Chapter Text
221B Baker Street hummed with activity.
“Your knight,” Sherlock said, pointing a long finger at the chessboard, “moves in an L-shape. This position will put my king in check. Your move.”
Rosie Watson, cross-legged on the floor, tilted her head and scrunched her nose, her tiny face an exaggerated mask of concentration. After a moment, her grin spread wide as she picked up her knight and plonked it on the designated square.
“Like this?”
“Exactly,” Sherlock replied, straightening up and clasping his hands behind his back, clearly impressed. “You’re learning faster than your father ever did.”
From his armchair, John Watson groaned, lowering his newspaper. “Oh, come off it, Sherlock. You taught me chess once, and it was horrible. You don’t teach, you terrorize. There’s a difference.”
“Rubbish,” Sherlock countered without missing a beat. “You lacked natural aptitude, that’s all. Rosie, on the other hand, is showing considerable promise.”
Rosie giggled, her eyes sparkling as she looked up at her dad. “It’s fun, Daddy.”
“Fun,” John repeated dryly, folding his arms. “Right. Just remember, Sherlock, she’s eight. Maybe scale down the advanced tactical lectures, yeah? Let her win once in a while.”
“Winning is overrated,” Sherlock retorted, his sharp features impassive. “Failure is a far superior teacher.”
“Failure’s also why no one invites you to family game night,” John shot back.
Before Sherlock could respond, John’s phone buzzed on the side table. He glanced at the screen, his brow furrowing. “Lestrade,” he muttered, grabbing the phone and answering. “Greg? What’s going on?”
Lestrade’s voice came through, tense and clipped. “John, is Sherlock with you?”
John glanced up at Sherlock, who had already frozen mid-stride, his entire attention now on the phone. “Yeah, he’s here. Why?”
“We’ve got something big. You both need to get to Scotland Yard. I’ll explain when you get here.”
John lowered the phone, his expression sobering. “He wants us at the Yard. Sounds serious.”
Sherlock’s coat was already in hand. “Then what are we waiting for?”
John stood, waving a hand toward the kitchen. “Uh, maybe someone to watch Rosie?”
“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock bellowed toward the staircase, as though his landlady could hear him through sheer force of will.
A moment later, Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. “What is it now, Sherlock? You know I’m baking.”
“Perfect. Then you can keep an eye on Rosie while we’re out,” Sherlock replied without missing a beat.
Mrs. Hudson smiled warmly at Rosie. “Of course, dear. Come along, love. You can help me with the frosting.”
Rosie hesitated, looking up at Sherlock. “Will you finish teaching me later?”
Sherlock crouched slightly, meeting her gaze with uncharacteristic softness. “We’ll pick up exactly where we left off.”
Rosie grinned, satisfied, and skipped off after Mrs. Hudson.
---
Scotland Yard
The mood inside Scotland Yard was heavy with tension, the air thick with the unspoken weight of dread.
Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan stood at the far end of the room, arms crossed, her expression grim. A whiteboard behind her displayed a collage of photographs—four teenage girls, each smiling brightly in life, their faces now juxtaposed against cold, clinical crime scene photos.
Lestrade stood in the center, looking harried. When John and Sherlock entered, Donovan barely spared them a glance, muttering under her breath.
“Still can’t figure out why we bother calling him,” she said just loud enough for Sherlock to hear.
“Because you don’t have the brainpower to do this without me,” Sherlock shot back smoothly.
John winced. “Right, well, great to see everyone’s in top form.”
“Sherlock,” Lestrade said, stepping forward and thrusting a file into his hands. “This one’s bad. Really bad.”
Sherlock opened the file, his sharp eyes darting over the photos and reports. John moved to his side, his stomach twisting as he glimpsed the gruesome details.
“Four victims,” Sherlock said, his voice clipped. “All teenage girls. Blonde, fair-skinned, short stature. Clearly deliberate.” He flipped to the next page. “And what’s this?” He tapped the image of a small, colorful puppet placed beside one of the victims.
“That,” Lestrade said grimly, “is why we called you. Every victim was found with one of those. Handcrafted. Indian design.”
“Rajasthani kathputli,” Sherlock murmured, tilting his head as he studied the image. The puppet’s painted face grinned mockingly, its delicate strings trailing from its wooden limbs.
“The media’s calling him ‘The Puppeteer,’” Lestrade continued. “There’s no physical evidence, no witnesses, and no clear connection between the victims except for their age and appearance.”
“There’s always a connection,” Sherlock said, his mind already racing. “What else do you have?”
“Nothing,” Donovan interjected. “That’s the point. We’ve got nothing, and we’re running out of time. The press is all over this, and we can’t afford another victim.”
Sherlock ignored her, rifling through the rest of the file. “When was the last victim found?”
“Yesterday,” Lestrade replied. “Westminster. Fourteen-year-old Megan Pierce.”
Sherlock’s eyes darkened. “He’s escalating. The timeline between murders is shrinking.” He dropped the file onto the desk and turned toward the whiteboard, his mind churning.
John broke the silence. “Sherlock, I know that look. What are you thinking?”
Sherlock’s lips quirked into a faint smirk. “I’m thinking this might actually be interesting.”
Donovan rolled her eyes. “Of course he finds it interesting. Four girls are dead, and he’s enjoying himself.”
“Donovan,” John said sharply, stepping forward, “do you ever stop talking? Just let him do his job.”
Sherlock didn’t seem to notice the exchange, already lost in thought. He gestured toward the board. “The puppets aren’t just props. They’re messages. Deliberate, intricate, personalized.”
“What kind of message?” Lestrade asked.
Sherlock smiled faintly, his eyes glinting with anticipation. “That’s what I’m going to find out.”
---
Back at 221B
Hours later, the familiar walls of 221B were covered with maps, timelines, and photographs as Sherlock paced relentlessly, piecing the puzzle together.
John, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, watched him with a mix of awe and exasperation. “You’ve been pacing for thirty minutes. Either say something genius or sit down before you wear a hole in the carpet.”
Sherlock spun around, his eyes blazing. “Do you want genius, John? Fine. The Puppeteer isn’t just targeting these girls at random. They fit a pattern—a deliberate recreation of someone specific from his past. This isn’t about the victims; it’s about her.”
John frowned. “Her who?”
“That,” Sherlock said, grabbing a pen and circling a cluster of notes, “is the missing piece. But when I find it, I’ll find him.”
John took a sip of tea and smiled faintly. “You really do love this, don’t you?”
Sherlock paused, his expression unreadable. “What I love is solving the puzzle.”
“Right,” John said, leaning back in his chair. “Just make sure you don’t forget to eat while you’re at it.”
Sherlock waved him off, already diving back into his deductions. Somewhere out there, the Puppeteer was preparing his next move. But Sherlock Holmes was always one step ahead.