jessamygriffith

Title: Buthal
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: Teen (for mild slash, disturbing themes)
Word count: 21K +

Summary: Every story needs a good, old-fashioned villain. Every legend needs a hero. Every fairy tale has magical curses. Every good adventure story has a man fighting a monster.

But monsters, like men, come in many shapes and many sizes, and it is not always easy to tell which is which.

When the figure at the desk opens the next notebook, several folded sheets fall out. The yellowing paper is smoothed out with trembling hands. It's like a transcript with personal notes added - the last conversation held between James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes just before the great criminal mastermind died.

No one in the world, excepting Sherlock, Moriarty and perhaps John, knows what transpired.

The printed words are devoured, eyes racing over the text.

=======================================

Rooftop - Bart's Hospital

The tinny strains of 'Stayin' Alive' echo across the rooftop. Moriarty smiles as Sherlock approaches. "At last. Here we are, you and me." He switches off the player. "Staying alive. It's so boring, though. Dying, living - pretty much the same after a while. It's just... staying."

"I wouldn't know," Sherlock says.

"No, you wouldn't, would you." Moriarty grins briefly. "I've been looking for you for such a long time, you know. My match. And now I've got you." He gets up and paces around Sherlock, notes how Sherlock’s fingers are tapping out a tattoo against his leg. "Oh, I see you got that too."

"Binary code. You showed me - the key to get into any computer, locked into my head." Sherlock holds himself still. "That's why all those assassins tried to save my life."

Moriarty looks at him in astonishment before burying his head in his hands. "No. No, no, no! You got it wrong, you doofus! There is no code, there never was!" He screams the last.

"Then what is it?" Sherlock looks lost.

"The code was the bait to get you here. It's meaningless. God! I can't believe you fell for that! You disappoint me, Sherlock, you really do." Moriarty's voice is patronising. "Bribes, inside work, that's all it took - just the rumour of a code was enough to bring the boys running to my yard."

Sherlock's voice rises. "Then why have them save my life?"

Moriarty looks up from under his lashes. "To keep you safe for me, silly."

~~~~~

Buthal wants to vomit, the pain is so great. But he understands. Oh, he understands.

He cannot stay here and look at the grave, that waiting darkness. The separation is necessary but hurtful.. The space in his chest is huge, and the hunger is growing. Buthal must protect his heart-bearer, and now the price must be paid.

There is a hunt to finish. The hunger must be fed. The sooner Buthal starts, the faster they will be together again. And then - he will tell his heart everything.

He disappears.

~~~~~

Rooftop - Bart's Hospital.

"I must say, you've chosen a great place for your grand exit." Moriarty rubs his hands together. "So airy. I love it."

Sherlock's mouth opens. "Ah. My suicide. The great fraud kills himself, proves everyone right."

"I read it in the paper," Moriarty intones, "So it must be true. I do love newspapers. They twist up everything. Fairy tales." He grins. "Grimm ones."

Sherlock's voice is hoarse. "John will never believe it. He won't let this go, he'll shout it to the world -"

Moriarty steps into Sherlock's space so quickly that Sherlock recoils. "Do not mention his name to me again. Your little pet's attachment is the reason I had to intervene so dramatically. It's all his fault." His face is twisted with rage, but abruptly smooths out. "You are mine, Sherlock. Pity I had to play the villain. Still." He nods at the edge of the roof. "Go to it. Need to get on with my life here - such as it is."

Sherlock paces as Moriarty badgers him. "Go on. For me. Pleeeease?" He sighs in exasperation, voice hardening. "Need some extra incentive? Fine. Your friends will die if you don't."

Sherlock freezes. "John."

"Yes, and your little dog too!" mocks Moriarty. "Everyone."

Sherlock's hands are trembling. He knew this was coming. He is ready. Everything is prepared. "And if I do jump?"

"What do you think, moron? The hunt is called off. Your friends live happily ever after."

"I thought you wanted John out of picture."

Moriarty waves this away. "Well... I had such plans for him. But after this -" he spreads his hands. "Bygones. But only if my associates see you jump. Nothing's going to prevent their deaths..."

"...Unless I kill myself. Complete your fairy tale." Sherlock's voice is dull.

"You gotta admit, that's how the stories end. The horrid monster always gets killed by the plucky underdog."

~~~~~

In the next year, reports make their way back to Mycroft of organisations tumbled, certain key people taken by the authorities. Others are killed. But the murders aren't following the right pattern, though all are undoubtedly key players in Moriarty's network of crime. It is the manner of their killing that worries him. A number of them are quite... untidy.

He leafs through the newest report, noting the names. Georgian, connected to the notoriously corrupt police force in some way. And now four of them are dead in a country villa outside Zugdidi. Mycroft's lips compress as he looks at the latest collection of photos.

This is one of the bloodiest, though he supposes that is due to the number of victims involved. But the dismemberment - arms torn away, heads twisted, a jaw hanging by a shred of muscle with the tongue lolling beneath - this is excessive. It attracts too much attention, though no perpetrator has been caught. Mycroft wonders how much longer that can go on.

His gaze lingers on one photo longer than the others, that of a middle-aged man with his face contorted in a mask of agony. There are bloody sockets where his eyes should be, and his chest cavity has been ripped open, the ribs blackened with blood and splayed like the broken tines of a macabre fan. Viscera has dried and stuck to the floor. The man's heart was taken, along with other organs and flesh, torn free with savage force.

No, it's too much. There are only one or two of Moriarty's associates left to be disposed of.

He must contact Sherlock.

~~~~~

Rooftop, Bart's Hospital

Sherlock's face is blank and Moriarty giggles. "What, don't tell me you thought all that rubbish I sent you meant that I was the giant in our little fairy tale? Don't be stupid, that's completely ridiculous." His face is sly with amusement. "Except it isn't. Don't you love it when there's a twist?"

Sherlock's mouth is tight.

"Now where were we again? Ah yes. The tragic demise of the great detective. The end. You - or your friends."

Sherlock moves as though in a dream to the edge and looks down. "Give me a moment. Please."

Moriarty clicks his tongue. "Well, since you asked so nicely." He turns away and begins to hum. Sherlock begins to chuckle, and Moriarty whirls, furious.

"No," says Sherlock. "I don't have to die. Not when I have - you." He taps the air with a finger. "Just one word, and they live."

"Oh!" Jim laughs, clapping his hands. "You think you can make me stop the order? You? Oh, honey. Have you forgotten our last encounter? Trust me - there is no possible way you can beat me in a fight."

"Yes, but who says I need to beat you?" Sherlock's smile broadens to a fierce grin. "I only need to - join you."

Moriarty's face loses all expression. "You - you don't mean that."

Sherlock stands over him, leans in and lowers his voice. "You thought I was ordinary? Not I. You shall see how extraordinary I am - what we will be. Together. Isn't that what you always wanted?"

The look on Moriarty's face is glowing. "Oh, yes," he breathes. "Yes. I knew it. I have people waiting downstairs for the operation."

~~~~~

It is an unlikely place for Sherlock's hunt to end. Kinloch Rannoch is a tiny Scottish village famed for its outdoor pursuits and trekking. He has tracked the last survivor of Moriarty's organisation (ex-Army, SRR, one Seren Moran according to his intelligence) to this vicinity and it seems his work is producing fruit at last.

Then there's the matter of John. Sherlock hasn't forgotten Moriarty's promise to burn the heart out of him and his own flippant answer. How wrong he was. If Sherlock has anything resembling a heart, it resides in one John Watson. Although Moriarty's empire has been disassembled, John is now in immediate danger. One last obstacle, and then they can go home.

Casually talking with locals under the guise of looking for a trekking partner, he has learned of a well-built man with red-blond hair that has taken a holiday cottage nearby. A few women at the pub comment favourably on this quiet stranger, who is in the habit of having a drink at the local nearly every night. One plump-faced young woman giggles, remarking that it was a pity the gentleman looks so haggard, almost ill.

"Positively hunted, my dears," she says and a slim man in an anorak at the bar with his back to the room ducks his head, choking a laugh into his drink. "Pity he's not here tonight." Sherlock shrugs and turns the conversation to new topics before the woman can focus her amorous attentions upon him. Finishing his chips, he drops a few bills and leaves the pub, pockets stuffed with tourist pamphlets, camera slung 'round his neck. His is mind ticking over the information gleaned.

Sherlock gets into his rented Rover and pulls out the pamphlets. Hotels, cottages, rafting, trekking - he leafs through until he finds the one that caught his eye. Local sights - 'The Sleeping Giant,' a hill reputed to resemble the head and upper torso of a man. His gaze lifts to the mountains surrounding the village.

Well. This story would end as it had begun then. Fairy tale monsters. He's come full circle.

~~~~~

The promise of the lowering clouds is fulfilled as Sherlock parks the Rover down the lane from West Carey Cottage. Raindrops pelt the windscreen as he dresses, wriggling into dark khakis, hiking boots and a fleece jumper. The holster with its pistol are covered by the sweep of the rain poncho. To a casual observer he is just another holidayer with a broken-down car and his phone dead who needs to call a friend. He pulls the hood up over his head and rests his hands against the dashboard, eyes closed.

He has been dreading this moment. But he can't go on any longer without John.

He opens the door and steps out into the rain.

~~~~~

The net curtains drawn across the windows of the cottage mask the interior as Sherlock makes his cautious way closer. He scans the ground as he approaches, but in the darkness of the evening, nothing can be made out on the soft ground. A sensible rental vehicle is parked in the drive, the clean interior offering no information. The tinned laughter of a program on the telly can be heard even from outside over the sound of the rain. Sherlock looks within. Silhouetted in the flickering blue light, he can just make out a figure sagging in slumber in an armchair facing the television, one with short, neat blond hair. Sherlock expels a breath.

He makes his way to the front door and presses the doorbell, hearing the chime within. There is no response. He presses again twice. A light flicks on and he hears slow footsteps inside. There is a shadow, indistinct through the frosted panel of the door. The exterior light flicks on, blinding him as the bolt is unlocked. At the same moment, Sherlock hears the crunch of gravel on the walkway. He whirls, reaching for his pistol too late as as the electrodes of the Taser hit him. He falls in a heap with his muscles twitching, his heart giving a painful double thump.

"That's enough for now, Ronnie," says a smooth voice. As hands deftly brush aside his poncho and lift his gun, Sherlock tries to force his muscles to obey but stops when he hears the click of the safety.

He wants to say something about how overly-dramatic it is, to un-safety a gun when he still has electrodes snagged in his skin, but all that comes out is a groan. Stupid, stupid to fall for such a ploy.

His poncho hood is pushed back and he sees a young woman with short blond hair and lovely blue eyes wearing an anorak - the young man from the pub that had his back turned the whole time Sherlock had been there. Of course - the man had hunched over his drink to hide his face and hands, Sherlock realises. He's been so stupid. Her lips curve into a smile but there is no friendliness behind it.

"Sherlock Holmes, at long last," she says. "I've been waiting for you. I'm Seren Moran, though I think you knew that already. Don't try anything. We've some time to kill, and there are plenty of non-lethal places I can hurt you - will hurt you - before we're done." She stands. "Ronnie, get the zip-ties on him and help me get him inside."

~~~~~

Rooftop - Bart's Hospital.

Sherlock steps back. "What?"

"The operation, the old switcheroo, you know!" Moriarty's hands are flexing as if to draw Sherlock closer. "You're not ordinary, oh no. You're me." His smile is jubilant. "My heart for yours. This is perfect, perfect, I knew it! Well, not sure if you'll make it, once you do your little swan dive, you're bound to be a mess -"

With a snarl Sherlock grabs Moriarty's tie and jerks, twisting the silk. "You're insane."
Moriarty blinks up at him, unafraid. One hand snakes up between them and presses against Sherlock's wildly beating heart. A smile creeps across Moriarty's face.

"No, I'm not," he sings-songs.

Sherlock yanks the tie savagely but Moriarty is an immovable weight. Without any effort he knocks Sherlock's hands away.

"Hands off, my precious, you don't want my people to get antsy, do you?" He smooths his tie. "The old ticker isn't doing as well as it should. Kind of a dietary problem, heh. So, a heart for a heart. Monster to man. Don't worry." His face is serene, incandescent. "My doctors are very good. And there's only two more conditions to be met." He glances at the roof edge. "Off you pop."

"No. No," chokes Sherlock. "I won't do it."

Moriarty sighs happily. "Yes, you will. Thank you. Bless you, Sherlock Holmes. You're everything I could have hoped for, after all this time."

"You're mad," breathes Sherlock. "Mad."

"I'm not. Really, I'm not," Moriarty chides him, voice choked yet strangely loving. He strokes a hand over Sherlock's heart. "Because I know that as long as I'm alive, you'll try to renege, save your little friends. Together. That's what you promised." His lashes are wet. He pulls the gun from his waistband and puts it in his mouth.

~~~~~

They wait for John. Inside, the telly yammers on with its inane programs and commercials, investing the scene with a nightmarish quality.

Seren begins with Sherlock's right foot. Stripped to his boxers and tied to a kitchen chair, he is unable to hold back the cries as she works from the little toe inwards. The hammer flashes down in hard, precise strokes, each causing a lighting bolt of pain to whiten his vision. Seren is methodical, detached as she gauges each blow. When his big toe is broken, she pauses.

"I hope your friend isn't long, Sherlock. You'll end up a cripple if he's late." She runs a hand up the curve of his quivering calf muscle.

"What have you done with John?"

"Nothing. He really is an outdoors type, isn't he. Wanders the hills for hours. I just stole his car. Oh, and had Ronnie lift his phone last time he was down at the pub. Not that he's used it much this past year. The last text message was from you. Sentimental thing, isn't he?"

Sherlock says nothing, and Seren tweaks one of his broken toes. Sherlock curses through gritted teeth.

"I owe you," she says. "A lot of my associates in the business are gone now, thanks to you. I have to say, though." She strokes his leg again. "I was quite surprised by your brutality. I'd have thought a posh bloke like you would kill with a lot more finesse."

"I don't know what you are talking about," Sherlock says.

She stands to move behind him. A high-pitched noise escapes him as one of his fingers is bent, the joint dislocating with a dull popping noise. "Butchery. You may not believe me, but I do have some standards, and tearing people apart like an animal? It's not what I call sportsman-like. Hm?" Another finger is fractured, and Sherlock writhes, throwing his weight back to try and overturn the chair. She braces him with a hip. "Ah, ah, ah. You're not going anywhere."

"That wasn't me."

"Of course. It was some other person who just happened to be taking down Jim's network." She grabs a handful of hair, yanks Sherlock's head back. "Do you take me for a fool?"

Sherlock stares into her eyes. "It - wasn't - me."

She lets him go. "Whatever. You're still going to die for what you did to Jim. You broke your promise, Sherlock. You didn't jump. And now it's up to me to keep good on Jim's promise."

Sherlock understands.

"Burn the heart out of you," says Seren. "A bit impractical. We've got the supplies ready and waiting. Then when I'm done with him, you're next. Have to say, I'm really going to enjoy punching your ticket."

"Moriarty was insane," Sherlock says. "You do realize that."

Seren's face darkens, the only warning Sherlock has. He relaxes his neck and turns with the blow, but his lip is split. "Shut it. Jim was odd, yes. Borderline, definitely. But he was good to me. He helped me out of a difficult situation when I was in the Army. He encouraged my potential, he paid well, and he gave me interesting work."

"The perfect boss," says Sherlock in dry sarcasm. Blood is running down his chin in a thin trickle. She nods seriously.

"He was. And unlike you, he never, ever underestimated my sex. But now he's gone. And that's your fault, Sherlock." Her voice thickens. "Before you, he was fine. Then you met, and I saw how those seeds of instability just bloomed. You made him worse. It's because of you he killed himself."

Sherlock can say nothing to this. Seren clears her throat. "I owe you so much. For Jim. Meantime, I've always wanted to try this. Ronnie, prop his chair back against those two and fill the kettle. Tea pot too. I need to find a pillowcase."

~~~~~

...5, 6, 7... Tachycardia. Pulse elevated, heart is thrumming in his chest. The water continues to pour.

...10, 11 - 11...11 what's the next number next can't breathe drowning can't BREATHE 11, 12... 12?

Sherlock is shaking uncontrollably when the cloth is pulled away from his face and his chair is lifted upright again. He doesn't know if the moisture running down his face is from only water.

He can't. Can't do this again. Not even his great mind can control his gag reflex or the instinctive animal fear of drowning.

Seren watches as Sherlock gulps air in heaves, her head tilted. "My word. That was better than I'd ever expected."

Ronnie stirs. "What the hell is taking him so long?"

Seren looks at her watch, a crease between her brows. "Won't be long now, I estimated it'd take him three hours to walk to the nearest road. Move the car and get into position. I'll keep working."

Ronnie goes, muttering about the cold and rain. Seren picks up the hammer and looks at Sherlock's feet thoughtfully. "I wonder how many blows it'll take to pulverize those broken toes? They'll need amputation, after."

Sherlock can't control the shuddering inhale, close to a sob. John was coming. Stay away. "Fuck you."

Seren grins. "My God, it's really breaking you, isn't it. Marvellous." She gets down on one knee again. "This little piggy -"

There's a shout, gunshots, a scream that is abruptly choked off in a gurgle. Seren starts to her feet, hammer clattering to the floor. In a swift movement she is behind Sherlock, gun out. There is silence.

Sherlock's eyes close briefly.

"Ronnie?" Seren calls.

There are three taps at the door. Polite. May I come in? thinks Sherlock. Absurd, that rapping. So like John. His head is swimming.

Seren hesitates, face grim. "Don't fuck around with me. I'm not coming to the door."

There's a pause, then there are three more knocks, harder, the door shuddering. Sherlock hears the glass panel crack.

Seren chokes a laugh. "You've got to be joking. Fine, you want an invitation? You got it." She reaches down and twists Sherlock's broken finger. He screams.

"John! John, run!"

A noise that starts as a groan increases in volume to a howl of rage. Three more times they hear the knocks, blows of such strength the floor jolts underfoot and pictures jump on the walls. Sherlock hears the door crash inward. Seren grips Sherlock chin and grinds the muzzle into his temple. Heavy footsteps approach, accompanied by a slithering sound.

John appears in the archway. But -

Not John. John doesn't look like that, Sherlock thinks, thoughts sputtering and jumping. John is a smallish man with a kind face. John wears jumpers and drinks tea.

John is not nearly seven feet tall, with huge shoulders brushing the sides of the archway and tiles crackling beneath his feet. John does not have a face covered in gore and a wild expression. John does not drag headless corpses one-handed like a rag doll that leaks blood and guts.

John does not do things like lift killer's heads and press his mouth to an eye socket, biting and sucking until blood and other liquids run down, never taking his eyes from the woman holding the gun as he does so.

This is not John. This is an elemental creature of bone and blood, rage and hunger. This is chaos incarnate.

Sherlock makes a wordless noise, and the blue eyes behind the blood mask flash to his, and oh. That look. Sherlock's lips shape on a name.

Seren's hands have relaxed in shock; the muzzle of the gun drooping. "What the fuck?" she breathes. "What the fuck?"

John releases the body, letting it fall with a thump. He takes a step forward. "Human." His voice is gravel deep, but Sherlock can hear the cadences of John's speech, the commonplace voice imbued with power and menace. "You have something of mine. If you want to live, free him." He licks his lips, bloody teeth bared in a grin that is unsettlingly familiar. "Now."

The smile snaps the tension and Seren raises the gun, not to Sherlock's head but at John.

"No!" Sherlock twists his body, hoping to knock her aim off. But John is already moving, body turning with inhuman grace, arm pulling back and throwing Ronnie's head at Seren. The shot goes wild as she stumbles back, and then John has her, the gun clattering somewhere as she screams.

She struggles as huge hands clamp her arms to her sides and lift her. John is snarling, lips drawn back. She kicks, one flailing leg connecting with Sherlock's chair, overbalancing it. Sherlock falls sideways, jarring his entire body. He does not know what noise he makes. The pain darkens his vision. He hears a crash across the room, then a heavy weight falls next to him.

"Sherlock?" The heavy voice is frantic. "Sherlock! Are you all right, are you all right?"

Huge hands run over his body, tearing away bindings. Sherlock blinks away moisture and focuses on the face near his, the terror in the familiar blue eyes. "It's you. John." His mouth opens, closes again. He swallows down the relief, the lump of emotion. "Your hair is... ginger."

The hands freeze.

Sherlock wants to laugh. He licks his bleeding lip. "Giants usually have red hair in the stories."

The moment draws out. Tinned laughter from the telly bubbles in the quiet house.

And yes, that's the expression Sherlock loves best, that stunned look followed by exasperation. The wild joy is something new, though. Sherlock files that look away. John lifts Sherlock free of the chair, settles him on the floor as if he were something infinitely fragile and precious.

"Yes. Yes, that's true," John says. "The stories get it right sometimes, you know. Fee, fi, fo, fum and all that."

Sherlock feels drunk. He chokes a laugh in spite of his growing pain in the aftermath of adrenalin.

John joins him, the gravelly chuckle growing louder until he breaks off with a gasp, hunching over. his knees. Sweat beads on his forehead, and he presses a hand to his chest. His complexion has gone grey under the drying blood.

"John, what is it? Were you shot?" Not that, not after all he's done to protect John.

"No, not that. Give me a moment, just -" John stays bent over, drawing in deep breaths for several moments. He straightens up, a sickly smile on his face. "Sorry. Sudden exercise, excitement. My heart. I have... a condition."

"I've noticed," Sherlock says in the understatement of this entire eventful year. "Will you be all right?"

John drops his gaze. "No. But I'm fine for now. You're safe, that's what matters."

"Seren?" Sherlock rolls his head to look at the figure crumbled against the cabinets.

"Dead. Neck broke when I tossed her."

"Good." Sherlock relaxes. "Thank you."

John's hands are carefully brushing Sherlock's swelling fingers. "My pleasure. I've got to get you to hospital -"

"No." At John's look, Sherlock continues. "Later. You still have your bag? Good enough. Tape me up here. We - we have to talk. About everything."

"Sherlock, you need x-rays, what if -"

"I trust you." He does. John's wide mouth opens a little, then a small smile curves it.

~~~~~

Through the hour that follows, they talk.

"How?" Sherlock asks, and John explains about his people, their history, their powers.

"Why?" Sherlock asks, and John's voice grows anguished, angry, shamed as he explains the curse came. His arrogance, his greed and hunger. His guilt and grief that he is the reason his people die. His shuddering horror of the times he's spent in the earth, sleepless. His hopelessness, the futility of his search - until he met Sherlock.

Sherlock watches the play of expressions over John's face, and doesn't wonder that he never guessed the truth. If humanity is John's mask, it is the most perfect mask Sherlock has ever seen. John may think he is a monster, but his anguish is as human, as real as he is.

"What's your true name?"

John looks surprised, then wistful. "No one's asked me that in about a thousand years." He takes breath. "Buthal. Also known as Buthal the Terrible, Buthal the Cursed. Before, I was known as Buthal the Red."

"Buthal," says Sherlock, rolling the name on his tongue. "Suits you."

John ducks his head. "Thanks."

"It was you," Sherlock says. "In Europe. I kept finding targets that had conveniently died before I got to them."

"Yes." John presses another piece of sticking-plaster to Sherlock's foot, and Sherlock hisses.

"You ate them. To grow stronger, strong enough to - John, why?" Sherlock is appalled - not by the cannibalism, but because John has been killing himself by degrees. For him.

"I had to protect you."

"I thought I was protecting you."

John's face is calm. "I know. I always knew you were alive. Because of this." He rests a hand on Sherlock's chest. "I - if I die, if I go back under, I'll have another chance. You wouldn't. That's not right." He looks at Sherlock's face. "So."

Sherlock's heart is beating hard beneath the touch. "John."

John shrugs, but his huge fingers rub gently. "Not going to say it wasn't hard. I was going to tell you everything, but then Moriarty..." He sighs. "What hurt most was knowing you didn't trust me enough to tell me what was going on."

"We are a pair, aren't we," Sherlock murmurs. John's lips twitch.

"Yeah, regular heroes, dying for each other. Come on, let's get you settled. I've got to, er, clean up." John wrinkles his nose.

"Yes. Inconvenient if you're finally taken up for double homicide, of all things." Sherlock tries to sit up with a groan, but is swept up like a child in John's arms and carried to the couch, complaining all the way. He is settled on the cushions, but catches John's arm with his one good hand as he turns away. "I won't lose you, John. Not like this. Don't - don't..."

John rolls his eyes. "I'm not going to eat the evidence, if that's what you're thinking."

Sherlock digs his nails in. "Don't even think it, you are not allowed to kill yourself over me any more. Do you understand? Give me time, I'll find a way to help you. But as for our friends in the kitchen, here's what you are going to do... "

Seren receives a gunshot wound and careful positioning. Ronnie's parts are bagged and wrapped with several heavy pieces of home electronics and sunk in Loch Rannoch. Some combustible household chemicals and Seren's heart-burning kit later, John and Sherlock drive away in the Rover. Behind, the smoke rises unseen into the black night sky.

=======================================

My God. My God. The figure in the cottage clutches at the desk. If even a fraction of this is true, it will be a sensation. Even publishing the transcript from Bart's Hospital would make headlines. And a path of bloody murders across Europe? Assassins? Arson? The hint of cannibalism makes it deliciously ghoulish.

There is one more notebook left, thinner than the others.

=============================================

Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four / Appendices