BLURB⬎

The murder was almost as perfect as the murderer.
Almost.

XX⬎

Nothing seemed to pique Sherlocks interest anymore. The murders were all so insignificant. The larger cases were always dull, steeped in tradition and courtesy he had no desire to return. He was bored, hopelessly so. John could hear him pacing late at night, searching for something to do and finding nothing. The lethargy was evident in everything Sherlock did, to everyone.

And then the text came through.

Murder at Abott St. Come investigate. Xx

It was strange, because Gregs texts were usually very detailed in a desperate attempt to garner Sherlocks interest. The very lack of detailed description so abnormal for Greg made Sherlock pay attention. None of Gregs texts had ended with kisses either, but the fact was lost on Sherlock. He showed the text to John (Who did notice the kisses) and they found themselves the first to the crime scene.

Customarily, Sherlock and John examined the body. It was a woman in her late thirties. There were no visible wounds or signs of poisoning. In fact -

"It's a heart attack." John said, his brow creasing. "But Greg said it was a murder."

"Greg also sent an abrupt message with two kisses at the end." Sherlock said. Ah, so the fact had not been lost on him.

"So... Someone has his phone?" John said, sitting back as Sherlock tossed him his cell. "Call him." He said. He then proceeded to pluck a stray hair from the body and hold it to the sunlight. "Rather unusual hair colour, don't you think?"

"Well, it's purple." John said, snapping the phone shut as the call went to answer machine.

"Come on. We'll leave this to the police. There aren't any other clues." Sherlock said. He produced a glass vial from his pockets and slid the hair inside.

"But it was a heart attack." John said, remaining sitting.

"Look on the arm, inside of the elbow." Sherlock said, already tugging his collar up.

John did, and found a small pinprick.

"There are none of the risk factors present - if they were a smoker they would have yellowed nails or hair, they aren't obese, younger than sixty...- an injection of air into a major artery can produce similar symptoms."

"Are you going to tell Greg?"

Sherlock shrugged, "if it comes up." He said.

"When does murder come up in casual conversation?" John asked, hurrying after the detective as he strode away. "Are we going to DNA test the hair?" He asked instead when he caught up.

"No follicle." He said, "it was left on purpose. I'm going to test for the dye."

"Is this Moriarty?" John asked.

"Could be." Sherlock said shortly. "Elanor Crisp. Do a background check... See if she has any connections. Who would want her dead?"

"What about the murderer?" John asked.

"It's a perfect murder by most standers. No obvious evidence - but the murderer has some professional background - probably in health care because they found the artery quick enough to avoid a struggle."

They caught a taxi to the lab. Sherlock stared out the window, his hand in his pocket, probably fingering the vial. The early morning light illuminated his lips, slightly curved. John would never understand how he made such an expression look maniacal. His eyes shone with a fanatic energy. John had known Sherlock for so long that the maniacal energy was a relief.

"Why are you enjoying this so much?"

"It's new." He said.

"Someone's playing a game with you. With lives. A game with lives." John should have known that last statement would have no effect.

"I decided I'd play." Sherlock said.

"Was it the kisses at the end of the text?"

"Please John. You think after Irene-" Sherlock stopped abruptly, a fist tightening in his pocket.

John wondered where he'd been going with that. With Sherlock it was always hard to tell.

"The dominatrix." Sherlock said instead. "No, things were getting dull."

"Dull." John snorted. There had never been a time where he wished more that Sherlock had a more normal hobby.

"Here." Sherlock said to the driver, opening the door before the cab had even stopped. John muttered a thank you to him as he followed Sherlock into the building.

The dye was from a chemist, but little else was discernible. They went to the nearest chemist to ask to see the dye available. The detective received several strange looks as he examined the boxes.

"Why don't they list the ingredients on these?" He asked, throwing a box to the side.

"Maybe because no one actually-" John was cut off.

"Can I help you sir?" A shop assistant asked.

Sherlock tossed another box to the side and she fumbled to catch it. John grabbed it off the ground as Sherlock listed off a long chain of chemicals.

"I don't think she-" John begun, before he being cut off again.

"Read the fine print sir." The shop assistant said, handing him a box. "I used this one myself just a week ago. It's a lovely colour, but you might need to bleach yours first."

"How many stores sell this?" Sherlock asked.

She shrugged, "we've five stores across London but I can't guarantee other chemists don't have it." She said.

Sherlock nodded and pocketed the dye in a swift movement the shop assistant didn't seem to catch and saw himself out.

"Can you get the murderer now?" John asked.

"What, because we know what dye she uses?"

"Or he." John said. "It could be a guy."

"What kind of guy puts kisses at the end of a text?" Sherlock asked.

"A fan." John said. "Whoever they are, you shouldn't encourage them."

Sherlock calmly ignored him completely.

"I'm going to call Molly and see what she got from the post mortum." John said, patting his pockets. "Or... Hang on... I don't have my phone."

Sherlock gave him his again with a withering look. John made a face before typing out the message to Molly. Moments before he hit send, another text came through.

If convenient, give Sherlock back his phone. If inconvenient, give it to him anyway.

There was a pause in which John read through the message. There was another chime.

C'mon, John, don't you understand my reference? Then another message came through.

Give him the phone, John. And while your at it, take a left turn. You don't want to let any evidence go amiss.

"Uh, Sherlock..." John said, "there's a text coming through, from my phone."

Sherlock took the phone back and read the message.

Litham Street. Not to out of your way, is it?

Suddenly the street they were in seems quiet. Unseen eyes watched them. John shivered. Sherlock smiled

"Well, come on then."

Careful Mr. Holmes. Your enthusiasm is as unbecoming as it is endearing. Xx.

They were again first at the crime scene. This time, the body was still warm.

"Do you smell that?" Sherlock asked

"Perfume?" John said distractedly. "Yes. Heart attack again... Or injection I suppose." John said. "It's only a few minutes old... Maybe we could..."

"Go find a defibrillator then." Sherlock said, waving John away impatiently and bending over the body, muttering to himself. When John came back, Sherlock had his phone out. They both knew there was no chance of reviving the body.

"It was in the victims pocket." He said. "The perfume was fresh I have a sample."

-

There were three whole days of blissful quiet. Blissful for John, at least. Sherlock was impatient. He'd found only one store which sold that particular perfume, and its cost pointed towards someone with a lot of money. Sherlock wanted something to happen.

Over the course of the next week, three more people were murdered. Three that Sherlock was interested in, at least. He waited for the killer to make a mistake but was disappointed. Evidence was left intentionally and gave him, he suspected, exactly what the killer want it to give him.

And he was getting slightly too eager for the cryptic messages;

Murder on Lanchester Street. Come quick. The evidence is rather temporary. Xx.

Some poor lady dead on Abott Street. Rest assured, I only kill the bad ones. Xx.

Sorry to disturb your Sunday, this one couldn't wait. Xx.

The last one was of interest only because the dye and brand of perfume used couldn't have come from several of the chemists as they were closed on a Sunday. Slowly things were narrowed down, but only because the case occupied Sherlocks mind 24/7. He might've gotten away with it too, but there was no way even John could miss the map of London with all locations pinned on it.

And then the text came in from a very familiar number.

Some drug lord (or lady, I suppose) she made. Your locks are rubbish. Hurry now, Mr. Holmes. Hurry home. Xx.

~ Mrs Hudson

He knew what he'd find when he opened the door but suddenly the game wasn't quite so fun. Mrs Hudson had not been injected, instead she'd been clubbed neatly at the back of the head. She was still breathing - barely. John had followed him in and upon the sight of Mrs Hudson's body he rushed to her side.

"Still alive." He confirmed. "Well? Call an ambulance!" He said in a tone he rarely used with Sherlock.

The ambulance came and John climbed inside.

"You coming?" He asked. He did not look surprised when Sherlock shook his head, already examining the scene closely. He found nothing, but the scene was beginning to come together in his mind. He went upstairs, the dots slowly connecting. He started when he saw the back wall, and glanced around. The window was open and cold air was blowing in. Common sense told Sherlock the killer was long gone but he stepped lightly, ignoring the draft to peer at the wall he'd covered in clues from the case. Mrs Hudsons yarn was sitting on the floor below it. It was all the information he needed.

Using the yarn he connected each of the chemists, salons, and malls the killer had brought dye and perfume from. They formed the points of a star. He knew the target was in the middle.

John did not take kindly to Sherlocks insistence that they leave Mrs Hudson, but she was stabilizing and there was nothing more they could do. The target building was decidedly non-suspicious but Sherlock could see the signs of someplace secretive now he was looking. He entered a back alley, searching for a way in. He suspected his face was well known in this organization.

There was the faint bang of a gunshot, heard even with a silencer. The bullet hit him a moment later. The shot, he realised once he'd been given painkillers, was precise. Bad enough to get him into hospital but not to kill him. The police investigated and The Organization was torn down. The ending was strange and informal but Sherlock could do nothing until released from hospital a week later. He took a detour on the way home, getting out and the entrance of The Organisation.

He knew where to look already, and found a balcony overlooking the alleyway. For once he took the stairs.

There was nothing but a note stuck to the railing. It was no more than a few hours old; the recent rain hadn't touched it. It read;

I thought we could communicate the old fashioned way.

You've done well, Mr Holmes. You found my hideout. Was it the trajectory of the bullet? The force at which it entered your skin? But you do tend to over complicate things.

Try looking a little closer to home. Xx.

-

Violin music drifted down from the stairs of the apartment as Sherlock entered the apartment. He went to ask Mrs Hudson who she'd let in this time. He stopped himself. His 'guest' would know he was here already, he supposed. Where was John?

He climbed the stairs, walking to hide the pain from the bullet wound. He rounded the corner to find an athletic yet non-descript woman, holding the violin to her cheek. He made sure both her hands were in sight before stepping into the room.

"I was never very good at the violin, but I suppose I only had a month to learn. I had to get close to a musician." She said, playing a few doleful notes without looking up.

"Assassin for hire?" He deduced, although it was hardly a leap.

She shrugged, "that implies I kill important people." She said. "But I could. I'm very good. Perfect murders bore me though." She put down the violin and prowled towards him. Every movement was cat-like and calculated.

"I was going to make myself beautiful for you, but I figured psychopaths didn't care for that."

"Sociopath." He breathed as she placed her hands on his chest.

"So you do have feelings."

"What?"

"That's the difference between psychopaths and sociopaths. You're saying you have feelings."

"Not for you." He said calmly.

"Why's your heart beating so fast then?" She asked, smirking, "I saw you try that with Irene, you know. I was her servant."

He knew his pulse had risen, but he showed no other emotion. The blood pumping through his veins was due to the realization he'd seen her hundreds of times before. A shop-keeper. A nurse. The woman in the chemist who'd given him the dye.

"God your cocky." He said.

"You like it." He smirk grew wider.

The door downstairs slammed and she stepped back. "That'll be John. I sent him out to get you. You should have waited."

"Flattered." Sherlock said flatly as his roommate came upstairs.

"Who's this?" John asked.

"The killer." Sherlock said.

"I'm also a shopkeeper, piano teacher, swimming instructor, nurse, psychologist, homeless student and part time journalist." She offered sweetly.

"What's she-" John decided not to ask that question and changed topic, "What's her name?"

"She's had lot's of those too." Sherlock said.

"I haven't really given myself a real one." She added on.

The two of them shot her looks of disbelief. She held her hands up, "why do you think I haven't been signing my little notes to you?"

"How about you call yourself Alexia, since you're a know it all."

"Childish." She said disdainfully. "But I'll take it."

"Feel free to see yourself out." John said, pointing to the door.

"Actually, I need your help with something."

Sherlock caught a flash of disgust cross her face at the thought of needing something. She held up a sheath of tools from the hospital. Molly's name was stamped across the front.

"Burrowed them." She said. "When I visited your housekeeper."

"Landlady." John corrected darkly.

She ignored him and stuck out her forearm, where Sherlock could see something buried below the skin. "Can you guess?" She asked, seeing the curiosity on his face.

"Something to keep you with The Organization."

"Yup." She said, popping the 'p'. "It releases poison on the triggering of electro-magnets. I've disabled it but we need to be careful removing it."

"Why should we help you?" John asked.

She shrugged, "I'm Alexia now, right? So technically it wasn't me who killed those people."

When neither of them said anything she rolled her eyes and picked up a knife, carefully cutting into her wrist.

"Would you be a killer if I died doing this?" She asked, biting her lip as she carefully cut deeper.

"Okay. Okay." John said.

She lifted a brow, the knife remaining implanted in her skin.

"Get some rubbing alcohol." John commanded Sherlock. They both knew there were less painful anti-sceptics, but Alexia said nothing. She remained staunch as the chip was removed from her wrist. It had been there for years by the looks of it.

"Thank you." She said when the bandage was wrapped around her wrist. Without another word she left the house. Sherlock had no doubt he'd see her again - as a shopkeeper or taxi driver or mutual friend. If they were lucky she wouldn't be killing any longer. If not then Sherlock was sure he'd have his work cut out for him.

NOTES⬎

This was freaking fun ngl. I wanna re-write it at some point bc it's more of a concept rn but I'm getting thereee (I'm busy tryna write something for Teen Wolf rn just because I've recently been OBSESSED over it. Like, imma binge watch a season in a day and fail three of my externals for this kinda obsessed. I stg, I'm an idiot)

Also... did anyone get the title? bc 'Xx' is affectionate, but you know when you draw a cartoon and to show it's dead you put 'x's' for eyes?