A/N: So this is the last chapter! For those of you who haven't followed, this was originally a challenge from JuweWright on DA for Sherlock Holmes Week 2012. I decided to make it into seven chapters, one per day of the week. Has anyone guessed what the twelve elements that had to be included in this fic were? :D
Many thanks to all of you for having followed this story, and especially to all reviewers! I hope you will enjoy this last chapter ;) ~¤Zoffoli

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The Adventure of the Dashboard Box

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Chapter 7: Donkey Skin

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"I'm sorry to interrupt such a cheerful event," the first man said. "But this is an affair of the utmost importance. I must speak to Mr. and Mrs. Holder right away."

"Who is he?" John asked Sherlock in a whisper.

"The most stupid detective inspector I have ever met," Sherlock mumbled back.

Arthur and Gilda walked up to the police. Simon was holding his mother's trembling hand, and Robert was already dashing towards Hatty, fury in his eyes.

"What's the meaning of this?!" he exploded. Everyone in the room wondered much that same thing.

"Quiet, Robert," his mother ordered, and her tone was so cool that for once, he complied. "Mr. Hupkins," she greeted. "What brings you here tonight?"

"We have performed a search in this young man's flat and we have found this diamond!" the man exclaimed almost excitedly, probably thinking this was the apex of his career.

Everyone in the room started whispering and several women exclaimed audibly.

"Mrs. Holder, do you recognize this? Is this the diamond that you reported stolen a month ago?"

Gilda brought her hand to her mouth in bemusement.

"It is," she concurred feverishly. "Who is this man?"

Arthur's gaze hardened.

"Miss Doran's other boyfriend," he said darkly.

Everyone fell silent, gathering around the Holders to hear the denouement of this terrible tragedy.

"What?" Robert asked, blanching. He looked at Hatty. "Is this true?"

"Robbie, I can explain..."

"You... You two-timed me?"

"Robert, please listen."

"You... You bitch! I can't believe this!"

"Robert!" Mrs. Holder cried out as her son launched towards his girlfriend only to be intercepted by one of the police officers. "Behave!"

Robert kept shaking with rage, but remained stiff and straight? With clenched fists, he glowered at Hatty and Francis.

"Enough of this," Gilda said. "Have you disturbed this party only to return our property, Hupkins?" she inquired with a regal coldness, dropping all courtesy. The detective inspector paled.

"No, madam," he stuttered, "I am terribly sorry to say this, but the diamond was found in the little black box that was missing from your husband's car when we found him dead."

Mrs. Holder lost all colour and fainted, falling in Arthur's arms. John, ever the medical practitioner, rushed to her side, pushing those who were on his path away.

"Let me get to her, I'm a doctor! And someone please bring me some water."

Sherlock smiled almost fondly before he resumed observing the scene from afar.

"Most entertaining, Sherlock," Mycroft commented.

"Not yet," Sherlock smirked back.

"You understand, now, why it was of utmost importance that we knew whether this was your diamond or not," Hupkins explained nervously.

"We didn't kill Mr. Holder!" Hatty protested, bursting into tears.

"We didn't even steal the diamond!" Francis added, his voice quivering with anger.

The policeman snorted.

"Then why was it found in your flat?"

"I told you, someone must have put it there!"

"With the box?"

"Yes!"

"So you never put that diamond in the little black box?"

"We did, but because we were threatened!" Hatty cried out hysterically.

"Enough!" Arthur Holder roared, effectively silencing everyone in the room.

"Alexander was killed three days ago," he said more quietly, a catch in his voice. "I lost a brother." He held Mrs. Holder closer. "Gilda lost her husband." He grabbed Simon's hand, but the boy pulled away. "And they lost their father! Show some respect!"

"But why would we steal this stupid diamond? Why would we kill Mr. Holder? It doesn't make sense!" Hatty shouted at him.

"Your Californian boyfriend here seems to have quite a police record," Arthur replied scornfully.

"You–"

"Yes, I saw you with him once, but couldn't find it in me to tell Robert."

"Uncle!" the boy cried out. Arthur ignored him.

"But when the diamond disappeared, I suspected you immediately. Who would have been familiar enough with the house, but still not part of the family and so more likely to commit such a theft?"

"I didn't steal this diamond!"

"Then, the little black box. Only you could have thought of such a hiding place, Miss Doran. You, whose father participated in the invention of the device."

"We didn't do it," she protested, ever more weakly, slowly losing all hope that she would be believed.

"You probably thought this was a good idea, but then you didn't know how to get the diamond back. And oh how you hated my brother..."

"Why would I have hated him?"

"He disapproved of you. With him still alive, you would have never married Robert."

"I never wanted to marry him!"

"Hatty..." Robert said, hovering between rage and despair.

"Really? Then why did you keep dating him when obviously your inclination lay elsewhere?"

"I was scared!" she cried. "You're just a family of wackos! Can you see your nephew? He would've killed me, he would've killed us!"

"Ha ha ha, murderers scared to be murdered," he mocked cruelly. The D.I. was looking up at him with admiration.

"Such a brilliant mind, Mr. Holder," he said. "Without your help in mentioning that we had a habitual offender in town, we might have never solved the mystery of your brother's death."

"This isn't right!"

Everybody froze, then turned to the boy who had just spoken. Simon.

"Why would they bother hiding a diamond in that box? And why would they keep it in Francis's flat when they knew the police were looking for it? It would have been smarter to keep it at Hatty's, for instance. Then there's the murder. Why would they bother killing dad, when they could've taken the diamond from the box without anyone noticing?"

Hupkins blinked in mystification, and Arthur frowned.

"My poor boy, I know this must be hard for you, but–"

"And you," Simon went on, "you hated father too! What if their story were true? What if they had been threatened?"

Sherlock smiled almost proudly. Mycroft smirked.

"Oh, little brother, have you taken an apprentice?"

The consulting detective didn't even bother answering. Instead he glanced out of the window, spotting another car just arriving.

"Enough, Simon!" his mother cried, overcome by the unexpected turn of events this evening.

"That's quite enough, indeed. Thank you, Simon," Sherlock chimed in, stepping to the front of the crowd with his usual dramatic flair. John rolled his eyes.

"Mr. Holder," Sherlock went on, pacing the middle of the room theatrically, "there is also something that I would like you to identify."

He had barely finished his sentence when the doors to the room were slammed open again. Greg Lestrade came in, dragging behind him a young handcuffed man. The poor lad looked around completely frightened, and seemed to panic even more when his eyes met the gaze of Hatty and Francis. The latter let out a cry of horror and stepped back.

"What is this?!" Hupkins exclaimed. He turned to Sherlock, then to Lestrade, then back to Sherlock, his gaze confused. "Who are you?"

Sherlock sent a quick glance towards the D.I., who got the message and coughed before saying:

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard. I am here as part of the Met's investigation of the murder of Alexander Holder."

"What? But–"

"Detective Inspector, would you mind bringing our young friend closer?" Sherlock interrupted.

Lestrade grumbled something like 'I'm not your flunkey', but complied. Arthur Holder scowled.

"What is this, Mr. Holmes?"

"Well, I was going to ask you. Do you recognize this man?"

"Not at all."

"Liar!" the other cried out in distress.

A shiver of anticipation ran through the crowd. The young man went on:

"You paid me to deliver that damned diamond and to threaten that guy, and I had no idea someone would get killed in the process! You never warned me!"

"Arthur, what is he on about?" Mrs. Holder inquired, her voice trembling. She tried to get back to her feet without help but failed miserably. She caught at John's arm just in time and pressed his hand; Sherlock frowned.

So did Arthur.

"I have no idea what this is about, Gilda," he replied darkly. "But perhaps you may want to enlighten us, Mr. Holmes, since you seem to be the one to have invited this man I have never before seen."

"You're lying!" the stranger shouted, and Lestrade grabbed his arm so he couldn't launch at the elder Holder. "That's enough, now," he warned. "We've got the point."

"Enlighten you?" Sherlock repeated. A small smirk played on his lips and John mirrored it unwittingly. "With pleasure. This is why I came here in the first place, after all."

He turned towards Lestrade and said:

"This young man you claim to have never seen is Alan McGall, a minor delinquent of purely local fame. Well, when I say fame... In any case, he was having some money problems – his landlord was kicking him out because he couldn't pay the rent. But, luckily, said landlord was quite generous. He told Mr. McGall that in exchange for a trivial little service, he would not throw him out in the cold this winter."

Arthur had paled, his teeth clenched, but his expression could have been one of indignant rage, rather than guilt.

"Isn't that right, Mr. McGall?" Sherlock added with a polite smile, tilting his head.

"That's right! You told me I just had to deliver that package to that guy in his apartment, then the next day you told me to scare him! Oh, nothing bad, just a joke, you said. I just had to freak him out a bit. You never said anything about murder, you bastard!"

"Sir!" Arthur burst out. "I do not know you and you most certainly–"

"Oh yeah you do, you–"

"Enough," Lestrade growled. Then, in a whisper: "Just let the smart guy do the talking, and you'll be better off."

Sherlock heard him nonetheless and an amused grin spread across his face. John shook his head, jaded.

"So Mr. McGall did bring the package to Francis Moulder's apartment, and threatened to kill him if he did not hide the diamond within twenty-four hours."

"Do you have proof?" Hupkins asked.

"The package and the letter had to be destroyed or Francis would be killed," Sherlock replied evenly.

"Ha, that's a bit too convenient!" Arthur snorted.

Sherlock's eyes drew down into slits.

"So Francis went to his friend Hatty and asked for her help. Together, they destroyed the evidence and hid the diamond in the little black box installed on the dashboard of Alexander Holder's car."

"But why? This is getting unnecessarily complicated," Hupkins grumbled.

Sherlock shrugged.

"Miss Doran's father helped to create those little black boxes. She was familiar with the way it was made and knew how to hide something small in it without damaging the box. It was the perfect hiding place, one only she could think of. And you knew that, didn't you, Mr. Holder?"

"I don't see what–"

"You said it yourself. You saw Hatty with Francis. You knew he would eventually go to her. Or perhaps someone suggested it to you, but that's not our problem here."

The consulting detective's gaze became more intense for a second, and John shivered. So Moriarty was behind this after all? Had Arthur Holder been one of his clients? Please, please, dear Jim, help me get rid of my brother and frame somebody else for it.

"So," Sherlock resumed, "once you knew where the little black box was, you greeted your brother with wine the night he came back from London, put oxycodone in his glass, and left him there in his car with the engine still running all night."

"How dare you!" Arthur vociferated. Sherlock returned his gaze coolly.

"You took the little black box that contained the 'stolen' diamond and then asked Mr. McGall to hide it in Francis Moulton's apartment."

"This is preposterous! I demand that you cease these false accusations immediately!"

"Do you have any proof at all?" Hupkins concurred.

Sherlock stared.

"Are you suggesting that the testimonies of these three individuals, Hatty Doran, Francis Moulton, and Alan McGall amount to nothing in the face of that of Arthur Holder?"

"No, I–"

"But why would Arthur steal my diamond? I don't understand any of this!" Mrs. Holder shrieked, making John jump.

"I didn't–"

"As Mr. Holder himself said, only someone familiar with your room would've known where that diamond was kept. Aren't you surprised that this is the only item that was stolen that night?"

"I never thought–"

"Well, think now: who was in love with you and most jealous of your husband?"

Gilda paled.

"No! You're wrong, this can't be..."

"Who always gave your husband advice as to what you would like as a present?"

She fell silent, and Sherlock turned to Arthur.

"This year, though, you'd had enough, isn't that right? This was just the last straw: that jewel you intended to buy yourself, perhaps, but which your brother decided to get for his wife. His wife, not yours, and yet you knew her so much better than he."

"You're insane, Mr. Holmes. You told us yourself that Alexander did not buy anything the day he died."

"I lied," Sherlock answered with an innocent smile. Gilda's eyes widened.

"You lied?"

"Yes. Alexander Holder did buy something that day at Harrods. Something you had the idea of originally, isn't that right? Mr. Holder."

Arthur was now trembling with fury. He glowered at the detective.

"No ring was found on my brother, Mr. Holmes."

"I never said anything about a ring."

Mrs. Holder let out a small, horrified cry, but the flash of worry that had traversed Arthur's gaze was soon replaced by a cold, condescending expression:

"Well, I did: that's what I suggested my brother should buy for Gilda this year."

"Indeed, Mr. Holder, indeed. But you made a very stupid mistake."

"Did I, now?"

Sherlock nodded.

"You couldn't help it, could you? That ring you had so carefully chosen yourself for the woman you loved..."

"Mr. Holmes!" Gilda cried out with outrage.

"...you took it from your brother's body in the car. You still wanted to give it to her."

"Enough!" Arthur shouted. "I will not let myself be humiliated by–"

But Sherlock wasn't even listening, and was walking straight to the giant chocolate cake that had pride of place in the middle of the buffet table.

"What are you doing?" Mr. Holder asked, urgency in his voice. John stared at him carefully. Now Arthur was starting to panic.

"Giving Mrs. Holder her present," Sherlock replied in a sing-song voice. "Ah!" he said as he cautiously picked out the piece of cake that had Gilda Holder's name on it. "Here it is!"

"Mr. Holmes..." Arthur growled threateningly. But John put a hand on his arm in warning, and something in his eyes told the baker it wouldn't be wise to try anything against Sherlock.

The consulting detective presented the piece of cake to Gilda, who looked at him with bewilderment.

"You favourite fairy tale is Donkey Skin, isn't it, Mrs. Holder?"

She blinked, more and more befuddled with each minute passing.

"It is," she confirmed. "But how do you–"

"There was a book in your little cottage. Grimm's Fairy Tales. The pages were much more used for 'All-kinds-of-fur', indicating that it had been read a lot. But you preferred another version, didn't you? Andrew Lang's, perhaps, or Perrault's? You had all of them printed and neatly folded between the pages of 'All-kinds-of-fur'."

Now even John was starting to think Sherlock had gone bonkers – Donkey Skin? What did that have to do with anything? But John was much too accustomed to his friend's brilliancy to doubt him for even a second, however much he might have trouble keeping up. Sherlock noticed the stares, however, and so went on to spell it out for his audience:

"A princess posing as a slattern bakes a cake for the prince she has fallen in love with and hides her ring inside of it. Of course they end up married and living happily ever after. Well, I'm afraid the ending is going to be quite different this time."

"What do you want me to do with this piece of cake?" Mrs. Holder asked, confounded.

"Eat it."

"I beg your pardon?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Fine, don't eat it. We'll just smash it."

And so he did, under Gilda's horrified stare. Like everyone in the room, she was beginning to wonder if Sherlock wasn't raving mad. Well, everyone except for five people.

But soon a triumphant grin illuminated the detective's face and he showed the little plate to Hupkins jubilantly. In the brown and white ruins of the chocolate cake shone brightly the AS29 diamond ring Alexander had bought at Harrods the day he was murdered.

"How... Why..." Hupkins stuttered.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"I believe I just explained everything in detail."

"You're lying!" Arthur exclaimed. "I had no idea there was a ring in that cake. You were the only one who knew! You must have put it there yourself! I'm being framed!"

"That's quite enough, Arthur," cut in a sharp voice.

Everybody turned to Mrs. Holmes, who had just spoken and was now walking towards her younger son.

"Sherlock did not go into the kitchen once today. There's no way he could have put a ring in your speciality cake."

"But he did!" Mr. Holder protested, pointing at John accusingly.

"What? I didn't even know you were–"

"I am sorry, Arthur, but there are cameras throughout the house. It will be easy to see you put the ring in the cake," Mrs. Holmes said coldly.

Sherlock was beaming like a kid at Christmas – and to be fair, it was Christmas, John reminded himself. He smiled indulgently, shaking his head.

Arthur Holder was pale with rage.

"He didn't even know her tastes," he spat bitterly. "After thirty years of marriage!"

A disturbed murmur traversed the crowd of the guests, and Hupkins had changed his stance.

"Mr. Holder, you–"

"Yes, me!" Arthur yelled, making everyone jump – except the Holmes. "I was the one who took care of his wife, the one who raised his children! He lived in his own world and he was never there for his family, never! And yet he was the one who got everything..."

"...The wife, the children..." Sherlock trailed off.

"What do you know? You don't have anything!" Arthur exploded as the police handcuffed him to take him away.

Sherlock blinked.

"I have a skull. And John, too," he added as an afterthought, tilting his head to the side pensively.

Arthur was too furious and too perplexed to reply anything to that.

¤ oOo ¤

Eventually, Arthur Holder was taken away by Hupkins, who left wondering whether after this dramatic turn of events, this case would still help to boost his career.

While John was trying to revive Mrs. Holder, who had fallen into a state of utter prostration at the disastrous conclusion of the investigation, Lestrade discreetly handed to Sherlock a package in a nondescript plastic bag.

"This wasn't exactly easy to find on such a short notice," he complained with a frown.

"But I was busy," Sherlock retorted.

"Oh, and I wasn't?"

The consulting detective smiled. Lestrade seemed to realize something and froze, eyeing Sherlock suspiciously.

"You didn't just call me because of this. It wasn't even for the case – you owe me one, Sherlock, seriously." Then, in a whisper: "I had nothing to arrest that poor bloke, nothing but your word!"

"Oh please, this was just acting. They'll never know about it at the Met."

"I hope not," Greg grumbled. "But that's not what I was going to say!"

"No. You were going to say he also called you because he knew I had and wanted to prove that he could get you to come and help with the case when I couldn't make you come to babysit him," Mycroft intervened suddenly, making Lestrade start.

The D.I. glared.

"You brothers give me a headache. I don't even want to see your faces tonight. Watch: I'm going to go have a piece of that cake and then consider drinking too much."

And with those words he left them standing there and marched to the buffet. The Holmes brothers exchanged a look.

"So..." Mycroft began, and from his tone Sherlock knew this couldn't be good. "Is this your ring?"

Sherlock glared and stalked off in imitation of Lestrade to join John at the door.

"Mr. Holmes!" exclaimed Colonel Moran as they were leaving the room. "This was truly brilliant. Your deductions – amazing!"

Sherlock stared dispassionately. John shifted a bit on his feet, thinking he should be embarrassed at his friend's attitude but so annoyed with the bloody colonel that he wasn't too intent on making it up for him. Ultimately, his sense of courtesy won and he said with a stiff perfunctory smile:

"He means 'thank you'."

"No, I don't," Sherlock deadpanned. John stared, his eyes slightly widened, but the detective ignored him and went on: "Also, if you were never to come near us again, that would be great."

"You mean come near Dr. Watson?" Sebastian Moran retorted with a sly smile.

Sherlock glowered but did not bother to answer. Grabbing John by the shoulder, he dragged him away from the ball – away from that other murderer he had no way to expose.

¤ oOo ¤

They packed the very next morning, as Sherlock was very impatient to return to Baker Street and hopeful of another case. John himself had had quite enough, and wasn't too keen to delay their departure either.

"Why didn't you tell me about Donkey Skin?" John asked as he folded one of Sherlock's shirts to put it back in the suitcase, having folded all his clothes already.

"It wasn't necessary."

John frowned.

"I really hate it when you leave me out like this."

"I didn't–"

"Never mind. But there's still something I don't get. Moriarty took so much trouble to devise this case for you – I mean, Arthur Holder was obviously a pawn and Moriarty must have known from the beginning that you'd expose him. So what's with all the fairy tales?"

Sherlock's brow darkened visibly, and he turned away from John, looking out of the window.

"Do you know what fairy tales are for?"

"To teach some kind of lesson for kids?"

"Precisely."

"It's a lesson, then?"

"Of some sort."

"Sherlock, can't you be more specific?!"

The detective glanced back at him, then outside again.

"What was Moriarty's message?" John insisted.

"Same as the previous one, I imagine."

John arched an inquisitive eyebrow.

"You mean with Irene Adler?"

Sherlock nodded. Since he kept silent, John continued:

"And that is?"

The detective furrowed his brow and replied collectedly:

"That 'love' is a dangerous weakness."

John was staring, so Sherlock rolled his eyes and added:

"Arthur Holder had everything a happy and successful man could wish to have. But he loved his brother's wife, and that ended up turning him into a murderer. He lost everything eventually, and will even be separated from the one person he wanted to be closer to."

John stared at his friend with surprise. Sherlock's gaze became distant and he added in a lower voice, almost for himself:

"Such a fool."

An awkward silence followed his words.

Other words were echoing in Sherlock's mind as he went to the desk and picked up the package Lestrade had given him the previous night. Caring isn't an advantage, Sherlock.

"Here," he said, handing the bag to John.

The doctor blinked and tilted his head to the side questioningly.

"It's for you," Sherlock developed, as if he hadn't made that quite clear already – but he was never sure, with John.

"I got it the first time, I'm not an idiot!" John protested. "Well, maybe I am," he amended. "At least by the Holmes's standard. But I–"

"Won't you just take it and open it? It's a bit late, but you went to bed straight away last night, so I thought I'd just wait until today. And who cares about the date, really? Well, actually, you might be the type who would."

"Wait, wait... Are you saying this is a Christmas present?" John asked, dumbfounded.

Sherlock nodded. John gaped.

"Just open it!"

"Fine, fine!"

He unwrapped the package and his eyes widened.

"Sherlock, this is–"

"It's the same model," Sherlock cut in promptly, not liking John's touched tone which was very likely to lead to sentimental thanks. "Same colour, too – dark red. Of course you've lost the contents, but–"

He froze as John gave him a spontaneous and rather forceful hug. Military man, Sherlock thought as he tried not to stiffen too much.

"Thank you," John said with simplicity.

Sherlock hadn't expected him to be so happy about his new laptop. A small smile played on his lips as he replied:

"Well, how else are you going to keep blogging about me?"

At this, John laughed wholeheartedly and broke the embrace, nudging Sherlock away playfully.

"You twat!"

"So, you are packing," a voice interrupted from the door. This time, John did not jump, but turned to Mrs. Holmes with a smile.

"Oh yes."

She smirked.

"I hope you have enjoyed your stay, Dr. Watson."

"Oh yeah, it was great. I mean, the fitness centre, the little chat in the kitchen with the guy who had killed his brother, the beautiful party you had organized just to expose the murderer..."

"I'm glad," she said with a grin that almost made John shiver.

"Well, then, off you go. Mycroft has arranged a car for you, since you blew ours up, Sherly."

"You have others."

"I don't want them to be blown up."

Sherlock pouted, but did not talk back.

"I hope to see you soon, then!"

"No, you won't," he grumbled as he walked past her to leave.

"Sherly."

He sighed, stopped in his track at the door, and went back to kiss her on the cheeks. Then he left for good, without another word. John stared, flabbergasted.

"He just kissed you."

"I'm his mother."

"But he's Sherlock Holmes!"

"I raised him that way," she replied with a crooked smile.

John did not ask in what way and simply thanked her for her welcome before hurrying after Sherlock.

Mummy shook her head fondly.

"Perhaps not so frightened, but definitely a puppy."

¤ oOo ¤

The dark room was only lit by the computer screen and a small, dim lamp on the table. The images showed a certain living-room, in a certain London street, where a certain detective and his blogger lived. Presently, they were respectively slouching on the couch whining, and reading (or trying to read) a newspaper.

Jim Moriarty grinned at the screen.

"Mirror, mirror, tell me, who is the most intelligent in the world?"

He burst out laughing and turned to the man sitting in a chair next to him.

"Look at them, Seb. Aren't they adorable?"

Sebastian looked up from his journal – the latest Hunting Magazine – and glanced at the screen lazily.

"You're just as bored as he," he remarked before resuming his reading phlegmatically.

"Yes, but wasn't he so much fun to watch!" Moriarty replied excitedly. "That Holder fool really was worth the trouble after all! Well, only useful as far as he was a friend of the Holmes's."

"So the mother would obviously call her son. Yes, yes, we all know how brilliant your brilliant plan was."

Moriarty shot his henchman a dramatically miffed pout, and turned to the screen again, staring at Sherlock intensely.

"Do you know what fairy tales are for, Sherlock? To teach children how to deal with the harsh world out there. So, have you learnt your lesson?"

"He can't hear you, you know," Moran commented off-handedly. Jim smirked.

"Oh, I think he's heard me all right."

Something in his tone – the dark sparkle and the dangerous vibrancy resounding in it – prompted Seb to look up from his magazine again and watch the exhilaration distorting Jim's features and making his eyes shine as he concluded:

"But no worries, dear! You won't be bored. The fairy tales aren't over yet. And the next ones will be rather... Grimmer."

He grinned.

THE END

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~o~