There were only so many pieces left. Even the genius was at a lost. The entire puzzle was black. Nothing. No shade. No faded image. His hands were tugging at his curls, a small pain in the pit of his stomach. He never lost. Losing was not an option.
Fingers twitching and pulling out of his hair, arms drooping to the floor as his stormy eyes glared a hole into the puzzle. The detective didn't even pay attention as John walked in with his tea, staring down at the sad sight.
After a few minutes of a thick hush, Sherlock hopped to his feet in excitement. The shorter male stuttered in response, taking a careful step back. “Sherlo-”
“THAT'S IT! Think about it, John. What was (r/n)'s favourite place to go?”
John stopped, lips pursing in thought before he answered, “That, uh, one place that no one really went to. Bad company, but it was always quiet there. She could think. She was often there with her parents, though it's no place for a kid. What was it called?”
“Sheridan's.”
“Right. And what does this have to do with anything?”
“Use your mind, John! It's the puzzle. Their symbol. Don't you see it. Look at where the missing pieces are. There's a very, very subtle red around it. And the shape left.. It has to be it. Let's go. Call Lestrade.”