On the eleventh of september, a church bell rings. On the eleventh of september, a wedding anthem plays. A bride walks down the long aisle towards the groom, and the hooded figures join in holy matrimony with the two "I do's".
"I need a case, John." Sherlock hisses through gritted teeth as he paces impatiently in the living room.
It's 1:00 pm on sunday, thirteenth september. Sherlock's email inbox is bursting with mysteries and requests for help, yet none of them seems to interest him.
"John!" He sighs, exasperated. He falls into his armchair and positions his hands together in the usual position and starts to stare at John.
"I'm sure an interesting case will come through soon." John replies absentmindedly, flipping through another page of the newspaper. Clearly, he seems more interested in that than Sherlock's whining. He has an excuse. He's been bored all morning.
"Well, if I can't have a case, then can I have a cigaratte?" he asks, watching John slowly tip forward the newspaper, until he could see Sherlock. There is a long silence, to which you could suspect that they are using telepathic skills to communicate, given the looks in their eyes.
"Nope." John's answer comes out short but Sherlock doesn't take it well. Suddenly, he jumps up and starts the room wildly; throwing books off the bookcase and flinging papers off the desk. "Where are they? Tell me!" his voice sounds strained, urgent, tinged with anger, but John doesn't give in that easily.
"You're doing great, Sherlock, without them. You've even been off the patch for," he pauses to check the time on his watch, "fourteen min-"
"Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock bellows, cutting John off sharply. He breathes deeply for a few seconds, putting his hands on his waist to calm himself down before attempting to speak again. "Please," he swallows, "could I have one cigarette?" he asks, as politely as he can manage, and from the expression on his face, it seems as if it's taking everything in him to hold it together.
There is another loud silence, to which the only sound breaking it is the loud footsteps ascending on the stairs. A few seconds later, the door of Sherlock's flat is flung open and Lestrade walks into the scene.
"What's going on?" he asks, in his normal grumpy voice. His eyes search the room, and confusion is present on his face as he sees the mess of the room, but dismisses it quickly. After all, he's seen all of this before.
"Oh, what are you doing here, Gordan? It really is the unlucky thirteenth isn't it? I call for Mrs Hudson and I get you." Sherlock's eyes glance up and down at Lestrade in disgust. He really isn't a big fan of him.
Small, light, pattering footsteps ascend upstairs and Mrs Hudson walks in. "Oh, oh, Sherlock, sorry, I had noodles brewing for your lun-" she stops speaking when she realises Lestrade's presence. "Oh, what's wrong?" she asks, concern displayed all over her face.
"I've got a case." Lestrade says simply, watching Sherlock jump onto the couch to lie down as if he isn't interested. There is another long silence before John interrupts.
"You know you should probably do what he says. Not because I've had enough silence in this room today, but because you-" he puts down his paper and stands to fold his arms on his chest, "need a case."
"Oh, I'm going." Sherlock confirms, turning his head to face his audience. "But not before Gordan says what I want to hear." he explains, and John looks at him, confused.#
Lestrade sighs, obviously knowing what Sherlock's talking about. "I need you."
As soon as the words leave his mouth, Sherlock jumps off the couch with the ease of a panther and grabs his coat and his scarf along the way. "Mrs Hudson, have your noodles, Gordan and John, let's go." he says, wrapping up and walking down the stairs.
"Wait, you don't even know what the case is." Lestrade points out on the staircase.
"I'm sure you'll tell." Sherlock replies. "Taxi!" he calls, holding out his hands when they arrive outside.
"And it's Greg." Lestrade corrects Sherlock, for the billionth time.
"No it's not." Sherlock argues back, shaking his head.
"Yes. It is." John confirms, climbing into the taxi, followed by Sherlock and Lestrade.
Two bodies found in two different warehouses in America. Found with their eyes wide open yet no injuries. By the looks, the first body is dated to the eleventh, and the second is dated to the twelvth-yesterday.
"Anything else you can tell me?" Sherlock asks as he gazes out of the taxi window, looked slightly intrigued, but mostly bored. He's probably still craving a cigarette.
"One interesting thing is-" Lestrade looks over to Sherlock, who turns to face him after noticing the silence, "there was a message left behind. A name, rather, initials. AM" He pronounces the letters extremely clearly, as if he thought Sherlock would forget them.
"AM. AM. AM." Sherlock mutters quietly to himself as Lestrade goes on.
"At first, we though that it meant 'a.m.' as in 'morning' but it doesn't make any sense why the killer would want to leave behind their time of murder. So now, you come in." Lestrade explains, and there is silence in the taxi before John speaks.
"So Sherlock? Will you take the case?
"Of course I'll take the case, it's the only thing I've had since long ago, and I've not got much choice anyway, you won't let me have a cigarette."
"Will you please stop going on about your bloody cigarette?!" John shouts, but readjusts himself when he sees the expressions on his audiences' faces.
"Oh, I nearly forgot, there was also a photo by each of the bodies, a picture of snakes. We have no idea how the clues match up."
Body on the left. Woman. Mid thirties. Happily married with slightly dirty ring. Either good profession or rich husband from the look of her expensive make up, jewellery and taste of fashion. iPhone 5 in posession, yet no apps but good amount of contacts. Inbox bursting with work emails with no company name indicates a hard worker, but the unknown company doesn't help, although the excellent language used implies that she was brought up well or around professional people. Eyes wide open. Picture of snake beside her along with initials.
Man on the right hand side. Mid twenties. Unmarried. A show-off or likes to impress people from the look of his ironed clothes and clean shaven face. Strong aftershave smell. Lacking in fashion-his trousers and jumper don't match. iPhone 4S, few contacts considering the amount of friends he probably has, but new numbers in messages section with high number of texted people and long conversations prove he is quite popular. Also he's got a good memory since he can remember all those phone numbers, but his inbox is quite empty considering his popularity, which shows that he would rather text than email. Eyes wide open. Picture of snakes by him with the initials.
No smell of alcohol or drugs on either of them. Cancels out a lot of possibilities.
"Wait, wait, wait, no..." Sherlock trails off, disappearing into his mind palace again.
Snakes. Cobras? Vipers? Poisonous. Venomous. Snakes. Snakes. AM AM AM. Murders. Ancient? Back up. Back up. Greek mythology. Greek Gods. Poseidon. Hades. Zeus. Persephone. Aphrodite. Greek mythology monsters? Medusa. Gorgon. Snakes. Snakes. Medusa. Medusa.
"Medusa." Sherlock says, re-emerging from his mind palace.
"Sorry, what?" John asks.
"Medusa. Everything fits. AM. Auntie M as Greek Mythology said. Woman with snakes on her head- hence the pictures. Anyone who looked into her eyes was turned into stone-hence the wide eyes." Sherlock explains, pointing to all the features as he describes them.
"So someone's trying to pose as a Greek monster?" Lestrade questions. "Why?"
"Oh...no, no, no, no!" Sherlock shouts, spinning around. "Oh, he's good. He is getting good. Not Greek Mythology. So stupid. AM. Not Auntie M or Auntie Em."
"Sherlock, what are you trying to say?" John asks, looking very confused beside Lestrade.
"Come along, John. We have a case." Sherlock turns to walk out of the inspection room but John stops him.
"Wait, tell me what you know." John says.
"Oh, we've been so stupid. He's been leading us the wrong way. But this is good. He's getting clever. We have someone to visit. Someone got 'married' on the 11th of September. Someone was killed on the 11th of September. Someone was killed on the 12th September. Someone's going to get killed today. Nine eleven was the terrorist attacks on America. What a weird date to get married, don't you think? And the dead bodies just 'happen' to fall at our feet the days after the wedding day? And then suspiciously, our favourite man's wife's initials come to haunt us." Sherlock finishes, and from the look on John's face, he understands.
"You don't mean? It can't be." He says, shocked.
"The game is on, John. The game is on. Jim Moriarty. Auntie Moriarty."