This is the sequel to The Devil's Chord. I hope you enjoy it! Updated as of 12/31/16.

Sherlock glared out the frost-gilded window. A flurry of snowflakes floated down, blanketing the ground. Only a few cars eased their way along Baker Street, the usual last minute shoppers, Speedy's cafe patrons, and gallivanting children absent. He scowled and resumed pacing.

John added another glittering ornament to their Christmas tree and smiled, humming an off-key rendition of "Good King Wenceslas." He appeared entirely too enamored with the horrid weather, the holiday season, and with himself.

Sherlock kicked at the scattered pine needles on the floor as he made another circuit of the room. He'd argued against getting a tree. The entire ritual was absurd. Why bring a dead plant into their flat? What was the point? John had marched into the kitchen and pointed out the severed arm nestled in the bottom drawer of the fridge. Somehow, the illogical comparison had resulted in them getting a tree.

"You got to see a dead body today. Can't you just relax?" John asked.

"Relax? It wasn't even a murder. The man choked on his Yorkshire pudding."

"But the free-range hamster came as a surprise."

"It was a surprise for you - not me." The pair of cuts that had meandered like a grotesque train track across the dead man's face had obviously been made by a rodent, not a serial killer in the making. Pity. While John and Lestrade's horrified reactions to the golden hamster living inside the man's dresser drawer had been mildly diverting, it had done very little to alleviate Sherlock's boredom. He needed another distraction, and soon.

John set a Santa hat atop the skull on the mantel and gave it a pat. Sherlock snatched it and tossed the offensive decoration across the room. It hit the wall, then disappeared behind the sofa.

A sigh. "It's Christmas Eve, Sherlock. Drink some mulled wine or something. Take the edge off. That's what all the murderers are doing right now. I'm sure they'll get back to killing people after the New Year."

Sherlock's lip curled. "Not if this abysmal weather continues. The colder it gets, the fewer the crimes. Everyone is inside behaving."

"Yeah, what a shame," John muttered as he picked up a ghastly cotton ball snowman. The rubbish ornament had been cobbled together by one of John's bumbling patients. Sherlock's gaze flicked to the fireplace. He knew the perfect place to put it.

A chime sounded, and Sherlock whipped out his mobile. Maybe it was Lestrade with a case.

It wasn't. Instead, it was a photograph from a blocked number.

"What is it?" John asked.

"Come see for yourself."

John set his box of ornaments down and moved to Sherlock's side. Most of the picture was taken up by a black cab. The falling snow made it impossible to read the license plate or see into the car. A building loomed behind it, and a shop window was partially visible near the cab's bonnet. Soft orange lights reflected in the glass, revealing a shadowy stack of round objects.

"Maybe it's a wrong number," John said.

Sherlock's phone chimed again.

5:30pm

Twenty minutes from now. "It appears we've been issued an invitation."

"If so, it's a ruddy vague one."

Sherlock's lips curved. "Not at all. This is proper intrigue. A test." His evening was finally looking up. He studied his phone. "Whoever sent this is a skilled photographer."

"Why do you say that?"

Sherlock pointed at the bottom corner. "Look at the angle of the shot, the way it's framed here by the line of the cab and the architecture of the building. See the attention to light? They used a wide angle lens."

John lifted a brow. "Planning on writing a letter of admiration?"

"No. I'm merely making an observation."

"Fine, but what's the point? Are we supposed to find the cab? There's no number on it. We can't even identify who's driving."

Sherlock shook his head. "The entire point of the cab is to tell us we need one. It's the first clue. The second one is the meeting time. It indicates the location isn't far." He shoved John's coat at him and grabbed his own. "Come on. We're running out of time."

John followed him down the stairs. "But we don't even know where we're going."

"We'll figure it out on the way," Sherlock said, opening the outside door. An icy wind whirled snowflakes down the hall. He grinned. Not even the foul weather could dampen his mood now. They had a mystery to solve.

He flagged down a lone cab ambling down the road, and he and John slid inside.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

"It doesn't matter." Sherlock threw up a dismissive hand. "Go east."

The young man craned his head around, thick brows furrowed. "What do you mean 'Go east'?"

Impatience bit at Sherlock's insides. "You should choose a different occupation if you're this directionally challenged." He pointed down the street. "Go that way."

John made a small noise of protest.

The cabbie shook his head. "Sorry, I need a destination, mate. That's how this works."

"Wrong. Your fare is calculated by the standard tariffs, and the time and distance traveled, so no actual destination is required. Now do your job, and drive."

The man's mulish expression remained. "I can't, not without-"

John leaned forward. "Could you please take us to The Old Red Lion Theatre?"

The cabbie gave a curt nod and pulled away from the curb. "Now, that I can do."

At this point, Sherlock doubted the man was capable of tying his own trainers, let alone navigating the streets of London.

"Please tell me you aren't planning on us driving all around the city in search of the shop front," John said.

"Of course not. I intend to find the location, but I need to go to my Mind Palace first."

"Fine, but if you're still inside your head by the time we reach the pub, I'm leaving you here and going in for a drink."

"That won't be necessary. I'll be done before then." Sherlock closed his eyes and steadied his breathing. The hum of the cab and the swish of the windscreen wipers faded away. Everything went still, then the library at Brackenwood coalesced around him. Dark wood paneling glinted in the firelight, and bookcases filled to the brim with aged tomes stretched toward the ceiling.

A soft green glow caught the corner of his eye. He turned, frowned.

The tobernite was back on the mantel. Again.

He strode over to it, hands clenched. It had absolutely no business being here. From the two leather chairs, to the world globe in the corner, to each individual book, every single object had been placed there by him with the utmost care.

All except this one.

The jagged, deep green chunk of radioactive crystal shimmered inside its glass case. It had appeared in his Mind Palace right before he and John had left Battersea Park to rescue Vivian Walker.

Vivian.

Three months ago, he'd forced her through morphine withdrawal, prevented her from committing suicide, taught her to build her own Mind Palace, and nearly got her killed in the process. Of course, she'd nearly killed him with an avalanche of hay bales, practically destroyed his Belstaff coat with pink paint, bruised his ribs during a mud fight, and still somehow compelled him to dive into a pool and risk his life to save hers. All within a ten-day span.

He hadn't seen or heard from her since she'd left for France. The evidence he and John had presented, which had included Vivian's written testimony, had been enough to imprison Renee for the death of Rebecca Frost, the assault on Doctor Reed, and for Vivian's abduction and attempted murder. Renee had remained tight-lipped regarding Sundrian. Though drugged and unconscious at the time, Vivian's audio eidetic memory had recorded a short, one-sided phone conversation between Renee and a unknown caller. Renee had said she wouldn't let Sundrian down. Whether Sundrian was a person or organization, Sherlock didn't know. After hours of fruitless research, he'd finally had to set the mystery aside.

His concern grew as he studied the tobernite. Why was it here? He picked up the case, and warmth crept up his fingers, startling him. It felt heavy in his hands, much weightier than it would have been in reality. Strange.

Locking it away in the side table clearly hadn't worked. It appeared to prefer being the focal point of the room, which was more than a little alarming considering this was the heart of his Mind Palace. His stomach twisted at the thought of having to ask Mycroft about it. No doubt his brother would be delighted to educate him, all smug and patronizing and stuffed with cake. Perhaps it'd be best to just delete it.

The glowing green crystal went dark, and the case turned arctic, sucking the heat from his skin. An echoing cold throbbed in his chest, and he quickly set the case back onto the mantel and backed away. It obviously didn't appreciate his thought to destroy it. Back in its preferred spot, the tobernite resumed its previous glow. Sherlock forced himself to turn away. Taking care of it was going to have to be the focus of another day.

He reached into his pocket and removed a photograph, a perfect replica of the one he'd received on his mobile. He set it against the door leading out of the library, and it melted into the wood.

"Show me."

The door opened to a long corridor, and he strode down it. Soft grey carpet melted into pavement and the walls to shadowy buildings with curling fog.

He sighed. "Why the fog? There's snow in the ruddy picture. Why not use that? Or are you being purposefully melodramatic?"

The fog froze mid-swirl, as if someone had hit the pause button on a film, then vanished. The ground rolled beneath his feet. Tiny fractures formed in the pavement, and snow surged upward through the widening cracks.

And now he stood knee-deep in snow.

A bit of an overkill, but at least the setting was more accurate.

Indistinct buildings loomed on either side of him as he slogged his way down the street. A cab materialized beside him, parked along the curb. He approached it, standing where he thought their photographer had stood. There sat the shop. Orange lights tinted the glass window, though the stack of round objects still remained in shadow. They were tiered, getting smaller as they got to the top, like a fancy cake. Except he knew it wasn't a cake. The trim along the edging of the window was black, straight-lined, not a curling design in keeping with a bakery shop.

The wind picked up, and movement down the street drew his eye.

Something rolled toward him.

A tire?

No. The closer it got, the smaller it became.

It bumped into the cab and tumbled onto its side. Roughly the size of a dinner plate, as thick as a brick, and covered in something red.

He stooped down to examine it, then chuckled.

Sherlock opened his eyes and smiled. "Head to 93 Jermyn Street."