As usual none of the characters are my own only borrowed and all errors are my own

When they pulled up outside a night club John was immensely confused. Though it was still early the crowds were gathering, jostling to be allowed inside. Sherlock jumped out of the cab and began pushing his way to the front of the queue with John close behind him. It was too loud for John to hear what Sherlock whispered to the bouncer but he did see him be manhandled into the club by the men working the door. He pushed his way forward but could not convince the solidly stubborn bouncer to let him in after his friend.

'Oh great, I'll just stand out here. Feeling useless,' he cried in frustration.

Sherlock was forced roughly into a chair in the office upstairs.

'Who are you to come to my club and start asking questions of me?' a broad, bored man leaning over the edge of the desk questioned him.

'I, Antonio am Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective. I have come across your name a lot in my line of work though fortunately for you not directly linked to any of my cases. I must say you have built up quite an empire; drugs, prostitution, protection and of course your salubrious establishment. But my, you have been careless haven't you, getting in trouble with the real big boys who you had no hope of competing with.'

'I CAN compete! I am competing and I assure you Mr. Holmes I am winning little battles everywhere.'

'Well obviously not otherwise one of your girls wouldn't have end up dead on the cobbles in Soho.'

''Ere, how does he know that?' shouted one of the intimidating muscle men lounging at the back of the room.

'How MANY times do I have to tell you! DON'T give anything away,' shouted the exasperated gang leader.

'I shall of course inform you my friends how I know about unfortunate Kitty Devure. She was found dead on the cobbles in Soho a few nights ago. She had your mark tattooed on her hip, so definitely one of your girls. Nothing was taken from the body so not a random killing – a professional hit. Judging by the lack of shock on your face you knew all of this already so you have been sent the photograph that I received earlier this evening. Who sent you the photograph Antonio?'

The men around him bristled and twitched, anxious and unsettled by this man who knew so much.

'We tell him NOTHING, you got that boys. Nothing,' Antonio growled.

'I would be most appreciative gentleman as this would prevent my friend meeting a similar fate to poor Kitty and of course bring the man that killed her to justice.'

'We don't do your kind of justice!'

Sherlock smirked, 'Ah yes, you want your kind of justice where the bodies pile up around you as you kill each other off until nobody is left. I assume though, that you have heard of a man named Moriarty.'

'M…M…Moriarty,' stammered the beleaguered Antonio, 'He's a myth ain't he?'

'No. He is most definitely real. He is the one who has helped whoever killed poor Kitty so I wouldn't mess with them if I was you.'

'How do we know you are telling the truth?' whispered one of the thugs.

'I wouldn't lie about Moriarty, he is the single most powerful criminal in Western Europe, maybe even the world if his contacts are anything to go by. Now, tell me who sent you the photograph?'

'Won't the Murriarty bloke be a bit pissed off if we rat out the people 'e's 'elpin?' a different faceless gang member grunted.

'He is the one that sent me the photograph as part of a game he is playing. He is willing to cut off all ties with these people for the sake of a game. If you tell me who they are he will have to forsake them to save his empire.'

'So he is willing to sell out his associates for the sake of pissing off some knobby detective?'

'To put it bluntly, yes.'

'Sounds like my kind of bloke,' Antonio laughed.

'I assure you he is not. He is what the big boys aspire to be but are no where near intelligent enough to become and as I have previously stated you aren't even one of the big boys.'

'Do you think insulting me is going to make me help you?'

'No but I think that blackmail might make you listen.'

'Your in a room full of my boys, you wouldn't make it out alive.'

'Ah but you see, I think that you should let me go. My associate has strict instruction to pass on the rather substantial file I have accumulated on you to Inspector Lestrade if I do not leave this club unharmed in about twenty minutes.'

'You don't' have anything on me, you're lying!'

'Fifteen counts of fraud, one pitifully executed heist, seventeen counts of robbery, too many GBHs to count, money laundering, forgery, drugs, prostitution rings, one case of human trafficking, racketeering and three murders.'

In the silence that followed Sherlock carefully listened to the shifting of the men behind him, making a mental note of where each man had positioned himself.

'The Davies brothers, they sent me the picture with a lock of Melissa's.. I mean Kitty's hair. One of my best girls gone all over a dodgy batch of E,' moaned Antonio.

'Thank you Antonio, it is much appreciated and I shall make sure that the information that I informed you of never makes it's way into the hands of the police. However I should let you know that I have many systems set up to make sure all of my files make it to the police in the case of any misfortune happening to me.'

As Sherlock brushed past the startled muscle men, calculating how long it would before Antonio was floating down the Thames having been put there by his disenchanted men. Soon, he decided. Very soon.

Back outside he was reunited with a very annoyed John who had not been appreciated standing outside a dodgy nightclub not knowing what the hell was going on. Sherlock ignored his ranting as he punched frantically at his phone whilst hailing a cab. Once they were inside and had pulled off his phone buzzed.

"Close, but not quite."

'Damn him,' Sherlock exclaimed, 'He wants the exact killer.'

He punched his phone again, dialing Lestrade's number.

'What do you know of the Davies brothers, quickly.'

'What? Where are you? Have you solved it?'

'DAVIES BROTHERS, who's their hitman? Quickly.'

'They're the new kids on the block but they've hit the big time fast- hit man of choice? Give me a minute and I will go talk to organised crime.'

'A minute is all that you've got!'

'You're asking Lestrade for help?' John questioned, the shock evident on his face.

'The Davies brothers are new, moved over from Cardiff and have made a big name for themselves. I have had so many cases that I haven't been able to look them up. They've carries out a few hits, all of them clean but personal – just like Kitty – he makes his victims look him in the eye as he kills them.'

'Sounds like a nice guy,' John deadpanned.

'He is, compared to some of the professionals out there.'

His phone buzzed again and he pounced on him frantically.

'Known as Dai Death, real name David Johnson from Port Talbot. Got pulled up for a petty theft a few years back, his fingerprints and DNA found at hits associated with the Davies.'

'All I needed, though it took you long enough. What an unimaginative name.' Sherlock cried triumphantly.

He punched the name into his phone and waited for a response, the phone clenched in his fist.

"Congratulations."

'Is that all?' John wailed in despair.

'He's waiting for something.'

They pulled up outside Scotland Yard and made their way to Lestrade's office.

'What the hell has happened, why did you need to know about that gang?' the fraught Inspector cried as they walked through the door.

'The photo was one of Antonio's girls, he's in the middle of a drug dispute with the Davies at the moment. They claimed the hit for themselves. Moriarty wanted the killers name.'

'Guess his involvement explains their rapid rise to infamy,' Lestrade sighed.

'So all we have to do know is wait.'

It was an hour before Sherlock's phone vibrated on the table.

'Hello again, we have to stop meeting like this,' Lexi cried down the phone. 'I can see you're getting back into the swing of things. Now this one is a bit more difficult so I'm going to give you five hours.'

The phone cut out and immediately buzzed again signifying a message. It was a photograph of an empty jewelry case, generic and unassuming.

'That's going to be hard,' John sighed looking over Sherlock's shoulder at the phone screen.

'From the size it could be a bracelet or a necklace,' Lestrade huffed. 'It's not a lot to go on.'

'Please stop pointing out the obvious and let me think!' Sherlock yelled, his anger getting the better of him.

'An unassuming box does not mean that the missing piece is unassuming. Lestrade, go check all jewelry thefts in the last three weeks. John, look up the obituaries of wealthy individuals that have died recently.'

'Why?' Donovan snorted.

'Look at the box, it's nothing particularly special but it isn't new either. Judging by the velvet's quality I would say that it is at least one hundred years old.'

'It just looks cheap to me,' she cried. 'How could you possibly get that from a photograph?'

'Experience.'

Sherlock sat at John's desk in amongst the chaos, studying the picture and occasionally dismissing the reports that were brought to him about stolen jewelry.

About an hour in John poked his head through the door and handed Sherlock a newspaper article.

'"Missing Inheritance: How a family curse robbed me of my birth rite." It's not much but it's about a missing necklace. It was a follow up I ran on an interesting looking obituary.'

"The story of Mrs. Jennifer Snow and how her families murky past has deprived her of a century old family heirloom." Sherlock read aloud.

He focused on a paragraph that had been highlighted by John.

"When the bank manager opened the safety deposit box it was empty apart from a lady's lace handkerchief and I knew it was because of the curse."

'Ah, Mrs. Snow. My name is Mr. Holmes and I'm here to talk to you about your chilling story. I believe you spoke to my assistant Mr. Watson on the phone earlier.'

'Ah yes, do come in. I'll be happy to tell you all about it but I will have to be quick. My husband will be home soon and he thinks I'm crazy believing in curses but he's a grumpy old sod who only believes in what he calls "facts",' a well dressed, middle aged, mousy woman babbled away.

Sherlock repressed his sarcastic jibes, put on his best smile and proceeded to interview Jennifer about the mysteriously missing necklace.

'Well you see Mr. Holmes my family were big investors in the tin industry, big business and they made an awful lot of money out if it. Well my great, great grandfather was engaged to be wed to a Miss Lucy Spencer, the eldest daughter in an up and coming coal mining family. Well that all fell apart when he went up to London and met Miss Amy Timpson, daughter of a big city lawyer. Well her father was much richer and higher up the social ladder than Mr. Spencer so he engineered an engagement to her instead. What he didn't know was that Lucy's mother was a witch and on the day of their wedding she put a curse on the newly married couple and all their offspring. Of course, it wasn't that powerful as her magical blood was very watered down but strange little things have been happening to my family ever since.'

'I see, what a truly fascinating story. Now onto the necklace…'

'Ah yes, that was the necklace worn by Amy Timpson on her wedding day. It has been passed down through the female line for the past hundred years. Only by blood though, not by marriage. Well when my brother and I went to the bank to open up out mother's safety deposit box and retrieve it after her death, well… it wasn't there.'

'What was there?'

'A ladies lace handkerchief, Mr. Holmes, with the initials SH embroidered on it.'

'One final question, your elder brother wasn't it? Is he married?'

'Yes he's ten years my senior and yes he is married. They have been so supportive through all this, the loss of my dear mother and then my legacy being taken from me. Especially with the attitude of people these days, calling me simple, saying it was a crime. How could it be a crime, the law doesn't cover supernatural phenomenon!'

'Thank you Mrs. Snow that will be all for now but I am sure that I will be in touch shortly.'

'Is…is that it? All you need?'

'I need to pitch the story to my editor but I'm sure she will love it. I will get Watson to ring you and organise a time when the full interveiw can be recorded. If I need any additional information for the pitch I will be in touch shortly, thank you so very much.'

'Oh Mr Holmes, I do so hope you get the answer that we both want.'

'So do I Mrs. Snow,' Sherlock beamed though his thoughts were as far from newspaper articles as they could be; they were with a poor girl, scared and alone all because of him.

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