Sherlock - The Game Is On!

The Six Thatchers- Seven

Chapter Seven

From the paper bag he produces a clear plastic bag and holds it up. Inside are shattered pieces of white plaster and some of the larger pieces show that this was a Thatcher bust. Sherlock takes hold of the bottom of the bag and looks at it closely. "That is the bust, isn't it? The one that was broken."

"No, it isn't. It's another one; Different owner, different part of town. You were right! This is a... This is a thing. Something's going on." I look over Sherlock's shoulder, his gaze intense. "What's wrong? I thought you'd be pleased."

"I am pleased." He murmurs. My stomach flips. I feel like a school girl with a crush. "You don't look pleased."

"This is my game face." He raises his eyes, a slight smile forming. "And the game is on."

"Oh, sweet baby Jesus." I murmur softly. The boys gaze snaps towards me. "Sorry?" Lestrade pardons. Sherlock quirks his brow, amused. I shake my head before turning towards the kitchen, far fetched with embarrassment.

Sitting besides Sherlock, we begin to examine pieces of the broken plaster. "Another two have been smashed since the Welsborough one: one belonging to Mr Mohandes Hassan..."

"Identical busts?"

"Yeah; And this one to a Doctor Barnicot in Holborn. Three in total. God knows who'd wanna do something like this."

"Yeah, well some people have that complex, don't they, an idée fixe. They obsess over one thing and they can't let it go."

"No, no good. There were other images of Margaret... Margaret?"

"You know who she is, Sherlock." I scold lightly. "Thatcher present at the first break-in. Why would a monomaniac fixate on just one?" Picking up another piece of plaster, I place it under the microscope for him to further analyse. "Ooh."

"What?"

"Blood. Quite a bit of it, too."

"Was there any injury at the crime scene?" I question. "Nope." He looks at his watch again. "Then our suspect must have cut themselves breaking the bust."

"Come on."

"Holborn?"

"Lambeth."

"Lambeth? Why?"

"To see Toby." I stated. "Ah, right. Who?"

"You'll see."

"Can we bring Bones too?" I ask. "Of course, darling."

"Right. You coming?"

"No. He's got a lunch date with a brunette forensic officer that he doesn't want to be late for." I deduced. "Who told you?"

"The right sleeve of your jacket plus the formaldehyde mixed with your cologne..." He pulls a disgusted face, while John leans over to put his face nearer to Greg's jacket, either looking at the sleeve or sniffing at it, or both. "And your complete inability to stop looking at your watch. Have a good time." I finished Sherlock's lines of thought. "I will."

He heads for the kitchen door onto the landing. Sherlock picks up his phone. "Trust me, though, she's not right for you."

"What?"

"She's not the one."

"Well, thank you, Mystic Meg." Lestrade leaves and John steps closer to us. "How'd you work all that out?"

"She's got three children in Rio that he doesn't know about."

"Are you just making this up?"

"Possibly." I laugh out. I walk into the living room about to grab my coat only for Sherlock to get it and hold it out open for me. "Thanks... Ah!" I felt a stinging sensation on my bottom. Sherlock smirks in achievement. We shared a brief giggle before John awkwardly coughed. "So, who's Toby?"