Family Deductions

(( OMG you can read my mind. ))



It was a businesslike effort by John followed by Sherlock springing forward and taking full advantage of Winters discontent at suddenly being disarmed and finding himself floundering up against the wall. Winters groaned and looked thoroughly sick as Sherlock hauled the man to his feet and took the casino owners gun from John's hand.

Although his mind centred entirely on doing his job while he was doing it, and his eyes never left Winters, John had a little smile after the situation was under control in thinking that Sherlock enjoyed seeing him getting physical.

“Yes, yes, ok. yes.” Winters stuttered. He was unsure which was the more dangerous of the two men and looked from the tall, dark haired detective who's voice chilled his heart to the blond who was giving him a hard stare down the sights of his gun.

“Ok,” Winters whined as he edged hesitantly out of the door, into the corridor, and thought better of making a run for it, with Sherlock behind him and John bringing up the rear watching his husband's back.

The employee, who wandered out paintbrush in hand, took one horrified look, dropped the brush and sensibly backed away with his hands up, quaking, and promptly fled out of the fire exit. Winters led the two men to a door and down stone stairs to the cellar.

Winters had little choice but to do as they said, looking miserable and dejected as he led them back out into the corridor and towards the door of the basement. Sherlock was mildly annoyed at the frightened assistant making a run for it, but he reasoned he could be picked up later by the police, once they'd established what it was they were actually dealing with.

Winters hesitated at the open door, so the detective gave him a firm shove in the back to encourage him to go down the stairs, following closely behind. They emerged down the stone steps into a small space - hot and dusty with the work they'd been doing. The plaster Sherlock had spotted on the men's trousers and feet was not from the walls but the floor, where they had been digging into the ground and disturbing the stone work, to install and construct the large monstrous looking machine that now loomed up in front of them.

[Only admins are allowed to see this image]

The room stank of paint and the thing still glistened with the wet glow of the black coating it had been treated with. For a moment Sherlock frowned, then tilted his head to the side and had a good look, before his eyes lit up with recognition. "Ahhh....it's a money printing machine," he smiled, walking all round it quite intriged. "So you take peoples' cash in the casino and on the rare off chance they happen to actually win anything, you pay out counterfeit notes in return. Neat. No wonder you didn't want us to see it."

"We built it ourselves, from scratch," Winters replied, a touch of pride in his voice. "Haven't even had chance to use it yet."

((OOh, nice piccy ))




The cellar reeked of paint fumes and got up John's nose before Winters had even made it into the bottom door aided by a timely push from Sherlock to get him down the stairs. He wrinkled his nose at the fetid, dusty atmosphere.

John stationed himself in the open doorway and kept an eye out for anyone coming until he saw what was in the basement. The machine looked like what he imagined a printing press would look like which Sherlock confirmed in his next breath. Counterfeit notes. “A licence to print money.” John murmured to himself thinking out loud again. He noted that Winters had said 'ourselves' plural.

“I'll watch the top of the stairs.” John glanced up the stairs anxiously as he didn't want anyone shutting the door at the top of the staircase and possibly locking them in the cellar.

((Thanks. XD))


Sherlock was already starting to put the pieces together, his mind working overtime. It was too much of a coincidence that the casino frequented by Sebastian Moran and also by Eddie Jackson, was the one caught preparing to print dodgy money. Moran had to have something to do with this somehow, and he was certain that Winters knew of him from the moment he'd asked in the office, the small signals of recognition dancing across his face.

Then he remembered the other dodgy character they'd met over the course of the evening - the bookmakers. Him and Winters had a connection - they were both in the gambling industry, they both knew Moran and Jackson.

"Do you know a man named Charlie Milverton?" Sherlock asked, genuinely still not sure whether he would or not, but quite confident in his own deductions, the validity of which was confirmed by the nervous cough Winters gave, turning his back slightly and pretending to take an interest in a particular part of the printing machine, rubbing it down with his thumb.

"Never heard of him," he mumbled, clearly lying.
"He'll be pretty annoyed we've found out about this, won't he?" The detective continued, pushing the same line of inquiry and acting like he hadn't heart Winters' initial reply. The man turned round fully, looking frightened and surprised.
"How did you - "
"How did I know?" Sherlock interupted, before giving a shrug and continuing, "I didn't know, you've just told me. Thank you."
Winters paled, realising he'd just been duped.

John standing at the top of the stairs on his self-imposed watch had his hand over the trigger guard and was watching for any sign of employees interfering. Just because it was quiet didn't mean the place was empty. The sound carried in the silence so he could clearly hear all of the conversation taking place in the cellar.

Milverton, John's mind went back to the decidedly predatorial bookmaker they had encountered earlier. Winter's had just walked straight into Sherlock's verbal trap. So what did it mean that Winters, who despite being totally crap with a gun, and it looked like he had probably not had a single lesson in handling one, had not bought the cheapest gun going, a little polymer Glock would have done him if he wanted cheap. So Winters was a criminal but not normally the inured to killing sort, scared of someone enough to obtain a new gun. Scared witless of Moran? Or Milverton? Or maybe both, he didn't know, but he would find out because Sherlock could make the dots join up, he would make the connections. God, he was bloody clever and...

Hearing a tiny sound, which might be nothing more than the central heating switching on, John's mind jumped back to why they were there. Hamish would find he was grounded after this for a while.

"The game's up Mr Winters," Sherlock said matter of factly, waving the gun around. "You might as well tell us what's going on. The whole story."

Winters sighed and leaned against the wall, looking as though he felt a little weak. "Have you heard of the name Moriarty?"
Sherlock felt a cold shiver run down his spine.
"Of course," he replied coolly. "Do tell me more."

"He's in Broadmoor now but, he still runs a lot of operations from in there," Winters continued. "He sends code messages out. In the Personal Ads. Only Moran knows what they mean."
"I'll be the judge of that," remarked the detective. "I'd certainly be interested to have a look."
Winters nodded. "There's a paper in my office with one in there. I'll show you."

He indicated towards the door, but hesitated, not wanting to move without Sherlock's say so. "Go on," Sherlock indicated with the gun, and Winters began to walk up the stairs to where John was keeping guard, the detective following closely behind him. "And don't let moving stop you talking. This was just getting fun."

"It was Moran's idea to build the machine," Winters mumbled as they made their way back to his office. "He's been coming here for a long time. One day he approached me, said he had a business proposal. He said it was all being paid for by Moriarty. He supplied all the equipment, the plans, some of the work force to help out. And what's more, he didn't even want anything out of it."
"Huh." Sherlock chuckled at the man's obvious naievity.

John's ears strained to listen for any more sounds from the ground floor but the conversation his husband was having with the casino owner was still echoing up from the cellar. He heard Winters naming Moriarty and felt his hair stand on end as goosebumps sprang up. The man had no idea that he had signed his own death warrant as he also admitted being in cahoots with Moran.

He smiled drily at Winters reaction to his husband's remark about having fun and moved out the doorway to let Winters pass and lead them back into his office. His worry was that he didn't know when Moriarty would tire of leading Sherlock on a dance at which point Hamish was of no value to the criminal.

Winters slowly sidled into his office and indicated a newspaper on top of a battered filing cabinet. “Get it.” John ordered in a tightly controlled, clipped voice, annoyed at the man's time-consuming dithering.

Winters was dithering, and Sherlock didn't know whether he was playing for time or just being annoying. Either way, the sharp words of his husband soon dealt with that, and the man hurriedly strode over to the filing cabinet and grabbed the newspaper. He found the right page and handed it to Sherlock who snatched it promptly out of his hand and studied it silently for a couple of minutes.

"You were telling me about Moran. He said Moriarty was financing and he didn't want any money," the detective mumbled, staring at the newspaper. "Do continue. Where does Milverton come in?"
"Oh, I thought you wanted to concentrate on the uhh..." He indicated the newspaper.
"What, this?" Sherlock waved the thing in front of his face. "Nahh, this is child's play. Anyway, carry on."

Winters looked surprised and momentarily thrown, but recovered from where he'd left off. "Um...Milverton, he's a...he's a blackmailer."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Last time I checked, he was a bookmaker. How and why did he blackmail you?"
Winters opened his mouth and was about to answer when Sherlock interupted with, "Wait. Don't tell me. I know this. He found out about the printing machine. Said he'd tell the police unless you cut him in on the deal."
"Y-yes. Exactly right."
Sherlock couldn't help a smug look.
"You've been set up, Mr Winters. Moriarty never intended you to use this machine."
"H-he didn't?" Winters stammered, confused.

Sherlock brandished the newspaper in the air like a weapon, then beckoned John over with a wave of his arm, showing him the message.
"It's meant to look like horse racing predictions, see - "

Congrats on Grand Discovery. Owner's Pride (Sunday). Shakespeare's Tale to fall. Camera Escape, Highwayman, Accident Prone (Tuesday 3/1)

He glanced at his husband excitedly. "What do you make of it?"

The news from Winters that Milverton was a blackmailer was a moderate surprise to John as he already suspected that there would be little foul that was beneath the man. The way he was blackmailing Winters and that the casino owner had been set up was a greater revelation.

John looked at the adverts page when Sherlock beckoned him. After a few minutes though he was no nearer to deciphering the message than when he had started, Moran was, obviously, going to be able to which left him, if he used racing terms metaphor feeling like a non-runner.

“It looks like horse racing predictions” John agreed unhappily taking his eyes off the print to check that Winters hadn't moved. “Oh, wait. Winters – Shakespeare's Tale.” he jumped involuntarily.

Winters visibly started and momentarily closed his eyes as if praying that the blond man's finger didn't slip on the trigger of the gun pointing at him.

“Camera is a chamber, hidden or something. In camera means in a private chamber” John continued while watching a bead of sweat reappearing on Winters brow. It was just what came into his head. He knew he was scrabbling on the cliff edge of his limits of the little Latin he had done at school and uncertain if he was unhelpfully confusing it with legal terminology and photography.

"Good John! Shakespeare. Very good," Sherlock exclaimed, pleased, and clapping John on the back enthusiastically, then quickly added, "of course the rest of it was completely off, not to worry."

Winters took a step closer, momentarily overcoming his fear of John's waving gun out of intrigue as to the true meaning of the message. Sherlock cleared his throat slightly and started to explain, pointing at each section as he analysed it.

"Remember what Moriarty used to call you? A pet? Or more specifically, my pet. That means I'm the owner of a pet...look see, 'owner'. And the owner's pride. People talk about their children being their pride and joy don't they? So the Owner's Pride is Hamish. Then the day, Sunday, that's today, pretty self explanatory."

"Shakespeare's Tale is exactly like you said, John, it's Winters," he continued.
"Me?" Winters interrupted, looking nervous.
"Yes, you."
"Well what's this about falling?"
"It means you're in for a fall, either metaphorically or actually. Could well be actually, knowing Moriarty," and he shot a sideways glance and a small smile to John. They still rarely talked about 'the fall' as they'd nicknamed it, even all these years later, although Sherlock joked about it occasionally, as if it needed to be made into humour to make the memory less painful.
"Anyway, that's how I knew you were being set up. That and Grand Discovery."
"What about it?" Winters asked.
"It says 'congrats', which means this particular incident or event has already happened, it's not instructions for a new one, it's a congratulations on a job well done, and what grand discovery has happened recently in your life Mr Winters, other than the discovery by Milverton of your printing machine? How did he find out by the way?"

Winters gulped and looked at the floor. "I wasn't sure at first, but then I checked the CCTV. It was that other man you asked me about, Eddie Jackson."
Sherlock glanced triumphantly at John, finally they were getting somewhere and some of this was beginning to make sense.
"What was he doing going down in the basement?" the detective asked, and Winter shrugged.
"I have honestly no idea. Nobody ever goes down there."
"Who was he with at the casino that night? Moran?"
"Well, yes but...surely you don't think Moran would - "
"Oh I most certainly do think he would," Sherlock replied. "Please try to remember this man works for Moriarty, that he was asked to set you up for a fall then congratulated on the 'grand discovery'...who else could it be? Now. Are we all following this so far?" And he indicated the newspaper with a wave of his hand. "Shall I continue?"

The Doctor coloured up slightly as his husband clapped him on the back and unable to keep the gun in his hand level pulled it away from it's target. He nodded remembering Moriarty's taunt and it was clear that Hamish was the subject too. The reference to a fall was so clear to both himself and Sherlock that he hadn't needed to mention it.
John took in how Winters was responding to Sherlock explaining the coded message and discovering the significance and gravity of the situation he was in. Winters, looking back to John again, still appeared confused as his position began to sink in.

Although his greed, or need, and John didn't know which applied, had made Winters vulnerable he was a little inclined to feel less antagonism towards the man now seeing as he had been set up to be used as an expendable pawn. Sherlock too was by no means beyond showing lenience and mercy to a naïve and gullible man who had learned the hard way not to wander off the straight and narrow in the future.

John, who had eventually dealt with 'the fall' like getting shot, spoke to Winters for his benefit.“It could be an actual fall in more than one way too. Moran would see to it that it happens.”

Winters, replying glumly to Sherlock's question about continuing, nodded and swallowed hard again perceiving the deep trouble he was in. “Um, yes,”

Once he was sure everyone was fully clued up on the situation, Sherlock turned his attention back to the newspaper.

"So. Camera Escape," he announced, pointing at the next riddle. "John, I don't suppose you observed the business card on Mr Milverton's desk when we were at the bookies? His middle initial is A. Charlie A Milverton. C.A.M. Cam. But of course, using Cam on its own would be too obvious, too suspicious, hence making it into Camera."

"That means...Milverton's going to escape?" Winters asked, obviously putting the pieces together.
"Exactly. And you're not. Moran encouraged you to build the machine, then he encouraged Eddie Jackson to go down there on his own and have a look, maybe feigning concern that the casino were cheating, asking Jackson what they should do about it. Then that night they made their way over to the bookmakers where Moran was already in league with Milverton. Moran purposely allowed Jackson to get into debt with him, so he could persuade him to join the bookies and try and win it back, where he promptly lost even more money, putting him effectively in their power..."

"Jackson probably told Milverton all about his discovery, Milverton would have acted all shocked and appalled, but in reality he got in touch with you and wormed his way in on the deal. Moran knew he would react that way, it was all part of the set up..."

"After Jackson had played his part in the elaborate plot he was expendible. He inadvertently offered them the perfect opportunity to be rid of him when he told them his sister was selling a necklace and was giving the money to him to help pay his debts. They said they'd help him find a buyer, purposely gave him a dodgy time and location and made sure it was him they dealt with at all times and not his sister. They didn't really want her to show up at all, just him. When he turned up with two sisters, that really wasn't part of their plan, but they would have to act accordingly, kill everyone."

At this point, Winters interupted, half raising his arm in the air like a kid in class. "Woah, wait a second, people have died?"
"Yes Mr Winters," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "People have died."

"The next part of the riddle," the detective continued. "Highwayman, accident prone. Obviously something happening on a road, some kind of accident, except you don't plan an accident, so what we're looking at here is a crime, made to look like an accident. Now, Moriarty knew we were going to investigate this, because taking Hamish was all part of the plan. Would he really get this machine built just to have it handed over to the police when we found out?"

John admitted that he hadn't seen Charlie Milverton's business card and wished he had been making more notes for writing this case up at some later date. As Sherlock had his gun he dropped Winters firearm into his pocket, brought out his notebook and jotted down the lines of the coded advert and made some quick side notes.

“Who's Hamish?” Winters asked hesitantly frowning as he took a couple of steps back and bumped into his desk.

“Our son.” John replied without looking up from his notes. He didn't quite trust himself not to show his emotions and they had nothing to do with Winters.

“You mean...” Winters began and thought better of continuing when John sighed heavily and his lips tightened into a thin line.

“Mr Winters, your best bet for getting out of this mess alive, is to tell us how or where to find Moran.” John suggested with as much patience as he could muster. “You can't hide from Moran, so don't even think about it.”

Meanwhile, Sherlock had begun pacing up and down, still trying to figure out the last part of the riddle. He reasoned that Winters wouldn't try anything, and even if he did, they were still both armed, so Sherlock lowered the gun and used it to scratch the back of his neck instead.

"3/1...3/1," he muttered under his breath, his eyes noticing that John was making notes and momentarily feeling a flush of pride at his husband's never ending supply of efficiency. "There's something about that...these are all horse racing ciphers so they're supposed to be odds, except they're not...could be a date, 3rd Janurary or 1st March if they were doing it the American way but those dates are too far in the past or the future so can't be that...ugghhh!" He made a frustrated groan, he hated it when there was a piece of the puzzle that eluded him.

"I honestly don't know where you can find Moran," Winters replied to John's demand. "He never gave me his phone number or contact details. I only ever see him when he comes here. I guess if you say he's in league with Milverton he could be there. At Milverton's place."
"He's not there," Sherlock quickly answered. "Sebastian Moran is currently holding our son hostage somewhere in this city."

Winters looked quite shocked by this admission. He had guessed that something was amiss with the two men's son but the full details he hadn't picked up on. "I...I'm sorry," he mumbled quietly, looking at the floor. "I'd help you if I could. I...I've got a son too."

Just then, Sherlock's phone began to ring loudly, breaking into the awkward silence. He took it out and hit the answer button.
"Sherlock Holmes?" He listened silently, not giving anything away, then hung up without saying another word.
"It's Hopkins," he announced to John. "They found two bodies at the power station. A man and a woman. We're meeting them at Barts for a formal identification."

John was feeling morose and bad tempered with the lack of sleep and having a lot on his mind lately. He crossed out an error in his notes and sighed again.
Winters looked sincere about their son's situation and John felt guilty for being short of patience with him. He looked up at Winters when he mentioned he had a son also. “Thank you.”

“3 to 1, could it be a time? Sorry, I'll just shut up.” John realised he was rambling and cursed himself as he knew to keep quiet when his husband paced and just let him think. Then his husband's phone rang and it was apparently Hopkins summoning them to the morgue to view two bodies. He didn't say when so he waited to see if Sherlock had other plans.

Sherlock stared at the phone in his hand, thinking they had a new problem to assess. They could hardly leave Winters here on his own, not after they'd just told him his life was potentially in danger, and after they'd caught him attempting to or planning to print counterfeit money. Anyone in his position would surely attempt to run away and they could hardly allow that.

"You're going to have to come with us," he announced, pointing the gun at Winters and glancing across at John for confirmation. "We can't leave him here. We'll take him to the morgue where we can hand him over to the police." He turned to the frightened man again and explained politely, "you'll need to give a statement, but tell them everything you told us, exactly as you told it and I swear it won't come off too badly for you. I'll put in a good word. And it's certainly much better than whatever Moran had in store for you."

Winters thought about the offer for a moment, then nodded. "I suppose you're right," he mumbled. "I'll come with you. Don't worry, you don't have to point that thing at me."

Sherlock realised his husband had been talking about the riddle, his brain only registering the comment several minutes after it had initially been said. "3/1...yes...it could be literally 'say it as you see it' - three to one...three minutes to one perhaps. One in the afternoon or one in the morning? Or it could be a ratio - three...three people, for example, three people to one person. Ugh...I don't know..."

Moriarty once asked him how hard it was having to say 'I don't know'. In truth, it was extremely hard, and he hated it, although he had gradually got used to having to say it occasionally over the years. It didn't mean he wouldn't find out the answer eventually, just that it might take him a little longer than usual.

"Right then, let's get down to the morgue," the detective grinned, unable to hide his excitement at seeing the new discoveries, the latest part of the puzzle falling into place. He made a move for the door, taking Winters by the upper arm and guiding him along, keeping a firm grip just in case he did decide to run off.

John nodded as Sherlock looked at him while making the proposal that Winters ought to accompany them to Bart's. “Co-operating will work in your favour.” he remarked for Winters benefit.

“Oh. Er, my coat, my phone and shop keys are in it.” Winters exclaimed and declined the offer of his coat with a shake of his head. John fishing in the pocket brought them both out and handed them over.

With his husband in control of Winters John led the way out onto the street via the back door and hailed a taxi as soon as one loomed into view. Winters sat next to the detective and looked gloomily into his lap or out of the window.

“He's very bright my son, takes after his mother.” Winters remarked to John suddenly as the taxi pulled into the Hospital parking area.

Used to strangers talking to him John nodded as he paid the driver. “He'll understand then, you just want the best for him.”

“I've never been to a morgue.” Winters whispered nervously to John as they walked along the corridors.

“It's ok, if you don't mind the smell of disinfectant.” John replied encouragingly.

Detective Inspector Stanley Hopkins, looking a little tired, but professionally stoic, greeted the consulting detective and his assistant as soon as they walked in with a nod and tilted his head towards Winters. “And?”

Sherlock noticed the fact that Winters refused his coat but requested the items from it. He was always suspicious about little things like that. It wasn't exactly a warm summer's day, why would he not want his coat? He made a mental note of it as they walked out of the building and hailed a taxi.

John and Winters made small talk for the whole journey. His husband was always rather good at things like that, making suspects feel at ease, chattering. It wasn't really Sherlock's area. He jiust stared out of the window contemplatively and was glad when they arrived at St Barts.

Hopkins was already waiting outside the double doors leading into the morgue, and gave them a look as if to say 'who the hell's this guy'. Sherlock shook the inspector's hand, then made introductions.
"This is Mr Winters from the casino. He wants to make a statement with regard to a counterfeit money making machine."
"What? Really?" Hopkins looked surprised.
"Yes really," Sherlock replied. Hopkins called over another officer who led the sheepish looking Winters away.

"Just tell the story exactly as you told me!" Sherlock shouted after him, a bit of friendly advice. He wasn't entirely devoid of empathy, and Winters seemed to him almost a victim in the whole thing - tricked into crime by his own greed then stabbed in the back and used as a mere pawn by the criminal professionals.

"Right then, follow me," Hopkins muttered, leading the way into the morgue, where Molly was already standing over the bodies making notes, and a distraught handcuffed Adam Jackson was being held back by two police officers. Having been escorted out of custody to identify the bodies, he was now shaking and muttering to himself uncontrollably, a shock blanket half hanging off his shoulders.
"It was them, then?" Sherlock asked.
"Eddie Jackson and Carole Waugh, yes," Hopkins nodded. "Grim business. Found in one of the back rooms. Both killed by a single gun shot wound to the back of the head, execution style. Few other minor injuries from the struggle."

John nodded to Stanley Hopkins in acknowledgement and watched concealing a bemused smile as the Inspector was introduced to Winters by Sherlock. He smiled at his husband for being kind to Winters. He was happier too as it would go down well that they had just delivered an open and shut case to Scotland Yard but particularly with Stan as it would save him a lot of stress. Goodwill always helped if their unconventional methods happened to land them in Scotland Yard's bad books.

Adam Jackson looked much worse than when they had left him John noticed and he detoured on his way to speak to Molly to place the orange shock blanket more squarely on Jackson's shoulders.

Molly looked up from making her notes and unobtrusively asked him how it was all going. “Are you ok?”

“Getting there.” John smiled briefly and getting out his notebook began to copy some details over whilst looking over her arm.

Sherlock nodded as Hopkins explained the situation then strode over to the bodies. "Good morning Molly," he threw her a quick smile as he took out his magnifier, leaning over each body in turn and running the glass over them.

He immediately spotted brusing round the wrists of the girl, indicitave of her being grabbed whilst attempting to fend off an attack. Jackson had some abrasions round his neck, and the wound on his upper thigh which he'd been bleeding from as he attempted to flee the scene of the crime. It wasn't a gun shot wound. Some kind of knife or sharp instrument.

Then of course there were the wounds to the back of the head, or what was left of the head after having half of it blown off, clearly at extremely close range. Sherlock, however, noticed a slight difference in the two gun shots, and stepped back for a moment, frowning slightly. Hopkins smiled and wandered over, realising what he'd spotted.

"Ballistics report shows the bullets were from two different guns," he explained.
Sherlock grinned. "Two executioners then. Seems unlikely that the same man would use two different guns, and there would need to be more than one man to dispose of three people like that. There was Sylvia Jackson too remember. She made a run for it, one of them chased after her..." As he was speaking, a new idea suddenly came into his mind and he made a verbal exclamation of delight.
"Oh! Wait! Wait! There were two guns, two executioners, both inside the building waiting to meet Eddie and kill him. He was the one who arranged the sale, they expect him to bring hte necklace alone. Eddie turns up with his two sisters - Carole and Sylvia. Perhaps one of the assassins already has his gun out, but they know something is wrong instantly and Sylvia makes a run for it. The other two go for Eddie and Carole. There's a struggle, some injuries. Meanwhile Sylvia has fled the building, but the two assasins aren't particularly worried, because they know their partner is out there in the car. Yes. There had to be a third man. Someone without a gun. That's why he strangled her. His hands were the only weapon he had. So he must have been their driver. Waiting outside by the car, just keeping an eye out."

Sherlock stepped back and took a deep breath, smiling slightly. "John, would you care to take a look...tell me what you think?" He indicated with his hand towards the two bodies.

The doctor watched the proceedings and checked with Hopkins and Molly out of politeness and getting assent quickly pulled on medical gloves before bending to examine the two bodies for Sherlock beginning with the head wounds. When he had finished he straightened up. “C.O.D. you know already. T.O.D 24 hours ago, probably shortly after 5am last Friday” he spoke to Hopkins and gave his husband a smile. The circumstantial evidence being the copied e-mail from Jackson's laptop. He then went back to examine the flesh wound in Jackson's leg and the bruising and abrasions on the man's neck.

“The wound to the thigh is consistent with a knife, which is what you would expect, a slice meant to hurt and terrify not sever muscle and render incapable. Torture or threat or as a warning as a motive possibly. People with guns generally rely on the gun being a powerful persuader and it'd be odd for an average sized attacker to bend down, it'd be more likely be a slash to an arm.” John continued.

John considered the other possible cause and standing back from the table curled his hand into a fist by his side imagining holding a knife. Leaning back John checked where his hand had moved to. “So, there's a strong possibility that it was self inflicted in a struggle. The marks on his neck?” he paused. “Mr Jackson could have been holding the knife which sliced into his upper thigh as he was pulled backwards.” he looked at Sherlock to see if that was in any way helpful.

Sherlock stepped back and allowed John room to do his work, taking the opportunity to check out his arse a couple of times as he bent over the corpses. He couldn't really help it. John, combined with the intelligent statements he was making with regard to the bodies, was just too irresistable.

The detective's face remained calm and unreadable, changing his features only once - to wink at John when he mentioned the time of death. It had been exactly as he was expecting of course, but the fact that his deductions and reasoning were now all being proven to be correct and falling into place pleased him greatly.

The suggestion that Jackson may have accidentally stabbed himself in the leg made a lot of sense, especially when Sherlock looked again at the position on the thigh when compared with the length of Jackson's arms. "This is why you're indispensable John," he smiled, patting his husband on the back. "It's entirely possible that Jackson took a knife with him. Even though he trusted his friends who had arranged the supposed sale, something inside of him must have set alarm bells ringing - the location of the meeting, the time of day, the anonymous buyer. Taking a knife was just a precaution, and probably quite a good idea although, in the end it did nothing to save his life."

Sherlock brought out his phone and looked again at the original message with the attached photograph sent to them by Hamish's kidnappers. "As far as I'm concerned, we've solved this case. We've found the jewelery, we've found three, no, four bodies. We know exactly what happened, how and why they were killed. We know who was involved, we know the motive...oh, Inspector..." He turned to Hopkins, who raised his eyebrows expectantly.
"You may want to go and arrest a certain Mr Milverton," and with that Sherlock quickly explained the details of the case to an increasingly surprised Inspector.

"John," he continued, turning back to his husband. "We need to let the kidnappers know so they can release Hamish. Maybe post on the website like last time?"

Something was still niggling at Sherlock. It didn't seem right that Moriarty would go to all the trouble of getting a counterfeit money machine built, just to allow Sherlock to discover it, arrest everyone involved and get the thing confiscated or destroyed. He frowned, pondering the puzzle a little further, wondering if the master criminal had something else in store for them.

John felt his heart miss a beat when his husband winked at him and tried to continue to concentrate on what he was doing. He was pleased that Sherlock checked what he had suggested in his medical opinion and that it seemed to add some detail to an otherwise stark picture of a crime. At the same time as standing taller he turned away from Hopkins to hide the pink flush on his cheeks caused by his reaction to his husbands compliment.

“I think you should post it up” John knew the password sequences for his husband's website the same as Sherlock knew his for the blog but he was suddenly anxious about posting “Moriarty knows how you write, he could tell if it was you or me posting, well, maybe part of what he wants is your personal attention? I think you should post it, just in case.”

He could tell that something was still troubling his husband besides Hamish being in the hands of Moriarty's men. John had a bad feeling now though that Hamish was the bait in a grander scheme but he knew too that Moriarty played mind games. Perhaps that was exactly what Moriarty wanted them to think, to screw up their heads. He shook his head trying to dislodge that idea.

"You're right, I'll do it," Sherlock replied with a grim smile, pleased by his husband's intelligence but slightly reticent about this whole thing. He looked at his watch. "In plenty of time too."

"I'd better go and arrest this Milverton chap," Hopkins stated, getting his officers in order as Adam Jackson was led back into custody and Molly covered up the two bodies with sheets. "Almost an entire family wiped out because of some stupid necklace and a gambling problem," the Inspector remarked sadly.

Sherlock nodded, putting on what he hoped was his sympathetic face before quickly dropping it again as he turned to Molly. "We need access to the computers in the IT room. Can you sort it?"

"Yeah, I can get you in there," she replied, efficient as always and already leading the way towards the door. Sherlock followed anxiously, eager to post up the message to his website.

“Yes, a tragedy for the family” John replied to Hopkins seeing him looking downcast. It was always the living that John had sympathy for. Doctors could do nothing for the dead.

As he followed his husband and Molly up to the I.T. Suite and Molly chatted with Sherlock he wasn't listening to what they said. John wondered if Stanley saw tragedy as being due to the small things that murder victims did or cared about that resulted in their deaths. He saw it as a result of criminals, bad people, taking advantage of human weaknesses. In the end did it matter really because the results were the same. But John knew that he couldn't stop people having a moment of human frailty and he could help stop criminals having power over them. That he supposed was partly why he had become a soldier. It was why he wasn't like Moran who was simply a killer.

John hoped that posting the message would result in a reply telling them where to find Hamish but he wasn't going to be happy until they had their son home safely. He stood with his hand resting on the back of the office chair that Sherlock was occupying while he typed and gazed earnestly at the computer screen.