexuality was painfully obvious. It didn't take someone with Sherlock's deductive skill to notice that he adamantly denied their being in a relationship, or that fact that he loudly proclaimed not to be gay. Even if Sherlock's feeling ran towards the romantic gambit, he would have no inclination to put his first real friendship to the test by confessing those feelings to a clearly straight man. If anything, the brunette was selfish and he would happily do whatever it took to ensure that John never left him.
As if to distract the consultant from his current line of thought, Lestrade's ringtone filled the air of the morgue. The DI answered curtly while Sherlock's gaze zeroed in on his face. The tightness along his brow and around his mouth said that it was about the case. The way his mouth tugged down said it wasn't good news. The jaw clench meant there was another body.
Right on time.
Sherlock stood and turned to the door with a swirl of his coat, tucking the sketch into his pocket. He paused before leaving and looked back over his shoulder to peer at Lestrade.
"Text me the address for the crime scene. I've got a stop to make and then I'll meet you there."
Without waiting for a response, Sherlock swept out of the door and to the street. A quick cab ride later found his passing off the sketch to a member of his homeless network and a text from Lestrade with the address. Less than half an hour after he'd left the morgue, Sherlock was entering the new crime scene. As per usual, it was Donovan who met him at the tape.
"Where's your dog, freak? Did you finally scare him away?"
"Charming as always, Donovan. It is truly amazing that you would have been passed up for promotion last week. I can't imagine how someone with your extensive skills with human relations would not have secured a position as a media liaison."
He was reasonably sure that if Sally were a dog she would have growled as he passed. Good thing he was so used to ignoring her very presence. He spotted Lestrade a short way down the alley with two uniformed yarders. As he approached, Sherlock overheard the man giving directions to canvas the area for witnesses.
"It won't do you any good. I can guarantee you won't find anything."
"Glad to see you made it. And I've still got to at least try getting witnesses. You never know, maybe someone noticed something."
"Not with this one. He's too organized. That much is clear through his blatant use of busy areas. No one saw a thing."
Lestrade swipes a hand through his hair, stress showing clearly on his face.
"Well I've got to do something, don't I? I can't just stand around waiting for you to perform a miracle while the bodies are piling up!"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed as they swept over the Detective Inspector's form.
"There were two this time…"
"Yeah, how did you-"
"Show me."
Lestrade gestured down the alley, too stressed over the growing number of bodies to be annoyed with Sherlock's behavior. He was somewhat like John in that regard, always worrying about the person behind the bodies. It motivated him to do his job, but Sherlock still felt that sentiment was a failing.
Pushing aside these thoughts and focusing on the crime scene, Sherlock took a moment to view the two latest victims. One man and one woman; they appeared to be a couple, as the woman's head rested on his chest and her body curled towards him. His arm was wrapped around her waist. The killer could have arranged them after death, but that not only didn't seem his style but their positioning seemed too natural. It looked as though they had moved to each other in their last moments.
The thought made Sherlock frown. How could they have moved towards each other if they were so drained of blood, not to mention restrained? Also, the fact that they had moved into that position while dying and were still in it indicated that they had been killed in this alley. That didn't add up with the time and machinery it would take to drain the victims. It was possible that he had the machinery set up in a vehicle, but the alleyway wasn't wide enough to allow for such things.
Oh, this was delicious.
The man was tall, easily over six feet, and thin as a rail. Despite that, his frame was powerful and Sherlock would put money on him being able to hold his own in a fight. His skin was tanned in a way that said he was born with it and, coupled with his short black hair, Sherlock was sure he was a Latino of some sort, likely Mexican if the pads of his hands were anything to go by. A plain gold band that was obviously some years old decorated his left ring finger, so married. A matching ring on the woman's finger told the detective to whom.
The amount of wear to the outside of each ring indicated they'd been for at least fifteen years. So they'd married young. Neither individual looked more than in their late twenties. They'd been happily married, too, since the rings looked well cared for, despite their age. In fact, the design of the rings looked to be from the late 1800's. Family heirlooms, then? Likely from the man's side of the family.
The woman's skin was much darker. She had the exotic look of the woman in ancient African tribes, all high cheekbones and lanky figure. Her skin was ebony and looked as smooth as silk, hair cropped short to her scalp. Her nails were manicured to perfection and showed no signs of breakage, despite her hands looking as though she did regular work. Her thighs and calves were defined in ways that told Sherlock she did a lot of running, likely by choice. Professional athlete, perhaps?
He half-turned towards Lestrade.
"Do you have an ID yet?"
"ID's on the victim's say they are Miranda and Francisco Torres. I've got some uniforms back at the Yard running the names to see what we can dig up, but there hasn't been enough time for us to nail down anything solid."
"Check on professional athletes first, it's likely that was her profession."
"How can you even tell that?"
Despite Lestrade's disbelieving question he already had his phone out, shooting off a text to his man at the Yard. Many years and many cases had taught him not to doubt Sherlock's word on these things. Sherlock- almost smiled at the reaction but brushed the not-quite-emotion aside in favor of examining the victim's hands.
Sure enough, the signs of bruising were already well underway. Luckily, though, the marks hadn't yet reached the darkened stage of those in the morgue. Her already dark complexion rendered it impossible for Sherlock to make out any of the stamp on Miranda's hand, but Francisco's clearly displayed the mark. After snapping a picture of it with his phone, Sherlock stood.
He turned in a slow circle, examining the rest of the area. The alley was a frequent footpath and showed the signs of being well traveled. Unfortunately, this made it all the harder to identify whether or not the killer had been there. Like the other crime scenes, though, there didn't appear to be any sign of a struggle.
How was it possible that the killer was restraining and killing these people in these high traffic areas without being seen and without leaving evidence? Sherlock had to admit he was good, at least as good as Moriarty in covering up his tracks.
"Well, it' clear he's picking these specific victims. They weren't chosen at random just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He's trying to get something from them."
"And what, when he doesn't get it he drains their blood? Sounds like a lunatic to me. The two of you would probably get along well."
Sherlock closed his eyes and attempted to will the annoyance away, but Anderson was still standing there when he opened his eyes.
"Obviously," he leveled the man with a withering look, "the blood was exactly the thing the killer wanted. Likely, he believes that it contains some sort of property that will benefit him in some way, either by consuming it or using it in a ritual of some sort. There was something about the blood of each of these victims that appealed to him in some way."
"So he thinks he's a vampire?"
"Highly unlikely. Now, do us all a favor, would you Anderson? Keep your mouth shut, preferably forever."
Movement at the edge of the crime scene caught Sherlock's eye and he was striding away from the conversation without bothering to listen to Anderson's retort. Honestly, he wondered how that man managed to survive day to day life, but he had bigger things to concentrate on. One of his homeless was standing just outside of the police tape, looking clearly uncomfortable.
Understandably enough, it was rare for a member of Sherlock's network to show up at a crime scene. Yarders and the deviants of society didn't often mix. So, when one of them did show up, it told the detective that the information they had was quite the big deal. It was the kind of information that had a way of turning the tables in a case, for better or for worse.
Ducking under the tape, Sherlock made a beeline for the grungy older gentleman who was shifting nervously from foot to foot. A junkie, he likely had contraband on him at the moment, making him all the more likely to be displeased by the police presence. Sherlock cut right to the chase.
"What have you got for me?"
"Only what you asked for." The man handed him a slip of paper, a quick glance revealing an address, before leaning in and lowering his voice. "I don't know what you want with that place, Mr. Holmes, but I'd stay away if I were you. Bad things happen there."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed.
"What kinds of things?"
The man was already shaking his head and backing away.
"Bad things. That's all I can say. Do yourself a favor, Mr. Holmes. Don't go there."
With one last nervous look around, the man turned and disappeared into the crowd. Part of Sherlock wanted to pursue him, but a feeling in his gut told him that the lead in his hand was more important. Gripping the paper tightly, the brunette threw a hand out to hail a cab.
"Lestrade!"
The DI arrived at the same time as the cab. Sherlock wasted no time in pulling open the door and shoving the older man inside, ignoring his surprised yell. Piling in after him, Sherlock thrust the scrap of paper at the driver.
"Take us to that address."
Lestrade got himself sorted out as the cab pulled back into traffic.
"What the bloody Hell, Sherlock?! I was in the middle of a crime scene! You do realize this counts as kidnapping, don't you? I could arrest you for this."
"Oh, don't be ridiculous. Like you would arrest me for something this petty; you're better than that. Besides, I got a lead on the stamp and need to follow up on it. My skull is still on the mantle and John's at work, so you'll have to do."
The look Lestrade gave him was certainly not amused, but Sherlock managed to ignore it for the duration of the ride. The cab pulled up in front of what appeared to be an old business building and they piled out of the backseat. Sherlock paid the driver before turning to examine the building more closely.
Three stories tall, the entire front of the building was red brick. There were no windows or distinguishing marks except for a single metal door set in the wall. All in all, the building was a bit ramshackle, but the structure appeared sound. There was nothing about the building that would draw the eye. It was a prime example of the word 'nondescript.' If Sherlock were to pass this building on the street, he'd probably just walk right by it. However, now his eyes were drawn to the sun and moon emblazoned upon the establishment's door. A slight indention in the middle of the symbol showed where and eye slot could be pulled aside from inside the building.
A glance as the Detective Inspector's face showed him frowning at the door. Good, at least the man had noticed. Sherlock wasn't so sure everyone would have. Anderson, for example, likely would have missed the building completely.
"So this is where the killer found his victims?"
"It seems highly likely."
"Well then, let's let ourselves in, shall we?"
Lestrade strode purposely towards the door and rapped his knuckles sharply against the surface. Had there been a handle, Sherlock had little doubt the DI would have just yanked it open. As it was, they would need to wait for someone to let them in.
After a few moments without an answer, Lestrade struck the door with his knuckles again.
"Scotland Yard! Open up!"
Almost immediately, the eye slot was pulled to the side and a pair of eyes filled the gap. The voice which spoke was male and rough. It was most likely to belong to a bouncer of some sort.
"What do you want?"
Lestrade pulled out his ID.
"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of New Scotland Yard. We have some questions for you."
"Yeah? Like what?"
The man was clearly not interested in having this conversation. His blatant issues with authority left Sherlock well inclined towards allowing Lestrade to carry on as the lead in this discussion.
"We have reason to believe that several recent murder victims were clients of your establishment. We've come to speak with the owner or manager."
"I'm afraid the owner's not here right now."
"When will they be back? We'd be happy to wait."
"I'm pretty sure she's supposed to be back right around…never."
He slammed the eye slot shut before either man could react. Lestrade blinked at the door for a moment before visibly steeling himself and knocking hard against it again. He kept up a constant barrage of knocks until the slot opened again and the same eyes as before made an appearance, noticeably more irritated now.
"What?"
Sherlock was proud of the almost pleasant smile that the DI painted across his face. How had he not seen this side of Lestrade before?
"So sorry to disturb you again, but perhaps you misheard me. I'm from New Scotland Yard and we're on a murder investigation. I suggest you open up or I'll be coming back with a warrant. Do you really want that kind of publicity?"
A gruff bark of laughter told to two investigator's exactly what the bouncer thought of Lestrade's suggestion.
"I'd like to see you try, big man. Tell you what, you come back with a warrant and I'll personally lick the very ground you walk on. But, seeing as how you won't be getting one, I suggest you get the Hell out. You're not getting in here, face it."
He slid the piece shut again, much to Sherlock's annoyance. The consultant peered up and down the street before heading towards the nearest alley. Lestrade hurried after him.
"Where are you going?"
"An establishment of this size, with this kind of security, is likely a club. They cater to powerful clients, going by the bouncer's lack of fear when you threatened to get a search warrant. Establishments like this need supply deliveries. It's unlikely they'd bring food and drink deliveries through the front door. There is likely a back entrance."
Unfortunately, this theory proved to be less than accurate. Not only was there no delivery bay or back entrance in that alley, there wasn't one in any of the surrounding alleys. Sherlock grimaced in frustration.
"It doesn't make any sense! Even if they were into something illegal, they would still need a deliver bay! Better for hiding their activities. How is there nothing?"
He continued to make known his irritation to the world all the way through the cab ride back to Baker St. It was nearly 6:30 in the afternoon and John would be coming home in the next hour or so. Perhaps his presence would help Sherlock come up with a workable explanation instead of the mystery presented before him. He took up residence in his usual chair, hands pressed together under his chin and elbows on his knees.
While the consultant imitated a statue, Lestrade paced up and down the living room of 221B. His phone was pressed to his ear as he tried in vain to obtain a search warrant for the establishment with the sun and moon on its door. It probably didn't help that he couldn't even tell them what the establishment was a business in, but he still found it ridiculous that it was so hard to obtain a warrant. Door after door was shut to him.
This was how John found them, Lestrade verbally abusing his mobile while Sherlock seemed lost to the world.
"Something happen with the case, then?"
He kept one eye on them while heading to the kitchen to put away groceries. The Tesco's bag clutched in one hand clearly indicated he'd stopped for milk and jam on the way home. Sherlock pulled himself from his mind palace to follow the blonde from the room.
"We've been shut out of an establishment that holds the key to solving this case. If we can get in there, we can figure out what it is that connects the victims. As it stands, I don't have enough data. However, I know that all four victims were clients there."
John looked over his shoulder in surprise before turning to face his flat mate.
"Four? I thought this was for the case with the two bodies?"
Lestrade leaned sullenly against the door to the kitchen, adding his two cents to the conversation.
"It is. Two more bodies showed up this afternoon. Sherlock was able to connect them through a stamp on the back of each victim's hand. We traced it back to a club of some kind, but they won't let us in or answer any questions."
"Can't you get a search warrant?"
Lestrade swiped a hand through his hair.
"I've been trying to do just that for the past few hours, but I can't find a judge to sign off on it. Every time I call I get the same response of not having sufficient evidence. It's bloody bullshit!"
John frowned and walked past them into the living room, bending over the coffee table to pick up the piece of paper where Sherlock had doodled the symbol again. Sherlock couldn't have missed the way John's entire body tensed if he'd wanted to.
"You recognize it?"
Excitement coursed through his veins. Finally they were going to get somewhere with this case! Perhaps John could give them some insight into the establishment. Did he know what their purpose was?
He was so wrapped up in the thrill of things that he almost missed the dark cloud that had crossed John's expression.
"Sherlock, I want you to drop this case."
The brunette could only blink in surprise, mouth agape, as Lestrade blew up at his flat mate.
"What the Hell, John?! People are getting killed out there and you want him to drop the case?! Sherlock's the best asset we have and right now he's the only one with any hope of bringing the killer to justice!"
"You don't think I know that?! Those people who died, I feel damn bad for them, Lestrade, but I can't let this happen! You want to know if I recognize this design? The answer is yes! And I know how dangerous that means this case is! You were told you couldn't get a search warrant because of a lack of evidence? Well, rest assured that had nothing to do with it. You could have a body nailed to their door and you wouldn't get in there."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he suddenly surged forward. He wasn't quite in John's face, but he was close.
"And how, exactly, do you know?"
The muscle in John's jaw twitched as it clenched.
"I can't tell you." He let out a sigh and turned away, setting the piece of paper down on the coffee table. "Trust me. I know you don't understand, but it's for your own goo-"
He stopped short of whatever he was going to say, his eyes riveted on the table. Sherlock stepped to the side to see what had his attention and spotted a picture of the most recent murder victims that Lestrade had ordered Donovan to send over and Sherlock had printed out. John was staring at the man's face with a look that displayed clear personal pain. Another piece clicked into place.
"You knew him."
"Both of them. I was in their wedding. He was…He was like a son to me, at one time." John picked up the picture with a trembling hand. It was the first time Sherlock had ever seen his hands shake. "They were the victims today?"
Neither Lestrade nor Sherlock answered. Neither of them needed to.
John's hand clenched around the photo, crumpling the edges. Despite having his back to them, his anger seeped from every pore. A minute of silence reigned throughout the flat before he turned to face them, every bit the soldier he'd once been.
"Sherlock?"
The brunette raised his head in response, but gave no verbal reply. Lestrade waited behind him with baited breath.
"I can get you into that club and let you talk to the owner, but you have to promise me you won't ask any questions. I won't be able to explain much, but you'll need to do exactly as I tell you, end of story. If you're coming too, Lestrade, the same applies."
Sherlock's curls bobbed as he nodded.
"Done."