Holmes (Part 1)

[Cass Hoban]

The Adventure of the Stolen Pounds

“Drop the gun!”
He stared down the end of the barrel of the handgun at the man before him; nearly ten feet away, his hands were up.
“Doctor Watson, I’m imploring you, drop the gun!” He shouted again.
“Holmes…” He muttered, firing as he blinked.

******************************
A man walked down the streets of London, leaning heavily on a wooden cane he held in his right hand. He wasn’t old; rather, he looked to be around thirty five years of age. He had short, dark brown hair, a cleanly shaven face with strong features and blue eyes. He was wearing a light jacket and jeans as he walked, carrying a pack on his back.
“Ah, John!”
He looked back, watching as a man ran up to him. He was breathing hard due to his size as he caught up with the man. He was wearing a light coat as well, had a balding head of black hair and a thin mustache.
“Oh, Stamford.” John said, “What are you doing here?”
After catching his breath, the larger man said, “I heard you came back from the War. I wanted to catch up with you.”
John nodded, “Yeah, sounds good.”
“I know a good place. Come on, let’s go piss up.”

******************************
“I’m looking for a flat mate.” John told Stamford.
Putting his bottle down, Stamford looked to his old friend, “A flat mate? I think I remember reading about someone who wanted one.” He said, scratching the bald spot on his head, “Let’s see…who was it?”
“Well, if you remember, give me a call.” John said, rising from the bar, leaning heavily on his cane as he hobbled towards the door.
“Oh, I remember!” Stamford called.
John turned around, “Oh, good. Where was it?”
“I don’t recall where, but I do recall the man’s name. It was an unusual, unique name, so it stuck out to me.”
“Ok, good. What was the name, then?” John asked, hobbling back over.
“Holmes…” Stamford said, scratching his chin, “Ah! Sherlock Holmes! That was his name.”
“Sherlock Holmes…” John murmured, pondering the man’s odd name. He shrugged, not caring to judge. Some would say that ‘Watson’ was an odd surname as well. He nodded to Stamford, “Ok, I’ll find him. I’m sure it won’t be hard, asking around.”
“No, it shouldn’t.” Stamford said, raising his bottle, “Well then, see you later, John.”
John nodded, hobbling out of the pub to begin his job of tracking down Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

******************************
“Oh, John!”
John was sitting on a park bench. He looked over his shoulder, watching the big figure of Stamford approaching him, wiping the sweat off of his brow with the back of his hand. In tow was another figure, a man who was roughly six feet tall, thin, with tangled black hair, gray penetrating, observing eyes, and a nearly gaunt face. He had stubble on his chin, from having shaved recently, but not too evenly.
He was dressed in a dark blue or black longcoat with an open front. He had a grayish blue scarf wrapped around the front, hanging down over his chest. From what John could observe, he was wearing a white button-up shirt with a suit jacket on, attached only at the middle button. He had black slacks and boots on, the boots over the top of his pants.
He left the company of Stamford and approached John as he rose. The man extended a hand towards him. John could see that it had red marks along the palm, from gripping something tightly, no doubt. He also had some mottled plaster covering some cuts on his hand, sealing the wounds.
“Doctor John Watson, correct?” The man asked with a northern accent, “I’m Sherlock Holmes. You wanted to be my flat mate?”
John nodded, taking his hand in a firm grip, letting his cane lean on the bench. As the two shook, Sherlock nodded in approval, “A strong grip.” He said, “But also careful. I can see that by the way you handle your cane that you are indeed a doctor. You’re careful not to hurt your hand too much by the constant leaning, but enough that you can use it properly. You keep enough slack on it so you can use your hands for medicine without any problems. But…you were a soldier, you handled firearms. I can feel it in the strength of your grip. So, based on that, your complexion, and the fact that you seem underdressed for this time of year…you were in Afghanistan, recently returned…” his gaze drifted to the cane, “a wounded man, ready to practice your medicine…”
“How can you know all of that?” John exclaimed in question of this man’s observational prowess. He looked to Stamford, but the big man shook his head.
“No, it wasn’t Stamford who told me. All he told me was that he had a friend named Doctor John Watson who was looking for me to be my flat mate. Now, I explained that based on your grip I know you were a soldier, but are a practicing doctor. I then explained the complexion and your confusion of temperature…”
“I know, you explained it all in enough detail.” John said, “But…but how did you notice all of this? How did you put it all together?”
“That’s my specialty. My forte.” Sherlock told him, “I’m a consulting detective, so it’s my job to pick up on details such as these at a moment’s notice.”
“Consulting detective?” John asked, “Why, I’ve never heard of such a thing! What is it that you do?”
“When the police are at a loss, when it seems that they have run all of their clews into dead ends, into the ground, when they are in the direst of needs…they call on me. I give them not a fresh look on the case, but rather, I take a fresh look at the evidence, finding the small details that they probably missed, that they were unable to figure out, or, finding new evidence altogether. I pick up the pieces where they screw up, and I solve their crimes for them. That, my friend, is what I do.”
“Why have I never heard of such a thing?” John asked.
“Probably because I’ve invented the practice.” Sherlock answered, “I’m the only consulting detective…as far as I know. And, of course, I’m the best.”
“I’m at a loss for words.” John admitted in the awkward silence.
“No need to worry.” Sherlock said, looking back at Stamford, waiting there behind them, “Now, shall we go and see the room?”
“This late?” John asked, “Would they really show us?”
“I don’t know.” Sherlock admitted, “But if we had to, I could get us inside.”
“How?”
“I have my ways. I can assure you we’ll get inside.” Sherlock said, walking away. As he reached Stamford, the larger man moved towards John, speaking in a hushed tone.
“He’s a great man, isn’t he? Someone worth sharing a flat with?”
“He’s an odd man.” John said, “But very interesting. I’m afraid that he might be a criminal…”
“Because he said he would get you inside?” Stamford asked, “Well, John, you can’t let that simple statement worry you so! What if you’re wrong? You’ll feel foolish!”
“And if I’m sitting in prison with this man, then I’ll feel right, but like my life…my practice, is ruined.” John said, hobbling after Sherlock.

******************************
“See? I assured you we would get to see the rooms!” Sherlock boasted as he and John walked into the large flat that was for lease. It contained three sizeable bedrooms; a large sitting room illuminated by two large windows overlooking the street, and had a small kitchen between the bedrooms and sitting room. A loo was situated off to the side of one of the bedrooms.
“I’m terribly sorry that we had to disturb you at so late an hour.” John continued to apologise to the older landlady that was overseeing the rooms, this room being the last one open.
“Oh, don’t worry about it.” She said, “I’m just happy someone might lease this room. 221B Baker Street will finally have occupants! It’s been years…”
“Mrs. Hudson, I think neither of us would object to these rooms.” Sherlock said, looking to John, who in turn, didn’t object, “Well, shall we draw up some papers?”
Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, looked like she was in her early seventies, with a bit of a Scottish accent. She had grayish white hair from her age, put up into a bun with a few loose strands coming out here and there. Due to the time of night, she had a light coloured dressing gown on and slippers.
“Yes, if you’re so insistent, then let’s do it.” She said, leading Sherlock into another room, while John sat down in an easy-chair. He leaned on his cane, keeping it out in front of him, as he looked out into the dark night sky from the windows before him.
In a few minutes, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson returned, laughing as Sherlock completed a story that he had been telling her, evidently. John rose and hobbled over as Mrs. Hudson left them in peace.
“So, how much is it?” John asked him.
“For the two of us in these rooms, we came to an agreement of £1,000 per week, £4,333 per month. That’s not a problem, is it?”
John shook his head, “No, in fact, that’s a pretty great price! How did you do it?”
“She was desperate to fill the room with occupants, I started low…”
“How did you know?” He questioned, “She said that she wanted to fill it for years, but how did you know she was desperate?”
He smiled his all-knowing smile when John asked him the question. Sherlock opened his mouth, turning his back on John as he removed his scarf and great coat, casting them onto one of the easy-chairs.
“We went into her office to draft up papers. Well, her room doubles as her office. I looked at everything I could as we entered, and I saw some ink cartridges from a printer, but no papers in the trash, despite the cartridges being new. I saw, however, some empty covers that paper would come in. In her office, I saw that she had the papers there in an uneasy pile. I managed to get a look at one of them, which was an ad for the room. I also noticed staplers and tape around, as if she was going to go around putting them up. Therefore, I deduced that she wanted the room pretty badly to be leased if she would use that much ink at once, have that many papers ready to go at once, and then I also saw a receipt from a paper she was advertising the rooms in, which, coincidently, is where I first happened upon the room information the other day. Though, honestly, at the time I didn’t know her desperation. I played on that, gave her a fair price, at my own insistence, and she took it.”
John just stared at Sherlock as the man finished his answer. He could hardly believe that such a man would exist such as this Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He was absolutely dumbfounded.
“That’s simply amazing.” John said.
“I know. It’s fantastic.” Sherlock said, looking back.
“You just complimented yourself.” John said, “You called your own skills ‘fantastic’. That says something about you.”
Sherlock had a wide grin appearing on his face, “Oh, good! Now, John, read into it. Read and let’s see where you are in your skills, compared to mine.”
“You’re cocky.” John simply said, “You look for self-gratitude, any gratitude, any pat-on-the-back that you can get, even if it’s from yourself. I don’t see how people would be able to stand that constantly…”
“Oh, it’s not constant, only occasionally.” Sherlock said, “And, well, good job. You did pretty well. However, I wasn’t complimenting myself, I was just using the word ‘fantastic’, hoping that you would pick it up and start using it. I rather like the word.”
“You were trying to essentially put the word out in the open, hoping that I would pick up use of it after hearing it once…”
Sherlock interrupted, “No, I was going to keep using it. But instead, you picked up on that I’m a vain man looking for self-gratitude. That was a good prediction, but it was wrong.”
“Ok, let’s get off this topic before I feel the urge to strangle you.” John said, sitting down, facing out at the window.
Sherlock moved over and started a fire in the fireplace, then took the chair besides John, opening his suit jacket and tossing it to another chair, effectively scattering his excess clothing, paying very little heed to that fact.
“So, tell me John, what did you do in the military?” Sherlock asked.
“I was an army surgeon, but also made Sergeant.” John replied, “I…”
“Let me see if I can figure this out.” Sherlock interrupted, leaning his right elbow on the arm of the chair, resting his head in his hand, looking to his left at John, drawing his feet up onto a footstool before him, “You first enlisted, despite going to medical school, because of the economy. At that point, you were a soldier. You worked your way up though, with your marksmanship, I’m sure, because of your precision work as a doctor. You made Sergeant, but then, the need for more army surgeons became apparent, and they found you, instead of enlisting someone from the outside. Let’s face it, what doctor would go to Afghanistan? They already had another one in the field! So, they had you working as both, and were no doubt a very respected surgeon, due to your rank.”
“That’s exactly right!” John exclaimed. He had a feeling that he would be saying that a lot with Sherlock Holmes around, “How did you figure that out?”
“I didn’t know with absolute certainty, but I was sure enough.” Sherlock replied, “I simply figured, ‘Why would a doctor with a practice, or, a chance at having a practice, enlist in the military?’ that’s when I figured that you had to have been hit by the economy, despite finishing medical school. Your age seems testament to that. You probably were conflicted as well, since you didn’t finish earlier. Either that, or you didn’t have much, and saved for years. I’m going with that, because you seem to be able to quickly make up your mind, like about the room.
“So then, it was simply a matter of figuring this out. You had to have been hit by the economy, or have a strong belief in the War, to go and fight. I figured it was the economy, since you don’t seem to be the type who would join a War for no reason. So, I figured that you thought you could use the money from your service to fund your practice, perhaps? So, you took the War because you had no choice, since finding a practice somewhere, even if it would take time, would be better than going and becoming an army surgeon. So, you became a soldier, rose through the ranks, and did something to get yourself noticed for your abilities in the medical field. Thus…”
“I get it.” John said, shaking his head in astonishment, “How did you learn to pick up on all of this?”
“I’ve always had an interest in human behaviour.” Sherlock said, “I just applied it to the law, where I believed that it was lacking, and this is what I’ve come up with. It took years, but…”
“Let me ask you something.” John said, pointing to both of Sherlock’s hands, “Those plaster…”
“Patches.”
“Right, plaster patches…”
“I needed some blood for a chemistry experiment I was doing. I used my own.” He looked at the mottled hands he had as a result of all of the plaster patches, “I had to be careful because of the acids I was using, so I decided that plaster was the best way to go, rather than a bandage.”
“Gloves?”
“Might make my glass tubes slip from my grip, or something.” Sherlock said, “I like to be hands-on.”
John nodded, “Ok then. What were you…?”
“It’s secret.” Sherlock said simply, speaking no more on the matter.
In the silence, Sherlock got out of his chair and walked towards his suit jacket, picking it up off of the other chair. John thought he might put it away, along with his coat and scarf, but he didn’t.
“I think tomorrow I’m going to fetch my things and furnish this place. You have anything?”
“I just got back from Afghanistan. Literally, just today. I have little to get.”
Sherlock nodded, pulling a pack of fags from the pocket. He sat down, pulling one out, “You don’t mind?”
“As a doctor, yes. As a flat mate, no.” John said, though obviously disgusted by Sherlock’s apparent habit of smoking.
“What’s the problem then, doctor?” Sherlock asked, lighting it with a silver lighter with engraved inittials. John noticed that the innitials weren’t Sherlock’s own; rather, one of them looked like an ‘M’.
“It’ll kill you.”
“No it won’t.” He started to smoke it, flipping the lighter closed and putting it in his pants pocket again. But first, he touched his left breast, as if expecting a pocket to be there. Then his face had taken a different expression, before he placed it into his pocket. John had seen this, but wasn’t sure about it.
“Yes, it will.”
“Show me the proof.” Sherlock said, blowing out smoke.
“The proof is on the internet. I can show you that.” John said, “Unless you’ll take my advice.”
“I know you’re a good man, but I don’t know you well enough to trust advice like that.”
“You’ll share a flat with me, but won’t trust my medical opinion?”
“You were shot in the leg, and apparently couldn’t fix it yourself.” Sherlock pointed to Watson’s right thigh, “Obviously something went wrong, so until I know about that…”
“Shot.” He said, “By an al Qaeda supporter.” John told Sherlock.
“Why couldn’t you fix it? Why didn’t it get better?”
There was silence as John rubbed his leg. He looked up at Sherlock, “The bullet fragmented on impact, lodging itself into multiple locations. While I fell behind cover and tried to get it out with the supplies I had on hand at the moment…I wasn’t able to do much. I killed whoever shot me when he came to finish the job, but it took some time for backup to come and get me out.”
Sherlock nodded, “Ok then. Well, your proof?”
“Look it up online.”
“I don’t really believe in the internet.”
“You’re a consulting detective. Don’t you verify facts?”
“I do. I use the internet for that.”
“Then verify these facts!” John snapped.
“Can’t.” He said, exhaling smoke.
“Why not?”
“No computer here.” He said.
“Then we’ll go to the library or something.”
“And waste someone else’s time when you could just tell me yourself?” Sherlock questioned, “Think about others, if you would.”
“I’m thinking about your health right now.” John replied.
“Well, don’t worry about me.”
“But…”
Sherlock pulled the fag out of his mouth and found an ashtray. He put it out and sat back down, “There, problem solved.”
“For how long?” John questioned.
“It’s a slow night. Just the one. I usually have one a night…unless I’m on the job.”
“You have more on the job?”
“I need to focus.” Sherlock said.
“Fine.” John said, “I guess we have differing views here. But let’s forget about that for now.” He pointed to Holmes, “That lighter. I noticed it didn’t have your innitials.”
“What did you see?”
“I saw the letter ‘M’.” John told him.
“I have a brother named Mycroft Holmes.” Sherlock said, “I have his lighter.”
“He’s not dead, or you would have said you ‘had’ a brother, not ‘have’. So…why have his lighter?”
Sherlock rose from the chair, “Well, I’m going to retire for the evening, John.” He said, walking towards one of the bedrooms, “I’ll take the middle one. Take the first or last one, it doesn’t matter to me. I’ll see you in the morning.”
John rose, noticing that Sherlock had left his things scattered where he had thrown them. Was this what it was going to be like living with the man? He was brilliant, but…
John hobbled along towards the loo to take care of himself for the night, and then he would also retire.

******************************
As John hobbled out of the first bedroom, he could smell eggs and sausages in the dining room. He hobbled out, still dressed from the day before, since they hadn’t left since arriving, he had only the clothes he was wearing, and no supplies, such as for the loo or his bedroom. He would go to get his things that were with Stamford later.
“Ah, John.” Sherlock said, rising from the table, dressed differently than he had been. He was wearing the same type of shirt, white button-up, but now with a black waistcoat, buttoned all the way. Like before, he only had the top two buttons undone on his shirt to open his neckline.
“Did you make this?” John asked, hobbling to the table, looking at his plate of food.
Sherlock let out a short, sharp laugh, “I can’t cook. Mrs. Hudson brought it up for us. It’s included in the fees. We get three meals a day from her.”
“So we don’t need to buy food, unless we want snacks, or something.” John said.
“Snacks?” Sherlock questioned, “That throws the body off. You should know that, doctor.”
“I do know.” John said, irritated by his flat mate, “But you’re wrong. It’s good for you. Research shows that it’s healthy, that it helps promote calorie and portion control during regular meals. It helps curb appetite in a healthy way.”
“Very good.” Sherlock told him, “Now, I know I can trust you in what I require done.”
“You require something done?” John asked.
“I can see that if you know something that isn’t really something you must know as a doctor, but you know it, despite being injured and just returning from Afghanistan, that your knowledge is still fine. Thus, I can use you. I need you for a case.”
“A case?” John asked, sitting down to his meal.
“Yes, after you go and get a change of clothes, of course.” Sherlock said, sitting in an easy-chair and turning to look at the table. He pulled a fag out and began to smoke by using his silver lighter from his pants pocket.
“Ok, I’ll go and get my stuff, then…”
He looked around the sitting room. He could see boxes all around, most of them empty. He could see a coat of arms with two sabres behind it mounted on a wall, a plaster bust of Napoleon, and other oddities scattered around the room.
“I’ve already retrieved my things and set them up.” Sherlock told John, “I’m waiting on your things before I unpack the rest.”
“I can see that.” John said, “I need a lift…”
“I walked to get my things. Took me a few hours to get it all, but…”
“I’ll take a coach then.” John said, “I have the money.”
“I guess that would be a good idea, considering your leg.”
“When will you need me?”
“By noon.” Sherlock answered, looking at a wall mounted clock, “So, you have about four hours to get ready and get back.”
It took John a few minutes to finish his meal. When he was finished, he pushed himself up with his cane and the table, and hobbled out the door.

******************************
John Watson returned to the flat at around nine thirty, hobbling up with a suitcase in hand. He set it down on the table and looked around the room.
“Holmes?” He called out.
No answer.
“Holmes?” He called again.
Mrs. Hudson came into the room, “Are you looking for Mr. Holmes?”
John turned to her. Of course he was, why else would he be calling the man’s name? He decided not to be snide, and simply responded with, “Yes, do you happen to know where he may have gone?”
“He went out not long after you did.” She said, “I don’t know where he went, sorry Mr. Watson.”
“Ok, that’s fine.” John said, hobbling back down the stairs of the building. As he went down, he saw Sherlock coming up with a box in both of his arms.
“I thought you would need help, considering you are essentially a cripple.” Sherlock told John.
John watched him go up, confused by Sherlock’s appearance, and his timing, more than anything. He continued down, bringing up a smaller box under his left arm, hobbling back up the stairs.
In the time of a few minutes, everything was up. There wasn’t much that Stamford was holding for John, only a few boxes of personal items and some clothes. Noticeably, when everything was removed from the boxes, between John and Sherlock, they were missing a few items, such as toiletry (including toothbrushes and the like), towels, plates (provided by Mrs. Hudson with their meals, however) and bedding (other than the provided).
After getting a change of clothes, John came out dressed in a pair of khaki pants, boots, and a long-sleeved black shirt. He still had his same, wooden cane, having no need to own another.
Sherlock was sitting at one of the kitchen tables when John emerged, smoking again. He rose, putting out his fag. Before he could say anything, John spoke, calling him on his habits.
“I thought you said once a day…”
“I’m bored.” Sherlock told him, “No case to work yet, and since we’re about to be working one, I needed a way to focus.”
“By smoking?”
Sherlock nodded, “Let’s forget that for now. I have a case that I need you for, like I said. I have a client who believes that a Mr. Conner Walker has been stealing money from the banque at which he works. My client is the proprietor of the banque, but is out of options. He called me in. Now, you see, Mr. Walker is a fairly well-to-do man, but his son of four is ill. He’s hiring a nursemaid, a job I would have taken, but he screens his applicants, of course. I don’t know enough about medicine to do it. I need you to go and get the job so I can investigate.”
“So, when he’s at work, I’ll be watching his son, and I’ll get you inside to look for the money?” John asked.
Sherlock nodded, “Simple enough, right?”
“It is.” John said, “But what if I don’t get the job?”
“You will. His family used to be in the military, so I’m sure he’ll respect your former status as a Sergeant.” Sherlock said.
As the time ticked away, it became eleven thirty. Sherlock rose from his chair, “Shall we be off, then?”
As the two were leaving, Mrs. Hudson was coming in, “Oh, Sirs! What would you like for lunch? I’m making…”
“We won’t be here for lunch today.” Sherlock said, pulling his great coat on, casting his scarf around his neck and tying it off.
“Why not?” Mrs. Hudson asked as Sherlock was walking past her again, after retrieving his things from the night before.
“The game is on!” He announced, walking out.
John looked to her, “I’m terribly sorry about him.”
“No need to apologize.” She said, “I know how men can be. I was married.”
John cast her a wary glance, “I’m not…we’re not…”
“Oh, don’t worry. I know about what people are doing nowadays.” She said cheerfully.
John pushed himself out of his chair and hobbled after Sherlock, eager to be away.

******************************
After the relatively short coach ride, the two arrived outside of a sizeable house towards the outskirts of London to be away from it all. John hobbled towards the fence with Sherlock beside him. Sherlock pressed the buzzer on the gate and waited.
“Yes?” Came a voice.
“I’m here to apply for the job of nursemaid.” John said into the speaker.
“And what is your name? Your credentials?”
“I am Doctor John H. Watson, M.D. I served in Afghanistan as an army surgeon and as a Sergeant, I obtained my medical degree from…”
The gate swung open, and the voice said, “A soldier? Please, come in and let us discuss this job.”
John looked to Sherlock, who urged him ahead. Sherlock began to walk the other way, waiting on the other side of the street, standing tall and waiting.
Time ticked away. Soon an hour had passed before John emerged, hobbling towards Sherlock, a smile of victory on his face.
“You got the job?”
“I got the job.” John confirmed.
“Excellent! Now we can begin. When is your first day?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Sooner than I expected, so…what’s today? Wednesday? Well then, we’ll begin next Thursday.”
“Next week?” John questioned.
Sherlock nodded, “The child is four. It will take a day for you two to get acquainted with each other, two to get you both familiar with your duties and to just help establish things, no work on the weekends, and then, next week, Monday through Wednesday, you’ll just continue on with him, acquainting yourselves, becoming ‘friends’ and the like, and he’ll begin to trust you. Thursday, I’ll come as your friend to ‘entertain’ the child while you do some other work. Make up some other work, by the way, and tell the child about it. Tell him you’re opening a practice, or something.”
“He knows my name, my credentials…if we do this, will it be illegal for me in any way?” John asked.
Sherlock shook his head as they began to walk down the street, towards a coach stop, “Not in any way. After all, he’ll be guilty and imprisoned, what can he do? Complain that you came in to his house just to find evidence to put him away?”
“What if he’s innocent?” John asked.
“Work as long as you want, or make up a lie to leave.” Sherlock said, shrugging, “But I’m sure he’s guilty. There’s little doubt in my mind as to that.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know.” Sherlock responded.

******************************
As the days passed by, the two men began to form a closer friendship, a closer partnership. Sherlock began to learn some medical knowledge that would potentially help him in his work, and John began to learn some of Sherlock’s methods and put them to use.
In his work for the son of Conner Walker, he began to develop a bond with the boy, gaining his trust. Things were going as Sherlock required them to. And then came the day that they awaited, Thursday.
As John walked inside, dressed in khaki pants, boots and a button-up black shirt, he hobbled down the hall, passing Mr. Walker on the way. They nodded to each other, and then the other man left for work. As the time of an hour passed, the gate buzzed.
“Excuse me.” John said, rising from the table at which he sat with the boy. The boy had a serious combination of a viral infection and fever, requiring the proper amounts of the proper medications used at the right times. John suspected there was more to the diagnosis, as a doctor he wanted to know, as Sherlock’s partner, he didn’t.
“Yes?” He asked, getting the buzzer.
“It’s me.” Sherlock’s voice came.
John pressed a button, opening the gate.
In the time of about twenty seconds, the front door was being banged upon. John hobbled to it, pulling it open, allowing Sherlock to enter inside.
“I saw a car leave.” John said.
“As we figured. But you brought it up for a reason, yes?” Sherlock questioned.
“At one point I think I saw one stop outside, and then leave again. Something might be going on.”
“How long ago?”
“A few minutes before you arrived.”
“I saw no one.” Sherlock said.
“Other road.” John said, pointing towards the back, “There’s a road back there, but it’s not close to the house. It could be nothing…”
“Or it could be something.” Sherlock replied, “Now, quickly John, explain to the child about me being your friend, you need to do work, so I’m going to entertain him for a little. Then, when you leave the room, cheque the upstairs to see if you can see anyone in the yard.”
John nodded, walking into the child’s room. He introduced Sherlock to the four year old, James Walker, and went off because he had ‘work to do’, as he said.
John walked up the stairs just outside of the bedroom. He hobbled up and looked out an overhanging window, catching a glimpse down below of someone moving across the lawn. He recognised the man as Conner Walker, the owner of the house. When John hobbled back downstairs, he saw that there was a briefcase sitting on the table. He must have forgotten it, and had come back.
John hobbled into the bedroom. Sherlock was standing opposite of the window, near the door. He was shuffling a deck of cards, promising card tricks for the young James. John slightly nodded, signalling to Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t show any sort of response, but had seen the nod.
One card slipped out of the deck as he shuffled, landing on the floor. He told the child that he would get it, and then looked to the window, seeing a shadow coming across the sill as the patriarch of the household approached.
Sherlock ‘lost his grip’ on the cards, sending them scattering around the room. The boy laughed, thinking it was funny. Sherlock quickly apologized and dropped to the floor to pick them up, crawling towards the window to get the card or two that landed over there. He could see the shadow of the owner cast over the floor next to him as he looked inside. Sherlock remained down, John was also picking up cards, but within view of the man, and the child was laughing.
John looked up, seeing Mr. Walker. He picked himself up and went around to the front to get the gate. Sherlock, as soon as the shadow passed, picked himself up and picked the cards up.
“Do you want to play a game?” He asked the child.
“Yes! Yes!”
“Ok then. Now, let me take a look around this room for things to use. Now, just sit tight at the table, don’t tell Mr. Watson or anyone else about me here, or it would ruin the game.”
The child nodded eagerly and rushed to the chair. Sherlock walked towards the closet and opened it, stepping inside and closing it behind him. He thought quickly about a ‘game’ he could do, but waited as he heard the sound of the cane approaching, and then the door closing as well. He waited, making sure that the man would have passed by the window, and only after a few minutes did Sherlock emerge.
“What were you doing in the closet?” John questioned.
“How else would I find things for a game?” Sherlock questioned, pulling out a toy sword. “Ok, I couldn’t find things for the game, but I did find something else.” He pointed the toy at John, “Let’s see if you’re any good with the cane.”
“What?” John questioned.
To the child’s amusement, Sherlock lunged forward, thrusting. John quickly lifted his cane to parry, and tried to push back, using his free hand to support himself against the wall.
Sherlock was quick and merciless, thrusting and parrying, quickly showing his prowess as a fencer. John ducked a thrust for the head and struck out with the cane, but Sherlock dodged it.
“What type of man are you?” John demanded as he ducked a thrust at the head.
“A fencer, a singlestick fighter, a boxer, a wrestler, a marksman…” Sherlock said.
“I get it.” John said, thrusting with his cane.
Sherlock didn’t try to block. He let it hit him in the gut, and fell for dramatic effect, to the child’s enjoyment.
“I got a little overconfident.” He lied as he pushed himself up. He walked to the closet and put the sword away, “Ok, as my punishment I’ll go do your research for your practice for you.” He told John, clasping him on the shoulder, “You can have the fun job of playing with James.”
“Just don’t run my practice into the ground.” John said, playing along as Sherlock walked out of the room.
After he had left, Sherlock hurried into the kitchen, the first room. He began to look around the walls, removing any large pictures from the walls, but not finding anything behind them. He replaced each picture, looking in every pantry and cupboard, but finding nothing.
He moved to the main sitting room. He looked around the pictures again, as well as anything else he could, such as under couches and in the drawers of tables, but the man hadn’t hidden the money anywhere here.
He moved from room to room, searching everywhere. He searched downstairs, he searched upstairs, he searched everywhere except for the child’s room, which he had already chequed with his eyes, finding no hiding places except for the dresser and the closet. He had chequed the closet as he hid inside of it. The dresser? He doubted it, having seen enough during his time on the floor to know it wasn’t behind or under. A drawer? Unlikely.
Sherlock sat at the kitchen table after finishing his entire investigation of the house. Either he missed something—improbable—or it was in the dresser—unlikely—or he hadn’t stolen money—unlikely again.
The banque had records of missing money, or rather, ‘misplaced’ money. They could have simply misplaced it, as they reported, but Sherlock doubted that. How do you misplace that much?
Someone else could have stolen it, but from his watching of the banque workers, nobody else had the type of face, the type of body language, that this man did, the language that could indicate that he was a thief.
It had to be this man, if it was stolen at all.
Sherlock walked back into the sitting room, finding the fireplace. He pulled a poker free and walked back into the kitchen, turning it upside-down and hitting the floor with the handle, listening to the granite. He continued around the entire kitchen, constantly hitting within a foot of his last hit, searching the stone flooring.
A hollow sound.
He dropped to the floor, feeling around with his fingers. He found a very miniscule seam and pried at it. He rose and picked up a knife from a knife rack, pulling the blade out. He wedged the blade into the crack and started to apply some pressure, trying to open it without snapping the knife at the same time. He could feel that he was getting nowhere, so he stopped.
“What can I use?” He muttered, pacing around. He felt around the tiles around that one, but that was the only hollow location. How did Conner get inside of it?
He sat at the table and looked at it, then crouched back down, taking the knife again. He began to trace it, making sure that all four sides were open. Only three were. One acted like a hinge. It must have.
Sherlock sprang to his feet to the wall by the sink. He looked at the switches, reading that one was for the garbage disposal, one was for the lights, one was for…nothing. It wasn’t marked.
“Well, let’s see what we have here.” He said, flipping the switch.
He heard nothing. He saw nothing. He walked over towards the spot and stepped on it. He stepped off of it, and it opened upwards, the seamless spot being a hinge that would make it rise up to open.
Sherlock crouched down and looked at what lay inside. He saw a small pile of money inside. He picked it up, setting it on the table, and counted it out.
“£134,700. Just as I was told there would be.” He said to himself, standing up. He chequed the serial numbers against the paper he had in his pocket. They were matches.
Sherlock drew a cellphone from his pocket and started to dial. He lifted it to his ear, “This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, calling for the proprietor, Mr. Drake Evans. Tell him that I’m calling the police as we speak, and that the money has been found. Keep an eye on Mr. Conner Walker. He stole the money, just as believed.” Holmes hung up and dialed again, “Hello, Lestrade? This is Holmes. You’re needed over at Piraeus Banque SA. I’ll be there soon with the monetary evidence.” He hung up and walked towards the child’s room, poking his head in, “John.” He beckoned.
“I’ll be back in a moment.” John told James, getting up from the table and walking out to speak with Sherlock.
“I found it.” He said, walking towards the kitchen with John, “Now, see that trapdoor? Stand on the lid while I secure it.”
John stood on it while Sherlock walked over and flipped the switch down, locking it into place. He undid his scarf and wrapped the money inside of it, stuffing it into his coat pocket.
“One hundred thirty four thousand, seven hundred pounds.” Sherlock said, “I just have to head to the banque now. I sent DI Lestrade over to the banque and called ahead to warn them to keep an eye on Mr. Walker.”
There was a sound coming from outside. Sherlock glanced outside from the main door, watching someone type in numbers on a keypad outside, opening the gate. As he started towards the house, it was evident that he had a firearm on him.
“Looks like Walker realised this.” Sherlock said, “We can take him by surprise. John, your cane.” Sherlock implored, holding his hand out.
Both men moved into the kitchen, ducking behind the first wall that was out of view of the main door. They heard it open and saw the man’s shadow fall across the hallway floor. He began to move down the hall, Sherlock still waiting for the cane.
Before John could hand it to him, the man stopped, turning to see the two of them. He quickly produced a handgun, “I heard of the nursemaid with the cane. You…you’re not supposed to be here. But I’m sure you’re both in on this.” He lifted the firearm.
Sherlock was about to act, but John thrust his cane up, smashing it into the man’s hand, making him curse in pain, and also drop the gun. John was faster than Sherlock, despite the latter’s impressive list of skills.
John tackled the man into the wall, slamming his head against the hard wall. As they both went down, John took up the firearm from the floor and rose to his feet, keeping his finger on the trigger.
“I guess thanks are in order.” Sherlock said, picking himself up off the floor. He handed John the cane, “I could have done it, though.”
“He might have shot by then.” John said, “We don’t want James involved, do we?”
“You’re right.” Sherlock said, pulling out his phone again, “I’m going to call for the police to make a stop here. I’ll head to the banque in the meantime by means of the coach.”
“I’ve got my eyes on this guy.” John said, taking a seat because of his leg, keeping the weapon trained on the assailant.

******************************
That night, the two of them sat in their easy-chairs before the fire. It had started to rain, a downpour, really. They sat in silence before the crackling fire, both of them dressed in dressing gowns for the night.
“Again, I must thank you for saving my life.” Sherlock said.
“I know it’s not easy for you to do that.” John told him.
“It really isn’t.”
Silence before the crackling flames once more.
“Sherlock?”
“Yes?”
“I feel I don’t know enough about you.” John said.
“What would you like to know? After saving my life, I owe you that much.” Sherlock said, “I’m an excellent psychologist, hence I could read that Walker was the only man at the banque who would steal the money, I also read body language in that same way. I have a practical but limited knowledge of geography, history, astronomy…”
“No, that’s not what I want to know.” John said, interrupting him.
“Ok, then what do you want to know?” Sherlock questioned.
“Your lighter.” John said simply.
Sherlock knew what he wanted to ask. He didn’t bother with trying to give him the run-around. He didn’t try to do anything. Instead, he reached down to a small table beside his chair, where he had his fags, an ashtray, and the lighter. He had smoked a little earlier that night. He looked at the silver lighter in his hand, and passed it along to John.
“The initials are ‘M’ ‘W’.” John said, “You told me it was your brother’s. I figured it was a lie, now this confirms it.”
Sherlock only nodded.
“Why are you so interested in the lighter?” Sherlock asked.
“You didn’t tell me about it, so I figured it was something important. I really don’t want to pry…but…from spending close to two weeks with you, I almost need to.”
“I understand.” Sherlock said, “I’ve given you a need to know the truth, to learn through deduction or other methods. You can’t deduce any farther than it isn’t my brother, Mycroft. So…you need to ask me.”
“What’s the name? Who is this person? Why do you have the lighter?”
“…Her name is McKenzie Williams.” He said softly, “She meant a lot to me…she still does. I’m not the emotional type…but she made me a better man. And then…and then she left my company. I didn’t want to let it happen, I did everything I could to stop it, but I think that must have only made things worse. I’m not good when it comes to the matters of the heart, you see. She had that lighter as a gift for a birthday. She wasn’t a smoker, if you’re wondering, she just had it, and I used it. When I awoke and found her gone, I found that the lighter had been left behind, since I had been using it the night before. That was two years ago…and I still have it as a reminder of her.”
“That’s terrible…” John said, “Have you contacted her since?”
“I wanted to…but didn’t. Haven’t.” Sherlock said, visibly shaking, “I just can’t. I can’t even do it to return this lighter. I feel…I feel that if I would, then I would be losing the only piece of her that I have left.”
“That’s why you were looking for a breast pocket the day we moved in.” John said, “You wanted to keep it by your heart.”
“Of course.” Sherlock said, “I’m not a sentimental man…but such a gesture is all I can think to do now. All I think would be appropriate now.” Sherlock Holmes, the man that John had known as a force of nature, someone who would solve the unsolvable, someone who had shown very little emotion in this spectrum…he was on the verge of tears.
“Sherlock…”
“No matter.” Sherlock said, reaching up and drying his eyes with the back of his hand. He held his hand out to John, “Please.”
John put the lighter back into Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock felt his breast pocket on his dressing gown, placing it inside, instead of on the table where he would need it.
“Do you want my advice?”
“You’re a doctor, I’m a psychologist.” Sherlock said.
“Not really…” John said, “But, do you?”
“You ever been married?” Sherlock looked at him, and then shook his head, “No, of course not.”
“I really hope you just read me.”
“I did.”
“Good, it wasn’t an insult.”
“Of course not.”
“Holmes…do you need to talk about it some more?”
Sherlock rose from his chair, “I don’t talk about my love life. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t have one. Just please; let us drop this subject for the time. I’m going to bed.”
“You’d do better to talk about it, you know. It isn’t healthy to leave stuff like this trapped inside. You need to get it out, Holmes!”
“I thank you for your kindness, John.” Sherlock said, walking to his bedroom, “But I’m fine.”
“You say that a lot.”
“I know I do.”
“Sherlock…one day you might want to do the math on all the ‘I’m fine’’s.”
“Goodnight, Watson.” Sherlock said, disappearing into his bedroom, closing the door behind him, leaving John Watson to sit alone, contemplating his friend’s emotional wellbeing.
He had learned something, though. Mr. Sherlock Holmes was indeed a human, a man like any other. A man who could love, who could feel pain, just like any other man, any other person, could.
John had a faint smile at this realization.
“Goodnight, Holmes.”

[Cass Hoban]

The Adventure of Locked Room

As December came about at 221B Baker Street, nearly two months had passed since the unconventional partnership, and friendship, of Doctor John Watson and Mr. Sherlock Holmes had begun. Now, as the winter cold was truly setting in, the two men often stayed inside, in the warmth, near the fire, rather than go out.
Sherlock’s last big case had been the investigation into the stolen pounds from the Piraeus Banque SA, and the arrest of Mr. Conner Walker. They had been well paid for their services of apprehending Walker and his hired assailant, as well as finding the stolen notes. DI Lestrade didn’t seem too pleased when he spoke with Sherlock, but he was forced to admit that he did well, ‘for an amateur’, as he put it.
John Watson had yet to locate a practice he could become a part of, or find a place he could start his own at. No hospital was hiring, no private practices were hiring, no private practices were for sale. If anything were for sale, it was out of his price range, considering he’d have to hire, purchase equipment, etc.
As the night of Sunday, 12th December, 2010 came about, the two men sat before the warmth of the fire, sitting in their dressing gowns, in their easy-chairs. John was reading by the light of a lamp behind him, while Sherlock sat there, smoking, noticeably not using the silver lighter, but rather, matches.
John glanced up from his book, catching sight of this as Sherlock lit his first for the night. He set his book down and leaned to his right, towards Sherlock’s chair, “Sherlock, are you alright?” He asked.
“Fine, why?” He asked, puffing out on his fag.
“Well, you’re using a match, for one.” John said.
“For only.” Sherlock corrected, “Unless you see something I’m not aware of.”
“Well, no, you’re right.” John admitted, “What about the lighter?”
Sherlock drew in a breath as he put the fag back into his mouth. He blew out the smoke, “The bedroom.” He said.
“Why would you leave it in there?” John asked.
“I don’t need it out here, obviously.” He replied, holding up a pack of matches.
“But why not bring it? You could be using it instead…”
“I have the matches.” Sherlock said again, shaking them in his hand.
“We don’t have matches here, not that kind, anyway.” John said, directing to the fireplace, “We have a different type. So, you would have had to have gone out and purchased or obtained those matches in another way. Why would you do that when you have the lighter?”
“John Watson, you do realise how much of an annoying arse you are right now, do you not?” Sherlock questioned.
“You’re calling me an arse?” John demanded, “You’re the one avoiding the question!”
“And what question would that be?” Sherlock questioned, taking another drag on the fag.
“You just infuriate me sometimes, you know that?” John questioned, “But you’re not going to throw me off subject. Why aren’t you using the lighter? And don’t say it’s because of the matches!”
“But what other reason is there?” Sherlock questioned.
“The reason you had to go and buy the matches.” John demanded, “Now, can we stop with this game?”
There was a buzz at the door. Sherlock came to his feet and walked towards the door, “I don’t think it’s appropriate to make the cripple get the door.” He told John, also using it as an excuse to avoid the question.
Sherlock chequed out the peephole and then opened the door, allowing entrance. He took a step back, “Ah, DI Lestrade! Please, do come in.”
A tall, well built man walked inside. For his age, he looked like he took care of himself. He was around his mid fifties it appeared, with his grayish, fading hair. He had hard features, brown eyes, and wore a closed suit jacket, trousers and shoes appropriate for the job. He had a great coat on his arm, with a scarf wrapped around it.
“What do we have here, Lestrade?” Sherlock asked.
“How do you know I’m here for you?” He questioned with a bit of a northern accent, nowhere near as prominent as Sherlock’s.
“You don’t know my flat mate, Doctor John Watson, so you aren’t here to see him. You would have called if it weren’t important. You’re here, that means, for something important, which means, it’s a case you need me to work. Are you my client, or here on behalf of my actual client?” He questioned.
“I’m here on behalf of an official police report.” He stated, “We just need your help.”
Sherlock looked back, “See John? This is what I do. I consult the police, if I’m not doing my own detective work, like with Walker.”
John nodded, leaning over with his cane, listening intently.
“What type of man would I be if I didn’t ask you to come in?” Sherlock asked, waving Lestrade inside. Lestrade took to a sofa sitting beside the two easy-chairs while Sherlock returned to his spot before the fire in his chair.
“Now Lestrade, what have we?” He asked.
“A murdered third year at the university.” Lestrade said.
“That’s all? A murdered student?” Sherlock questioned, “What’s the catch?”
“He’s a local hero.” Lestrade said, “Centre forward.”
“What game would that be?” Sherlock questioned, unfamiliar with the term, “Why is it relevant?”
“Football.” John said, “The centre forward is the man whose main task is to score goals.” He explained to his partner, “Its relevance is in that people take the game seriously, Sherlock. A lot of people love to watch it.”
Sherlock nodded, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair, drawing his legs up onto his footstool. He put his head on his hands; looking over his interlocked fingers at Lestrade, “Pray proceed.”
Lestrade nodded, “The man, Robert Clarke, was last seen, as far as we can tell, at a local pub. Many remember seeing him. Local hero, remember? Well, then things get sketchy. He apparently let a room for the night, locked himself inside, and went to bed. Staff can verify this, as they were around when he retired for the night. However, this is where things get…interesting.
“During the night, he apparently got up from bed and went to a desk that was in the room, taking some papers from his pocket. We found ink from where he would have been writing. The hotel used fountain pens in the rooms of that price range, giving it an old feel. We even found a few of the papers, but weren’t able to make sense of them. According to those with him, Clarke had a decent sum of notes on him, especially since he paid for most of the drinks, and still confirmed to have plenty left. A friend chequed for him to be sure he wasn’t bladdered and miscalculating what he had left. He had the notes.
“When we found him, when he didn’t wake for hours after his wakeup call, we went in and found him dead, the notes missing. Nobody had been in the room, and there were no windows in that area. It’s as if he just…died on the spot.”
“That’s the catch?” Sherlock questioned, “A locked room mystery?” A smile spread across his face. It was grim, matching the nature of the request, but happy for such a mystery to be presented to him, not that it had happened.
“Is that what you call it?” Lestrade questioned, “Something that simple? But yes, that’s what it is, in essence.”
Sherlock took a deep breath in thought, then spoke, “Come around again in the morning, eleven AM. Then we’ll go and see the crime scene. It’s too late tonight for us to go out.”
“Understood.” Lestrade answered, rising.
“Lestrade, a moment please. Why did you wait so long to come to me?”
“We thought we wouldn’t need you.” Lestrade bitterly answered before walking out.
Sherlock turned a sly grin to John, “He hates me, but respects my abilities. It’s an interesting relationship I have with him.”
“Just Lestrade, or the entire force?” John questioned.
Sherlock shrugged, “That’s an interesting question. I have left impressions on some of the force, good ones. I have someone who has studied my methods…his name is…” He rubbed his temples in thought, “Ah! Stanley Hopkins, that’s the lad’s name! Great man, young, but learning.”
“Well, what should we do now?” John questioned, “Retire for the evening and get an early start?”
“Splendid idea!” Sherlock announced, taking one last drag of his fag before putting it out. As he rose, John stepped before him, leaning heavily on his cane.
“I want an answer.” He said, “About the lighter. After how much it means to you I can’t believe you would stop using it. Did you lose it? No. You aren’t that careless. Is it damaged? Same answer. So, pray tell.”
Sherlock gave a sly smile, “Well done, John. You’re learning about me. On the right track thus far, but that’s as much as you’re getting. Now, good evening.” He said, walking around John towards his room.
John watched Sherlock retire for the evening. He put out the fire and walked towards his room to also retire.

******************************
Setting out a little prior to eleven AM, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, and DI Lestrade made their way by a police car that Lestrade had acquired for the day. John was dressed in a great coat with a dark blue fleece pullover on, with khaki pants and boots. Sherlock was clothed as usual in his open great coat, his grayish blue scarf, white button-up shirt, and suit jacket attached at the middle button, with his black slacks and boots over the top of his pants.
Lestrade was dressed as a Detective Inspector should be. He had a great coat on for the cold, a dark button-up shirt, a suit jacket, and a light blue with gold stripe tie. He also wore slacks as well as boots that were tucked under his pant legs.
Due to the snow that had come overnight, there weren’t many cars around, not many people either. Schools were closed, some businesses were as well. London wasn’t able to cope with the snow, despite it only being fifteen centimetres deep.
“We’re in luck.” Lestrade said, “We should have no bothers at the crime scene.”
“I guess that is lucky.” Sherlock answered, “Do you mind if I light up in here?” He asked, producing a fag from his pocket and pulling out his matchbook.
“Of course I mind!” Lestrade snapped at him.
“Well then, is that a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’? You can mind in different ways, you know.” Sherlock said.
“Light up in here and I’ll throw you out.” Lestrade told him.
“Was that so hard?” Sherlock questioned, putting his things in his pocket.
“Again.” John mumbled, “Again you have the matches. Why? And give me a real answer this time.”
“I told you I wouldn’t.” Sherlock replied, “If you want to know, you’ll have to figure it out yourself.”
“But you are admitting that you aren’t using it, that there is something here.”
“I’ll admit that.” Sherlock said, “It’s obvious.”
“We’re here.” Lestrade said, parking and climbing out of the car. Sherlock and John followed him into the street, towards the hotel.
As they walked inside and rode the lift up to the floor they needed, they all remained silent. Sherlock stood in the corner of the lift, composing his thoughts in silence. John and Lestrade both knew not to disturb him, but what he could learn from this simple ride up, before even seeing the crime scene, neither of them could figure.
“Here’s the victim’s room.” Lestrade said, opening the door after ducking under police tape. He, Sherlock and John stepped inside. They could see that the bed had indeed been slept in, and that there were fairly fresh ink stains on the desk in the corner, as they had been told. There was nothing else out of place that they could see.
“This is truly an interesting case.” Sherlock said, walking around, looking through the bedroom, through the small sitting room, and into the loo. After completing his brief search, he walked into the sitting room, where all of the windows were located, “You know, it’s curious that the bedroom doesn’t have a single window in this nice of a hotel.”
“That is an interesting point.” Lestrade said, “Why is it relevant?”
“I think this was a setup.” Sherlock said, “As nice as this room is, I think this is a decoy, so to speak. The victim…” He waved his hand in the air, trying to produce a name.
“Robert Clarke.” John said, filling in for his friend’s lack of memory.
“Right, Mr. Clarke, was put here on purpose.” Sherlock said, “I’m certain that someone saw him bladdered, sent him here, a room specific for this job, and had him killed. I’ll get more into details soon. How long was he waiting for his room?”
“We don’t know.” Lestrade admitted.
“Find out. Get video. Just find that for me.” Sherlock told him.
“May I ask why it’s relevant?” Lestrade questioned.
“You can, but I already told you.” Sherlock replied.
“I get the idea that you think they sent him to this room specifically so they—the hotel, of all people—could murder him. But you haven’t explained why you think that. I demand to know why!”
“Fine, no need to raise your voice.” Sherlock said, “I think that because there are no other answers.” He simply told Lestrade.
“Is that all?” Lestrade questioned, “You think the hotel, as ludicrous as that sounds, murdered this man because you have no other ideas?”
Sherlock shrugged, “It’s just a working theory, no need to act like that.”
Lestrade looked to John, “You’re a doctor, can you help me here?”
“I’m a physician, not a psychologist.” John told him, “Otherwise, trust me, I’d have tried something the day I met him.”
Lestrade left the room, heading out of the crime scene to try to procure some video of the lobby. Alone in the room, John looked to Sherlock, “Do you really have a theory in that the hotel did it?”
Sherlock shrugged, “It’s quite possible. I as well wanted Lestrade to leave so I could cheque on the ink.” He said, looking over the surface of the desk. “Lestrade mentioned papers. I’m sure they aren’t here anymore, but let’s cheque around, just in case.”
John began to open the drawers of the desk, chequeing inside, but finding nothing. Sherlock chequed the nightstand, but there was nothing in there either. He crouched and lifted the mattress of the bed, taking a look underneath.
“John! I’ve found something!”
John hobbled over, taking a look inside. He looked to Sherlock, “Papers?”
“Probably the things we require.” He said, “Get them for me.”
John crouched down, setting his cane on the floor beside him. He reached inside, taking up the papers, and pulling them out. Sherlock let the mattress down and looked over his shoulder as John scanned them.
“There’s nothing of interest on here that I can see.” John told Sherlock, “Just…marks.”
“These marks may be of interest.” Sherlock told his companion, taking the papers, “Now, let us examine the ink.”
“Don’t you think he was using other papers for the writing, though?” John questioned, “After all, why would he hide these here if he was working on them? He was dead at the desk, and no doubt had papers with him, for why else would he be there?
“So, based on what I’m thinking, these weren’t the papers he was using two nights ago. Rather, these are papers he was getting to, or had already finished by the time of his death and the theft.”
“You have a theory?” Sherlock asked, sitting down in an easy-chair in the corner of the room.
John nodded, “Yes, I do have a theory. I think that, since it wasn’t a robbery, considering he still has his notes, that these papers were obviously the sought objects. We can confirm that since the ones he was working on are now missing. However, considering these were still under the mattress, still hidden, then we can assume that the burglar probably didn’t know what he was doing, and was only hired. Otherwise he could have made out the papers he had stolen, realised there was more to find, and used the late hours to find the others.”
“Very good, John.” Sherlock said, rising from the chair, “Although, we can as well consider that the burglar did know what he was doing, and had enough information on the stolen papers that the others weren’t needed.” He held his hand out, taking the papers from John, “You see, I can’t make much sense out of these papers. There isn’t enough to attempt to make out a code on here, so I’m thinking that there was enough already stolen.”
“Or this is just the end of the code, considering that all of the writing is towards the top.” John suggested, “And it was complete enough, and the thief was in enough of a hurry, not to notice.”
“Very possible.” Sherlock said. They could hear Lestrade’s footsteps, “Not a word to the DI.” He whispered, folding the papers and stuffing them into a pocket on the inside of his coat. “Did you find anything?” Sherlock questioned.
“I have the video being observed by another officer.” Lestrade told Sherlock, “If anything comes up, we’ll give you a call or a visit.”
“Very good.” Sherlock said, clasping his hands behind his back, “Well, I think our investigation here, at least for the time, is over.” He said, walking to the desk, “I only desire a picture of this.”
“Why would you need a picture of the ink stains?” Lestrade questioned.
“Are you all of a sudden questioning my ways?” Sherlock demanded.
“I’ve always questioned them.” Lestrade replied.
Sherlock shrugged, “No matter.” He said, pulling out his phone. He lifted it, taking a few pictures from a few angles, and then put it back into his pocket, “Well, John, shall we be off?”
“Do you require a ride back to your flat?” Lestrade asked.
“No. You can stay and work here, or whatever you plan on doing now.” Sherlock said, “We’ll be fine.”
“John has a cane. Are you sure?” Lestrade asked, looking specifically to John.
John’s eyes went to Sherlock, standing out of eyeshot of Lestrade. Holmes was nodding to him.
“Yeah, it’ll be fine. It’ll do some good to be walking more.” John lied.
“Very well then.” Lestrade said, stepping aside to allow the two men to leave.
As they rode the lift down, John looked to Sherlock, “You’re up to something, aren’t you?”
“Of course.” He replied, “We’ll find a restaurant, get some nosh, and analyse the clews. I have an idea.”

******************************
Sitting in an Italian restaurant, the two men ate in silence, leaving the clews sitting in Sherlock’s pocket for the time. They ate slowly, waiting for the tables around them to clear, as the lunch rush was finishing, allowing them the privacy they would need. When every table around them was empty, they got to work.
Sherlock pulled the papers from his pocket and set them on the table, unfolding all of them. He then removed his phone and opened the pictures, taking a look for the best angle he could find. He set the open phone on the table as well with a clear picture up.
“Now, let’s see if we can make anything out of this.” Sherlock said, leaning over.
As time passed by, John pointed to a spot on one of the papers, and then to the ink pictures. “They have an interlock, it looks like.”
Sherlock looked, “You’re right.” He mumbled, looking back and forth. He pointed to the ink, which had a rounded end and a tail, and the paper, which had a mark with an opening, as if for a rounded end.
“When we put them together, at least, when I put them together in my head, it seems to make a compacted ‘6’. See how the ink is lighter at the rounded bottom?” John pointed out.
“Pressed less hard there.” Sherlock said, “That must mean that it is the rounded bottom, the opening, of the ‘6’. But why is it on the table?”
“Maybe he was too tired to realise he wasn’t on paper anymore.” John pointed out.
“I think you’re right.” Sherlock said, leaning back, “In fact, I’m willing to bet that he was working on an address, writing one out for someone, or some purpose. He had parts of it, meaning that the address was secret, and he had to fill it in for someone. But why? Why do it so cryptically? And of course, he was too tired, or too bladdered, to realise he no longer had paper before him, but rather, it was hidden.”
“Maybe he agreed to do it while he was at the pub.” John said, “We should find someone he spoke to there. Maybe they started drawing it out, and…”
“I think you could be right.” Sherlock interrupted, picking the items up, rising, “He had a deal with someone in the pub, had to make the map secretly for some reason, and was too incompetent to realise he shouldn’t be. As well, too incompetent or bladdered to realise he didn’t have the papers. I’m guessing as a show of good faith he wrote the first part out, and then showed it to this other person. Then he was to write the rest, proving that he had numbers.”
John nodded, “Right, he was too incompetent from the alcohol that he didn’t make up numbers. He has an address of some sort, a secret one, and started to write it out as a show of good faith, as you said. Because of the drinking, he couldn’t make anything up, started the real number, but only part of it, with plans on finishing the rest that night.”
“I’m willing to bet that whoever it was didn’t want to wait for him to sober up and realise he shouldn’t give it out.” Sherlock stated, “So, until we know the toxicology reports on Mr. Clarke’s body, we don’t know cause of death. Perhaps someone did get inside the room, kill him, and get out. But, more likely, whoever he was writing this address for decided he couldn’t be trusted upon sobering up.”
“Poison?”
“You’re the doctor. You tell me what you think.” Sherlock replied as they walked out into the snow and the cold.
John nodded, “I do believe so.” He replied, “He could have easily poisoned Clarke’s drink, he could have found a slow enough acting poison, and killed him. The fact that he was writing on the desk at some point can as well be proof enough that the drug, or poison, made him see things, or lose clarity. Being bladdered alone probably wouldn’t have made him write on the desk, rather than paper. He should have still realised.”
Sherlock nodded, “This is why I like having you as my partner in these cases, John.” Sherlock said, “Your medical skills will surely come in handy. Both cases thus far have allowed your skills to work for me.”
“Last time you could have done it, but you were too lazy, Sherlock.” John told him, hobbling along after him.
Sherlock shrugged, “I could have, but didn’t.”
As they waited at a coach stop, Sherlock pulled out his phone and dialed ‘999’. He waited, and then spoke, “Yes, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Can you connect me to DI Lestrade? Ah! Lestrade, my good man. Do you have toxicology back on the victim?”
Sherlock put it on speaker, allowing them both to hear.
“Sherlock, you don’t realise how long this takes, do you?” He questioned.
“Local hero, remember?” He questioned, using Lestrade’s line from the night before.
“It’ll still take potentially until tomorrow night.” Lestrade replied.
“Well, Doctor Watson thinks that he was probably poisoned at the pub, based on the locked room, and some potential ideas about the papers, that he was under the influence of a drug, rather than actual poison.” Sherlock said.
“That is very possible, considering we have yet to find a wound on his body that would be the cause of death.” Lestrade replied, “I’ll call you when we get the reports back.”
“We’ll be waiting.” Sherlock replied, closing the phone. He looked to John, “Well then, we should be off towards 68 Foxglove Gardens.”
“You got an address?” John questioned.
“Of course.” Sherlock replied, “We got the ‘6’, and then the ‘8’ wasn’t too hard after that. The letters were another matter…but after figuring out how Clarke wrote the numbers in a ‘code’, the letters came easily. Now, shall we be off and question the owner about Mr. Clarke?”
John shook his head, “You know, Holmes, you’re just…”
“Fantastic?” Sherlock questioned, putting strain on the second syllable as he always did.
John shrugged, “Again that word. Yes, let’s go with that.”

******************************
Walking a few blocks from where the coach dropped them off, the two men arrived at a fairly sizeable house. Not like the mansion that Mr. Walker had owned, but large none the less.
“Who lives here?” John questioned.
“I wouldn’t know.” Sherlock replied, walking towards the door.
John looked at a mailbox, “It would seem the surname is ‘Hall’.” He said.
Sherlock nodded, “Ok, let’s find out about the Halls.” He rang the buzzer and waited. As a few minutes passed, there was no answer.
“Car’s in the garage.” John said, hobbling back over from the garage, “It’s filled, too. Two cars, no empty spaces. Someone’s bound to be home since there are no tracks away from the door.”
Sherlock nodded, “And there’s snow…not many would be out.” He started to walk around the house, “I’ll cheque the back, you wait here, would you?”
John remained on the front step while Sherlock rushed around to the back of the house. He made a complete rotation and quickly returned to John.
“I tried the back door, the windows, and looked around.” Sherlock said, despite the looks that John was giving him for his ‘misconduct’, “Nothing.”
“What do we do, then?” John asked, “Call Lestrade so we can enter legally?”
“That might waste some time. He’ll get us out of this if it cause a problem.” Sherlock said, trying the door. He examined the lock, and reached into a pocket.
“You mean to say that we’re going to go inside, and if the police come, they’ll see who you are and won’t do anything?”
Sherlock simply nodded as he pulled out a little black leather bag. He unzipped it and pulled out a small screwdriver and a long, thin metal piece to get at the tumblers.
“You do realise Lestrade would probably let you sit in prison.” John stated.
Sherlock shrugged as he worked in silence. In the time of two minutes he was done, and unlocked the door. It swung open, so Sherlock rose and put his things away into his pocket.
Sherlock walked in, with John hobbling in after him, “You know, when I met you, I told Stamford I would probably end up in prison with you, since I figured you would break into the flat to take a look around. I was only partially off.”
“Strange, isn’t it?” Sherlock questioned, “You were close, but I can assure you we won’t get arrested.”
“You can assure me?” John questioned.
Sherlock nodded, “Yes, practically.”
“How so?”
Sherlock didn’t want to answer, so he instead pointed into a closet, “No empty spaces.” He said.
“Could keep their cold weather gear elsewhere.” John said irritably, “Now, answer the question.”
“I’m pointing out relevance.” Sherlock insisted, instead of answering.
“Only potentially. Like I said, cold weather gear could be elsewhere. Like in individual rooms. This could be…I don’t know, extra, or something.”
“Well we’ll find out, won’t we?” Sherlock questioned, walking past the closet.
“There is one thing, though.” John said.
“What would that be?”
“Why is it open?” He questioned, “I’d think it would be closed.”
“You see, it is a point.” Sherlock said.
“To an extent, yes. Not to your extent.” John replied.
“I think we should hurry.” Sherlock guessed, running down the hallway. He poked his head into the kitchen, sitting room, laundry room, loo, and the two bedrooms they found. They reached a staircase, and one more room.
“This room had no windows.” Sherlock said, pointing out if the rooms had windows or not from his inspection of the exterior, “Upstairs had plenty of windows. This room, however, was just a large gap. I wouldn’t have guessed there was a room between two windowed rooms, like those other two. Let’s be careful in here.” Sherlock tried the door, but it was locked.
“Curious.” John said.
Sherlock nodded, pulling out his leather bag again, pulling his supplies out. He quickly got the lock open and stepped inside to what turned out to be a personal library, with easy-chairs in the corners, a table in the centre with a sofa, a desk to the side, a fireplace, and many rows of books.
In the centre of the room, just past the table, was a corpse. No blood, nothing on the body to indicate how he died.
Just a dead, sixty-something man.
“Good Lord!” John exclaimed, hobbling over. He cast his cane into the sofa and crouched by the man, trying to feel for a pulse.
Sherlock was paying little attention. Instead, he was looking through the rows of books, looking for something, “It’s no good. He’s dead, you know.” Sherlock said, matter-of-factly.
“Holmes! This is a man’s life, not some…I don’t know, black and white discussion on history! How can you be so callous?”
“Because there was nothing to be done.” Sherlock simply answered, still looking through the bookshelves, paying no emotion to the corpse or John as he spoke, “He died last night, probably around the time that Lestrade was visiting us for help. It couldn’t be helped, since we wouldn’t have found the clews soon enough to help him.”
“But still…can’t you show more…”
“More what?”
“Humanity?”
Sherlock turned to John, “Humanity is the one thing I don’t do in cases.” He said, “Especially not a murder case. I’m called in to get straight to the answers, to the facts, and get the job done. Spending time feeling sorry about the deaths of two men, whom we could have done nothing to stop, is just a waste of time better spent solving this case!”
John rose, using the table for support until he could get his cane back in his hand. He hobbled towards Sherlock, “You know, in the War, I knew people like you. People who were only in it for the sake of killing, of seeing things and people die. What you have to know is that I didn’t tolerate any of it. I never worked with those men; I never interacted with those men. I saved their lives with my medical work, certainly, but that was the extent.
“If you can’t change, Sherlock, if you can’t become the man you presented before me when we met, then I’m done. I’ll see this through, but no more.”
“I am the man from when we met.” Sherlock said simply, “This is just a different aspect of me that wasn’t relevant to show at that time.”
“Relevant or not, I should have known after that case with Mr. Walker.” John said.
“There was no death.” Sherlock said, “Nothing for these emotions to come out through.”
“I understand that, but I should have still seen it. As great and brilliant a man as you are, Sherlock, if this is who you are now, then I think we’re done.”
“It won’t be finished, John.” Sherlock told him, “You admire me too much. You want to be my partner, my friend, too much. I can see it in your eyes.”
“No!” John snapped, “What you’re seeing in my eyes is remorse for you.” He hissed through clenched teeth, seething in anger, “I figure that if you don’t have someone like me, you’ll destroy yourself.”
“How can you even assume that?” Sherlock questioned.
“I’ve seen the pin-pricks in your flesh.” John said, “I know you’ve been fairly recently using drugs. So, come clean, what is it?”
Sherlock didn’t break eye contact, he didn’t slow down. He rattled the names off quickly without missing a beat in order to answer John’s curiosity and accusation.
“Cocaine, heroin, methylphenidate and morphine.”
“How long?”
“On and off over a period of nearly four years in London, up until I started lodging with you.” Sherlock replied, “Before coming to London five years ago, I used just about as frequently since the age of twenty, as I moved around to various cities like Cardiff, Birmingham, Leeds, and Bristol.”
John shook his head in revulsion, moving around, back towards the corpse. He turned around, “Wait, you came here five years ago, and you’ve only been using for four?”
Sherlock nodded, “Yes.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Was it…McKenzie Williams?” He questioned.
“She had nothing to do with my using.” Sherlock answered, “And that was more recent. I never used when I was with her.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Two years ago.”
“I’m going to take a guess, stop me if I’m wrong.” John said, hobbling back over, “Your using increased when she left you, didn’t it?”
He didn’t answer, which was more than enough to tell John that he was correct.
“So then, what was it five years ago that kept you from using?” John questioned.
“My force of will. I wanted to stop, but couldn’t.” Sherlock said simply.
John nodded, “Sherlock…”
“Don’t say it, John.” Sherlock said, walking to him, laying a hand on his partner’s shoulder, “I need you to keep from using. You need me to have adventure, now that you’re out of the War. We need each other, don’t we?”
John nodded, “As much as I hate to admit it…yes.”
Sherlock gave a small smile, “Then let’s push this aside and get to work. I’ll try to…be more sympathetic, less cold and calculating during these cases.”
“I’ll try to deal with it when you can’t help yourself.” John said.
“That’s all I can ask for.” Sherlock said.
“Likewise.”
Sherlock went back to the bookshelves, scanning around for books. John hobbled closer, “What is it you’re doing, anyway?”
“I’m searching for a book.”
“Which one?”
“The one that is missing.” He replied, skimming over the last shelf, and shaking his head in defeat, “We can rule out that a book was taken. All of them are in their place; all of them go together in some way or another. A random book wasn’t put into replace a stolen one. They as well all fit perfectly, another way to rule that out.”
“Then it wasn’t for one of these books.” John said, “I never thought it was.”
“It could have been.” Sherlock replied, “Now we have to find another motive for this man’s death. We still don’t have one for Mr. Clarke, but maybe we can connect them.”
“Maybe it wasn’t in this room, whatever the link is.” John said.
“But why murder him in here, then?” Sherlock questioned, “Chances are that Mr. Hall here learned of Mr. Clarke’s murder and came here to take care of things, but the assailant was waiting. Therefore, the assailant would have had to have been in here.”
“How can you be certain?”
“If he answered the door and was killed, he would be dead by the door.” Sherlock said simply, “If he was pursued in here by the assailant, where did he go? It was locked from the inside, after all. No windows. However, if the assailant was in here, and Mr. Hall came in here, then as Hall was closing the door, the assailant got him and slipped out, or something.”
“Impractical.” John said, “No wounds on the body.”
“Hid behind the door, poisoned a drink, and slipped out as the door was being closed.”
“No drinks.”
“It was a blanket term.” Sherlock told John, “Poisoned…something, anything. For all we know, Hall could have decided to sit in that chair, and it was poisoned on the armrests, poisoning him on contact…”
Sherlock looked around the room, carefully chequeing everything. John began chequeing the other end, realizing what to look for.
Anything out of place. Any book that might have been moved and replaced recently, anything that didn’t seem to sit right, such as a chair out of alignment with its grooves in the carpeting, which could indicate movement as Hall fell out, ending up on the ground.
Sherlock crouched down, looking under the chair behind Hall, to the side of the table, “I’ve found it!” He exclaimed, looking under the small flap of fabric.
“What is it?” John questioned, hobbling over.
“A book.” He replied, “It must have been on the table, or brought from elsewhere, not a part of this library.” Sherlock replied, “I’m willing to bet it was sitting on the table, the assailant poisoned it with something, and on contact with the skin, it assimilated into Mr. Hall, and killed him. He fell as he was dying, kicked the book under as a reflex or spasm, and that’s where it lies.”
“A poison, it makes sense, connecting it to the Clarke death.” John replied, “But we need to know the drug or poison, and the medium for Robert Clarke.”
“Simple.” Sherlock replied, “His notes. A friend counted them to be sure he had enough money. Whoever that person is could be our killer. That, or someone on the hotel staff who got to the room first. But how could they be sure that the desired object would be touched?”
“If it was the notes, wouldn’t the hotel staff be feeling affected?”
“Smaller notes.” Sherlock replied, “Not large enough to pay, but small enough that he would have still had them at hand for smaller purchases. Chances are he still has them…”
“The police…” John muttered.
“Unless it’s worn off by this point. And they wear gloves, anyway. We have to alert them.” Sherlock said, quickly pulling out his phone and dialing ‘999’. “I need to speak to DI Lestrade immediately. It’s Holmes. Ah, Lestrade, good, you’re not dead! Now, listen, the notes taken off of the deceased Mr. Clarke, cheque them for poison. The small notes only, though, if you can’t get them all. It’s a theory.”
Sherlock looked to John, “Toxicology is back.” He said.
“Speaker?”
Sherlock set the phone on the table with the speaker phone now functioning. Lestrade’s voice rang out of it clearly.
“We have determined through toxicology that the cause of death is, in fact, poison.” He stated, “Contact poisoning, from the notes. We ran them already, Holmes. It was faded enough that by the time we handled it, our gloves were enough. We were lucky there. Now, we just need to know who did it…”
“One of the friends.” Sherlock told him, “John and I worked it out already. By the way, send a car down to 68 Foxglove Gardens. We have a deceased Mr. Hall, or so we believe, here. Same circumstances as our Mr. Clarke. Locked room, contact poisoning on a book.”
“How did you find that out?” Lestrade questioned, “How did you get there?”
“I looked hard at Clarke’s room.” Sherlock said, closing the phone before they got more questions. He looked to John, “Now, we need a link, and we need a motive and a suspect.”
“Well, we’ll find what Mr. Hall here did for a living, and we can probably find the link there, or through recreational activities. From that information, and a search of the house, I’m sure we can find out more.”
“Or we ask the family.” Sherlock replied, “Multiple cars, multiple coats…”
“He’s rich.”
“Male and female.” Sherlock said, “Now, we have to find the woman and anyone else, hide the fact that Mr. Hall is dead, so they can mourn later, and then we find what’s missing.”
“Or we just ask if there was a connection.” John replied. He hobbled to the door and out into the kitchen. Sherlock followed him towards a phone. Sitting next to the phone was a card with contact numbers.
“Here’s his wife, it looks like.” John said, pointing to a number. He picked up the phone and started to dial, but Sherlock took it from him before someone picked up.
Sherlock held a hand up to stop John from taking it back, “Hello? Mrs. Hall? Ah, good! I’m glad I caught you! My name is DI Lestrade with the police. Look, we need to ask you something. Yes, your family is fine. We just need to ask you a question, since your husband is indisposed of right now. No, he’s fine, don’t worry.” Holmes lied quickly and seamlessly, as if he had done this before. “Do you or your family have any connection to a Mr. Robert Clarke?”
There was silence in the kitchen as Holmes received his answer. “Thank you very much.” He said, hanging up. He looked to John, “Well, we should go before the police actually arrive. Mrs. Hall is on her way. When she sees that her husband is dead, then Lestrade will have something to deal with, but we should be gone.”
“What if he tells her it was you?” John questioned.
“She’ll be sobbing to him too much.” He replied, “Now, quickly, we must be off. We have our link!”
“Where are we going?” John questioned as he followed Sherlock towards the door.
Sherlock turned to him with a grin on his face, “This is a fantastic turn of events, it would turn out. Our location, and the link, lies at Piraeus Banque SA. The very same banque where Mr. Walker was stealing from.”

******************************
“We require to see the lock box owned by a Mr. Hall.” Sherlock told Mr. Drake Evans, the proprietor whom had hired him for the case against Mr. Walker. He wasn’t asking to see it, he was demanding it.
“I can’t do that. You should know that, Mr. Holmes.” The older proprietor, with his sunk-in eyes, his scraggly hair and his short, blunt nose responded.
“It involves the murder of two men, one of whom is a rich man around your age, and the other is a local hero, or rather, was.” Sherlock said, “I think you can make an exception here.”
“Like I said, I can’t.” Evans responded, “Now, will I have to phone the police?”
“They’re on my side on this.” Sherlock said.
“Have them come with a warrant, then.” Evans told him.
“Now why would you be so uptight with this?” Sherlock questioned, leaning over the counter, staring into the man’s sunken-in eyes, “Do you have some stake in this?”
Evans backed away, and shook his head in resignation. He gave in, rather than have suspicion cast upon him for something he wasn’t connected to.
Sherlock and John moved around towards the back of the banque, ending up in a locked room. Mr. Evans drew out the box and opened it with his master key, allowing them to look inside and see a massive blue carbuncle sitting atop various papers, legal documents drawn up to give Robert Clarke control of the Hall estate upon the death of its patriarch, since the wife had her own living arrangements set for after his passing.
“Whoever killed them wanted this stone and the house and money.” John observed, holding the large gemstone in his hand. It was nearly the size of his fist, “I can see why.”
“Now we must find who did this.” Sherlock replied, “But we can assume that whoever it was has connections to Clarke in such a way that they could inherit his inheritance.”
Sherlock was already pulling his phone out and dialing before John could say what was on his, and Sherlock’s, mind.
“Lestrade, good, I have your personal number at last, it would seem. Yes, forget about the widow for the moment. What I need is to find the information connected to Mr. Clarke. Anything about his will.”
Sherlock listened for a few moments. Lestrade was using another phone to contact the Clarke family, and then came back to Sherlock, after the detective had put it on speaker.
“The will that has been drafted by Mr. Clarke puts all of his inheritance to his fiancée, a Ms. Marilyn Davies.”
“Was she at the pub that night?”
After a few moments of Lestrade chequeing records, his response came.
“Yes. And she was the one, whom her friends say, counted the notes for Mr. Clarke.”
“We need her.” Sherlock said, “She’s our killer.”
“How can we be sure?” Lestrade questioned.
“I’ll get you all the proof when we need it.” He looked to Mr. Evans, “Just come to Piraeus Banque SA and ask Mr. Evans, the proprietor, for the contents of Mr. Hall’s lockbox.”
Holmes hung up and headed out with John hobbling behind him. As the two men got into the cold outside, they could see a young, blonde woman approaching the banque. Holmes held his hand up to signal John to stop. He followed her inside and sat down in an easy-chair close to the front counter.
When she asked for the former Mr. Hall’s lockbox for the contents that became hers by inheritance, Sherlock looked to her. He could see the vague bulge of something in the pocket of her greatcoat.
He rose and stepped towards her, “Marilyn Davies?” He asked.
She turned, simultaneously putting her hand to her pocket. Sherlock was faster, able to use his left arm to drive her right arm out, and swept his right leg under her legs, taking her to the ground. John hobbled over, picking up the loaded firearm for safekeeping. Sherlock put his knee onto her back as she struggled.
“Try to get free and I’ll break your arm.” He threatened, putting an end to her resistance. The sounds of police sirens soon came, thanks to a call from Mr. Evans the moment the altercation began.
“That wraps this case up, don’t you think?” John asked Sherlock.
The detective nodded, hauling the young woman to her feet and thrusting her into police custody. He turned to John, “Well, Watson, it seems that this game is over. Shall we return to the rooms and call it a day?”
“The inheritance?” John questioned.
“I’m sure legality will see to it that it goes to the family of Hall or Clarke.” Sherlock shrugged, “But that’s not for us to deal with. Come, let’s go.”
As the two men left the banque and headed towards a coach stop, John looked to Sherlock, “Well, while we have time, about that lighter…”
“I have matches.” Sherlock reminded.
“Don’t start that again.” John told him irritably.
“Start what?” He asked, producing a fag and lighting a match on the matchbook. He lit it and took a drag.
John shook his head, “Nothing, Holmes, let’s just forget it.”
As the coach arrived, Sherlock put his fag out and turned to John, “I’m out of lighter fluid. I’m waiting for my special mail-order fluid to come in. Hence, matches.”
John almost laughed at the answer. Sherlock was finally divulging the answer in the lack of anything else to say, and that was it! No hidden meanings, it was just empty.
John shook his head, “Holmes…you really are an odd man.” He said as they boarded the coach.

[Cass Hoban]

The Adventure of Targeted Client

It wasn’t often that Doctor John Watson would hobble into his bedroom and open the top drawer of his dresser. He had some clothes inside, but not much. Not enough that he would have to look inside, not so little that someone would question why it was empty, specially with his leg giving him hard times going down.
As he opened it, he could see his uniform from Afghanistan, a memento of sorts from the War. Folded, sitting on top in the top drawer, it took him back to a dark time, but also, a time that he would always remember for some of the people he had met, and how it had caused him to meet Sherlock Holmes upon his return (only due to the bullet in his leg forcing him to return home early).
He touched the uniform, thinking about the times he fought, the times he killed, and the times he saved lives, both by taking others, and by using his status as a doctor to help in the field to save the dying.
But his uniform wasn’t what he cared about at the moment.
While it was rare for him to even so much as look at the uniform and reflect back to months ago, back to his time in Afghanistan, what he wanted was under the uniform. For some reason or another, he folded the corner of the uniform to get at what was underneath it.
A P226 SIG Sauer Pistol L106A1. His sidearm from his time in the War.
He sat down on his bed, right next to the dresser, and admired the firearm. He popped the clip out and chequed it, making sure that the ammo was full. When he was satisfied, he popped it back in and rose, putting it back into its hiding place and closing the dresser.
He always liked to cheque on his firearm; to be sure that the one thing he could count on was ready to go at any moment. Around once a month he would cheque, just to be sure. This was the first time in the year 2011 that he was chequeing on it.
As John came out of the bedroom, dressed in his khaki slacks, dark blue pullover, and haggard face—from not shaving yet that day—he saw Sherlock sitting in one of the easy-chairs beside the fire, dressed in his black slacks, white button-up shirt and black waistcoat, also haggard, but that was usually due to his simply forgetting to shave.
Sitting on the sofa was a young woman, perhaps thirty years of age. John hobbled towards them, keeping a wary eye on Holmes, as if in question of what was going on.
“Ah, here he is!” Sherlock exclaimed, directing their guest’s gaze to the hobbling doctor, “John, please, come and sit. Listen.”
“To what?” John asked, taking a seat in his easy-chair. His gaze went again to the woman, “Where are my manners? Doctor John Watson.” He held his hand out.
The woman shook it in her dainty hand, “Mary Morstan.” She said softly, “And I believe he means that you should listen to my case with him. You are partners, after all, aren’t you?”
“Partners in the sense that we work together, nothing more.” John said, looking to Sherlock.
“I don’t see why you would have to state that.” Sherlock said, leaning back.
“Well, considering Mrs. Hudson thought that we were…”
Before he could finish, Sherlock cut him off, “Thought we were what? When?”
“When we first moved in. She assumed we were a couple.” John told Sherlock. He looked to Mary, “Now, I guess we can take care of this later. You’re here as a client, after all, so please, go on.”
“My, aren’t you trying to take charge?” Sherlock said.
John shook his head, “Later, Holmes.” He said, not wanting to get into the arguement at that moment. Or…whatever it would be considered. He wasn’t sure ‘arguement’ was the right word.
“Yes, please Ms. Morstan, pray tell us your story.” Sherlock said, leaning back.
Mary Morstan, approximately thirty years old, with a youthful, attractive appearance. She was dressed in a dark coloured blouse, pants for the cold weather, and had a necklace hanging around her dainty neck, ending in a golden cross.
She had a fair face, with bright green eyes like emeralds, a soft complexion, and long, flowing blond hair that looked like gold, specially to a romantic like John.
“My story begins two nights ago, on the night of 11th January, 2011. I live alone in one of my father’s smaller homes near Cardiff. He lives here, in London, as a judge for high profile crimes.
“I live alone, and have for years since he left to London. I live in his old Cardiff home, living on his money, since he is well-off. I do a little work for the city, though. As I was saying, two nights ago, someone broke into the house near midnight. I called the police and took a glance towards where the burglar was.
“I saw a gun.
“When he saw me, I noticed that he didn’t have anything. He didn’t have any bags for stealing, he wasn’t carrying anything. He just had the gun. He wasn’t there to steal; rather, he was there to kill me.
“I managed to run and hide upstairs, in the dark. I could soon hear the police sirens, and I heard the man escape. I was promised by the police that they could probably find him, but never did. No suspects, nothing. No leads, no evidence…nothing.
“They came to this conclusion after a single day, which is why I am here now, Mr. Holmes. I know you’re the best, so I came here to plead for your help. Your help to find this man who tried to kill me, and…”
“And…” He questioned.
“And to…protect me, in case someone comes after me again.” She said softly.
Sherlock shook his head, “I will find this man, but I am no bodyguard. Ask the police for assistance, that’s not part of my job.”
“Holmes!” John snapped, “How can you be so callous?”
“It’s not my job. The more time I’m protecting her, if I did it, the less I would have to find the assailant. Simple as that.” He leaned back.
“Then I’ll do it.” John said. He looked to Mary, “If you’ll have me, I’ll be your bodyguard. I was a Sergeant in the War, so I can be of use to you…even with my leg.” He rubbed the spots where the bullet fragments left scars in his thigh, knowing the locations by the minute pain.
Before Mary could speak, Sherlock interrupted, “Ms. Morstan, a question.”
“What do you need to know?” She asked him.
“What do you do for the city?”
“Recently I’ve been working with the judiciary system.” She told him.
“How recently?”
“The last year, year and a half.” Mary replied.
Sherlock nodded, “Your father is a judge for high profile cases, and you work in the judiciary system currently. You were to be murdered. I think this tells us that whoever was after you wanted some sway with the law.”
“By killing me?” She questioned.
“Perhaps your father had to do something to keep you safe.” John suggested.
“And he wouldn’t do it?” Sherlock questioned, “Why would he let his own daughter suffer?”
“Empty threat?”
“Doubtful.”
“Then what?”
“You’re the one who suggested it.” Sherlock replied, “Now, can you finish your thought?”
“No, I’m just suggesting…”
“A suggestion can turn to theory, I believe.” Sherlock told John, “If you can’t form a theory, unless he hates his daughter, or something, then let’s look elsewhere.”
John looked to Mary, who sat quietly and listened to the two men. He looked back to Sherlock, “He wouldn’t leave her to fend for herself like that. I’m assuming either it’s wrong, and he isn’t being blackmailed, otherwise, someone got too overzealous with their job and decided to kill her anyway.”
“We’ll have to find out.” Sherlock said, standing, “Well, shall we be off?”
“Off? To where?” John questioned, looking to Mary, who still sat. He pushed himself up with the help of his cane. Only after he rose did Mary rise.
“To see Mr. Morstan.” Sherlock replied, “I’m sure if we get information straight from him, we’ll settle this much faster, and have a more solid lead to build on.”
“My father is in court all day.” Mary said, “You won’t be able to see him.”
Sherlock looked at his watch, and then up to Mary, “We’ll find a recess in the trial, and get to him then.”
Sherlock began to pull on his boots, his greatcoat and scarf. When he looked back, neither of the others were changing for the cold.
“Sherlock, we can’t just walk into a courthouse and ask to see a judge who’s in court all day.” John said, “Even during recess, it would be unprofessional of him to see us,” he gestured to Mary, “even to see his own daughter.”
“He’ll have to make an exception in this case.” Sherlock said, “Now, let’s go. The game is afoot!”

******************************
John, Mary and Sherlock came out of the courthouse, all dressed warmly. John had a greatcoat, similar to Sherlock’s, and black gloves. Mary had a similar, double-breasted coat in tan. Sherlock was the only amongst them to wear a hat—a black trilby.
“Well, what did I tell you?” John asked Sherlock.
“I guess you were right.” Sherlock replied, shrugging, “Oh well. We’ll come back.”
“We were told not to come onto the premises again.” John said flatly, “You just had to walk into that trial…”
“I had to see Mr. Morstan.” Sherlock said, directing to Mary, “I figured that with his daughter we’d at least get to see him later…”
“You didn’t think something bad would happen, even with his daughter present?” John questioned as they hailed a cab.
“I’ll admit that I was wrong.” Sherlock said.
“Wrong? Now we’ll have to find him out of court!”
Sherlock looked to Mary, “Ms. Morstan, can you tell us where he lives?”
She shook her head, “No, I can’t. I don’t really know. If I ever had to see him, it was in his chambers here. I don’t even know a number to call, other than the number for the courthouse or his chambers.”
“Then we’re as good as stuck.” Sherlock replied. When the cab arrived, he jumped in, “I’m sorry, but I have some work to do. Please, take another cab. My time is of the essence.” Sherlock said, closing the door and heading off.
John looked to Mary as soon as Sherlock left their company, “I’m very sorry about him. He’s just…fanatical about some things.”
“I understand. Great men usually are like that.”
“Great men?” He questioned.
“Wouldn’t you consider him a great man?” Mary asked John, almost shocked that it wouldn’t seem he did.
“I do consider him to be great…but…” John shook his head, “The thing about Sherlock is…I really don’t know. He’s not a good man, he’s not a great man…he’s just a fantastic, fanatical, potentially insane, but yet brilliant, man. I think labeling him simply as ‘great’ does him no justice.”
Mary nodded in understanding, “Oh, ok, I get it. So, where do you think he went? What do you think he’s doing?”
“From my experiences with him, he’s probably doing something that the law would frown upon.” John said, finally hailing a second cab. He opened the door, allowing Mary in first. He got in after her and told the driver to go to Baker Street.
“Do you need something there?” She asked.
“I was going to return home, for the time. I figured you would want to join me, considering I’m taking up as your bodyguard. Though, I should follow you, not the other way around. Though seeing as your house was targeted…”
She nodded, giving him a smile, “Yes, I understand what you’re getting at.”
“We have a spare room, if you would like.” He offered.
“I’ll think about that.” She replied, smiling to him.

******************************
Upon returning to 221B Baker Street, John and Mary ate lunch as Mrs. Hudson brought it up. After the meal, John went out to get some news from Mrs. Hudson in her rooms. When he returned, his face was grave.
“What is it?” Mary asked him, concerned.
He shook his head and sat down on the sofa, sitting opposite of Mary in Sherlock’s easy-chair, “The two cases I’ve had with Sherlock…we got both culprits. A Mr. Conner Walker, and a Ms. Marilyn Davies. Walker had stolen over one hundred thousand pounds from the Piraeus Banque SA, and we got him. He sent an assailant after Sherlock and myself, adding to his list of charges. Then, our second case, a Mr. Robert Clark, a forward centre at the university, was killed, along with a Mr. Hall. Following the link and paper trail, we learnt that Clark’s fiancée was to receive his inheritance, which from Mr. Hall was a substantial sum. Sherlock apprehended her after she tried to claim Hall’s papers and money at the same banque.
“Both of them had serious charges. Walker for the theft and attempted murder charges, and Davies for the murder charges, and an attempted murder, since she pulled a gun on Holmes. Now…both of them are free on bail. The courts allowed them out, for high sums, mind you, but both were paid…”
“How can this be?” Mary questioned, “Who was in charge of these cases?”
He looked into her eyes, “Your father, it would seem.”

******************************
As John awoke and dressed in his usual manner, with his khaki slacks, and a black button-up shirt, he found that Mary had already woken and was eating the breakfast left by Mrs. Hudson. He ignored the meal, and Mary, for a moment and walked into the hallway to see Mrs. Hudson, taking meals to the next room.
“Ah, Doctor Watson!” She turned to him as she pushed the tray his way. He stepped to the side so she could pass him with it, “I see that you have a young lady in your care. Does Mr. Holmes know of this?”
He sighed, shaking his head, “I’ve told you before, Sherlock and I are just mates, we’re not involved. He had a woman in his life, in fact! Now, anyway, I came to ask if you’ve heard anything of Sherlock. He never returned, as far as I know.”
“No, I haven’t heard anything from him.” She told him, “I’m sorry. If I hear anything, though I’m sure you’ll find out first, considering you live with him.”
He nodded, “Right. Well, if you hear anything.”
She nodded to him, “Of course.” She went on her way, and after John entered the flat again, he realised that she hadn’t made a comment as to their sexuality. He wondered if she would continue to believe that he and Sherlock were gay. He shrugged it off, not caring anymore. She was an older woman, Scottish; it would be hard to get anything like that through her.
When John sat down to eat, he noticed that Mary was still dressed as the day before, and nearly finished.
“We can go to your home, get you some clothes, if you would like.” He offered.
“I know we could…and I think we should.” She said, “But are you sure? Your leg…”
“I already assured you that I’ll be able to protect you, even with my leg.” He told her, “When that assailant was sent by Walker, I’m the one who took him down, after all.”
She smiled, “Ok then, after you finish?”
“We’ll need a cab to Cardiff. That’ll take some time. Do you know of any willing to take that long of a trip?” He asked, “I assume you’re no stranger to London.”
She nodded, “It took me around three hours to arrive yesterday, and I have my own car, by the way. We can take that.”
He nodded, “Sounds like a plan, then.”

******************************
Upon their return from Cardiff, they found two plates of food sitting on the table, untouched, cold. A third plate sat next to them, empty. When they walked farther in, they saw the fireplace was lit, and could see the figure of Sherlock Holmes sitting in his easy-chair.
“Holmes, where have you been?” John questioned as they came farther into the sitting room.
He rose, still dressed in his white button-up and black waistcoat, from the day before. He looked knackered, bedraggled, and had some beard and mustache beginning to grow in from a day or two, possibly three, of not shaving. So evidently, he hadn’t been somewhere very good, judging by the way he looked after one day of not seeing him.
“Ah, John, Ms. Morstan, I’m glad to see that both of you are here.” He said, motioning them over, “Pray, sit with me.”
John hobbled to his easy-chair while Mary took to the sofa. John looked to Sherlock, “You should clean yourself up…”
“I know.”
“Look, there is something you should know. Conner Walker and Marilyn Davies have been released, along with a few other criminals, ranging in petty to higher crimes. All were able to be bailed out, no matter…”
“I know.” He replied, shaking his head, “The court system is being manipulated…used. I don’t know what links these criminals, but we know about the crimes of Walker and Davies, at the least. Anyway, I’m sure you want to know where I was.”
“I do.”
“Prison. I got arrested after I left you two yesterday, for public drunkenness. I got bladdered, and was arrested. I saw Judge Morstan.”
John shook his head, “This can’t end well…”
“It does.”
“You saw my father?” Mary questioned, leaning in, “Even after we were…?”
He cut her off, nodding, “Yes, even after we were told not to return to the premises. You see, he can’t control it if I would get arrested and appear before him. He has no control over that, or rather, over the officer bringing me in after I was arrested.” A sly smile came to Sherlock’s face, “It was very simple. He was not expecting to see me, I can tell you that. The look on his face…” Sherlock shook his head, “But that’s not the point. The point is that I was able to talk to him.”
“He actually let you talk to him?” John questioned, “Even after yesterday? Even though you were arrested like that?”
“No, not exactly.” Sherlock replied, “Rather, he sat, about to see to my case, and was surprised when he saw me. I began to speak to him, ignoring what anyone else said. He may not have answered, but I got enough off of him, by reading him, to know what I need to.”
“So you walked in, about to go before the judge, and just started accusing him of things?” John questioned.
Sherlock nodded, “In a word, yes.”
“And you actually went to the pub and drank?” John questioned, “Or was it an act?”
“I went and got bladdered.” Sherlock confirmed, “No act.”
“You don’t drink.” John said flatly.
“I know, so it didn’t take long.” Sherlock answered.
“You could have acted the part easily…” John said, “You didn’t have to risk, oh, I don’t know, not remembering! I mean, what if you were still bladdered when you went before Judge Morstan? Or you didn’t see him? You wouldn’t have been competent to do anything!”
“I could have been in no state to do much, but why do it half-arsed?” Sherlock questioned, “Anyway, I could have as well written instructions down, but didn’t. I was sure the alcohol would pass through my system by that point, and it seems to have.”
“So, what did you learn?” John questioned.
“Is my father involved in these releases?” Mary questioned, moving in closer.
He looked to Mary, “I don’t know.” He said, and then looked to John, to address his question, “I learnt that our judge seems to be hiding some things. When I accused him of not doing anything to try to stop his daughter’s assassination, he became angry. He wasn’t confused, rather, angry. He knew about it. His anger would either indicate that he was mad for me bringing it up, or, that he did what he was told, and they tried to kill her anyway. That’s all I could really get out before I lost his actions between either my questions, or anything he was doing, so I don’t know much else.”
“So, he knew.” Mary said, “What does that mean?”
“Like I said, it could have at least two meanings.” Sherlock replied, “I don’t know which one is right, though. But I would assume that his anger was because he complied, and yet you were targeted.”
John leaned over, using his cane for support, “Do you suppose that it could have to do with the bails being stated and paid off?” He questioned, “Perhaps he had to do that to save her life…”
Sherlock slowly nodded, “And it took time to clear it, to overrule whatever he had previously stated, and get the bails out there. They must have thought that despite what he may have said, he wouldn’t keep his end up, so they went after his daughter.”
“Do you think that could really be true?” Mary asked, astonished by such an idea.
“Potentially.” Sherlock told her, “We’ll need to look into this a bit more. For one, we need to find your father and get information.” He pulled his cellphone from his pocket and began to dial, “Lestrade, I love having your personal number. Look, I need…”
He looked at them, “Voice mail.” He said, hanging up.
“Now what?” John questioned, “Do we wait?”
“No, we must act as soon as possible.” Sherlock replied, closing his eyes and thinking for a moment. He opened his phone again and began to dial a new number.
“Hopkins, good, you’re there. Listen, I need a favour. I need a warrant so we can get to see Judge Morstan here in London. Time is of the essence!”
Sherlock listened for a few moments, and then responded to the young detective.
“Look, I know a judge issues warrants, but find another judge who won’t tell Morstan! Just do it! I need this! Look, fine, if you can’t, then can you at least get me the judge’s home address? No? Why not?”
Sherlock hung up angrily, snapping the phone closed. He looked to his two companions, “It wouldn’t seem we’re getting anywhere.” He said, then looked to John, “Well, shall we go and piss up?”
“You want to get arrested again for being bladdered in public?” John questioned, “With both of us this time?”
“My father would probably cheque the names this time.” Mary put in, “I don’t think it would work.”
A sly smile came across Sherlock’s face, “Oh, I have an idea.” He looked at John and Mary, “I don’t know how much you’ll like it, but it could work.”
“Pray tell.” John said.
“We get you two married in court.” Sherlock said, “I’m certain that Judge Morstan will see his daughter’s name, even if we can’t get into that court to do it, and will probably try to stop it. No need for the nuptials to actually happen, we just need to fake it.”
“The problem there is, that if whoever is after Mary is still out there, they’ll also see the announcement.” John told Sherlock, “It’s dangerous.”
“Hopefully whoever is after her is now appeased, though.” Sherlock said, “Considering the prisoners were released, if that really is what whoever it is is after.”
“Is there any other way?” John questioned.
“What, you don’t want to have to marry Ms. Morstan here?” Sherlock questioned, directing to the lovely woman beside John, “I would be hurt, if I were her.”
John didn’t look amused, “It would seem that some of that alcohol is still in your system.” He told Sherlock.
“Well, what other method do you suggest?”
“We go and search for Judge Morstan’s home.” John suggested, “I mean, we can stake out the courthouse, wait for him to depart, and then follow him. We get a warrant for his home and head inside, look for evidence…”
“What sort of evidence?” Sherlock questioned, “It was most likely done face-to-face.”
“We could subpoena his phone records.” John said, “Maybe he has a text that could give us information.”
“We would need a case to get a subpoena.” Sherlock reminded, “No case.”
“I like the idea of following him.” Mary put in, “We could see if he meets anyone who looks…shady.” She struggled to find the word, “And potentially follow him home. Maybe I could talk to him after that.”
“Ok, fine.” Sherlock said, “That seems to be what you both want, rather than the false marriage. Now then, I’ll go and follow him, starting tomorrow.”
“Why tomorrow?” John questioned.
“I’m not fit for the part today. Besides, I managed to overhear his schedule.”
“Overhear?” John questioned.
“Ok, I bribed it out of a bailiff who owed me a favour.” Sherlock shrugged, “Same difference. Now, today he’s once more in court most of the day. Tomorrow he’s in for the morning, then he has a lunch appointment at a new restaurant on Oxford Street. I’ll be waiting there, watch, wait, follow, and we’ll find his home.”
Sherlock’s phone began to ring with the standard ringtone ‘buzz’. He opened it and put it to his ear, “Lestrade, I don’t need you anymore.” He replied, “Though I might later. Until then.” He hung up.
“Well then…” John shrugged, “What now?”
“We wait.” Sherlock said, “No sense in acting now, even if it is only a little in the afternoon. No. Tomorrow, we begin.”

******************************
In the morning, John came to the table first in his bluish dressing gown. He sat down to eat, and was soon joined by Mary, wearing a white dressing gown. As they ate, they pondered where Sherlock could be, as his food was untouched.
Soon, emerging from Sherlock’s room came someone who could only be Holmes, albeit, in a disguise. He had yet to shave, allowing the bits of his beard and mustache to hide his face. He had slicked his hair back and down with gel, giving it a gleam if it was caught properly in the light. Instead of his dressing gown, he was fully dressed in a manner unbefitting of him.
He wore jeans instead of slacks; he wore a suit coat which was fully open, and a t-shirt underneath. He still wore his boots, and had them over the top of the pants at the legs. He held his black trilby in his hand as he approached them.
“Well, how do I look?” He asked, accent-less, “Even lost my accent. I just look like an ignorant American visiting London, now.”
“It works.” John said, shaking his head in astonishment, “I don’t see how Judge Morstan would know who you were if he saw you in the restaurant. Though, won’t someone notice you look out of place?”
“Again, ignorant part.” He said.
“What if he sees as you follow?” Mary put in.
“He won’t. I assure you of that.”
“Can you now?” She questioned.
“Of course.”
He sat down to the table and ate slowly, careful to avoid getting food stuck in his facial hair, which he was obviously unaccustomed to, specially that much of it.
“What’s your plan for today?” John asked as Sherlock finished.
“I’m going to the courthouse first, just to take a look around. I’ll have the hat and a coat, so as to obscure at least some of my features. Then, I’ll take a cab to the restaurant, find out where our Judge is seated, because he certainly has a reservation, and then get myself placed close enough, but not too close. Preferably to the right of the Judge, the left of his guest. Then I’ll leave a minute before Judge Morstan, as he looks to be finished, wait outside, and follow via a cab.”
“He’ll notice the cab.” John pointed out.
“I don’t know.” Sherlock replied, looking to Mary.
She shrugged, “I really don’t know. He might, he might not.”
“He drives himself?”
“Yes.”
“He’ll notice.” Sherlock said, “Using the mirrors, he’ll notice. But I can find a way around that.”
“How?” John questioned.
“Swerve through traffic.” He replied, “If you pay a driver a little extra, chances are he’ll be obliged to listen to your instructions, even if they include heading through side roads, reappearing to appear as a new cab, rather than the following one from before, and so on. It’s an easy task, trust me.”
“Then I hope it goes well. Let us know if you have any information gathered. We could begin anything you need us to back here.” John said.
He nodded, “I might need you to cheque on some things, potentially.” Sherlock replied, “Now, I’ll be off.”
He took up a frock coat, similar to his double breasted greatcoat he commonly wore, but an older style. He threw it on and placed his hat on his head, then departed.

******************************
Upon Sherlock’s return at three PM, he looked much the same, but had lost the coat and hat, rather, was carrying them in his arm.
“What have you learnt?” John questioned, beckoning for Sherlock to join them by the fire.
Sherlock sat in the sofa, rather than make Mary leave his chair. He leaned towards them, “I followed him easily. He did return home, as I believed. His guest was another judge, a new one, so nothing suspicious. I read nothing off of him, either. His home, nothing. I do have the address, though. It can’t do too much, I don’t think, but it could potentially be of help.” His gaze drifted to Mary, “You could go and ask him.”
She nodded, “I’ll do that, then.” She looked to John, “Shall you accompany me?”
“Of course.” He replied, “I’m your bodyguard, after all.”
Sherlock moved to his chair as John and Mary started out. He left himself dressed as he was, rather than change out of his uncomfortable clothing. He took up a fag and lit it, taking a drag on it as they left the rooms.

******************************
“13 Miller’s Lane.” John said, reading the address given to them by Sherlock. A small house stood at the address, but it was just as described by Sherlock, and had the same car and licence number. “Shall I accompany you out, or do you want to do this next part alone?” John asked Mary.
“Pray, come with me.” She said, getting out of the car. He got out of his side and hobbled beside her, thankful that the snow had melted completely. They went up the cobblestone path until they reached the door.
Mary took the old style knocker and used it to knock. In a few moments, an older man, probably in his late sixties, came to the door. He was large, probably out of shape, with a grayish black beard, similar, short hair, and a rounded face with green eyes, like Mary’s, but lacking in the luster. He was dressed in a dressing gown, his day at court over.
“Mary…” He said, looking around, “What are you…how did you…?” He gaze drifted to John, “You…”
“Not me, Sherlock.” John stated.
“The drunkard, of course.” Judge Morstan groaned, “What is it that you want?” He demanded.
“Father, is it true that you were blackmailed for my safety?” Mary immediately questioned.
His eyes darted around the road around the house. He looked to his daughter, “Come in.” He said, more as an order, rather than an offer.
John and Mary entered the house. The older man shut the door behind them and bolted it shut. The inside wasn’t very well furnished, and looked rather wooden. He had some old furniture, like an old sofa and an old easy-chair, as well as a dining room table nearby. There was a staircase leading upstairs, but it looked rickety.
There was a fireplace in one corner, but it didn’t look very much in use. John craned his neck to look into another room, the kitchen. He wondered if the man’s materials were upstairs, after all, he would need court information, such as books.
There was an old shotgun mounted next to the fireplace. It looked like it hadn’t been moved often based on the dust on the mount, but the gun itself looked to have been handled recently. John said nothing as they took seats at the table.
“I was blackmailed.” The old judge said, shaking his head in pity, “Some men came, threatened me here. I don’t know how they found me. I only have a cellphone, and nobody knows the number. I only call with it, and have my number hidden. I’m unregistered…I prefer to be alone. For all of my wealth, all of the importance of my job, this is where I prefer to be.
“One day, a day I wasn’t in court, about a week ago, actually, some men came to my door. They hadn’t followed me home; I know that, since I wasn’t at court. They hadn’t followed on any other days, for I would have seen cars following, and I know the local cars. I don’t know how, but they found me another way.
“They came inside against my will, and I threatened to call the police. They said simply that if I did, I was dead, and produced a handgun. There were three men. The one with the gun was chastised by the one who seemed in charge. That man told me that I had an option. I could either get bail available for a list of prisoners that I was given, or…Mary would be killed.
“I couldn’t do anything about it. They said they would know if I tried to contact anyone for help. I said that I would do it, but I would need time. They gave me four days. It took me five to get bail set. They went after my only child…but at least you’re safe, Mary. I’m sorry for everything, I’m sorry that you were in danger…I’m…”
She rested a hand on one of his larger hands, “Father, I’m safe now. Mr. Holmes and John here are helping me. Holmes will find the people, and John is my bodyguard.”
The judge cast a wary glance to John, who said, “I fought in Afghanistan, made Sergeant. I’m capable, even with my leg.”
“These people seemed very imposing. Let’s hope so.” The judge said. He rose to his feet, “Now, is there anything else?”
“What did this lead man look like?” John questioned, “All of them, even?”
“The lead man was the one I mainly remember.” The judge replied, “He was around six feet tall, maybe a little larger. He was well built; common enough looking, and had short, trimmed black hair. He had hard, I guess handsome features, some facial hair, but well kempt. He was wearing a black longcoat—a duster, leather.”
“The others?” John asked, “Anything?”
He shook his head, “No, I’m sorry.”
John hobbled towards the window. As nice as the house looked on the outside, the inside was in mostly disrepair; otherwise, it was anachronistic for the century they were in. He looked out at the sizeable yard. There was enough room for maybe five cars to park between the driveway and the neighbouring yards. Something about that made this house still feel like it should be nicer, but at the same time, that it could easily be this run-down if that many cars were present.
Mary stayed by her father as John moved towards another window, looking out the other way. He turned, “Expecting visitors?”
“Visitors?” The judge questioned, “I told you, nobody knows where I…”
A gunshot shattered the window John had first been at. In that moment, he could see two cars parking into the lawn, and men emerging. Three from one vehicle, four from the other. All of them wore black and were armed with a handgun.
“Shit!” He shouted, looking to the judge and Mary, “Seven men, all armed! Call the police; tell them you’re a judge! Tell them everything! I’m sure the police have probably been called already by neighbours, but do it anyway!” He hobbled to them as fast as he could, then jotted down a number, “Call this number, Mary. Tell DI Lestrade that Watson is here, and in danger. Tell him anything he needs. Now both of you, upstairs!”
As the Morstans rushed up the creaking stairs, John hobbled towards the fireplace. He realised why the old shotgun had been handled recently.
The judge was afraid.
John threw his cane into the nearby sofa and took the gun from the wall. He opened it, chequeing on the ammo. This old hunting shotgun had two shells in the magazine, one loaded. There was a small, nearly empty box sitting nearby. John took it, pocketing the other three rounds.
John ducked down as he hurried under the window that had been shot. He glanced out, catching one of the men going around the back. He would take care of it later. First priority was the one going through the front door.
When the door burst open, John lifted the shotgun and fired once. The resulting boom nearly deafened him, but it was worth it, watching his foe’s body being ripped apart and thrown aside like a ragdoll. Another man came through, meeting the same fate.
John reached over, grabbing his cane. He supported himself, and glanced around the corner of the wall, out the open door. He could see one more man approaching, and then took a shot at John.
John pulled his head back in as soon as he saw the gun go up. He leaned the shotgun against the wall and held his cane by the bottom. As soon as the man came inside, he slammed the rounded end of the cane into the man’s face, feeling the nose break and some fractures come along the skull. He quickly acted, reaching out and using a punch/hammer to fracture the man’s wrist, forcing him to release his handgun.
John took it, and as he was slamming his cane into the man’s face again, he shoved the gun into his belt, feeling more secure with a second weapon.
The man went down, unconscious with a broken nose, fractured wrist and fractured skull. John picked up the shotgun, closed the door and hobbled into the kitchen. As soon as he entered, he could see that the door was undisturbed. So where was the man who went around back?
John hurried back out, into the main room. He hobbled up the staircase, and turned once the main door opened again. He saw that same man, having likely doubled around to confuse him. As he raised his gun, John hurried, hearing the bullet go through the step just under him.
From his position he was out of sight. He pulled the handgun out, set the shotgun on the stairs, and aimed down. As soon as the assailant moved into view to get a shot at him, he fired, catching the man in his collarbone. He dropped his gun, and then took a shot to the knee, going down and staying down. He holstered the gun in his belt again and hurried up, shouting for the Morstans.
Mary and her father appeared from the last room, near the window. As they hurried over, John looked down the stairs.
“The police should be here soon.” The judge said.
“I spoke to DI Lestrade. He’s getting a large team of Specialist Firearms Officers together.” Mary told John.
“I killed two of them, disabled two more.” John said, “That leaves three. Look, I hate to ask this, but we can’t stay here. They’ll get us eventually. We need to move, even if the police arrive. Can I lay down some support and one of you can get the car started?”
“I can see why you hate to suggest.” The judge replied, “One of us could die.”
“And I would be responsible.” John replied.
“I’ll do it.” Mary said.
“Mary!” Her father shouted, “You can’t do this!”
“I have to. I know my car, I can get it started, even with my eyes closed I could get inside and fully started. Let me do this!”
“Then we need a better distraction.” John replied, looking to the judge, “Do you have alcohol here?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Molotovs.” He replied, “We can lay down some literal fire and get out safely. That is, unless we set too much ablaze, but the yard size should help us there.”
“Let’s do it.” The judge said, running into the loo and emerging with two towels to rip and light. John escorted them down, keeping the handgun at the ready. He had heard no doors being opened, but had heard the occasional shot to lure them out, or something. He slammed his cane into the downed man, knocking him unconscious for good measure.
The judge rushed into the kitchen, alone. He emerged with a few empty bottles in his arms, and a full bottle of alcohol. Mary and the judge crouched, ripping up towels and putting them into the bottles. When they ran out of alcohol, the judge brought a few more full bottles in to distribute with.
“We can’t keep them all full. We need less fire in more places, not more fire in less places.” John said.
When they had finished with ten bottles, John ordered the judge to go upstairs and rain down fire. John took to the window, looking around. He saw nobody. He poked his head out, and saw nobody around the house. He figured that the police had yet to arrive since unarmed, they would be useless. The SFO, however, were probably still coming and Lestrade was having problems getting enough men.
As soon as the first bottle came down in the back of the house, John urged her to move. She rushed out to the car as a second bottle exploded in the front of the house, right next to one of the other cars. Mary had the car started, and John kept a lookout, sure that the engine would be heard, and he would have to shoot.
The judge rushed down and to the door. John looked around, and urged him to move, to get into the back seat so he could have the front and fire if need be. As the judge rushed out, John looked around, but didn’t see anyone.
The judge fell. John raised his gun, but saw nobody. He looked ahead, catching a slight glimpse of light from a house across the street, just to the side, in bushes.
Another man. A sniper.
“Mary! Get down!” John screamed, lifting the gun and firing on the bush. He could see a man rushing out with a large rifle. He lifted it, despite having no support but his hands, and fired, missing.
John dodged, however, allowing the man to get away. He rushed out, taking a shot, but the man was too far away for an accurate shot. John noticed one thing, though.
The man’s coat was a black duster. The slit up the back, making two ‘tails’ indicated a duster.
That had to be the leader figure from earlier.
John crouched by the judge, feeling for a pulse. When he felt nothing, he took his cane back up and rose. He hobbled to the car, throwing the cane into the back.
“I’ll return in one moment.” He told Mary, handing her his gun, “Can you shoot?”
“Not too accurately.” She said.
“Just lay down some fire and keep down.” He said, looking at the flames around them. The judge might be consumed soon, but John couldn’t worry about pulling the corpse away. He rushed, hopping on his good leg, back inside and took up the shotgun. He came back out and looked to his side, catching a man rushing at the car that was out of the fire. He lifted his handgun, but John fired first, ripping his chest open, throwing him over the hood of his car.
That left two, and the leader.
John got into the passenger’s seat, “Drive.” He said, taking the handgun back. He kept an eye out, and caught the last two coming out, opening fire.
The windshield was struck by one bullet, doing some noticeable damage. As they drove off, John fired twice, emptying the clip, but missing both shots.
“Where are we going?” Mary questioned, somehow calm on the outside, despite what was happening.
“Pull over when I tell you to.” John said, “I’ll drive. You’re in no condition. I’m no psychologist, but holding this much in can’t be good.”
She remained still, only moving to drive. She said nothing, but when John looked at her, he could see in the eye he could see from his spot, that she was in immense pain.

******************************
John came back down to the car and started to drive.
“Was he here?” Mary asked softly, her eyes red from crying so much, her voice cracking.
“No, Sherlock wasn’t here.” John replied, “I did get a call from Lestrade. It’s taken care of. The last two shooters and the sniper are missing, though.”
“Where are we going to go?” She asked.
“I did find a note from Sherlock.” John replied, “He said he would be at Oxford Street. We’re heading there.”

******************************
Sherlock walked down the busy Oxford Street, looking around, casting wary glances on a few people. One of them wore a long black duster, and seemed too…normal. There was something wrong with him. Sherlock was sure of it.
He had no habits; he had nothing to distinguish him. He was blending in too perfectly.
He met with two men then, both of them looking knackered, ragged, one bleeding, both smelling of smoke as Sherlock passed them.
Sherlock looked ahead, watching a car with a hole in its windshield pulling into a parking spot. He could see John driving, and made his way over, looking not to hurry.
He poked his head in, “What happened?” He questioned.
“Long story.” John replied, then caught the three men, “It’s them…”
“Those men?” Sherlock questioned, “They tried to kill you, I take it.”
“Yeah. They got the judge.” John said softly, making sure Mary wouldn’t hear as he whispered. He looked to the men, “That one in the duster, he’s the sniper. He’s the one in charge.”
John and Mary got out of the car and stayed on the side, trying to stay obscured from view. Sherlock glanced down the street, but one of the men had noticed. They had been watching. The hole in the windshield, combined with their knowledge of Sherlock, must have tipped them off as to what was going on, and who was who.
One of the men pulled a handgun and fired. John grabbed Mary and pulled her behind the car. People shouted in panic, rushing about, getting away. The man in the duster moved slowly towards them, pulling his duster back, pulling out a metal expandable baton. He snapped it out with a flick of his right wrist, and moved in from behind.
Sherlock grabbed the cane from John’s hand, giving no word of apology. He moved out from behind the car, moving towards the man with the baton weapon.
The man held the baton out, but Sherlock, holding the cane on the inside, just before the curve, lifted the cane. The man let out a grim smile, and lunged forward, drawing his arm back to beside his head, and then slammed it down as hard as he could.
Sherlock, using his singlestick skills, lifted the cane to parry. He felt the impact reverberate through his arm, but he held tight. The man pushed towards a side alley, pushing Sherlock in as he pulled back on his baton. He rushed in, hoping to avoid the gunfire.
Back at the car, John and Mary kept down. A bullet just grazed the side of the car before John poked his head out. The bullet told him what he needed. They were focused on him, and keeping distanced. A second bullet rang out, presumably from the second man, due to the difference in the angle.
“What are we going to do?” Mary breathed, keeping quiet.
“I don’t know yet.” John answered. The shotgun was in the car, he still had three bullets in his pocket. In the excitement of things, he had forgotten to reload.
Another bullet came by, just missing deflecting into John. He cursed; they were getting better at their aim and trajectory, not to mention they were trying to ricochet the bullet.
Meanwhile, Sherlock was ducking under wild swings of the baton. He threw the cane back and ducked the next swing. He threw two rapid punches at his foe’s chest, using his boxing prowess. The man quickly brought his left arm up, deflecting with his arm and hand, taking the first fist and throwing it down to deflect the second arm. He quickly kneed Sherlock in the chest, knocking him into the wall.
The man struck with his baton, catching Sherlock across the right shoulder and collar bone to below his left arm. He cried out with the stinging pain, his coat ripped at the points the baton moved across, blood welling up through his cut clothing.
Sherlock threw a punch with his right fist, but his foe blocked with his left forearm. Sherlock quickly threw a right kick, catching the man in the side, knocking him a step back. He shot down, grabbed the cane, and launched himself forward, plunging the end into the man’s gut, knocking him into the opposite wall.
The two men struggled, roughly equal in skill in various ways, in hand-to-hand combat, in their use of these stick weapons. The assailant, however, seemed to have the upper hand.
He kneed Sherlock in the gut, knocking him one more step back, freeing himself from the wall. He slashed Sherlock across the chest with his baton, and then struck him with a punch to the same spot, knocking Sherlock to the ground.
At the car, John closed his eyes hard, shaking his head. He looked back at Mary, and then stood up, ignoring her plea to get down.
His leg had never felt sturdier since returning from Afghanistan. He was determined to make this work, no matter how his leg would react.
He reached into his coat pocket on the inside, and pulled out his old war handgun, his P226 SIG Sauer. He faced towards the closer men, and fired three times in rapid succession, putting three holes in him. The first was towards the right shoulder, the second towards the centre of the chest, and the last just above the heart.
The corpse fell, and John turned his attention to the second man. This man stood firm, keeping his firearm trained on John.
“I’m a veteran soldier.” John said, “Sergeant. You’re just a hired goon, are you not? So, look what I did to your partner there. Look what I did back at the judge’s house. You tell me. Who’s going to win this one, mate?”
The man lowered his weapon and began to back away. John kept his weapon trained on him, just in case.
And then, something happened. John pulled the trigger, putting a bullet in the man’s chest, dropping him.
He glanced to Mary, who hadn’t seen much. He lowered the weapon and said, “He was about to fire. He was lifting his arm. I could see the determination in his eyes, even from this distance. His posture, his body language…he was going to shoot.”
But he hadn’t needed to shoot. No, he had lied. The man was going to flee. Why had he done it?
Because the War had changed him. This day had helped to show him that.
John glanced over to the alley. He could hear Sherlock’s cries as he fought. He hobbled over as fast as he could, partially hopping, partially dragging his leg. He came around the corner while Holmes missed with his punch, and took a fist to the face instead. As Sherlock fell back, John lifted and fired.
The man in the duster dodged to the side. He had been paying attention and had seen John appear. He flicked his baton back to its closed position, and put it into his inner coat. He kept his eyes on John as he backed away, and then vanished behind the next turn.
“Watson!” Sherlock shouted, holding his hand out.
John could have thrown the gun, allowed Sherlock to shoot, but the gun was his life now. The firearm was who he was. He didn’t throw it.
“My nerves…all of this today, Holmes…sorry.” John said, shaking his head.
Sherlock came up to him, covered in blood, panting hard, “We’ll get him next time. I doubt he won’t show back up again…”
“The two men are dead.” John said to the unasked question.
Sherlock nodded, “We’ll deal with police, and then be on our way.”

******************************
John reloaded his SIG Sauer and placed it back under his uniform. Then he froze, and pulled it back out, placing it on his nightstand, where it felt more appropriate. As he hobbled back out into the sitting room, dressed now in his dressing gown, he noticed Sherlock by the fire as usual. He hobbled over and took his seat.
“Today was quite a day.” Sherlock said.
“Our case of the targeted client was unique.” John agreed, “I don’t know if I could handle another one like that.” He lied.
“After all the men you killed?” Sherlock asked.
John didn’t answer.
“Well, I guess I’ll need a new coat and some new costumes. I’ll go out tomorrow. Would you care to join me?” Sherlock asked.
“No, I have plans with Mary tomorrow.” John said.
Sherlock cast him a doubtful look, “The case is over. Everyone but that lead man is dead or in prison. Based on the bodies, the police say they were hired, even that other man. I’m sure that Mary is perfectly safe, specially since she’s moved and has private security now.”
“I’m not seeing her as a client.” John said, “I’m just…seeing her.”
Sherlock rose, shaking his head, “Well then, have fun.” He drew a fag and lit it with the lighter from his breast pocket in a symbolic manner, “Don’t let her destroy your life.”

[Cass Hoban]

The Adventure of the American Affair

The rooms of 221B Baker Street were always spacious, always adorned with trophies of ‘the game’, as Sherlock called it. Upon walking up the stairs and into the rooms, one would find themselves in the kitchen. It was small, but held a table and some uses, such as a refrigerator and pantries, not that they had to cook for themselves.
Walking through what was considered to be a ‘dining room’, one would find themselves in the sitting room, a vast room with large windows looking out to the streets, easy-chairs, a sofa, a fireplace, and the trophies from the various cases and adventures of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and his life before meeting Doctor John Watson, as well as the few that the two of them had picked up during their joint cases.
From the sitting room, there were three side rooms, three bedrooms. A loo was positioned between two of them. The rooms were fairly spacious, enough so to be comfortable, and having the empty third room allowed for storage.
The walls of the sitting room were where most of the men’s personal objects were. Their rooms had few, such as John’s firearm, his Afghanistan uniform, and the like. He wasn’t sure of what was in Sherlock’s room, having rarely entered to wake the man, or to cheque to see if he was still around.
The sitting room had a coat of arms with two sabres behind it on a mount. There was a plaster bust of Napoleon sitting on a pedestal in one corner of the room. One wall held an old hunting shotgun, from their previous case the month prior, as John had once put it, ‘The Adventure of the Targeted Client’. Sherlock’s greatcoat as well hung on the wall next to it, with a large cut or two through it, and bloodstains, from Sherlock’s losing battle against an assailant in the same case, forcing him to replace a few pieces of his costume.
Globes of various ages and various styles sat around the room, as did many volumes of books, ranging from encyclopedias to maps to history books to anatomy. Some were John’s, some were Sherlock’s. Sherlock had once made the offhanded comment that they were for reference in cases, not for his own use. If someone came to him with something he didn’t know, he could access the books, since they lacked a computer and internet. Sherlock stated once, when looking at a book of maps, that he found the entire idea to be ‘bullshit’, that one wouldn’t need to know the name of every river running across some ‘God-forsaken corner of the world such as Siberia’. He evidently thought that geography was a waste.
John had proceeded to ask him about his subjects, to which Sherlock replied (and it was noted by John, put into a picture frame, and hung on the wall as a means of reference):
“I find that the following areas are a waste of time. My time, specially. Why should I need to know about geography? Or about astronomy? The stars are none of my concern. Oceanography? To an extent, but mostly on poisonous species and a bit of plants. I know little on animals, save for the poisonous ones, the same with plants, for poisons is a speciality of mine, specifically on chemistry and its uses there. The law is of interest, but only the practical elements. Why should I need to know anything but criminology in that area?” And that’s where John had lost the train of thought as Sherlock went off to do something else.
As John, wearing his blue pullover, dark jeans and boots hobbled in on his wooden cane, he flipped the calendar and looked to the easy-chairs, “Holmes, it’s been a week. Why haven’t you changed the calendar yet?”
Sherlock blew out a puff of smoke from his fag and looked behind the back of the chair, around the side, “Oh, is it March already?”
“February.” John said.
Sherlock looked up at the ceiling, and then back at John, nodding, “Quite right, quite right, my mistake.”
“Have you any news on any cases?” John asked, hobbling over and sitting down. He rubbed his leg, which was at least starting to feel somewhat better as time went by.
Sherlock shook his head, “No, not yet.”
John took up the paper from the table before them, opening and skimming through it. He glanced to Sherlock, “These pages are creased. You were reading intently.”
“Very good.” Sherlock said, taking another drag on his fag.
John began to read. There were three articles on the page, another one that continued to the next page, and one that ended from the previous page.
“I can conclude it was one of these three here in full.” He said, “The next page is unmarked, as if unread. It seems in perfect condition. Likewise, the previous page has little wear, and the article wouldn’t be of interest to you, so it can’t be the one that ends here. So, what interested you so much, Holmes?” John questioned.
“You tell me.” He replied.
John took the next ten minutes to read and analyse the articles. The first was about some returning veterans, which could have been of interest. Then John remembered that Sherlock had no real friends, so that was less likely that he was waiting for someone to return, specially as John skimmed names. The second article was about a painting being sold, ‘Woman III’ by Willem de Kooning. The last was about the arrival of a famous group of American opera singers, the New Jersey Opera.
“I don’t know.” John said, “The painting?”
Sherlock shook his head.
“The opera, then? You want to go?”
Again, he shook his head, “Though maybe it would be interesting to see.” He shrugged.
“Then it’s the soldiers.” John stated, “It has to be.”
“Wrong again.”
“Then it was the one that started a page ago?”
“No.”
“The one that ends next page?”
“No.”
“Bloody hell, Holmes! Then what is it?”
“Two articles that go together.” He replied, “You have three, find the connection.” Sherlock replied.
“There is no connection.” John answered.
“You aren’t looking hard enough.”
John sighed, taking another look back at the paper. He read through the articles three more times, and then shook his head.
“I don’t know, the painting and the opera have to do with each other?” He guessed.
“Fantastic!” Sherlock exclaimed, “How did you find it?”
“I didn’t see what returning soldiers had to do with either, so I took a wild guess.” John admitted.
“Well then, what is the connection, exactly?” Sherlock questioned.
John shrugged, “Honestly? No idea.”
“Well,” Sherlock took a sly smile, “you asked about if we had a case. I believe we will very shortly.”
“How do you figure?”
“The painting, ‘Woman III’, was sold in 2006, to a Mr. Steven A. Cohen. I chequed into the matter, and the man still owns it. I looked into this new sale, and nothing. That would mean that the painting seems to be a forgery.”
“And where does the opera group fit into this?” John questioned.
“Well, I did some looking into it. At least one member of the opera group has a shady past, it seems.” Sherlock said.
“Ok, who?”
“That’s what I don’t know.” Sherlock replied, “My contact didn’t have that information. It seems this group has gone to great lengths to hide their personal information. Makes it less annoying to their personal lives, it seems. As well makes it harder for people like us to track down culprits in their midst.”
“So what do you plan on doing? Chequeing into them when they arrive?” John questioned, “And what’s the link?”
“The forgery seems to have been sold by an alias used by one of the opera members.” Sherlock said, “The link comes full circle. The painting is likely to be found as a forgery very soon. Consider this. The seller managed to use some way to trick the buyer into thinking it was real. Maybe forged accounts of it being resold by Mr. Cohen, so that the painting was back on the market. Maybe a virus to establish only certain information flowed into the man’s computer as he did the research. So he buys it, unaware, and sends the money. The painting will arrive today. The plane gets in at noon, the painting gets delivered an hour later, according to this information, since the man is throwing a party in celebration an hour after it arrives. The party time is listed as two, thus the painting arrives at one, an hour after the opera lands. Putting that together with hotels, things like that, and that one member at the least is shady, we can link these together.”
“You put a lot of thought into something that could easily be nothing.” John told Sherlock.
“I realise that…but sometimes you have to go with your gut feeling more than anything else.”
John nodded, “I know. After Afghanistan, Lord knows I know. I’ll believe you here, Sherlock. What do we do?”
“We go to the airport and wait with the opera fans.” He replied, “They’re sure to be waiting for the plane to land. We’ll blend in, wait, and make sure to take care of matters.”
“You mean, you’ll read them?” John asked.
Sherlock nodded, “Yes, when they arrive, I’ll read them and we’ll at least have some suspects.”

******************************
Having taken an early lunch, Sherlock and John stood at the airport, amongst a crowd of others, most of various ages. Some were older, in their fifties or later, while some were as young if not younger than Sherlock and John. They tried to mingle in the older group first, to collect information.
As a few minutes passed, they moved into the younger of the groups, asking them questions. Both groups seemed reasonably knowledgeable, but Sherlock stuck to the older, feeling more at home with their intellect and maturity.
February was still cold, resulting in their heavier coats. Sherlock was wearing the same type he always had, and had simply replaced his ripped apart coat. Abandoning his grayish scarf this day, he rather wore a red coloured scarf. Underneath he wore his usual white button-up shirt with a black waistcoat. Different on this day, however, he wore tan/white coloured slacks with higher boots, appearing to be more like motorcycle boots, rising halfway up to his knees, his pants tucked inside of the boots.
John was wearing the same as earlier, unlike Sherlock, who had to change from a dressing gown before departing. John had a different winter coat, however, in a less ‘dashing’—as Holmes had put it—style. He wore his same dark boots, but tucked under his pants, unlike Holmes, and his were also shorter. He still held his cane as always, though started to feel as though he could change soon, with his leg recovering. He already noticed he was putting less weight on the cane.
As the members of the opera group emerged from the plane—a private plane, apparently—Sherlock stood on guard, watching as they all passed by in turn. Eight people left the plane, five men, three women.
“Can you tell me who those people are?” Sherlock whispered to a seemingly good wealth of knowledge in the form of an older man by the name of Mr. Wilkins.
The Scottish man nodded, “Yes. You see that first person? He’s the lead in this opera, his name is Richard Menzina. Then that next man is Carlos Scott, and then there’s Adam Smith, and the last one is Gregory Gerald.”
“Those are the blokes, the women?” Sherlock asked, directing Mr. Wilkins’s gaze to the three women intermingled in the line as it moved through the more ‘rabid’ fans. As rabid as opera fans could get, at least.
“Aye. The first woman is the female lead, her name is…” He tried to recollect, “My age, you know, my mind isn’t what it used to be.”
Sherlock was paying more attention to the passing group. He cocked his head, looking somewhat sideways into Wilkins’s face, “That’s fine. Think as you can.”
As Sherlock went back to watching, the man remembered, “Right, that first one, the female lead, is Jillian Read. Then the middle one is Irene Adler, the lead singer for most of the operas, and the last is Alicia Gerald, Gregory’s sister.”
Holmes nodded, “Ok, thanks for your information, Mr. Wilkins.” He held his hand out, shaking hands with the man, “It’s been a pleasure, hopefully I’ll see you at the opera. You…intrigue me.”
John looked curiously at Sherlock and the man as they spoke. The man laughed, clapping Sherlock on the back and letting him be on his way. As the two men left, John turned to his partner, “What is it about that man?”
“Oh? You mean what I said?” Sherlock questioned, “Nothing, I just told him that to make him feel good, in case we run into him at the opera, and to leave.”
“What do you mean by ‘we’?” John demanded, “I hate opera, Holmes.”
Sherlock clasped John on the back, “Come now, Doctor Watson, broaden your horizons! The New Jersey Opera should be enlightening, don’t you think?”
“Again, I hate opera.”
“Well, I’ll change that. But for now, come. We must get to Mr. Port soon, before the painting arrives!”
“Did you learn anything, though?” John questioned.
Sherlock shrugged, “Not yet. Either I’m wrong, which I doubt, or, our target is very good at playing this game.”

******************************
After being turned away at the door by Mr. Port, Sherlock and John began to walk back the way they had come, down the expanse of lawn that led to the man’s home.
“How couldn’t he have believed us?” John questioned.
“He purchased a painting for millions, and now two strange men appear at his door and claim that said painting is fake, the real one is still around. You have a cane; I still sport some of my injuries from that bastard in the duster…why should he believe us?”
“When you put it that way, you raise a very good point.” John replied.
As they finally got out of the yard, Sherlock motioned for John to follow him. He walked across the street, to a store. Being inside of London would help, as the stores opposite of the houses would hide them. In this particular part of London, residence and shops were intermixed, allowing houses on one side of the street, and shops on the other, spreading thicker inward. Getting into an alley between two of the shops, they watched the house.
“It’s nearly time.” Sherlock said softly.
Five minutes passed, and then ten. It was five after one by the time they saw someone approaching the house. Dressed in a thick coat for warmth, and carrying a large package under their arm, this person was hard to distinguish. Male? Female? Young? Old? Not even Sherlock’s skills could start to put it together, yet.
As the painting changed hands, the person turned and started back, away from the house, but in no real hurry. Not to appear rushed due to handing over a forgery, but also not too slow, as this person wanted to get away, just in case.
By the time the person reached the end of the yard, they could see that this was a woman. Not only that, but Sherlock had been correct. This woman was one of the three from the opera group.
“If the time was announced in the paper, why aren’t more people here?” John raised the point of, “Thieves, I mean?”
“That is an excellent point, my dear Watson.” Sherlock replied, looking around, “They could be waiting for the party to do something. Shh, keep your voice down, I hear footsteps.”
The alley continued down, forming a reflected ‘7’. Sherlock and John ducked into an opening in a wall, leading to a door into the building next to them. Keeping out of sight, they could hear someone entering where they were a moment ago.
The person took a step back, and they could hear whoever it was brace against the wall, out of sight of the street, and around the corner. Then they could hear someone else entering the alley from the house, possibly the woman from the opera group.
“Well, now, I’ve been waiting.” A man said, walking around the corner. He had a distinct northern inflection on his accent, much like Sherlock. His voice held depth, but as well a sort of raspyness about it, making his voice seem low.
“Well, I have a guest.” The woman said in a distinct American accent, as assumed. The voice was soft, yet carried strength behind it, as if ready, “You want the painting, right?”
“Everyone but that fool you tricked knows otherwise.” The man said, “You did well tricking that man. We want you for your skills, rather than for a simple painting. You’ll come, or I’ve been told to eliminate you.”
“You’re a smart man, Michael…”
“How do you know my name?” He demanded.
“You don’t think I came here without doing my research, now, do you?”
“Fine, you know my name. Now, what was your point?” The man, Michael, hissed.
“You’re smart enough, and your employer has to be smarter, to know that I’m not the forger. I’m just his fence, selling the paintings.”
“But if we control you, we as well control the paintings you come into ownership of for resale. Then we change prices, pocket a sum, and give enough to your supplier to appease him.”
“Tempting offer…”
“You’ll accept, or you’ll die.”
“You would kill me? Your employer wants me, you know.”
“But he gave me permission to eliminate you if you present a problem, so I will do as ordered, if you don’t come along.”
As they spoke, Sherlock was working on the locked door, as silently as possible. He put a finger to his mouth to silence John, and opened the door. He slipped inside and left it open a crack. He rushed out of the back room of the store and hurried through, back outside. He went around the corner, stopping and peeking out around the corner at the meeting.
He could see that the man Michael was indeed the man whom had bested him during the last case. He couldn’t make out the woman’s identity from behind, due to the hood that was up, blocking a view of what her hair would look like. But then again, two of the women were brunettes, one was blonde. It wouldn’t give him a definitive, unless it was the blonde.
“I’m not going to go with you, or work for your employer, whoever he may be.” The woman said, “I’m sorry Michael, but I’m not playing your game.”
“Then I’ll have to eliminate you.” Michael simply said without a shred of remorse. He lifted his metal baton and took two steps forward, rushing her. He lifted it to his left shoulder, getting ready to strike.
He slashed it down, but she ducked. Her hood came off, revealing her a as a brunette. As she rose again, she leapt back to avoid the second slash. Her coat came off, slipping to the ground. She kicked it aside.
Sherlock could see that she was apparently ready, based on her clothing. She had on lightweight clothing, brown pants, boots in a female’s design—unlike what Sherlock and John wore—a white long-sleeved shirt with an open collar.
As he lifted his weapon for another swing, the woman plunged her right hand into her pocket and quickly drew it out, throwing something at Michael. Sand from her pocket struck his eyes, blinding him, making him cry out.
In a flash, the woman moved, striking the man at the elbow and wrist with swift, powerful blows, making him release the weapon. She took it up as it fell, catching it in her right hand, and swung it across his face, slamming him onto his knees on the ground. He opened his mouth to cry out, panting already, unable to clear the sand away.
She acted quickly, as he stumbled forward; she beat the baton across his back twice, striking him in the kidneys. She moved, seemingly aware of Sherlock watching, not wanting to turn just yet to allow her face to be seen. She moved back in front of him, kneeing him in the diaphragm.
As soon as his mouth was open as he screamed in pain from the kidney shots and his breathing problems, she plunged her hand into her left pocket, taking out a small gloss bottle with redish brown dust or particles. Popping the top off with her thumb, she threw it forward, into his nose, into his open mouth.
He started to violently cough and choke. He crumpled to the ground, gasping, reaching his arm out, while his other arm was at his throat, trying to get it out.
“It’s just cinnamon powder.” She said smugly, “It’ll burn for a while, but it’s not fatal by any means…unless you already have breathing problems. But you’re healthy, Michael. Be thankful.”
As he managed to cough some out, he managed to speak, “You bitch!” He shouted.
“You dare to call me as such?” The woman questioned, “I thought you British had more honor…no, wait, ‘honour’.” She spoke the second time with an ‘oor’ sound after the ‘n’, to mock Michael.
As Michael lay on the ground, John was about to move. Sherlock stepped away from the wall, about to walk into the alley proper.
“Mr. Holmes, is it not?” The woman questioned, turning to him, “You see, I did research. You are him, correct?”
“I am.” Sherlock answered, studying the woman’s attractive face, her powerful blue eyes, “And you are Irene Adler.”
“You could have hidden elsewhere.” She said, “I’m surprised you chose here to hide. And I’m surprised you got that door unlocked without myself or Michael there hearing you.”
“Just who are you, Irene Adler?” Sherlock questioned.
“A woman who knows what she wants, knows how to get it, and can outclass any man there is. Just ask Michael.” She tilted her head down to the downed assailant.
“These wounds I have are from Michael.” Sherlock said, “How could you defeat him so easily? I couldn’t, and I’m sure I’m more skilled than you are.”
“I have tools.” She replied, “The sand, the powder…and no, I’m more skilled than you. You’re mistaken, Holmes.”
“Do you want to try that theory of yours?” Sherlock questioned, drawing up into a fighting stance, “Though I’ll say, I don’t want to fight a woman.”
Irene took a step towards the small section where John hid. She held her hand out, “Sherlock will need a weapon.” She told him.
He didn’t want to give her his cane, but knew she was right, and Sherlock would need it. But why did he trust her? It was part of her allure, her way of manipulating and using people.
It was why she was so dangerous.
John handed her the cane, leaning against a wall so he could keep pressure off of his leg. He stepped out so he could watch what was about to happen.
Irene threw Sherlock the cane. He took it and span it around, taking grip on the inside, just before the curve.
“This is going to be fun.” Irene said.
“I use singlestick, you’re outmatched.” Sherlock said.
“You think singlestick can beat me?” She questioned, “No.”
“I lost to Michael, but I know I can beat you. You’re all speed, no power.”
“Then how did I get this from him?”
“Good point.”
She leapt forward, drawing it back to the left of her head, and slammed it down, like Michael always had.
Sherlock took a step back to avoid the swing. As it followed through, Irene kicked Sherlock with her left leg into his right side. He stumbled back from the blow, careful not to cry out from the pain, lest she throw powder into his mouth.
She swung again, again, drawing back to the side of her head. This time, Sherlock watched closely as he dodged back, making sure to avoid the blow, and that she wouldn’t throw another strike.
She didn’t. Instead, she stepped through and span her baton around, putting it point down, for whatever good that would do her. She swung with it like that, but it wouldn’t be a worthwhile attack.
Sherlock stepped back to avoid it again. This time, he plunged his cane forward, but she parried with the downward facing baton. She pushed his cane aside and came forward, giving him an elbow to the gut, and then quickly followed up by ramming the point down end of the baton onto the kick wound, driving it as hard as she could.
As he couldn’t help but cry out, she followed through with a twist of her body and a knee to the spot, dropping Holmes as she struck his kidney. He panted, pained, waiting for the same fate that had befallen Michael.
“Drop it.” John threatened, lifting his firearm behind her.
She turned around, dropping the baton. She gave a slight smile, “The soldier, eh? I didn’t know you were carrying that with you.”
“Habit, after our last case.” He answered, “Now, you’re coming with…”
Before he could finish, she leapt back, over the top of Sherlock, and dashed left, getting out of the alley and out of sight into the street.
“Damn it!” John shouted, hopping to Sherlock’s aid. He took his cane and helped Sherlock up to his feet, “Should we go after her?”
“If she doesn’t want to be found, we won’t find her.” He replied.
“Not even you?” John questioned.
Sherlock shook his head, at a loss, “No, not even me. This woman’s skills are incredible, I must admit. I doubt I could find her if I needed to. We’ll have to go on our own way for now, and probably inform Mr. Port of the forgery.”
Sherlock started out, holding his side as he walked. John hobbled beside him.
“Ok then, what are we going to do next?” He asked.
“I think we should cheque up on our old friends, Davies and Walker.” He replied, “See what they’re up to. I believe we forgot about them, have we not?”
John nodded, “Yeah, protecting Mary and learning who was after her was more important than chequeing in on them. The police have records on their locations, correct?”
Sherlock was already reaching for his phone, “Yeah…” He couldn’t find it, “That sly…” He stopped before he insulted her with another word, “She seems to have taken my phone. John?”
John handed his cellphone over to Sherlock. He dialed a number, “Oh, Lestrade, good. Look, I need the locations on Conner Walker and Marilyn Davies. It’s important. Thanks. Also, send some police to the Read household. I’m sure you know the location already, for fear of security after that valuable painting. Good. Thanks, he’s in an alley.” He hung up and handed the phone back.
“Should we call your phone?” John questioned.
“I doubt she’ll be in the area.”
John dialed anyway. They stopped, hearing a ringing beside them.
Sherlock looked inside the dumpster, pulling his phone out. He turned it over, but there was no damage, nothing to indicate any tampering.
“Why would she take it if she wasn’t going to keep it?” John questioned, “Do you have numbers stored in it?”
“No. I memorise them, just in case.” He replied, “But she knows enough that she would figure that out. She wasn’t looking for a specific number, no…then what?”
“Who knows?” John said.
“Was she…playing with me?” Sherlock muttered, cleaning the phone off on a mostly clean napkin that was on top of it. He threw the napkin away again and pocketed his phone, “Well, let’s forget it for now. Let’s head to Mr. Walker’s house.”

******************************
After getting out of the cab, Sherlock and John hurried to the gate. To their surprise, the gate was gone. Sherlock ran past John towards the door, knocking on it pretty rapidly.
The door opened and a fifty-something year old man emerged, “Can I help you?” He asked, annoyed by Sherlock’s knocking.
“Do you know what happened to the previous residents? The Walkers?” Sherlock questioned.
“Of course, I was informed when I bought this place.” He replied, “The father went to prison, the son to child services, and that left the house to the banque. I purchased it. Who are you?”
“Sherlock Holmes, the man who got Walker arrested.” Sherlock said, “That’s all I needed to know. He’s out of prison, you know. Watch yourself.”
“I plan on.” The man replied as Sherlock ran back towards the cab, where John had decided to wait after his partner had sped ahead of him.
“Anything?” John questioned.
“The child is in child services.” Sherlock said, “But otherwise, no. Now, let us make haste in tracking Davies.”
“But if the police information on Walker was so out of date, how do we know Davies will be any different?” John questioned, getting in with Sherlock.
“Because, she had a flat. This was a house. House reverts back to banque, flat is for lease again. However, with the number of available flats at that building, chances are no one was in a hurry to lease that one. Or, she’s still in the building, just not the same flat.”
After about ten minutes, they arrived at their next location. Sherlock and John exited the cab and made their way into the building, inquiring the staff about Davies.
She was located in the same room, and they were given the key after explaining their legal implications, and that they were the ones who helped arrest her in the first place. The staff didn’t seem too concerned about a murderer living with them, as long as the judge had seen fit to let her out on bail.
If only they knew what had actually happened, they might have felt otherwise.
Taking the lift to the fourth floor, the two men approached the second door on the left. Sherlock listened, his ear to the door. He took the key from John and opened the door. When they walked in, there was nobody.
Sherlock put his finger to his mouth in instruction to remain silent. He crept from the main room into the kitchen, into the loo, and finally, to the bedroom, the only closed door. He pushed his ear against it, listening.
He nodded to John, and prepared to make his move. He crouched down, examining the lock on the door. It was unlocked, just closed. He rose, John at his side. He flung the door open and took a step inside, resulting in a cry from the bed.

******************************
“Once more, we are very sorry for such an intrusion.” Sherlock said, almost unable to look the young woman in the eyes. Her companion had left them, having no business of any kind there.
“You ruined my afternoon.” She simply said, “And my life, if it weren’t for Judge Morstan.”
“You murdered your fiancé and another man.” John accused, “You tried to steal from them! You brought a gun to the banque to insure you got what you wanted!”
“But I got bail.” She said smugly, “I’m fine, don’t you see?”
“All I see…” Sherlock said, locking his fingers, resting his elbows on his legs, gazing out over his linked fingers, “Is that someone is pulling the strings. You’re needed by someone for something, as is Walker, as is that assassin, Michael, as is Irene Adler. Who is this person behind it all?”
“There’s nobody behind anything.” She said.
“Please, I know your type.” Sherlock said, “Young, attractive, able to get whatever they want. There’s no way you would have been able to figure out that killing Mr. Hall and your fiancé would result in such a high sum as a payout. I’m sure you never heard of Mr. Hall until your employer told you about him. I’m sure you never even dreamt of what was happening. Now, the engagement, part of this man’s game, or, your own plot? I as well know that you couldn’t be working on your own accord, because you aren’t smart enough to pull off a locked room or poisoning like that.”
He was able to refer to the employer as a man, as per Michael and Irene’s conversation earlier. That was all he really could do, to try to get as close as he could. Though it wasn’t much, it was all he could do.
She leaned forward, a smug grin still on her face, “You know, my afternoon may have been ruined, but you and I could…”
“No.” Sherlock said flatly before she finished, “John, she’s hiding something, is she not?”
“A deflection, simple.” He replied, “I don’t need to have your knowledge of psychology and human behaviour to know that.”
“Believe what you will.” Marilyn simply stated.
“What I believe is the fact of the matter. There is an employer. Now, I want to know why, or I can have you in prison again.” Sherlock said.
“For what? I did nothing wrong, mate.”
“You’ll slip up. You were bailed out by someone for some reason.” Sherlock said, “Who bailed you out?”
“My parents.”
“Why?”
“So they wouldn’t see their daughter rotting in a cell.”
“Likely story.” Sherlock said, “How would they get that much that quickly?”
“What’s this about?”
“I just want to know who bailed you out. The man you work for?” He pressed.
She leaned back, satisfied, “You aren’t the police, I don’t need to say anything to you. And I could call the police for you breaking into my flat.”
Sherlock held up the key, “I could have broken in easily, but this approach is so much easier. The staff was more than happy to give me a key, when I explained the situation to them, minus the fact that you killed two men, which they knew.”
“Leave my flat.” She said simply.
John and Sherlock looked to each other. While John was already heading out, Sherlock stayed behind another moment.
“I’ll get you.” He said, rising, “I’ll get you and Walker.”
“Walker?” She questioned, “You mean that idiot, Conner Walker?”
“Yes, that’s him.”
“You want to know where he’s hiding?” She questioned.
“Why would you tell me?” He questioned back.
“We were stuck in the same cell at one point. He’s a smartarse bloke who I cannot stand. Even in prison he was still the man he was outside. I’m sure you know some about him.”
“Enough to know what you’re talking about.” Sherlock replied, “Now, where is he?”

******************************
John walked into the loo of a local restaurant. He looked at the clothes soaking in the sink, and the man standing in the corner, rinsing off one shirt.
“What a fall from grace, Mr. Walker.” John said.
The man looked to him, shocked, “You bastard! You ruined my life!” He shouted, rushing forward, his hands ready to strangle John.
John lifted his firearm, stopping Walker’s advance, “Now, how is it that Marilyn Davies is living the life she had before…with more sex, and you’re stuck living out of a loo?”
“I wasn’t good enough.” He hissed, “I was released, but given no payment for my time!”
“What are you getting at? An employer?” John demanded.
Walker said no more. He backed away and went back to his things.
“That’ll be all, Mr. Walker.” John said, putting his firearm into his coat pocket and hobbling out.

******************************
As night fell, both men dressed in their best suits for the opera. As the production of ‘Madama Butterfly’ went on, Holmes kept his attention focused on Irene Adler.
“It’s curious, John.” Sherlock whispered to his companion, “Four male roles, two female, yet there were three women. Irene is on stage, so it’s not a scam of some sort for her to be here…”
“Understudy, perhaps?” John suggested, “Or, they thought they might need a replacement?”
“But why?” Sherlock whispered back.
“Irene could have lied about something or another.” John said, “Maybe she’s trying to plot by faking ill? So that she has to be replaced?”
“Very possible. Thank you, my good Doctor.” Sherlock said, thanking his friend for his medical viewpoint on the situation.
They paid more attention to the opera from this point on. It was going to be open until Valentine’s Day, this was but the first, and nothing went wrong. Whatever Irene was up to, it wasn’t that night.
As the opera came to an end, Sherlock and John remained as long as they could, waiting to see the cast, if possible. They moved quickly to their waiting transportation, and departed. With all the people trying to see them, it was hard to see anything, though they could see the brunette going by.
“Well, there goes Irene, then.” Sherlock said.
“Are you sure?” John questioned.
“Why would she switch places with the woman who wasn’t on stage?” Sherlock questioned, “Now, let’s head back to the flat. We’ll figure out what to do in the morning.”

******************************
Upon their drive back, John was dropped off at a department store in town. He said he would hail another cab when he needed it. Sherlock continued on his own to Baker Street, and ascended the stairs alone.
He opened the door, and when he stepped in, smelled smoke. The smoke of the fireplace. He could see the light in the far corner, as well as feel the heat radiating over. He closed the door, “That was a good trick you pulled.”
Irene rose from Sherlock’s easy-chair and turned to him, “I figured you would be the type to wait around, to watch, to lie in wait.” She smiled, “I played on that, had my understudy go in my place, and crept out a service door. Getting in here isn’t very hard, you know. Might want some security.”
Sherlock moved towards her, “What is it that you want, Ms. Adler?”
“No need for such formality, Sherlock.” She said, “I simply came here to see you.”
“What for?”
“How’s your wounds?”
He touched his side, “What’s your point?”
She walked past him, into the kitchen area, “You see, I wanted to mock you. You may expose what I did, that the buyer is a pathetic idiot who didn’t do enough research, but I’ll still be out of here, still have the money, and won’t be caught.”
“I will catch you.” Sherlock said, turning to face her, “I could take you right now.”
“You could now, could you?” She questioned, “I’d like to see you try.”
Sherlock shook his head, “Do you know anything about that man, Michael, and his employer, that you could share with me?”
“I know of him. I know who his employer is. Or at the least, I can assume.” She told him, taking a seat at the table.
“Well then, will you tell me?” Sherlock questioned.
A sly smile spread across her fair lips, “Well, Sherlock, I know how good you are. You’re an incredible detective, and you possess an incredible mind. You should be able to figure this out on your own, shouldn’t you?”
“Why won’t you tell me?” Sherlock demanded.
“Because that takes away the fun. I found my links on my own, and I’m not a European. You know the place better than I do, so shouldn’t you be able to figure it out better than I could have?”
“Stop these games!” Sherlock snapped, “People have died! Their lives ruined! I need to be able to do this!”
“What do you know?” She questioned.
“I can assume that various criminals, some of whom I myself put away, seem to be in connection, presumably all working under the same person. I need to know the person.”
“Then go after the people whom you arrested.” She told him, “Ask them for the information.”
“I tried. I don’t get anywhere.”
“Well then, that’s more your problem.” She rose, “I looked over the files that your companion, Watson, wrote. Marilyn Davies…Conner Walker…interesting cases. I can confirm they are linked, and connected to your foe.”
“Why can’t you tell me more?” Sherlock demanded.
“That would ruin the fun of the game.” She said with a smile, mocking his choice of words of ‘the game is on’. How she knew he said that was beyond him.
“Just who are you, Irene Adler?” Sherlock questioned.
“I’m just a woman who appears to be your better.” She replied, rising from the chair. She walked towards the door, casting one last glance over her shoulder at Sherlock, “Until the next we meet, Sherlock.” She gave him a wink and walked out of the room.

******************************
“What was that about last night, John?” Sherlock asked over breaking of their fast.
“I stopped at a jeweller.” John answered simply.
“Why would you do that?” Sherlock questioned.
“Are you that dense?”
“Apparently.” Sherlock replied, “Now, what did you need there?”
“A ring.”
Sherlock gave no answer.
“Sherlock?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t you have anything to say?” John questioned.
“Why would you need a ring?” He asked.
“For Mary.”
“What about her?”
John shook his head, “You can’t be this dense. You’re screwing with me. Anyway…isn’t it obvious?”
“Apparently not.”
“I’m going to propose to her.”
“Why would you do something like that?” Sherlock questioned.
“Because I love her!” John snapped, “I’m going to ask her to marry me. I needed a ring before the fourteenth.”
“Why? What’s important about that date?” Sherlock questioned.
“You really don’t know more than you need to, do you?” John questioned, “Valentine’s Day.”
“Clichéd.” Sherlock simply said.
“Screw you, Holmes. I thought you would be happy for me.”
“What does it mean for me?” Sherlock questioned, “It means that you leave. It means that I have nobody once more. I’ll be alone, and you know what happened to me when I was alone.” He directed at his arm, “I started using.”
“I’m sorry; Sherlock, but…I love Mary. I’m going to marry her, if she’ll have me. I’m terribly sorry for what it’ll do to you, but my life is important too.”
Sherlock rose from his chair, “Well, let’s go.” He said, taking to his room to change, “We have to go and find Walker and Davies.”
“Why?” John questioned.
“Irene was here last night!” He called from his room, “From what she said, we have to find them again!”
John rose from his spot at the table and headed to his room to change, “What did she know?”
“More than we do, but she’s not really talking.” Sherlock replied, “We have to dig ourselves.”
“We tried.”
“We’ll try harder.”
In a few minutes, Sherlock and John came from their rooms, fully dressed. John had olive green/gray cargo pants and a black long-sleeved shirt, as well as his usual boots and cane. Sherlock was dressed in his black trousers, white button-up shirt, and black waistcoat, with his boots under his slacks.
“Let’s pay a visit to Davies first.” Sherlock said.

******************************
By the time that Sherlock and John arrived by coach, they found police at the building. Sherlock moved towards the closest officer, asking who was in charge. He forced his way through the police line and called out.
“Hopkins!”
As police were pulling Sherlock away, a young man, a bit younger than Sherlock, moved towards them. He lifted a hand, “It’s fine, he’s with us. It’s Sherlock Holmes.”
The police left them alone. John joined them inside the line. He got a look at the protégé that Holmes had mentioned before. The man was perhaps in his late twenties, thirty at the most. He had a stature under Sherlock’s, but had the same wiry frame. He was dressed in a wool coat for the season, but it was open to reveal a suit and tie to help signify him as a detective. Black slacks and shoes helped him to fit into the more ‘proper’ guideline of how a detective was to look. He had curly brown hair and a face with a well defined nose and sharp, watchful eyes.
“What has happened here?” Sherlock asked, pressing for details.
“It seems that someone murdered one of the released criminals.” Hopkins answered, “The Judge Morstan incident.”
Sherlock nodded, “Very familiar with it. I was involved. Now…that can only mean it was Marilyn Davies, was it not?”
Hopkins nodded, “Yes, it was her. Because you’re here, no official announcements have been made about a murder, and the fact that you could guess who it was, that means you were here to see her, were you not?”
Sherlock gave a smile to his student for his skills, “Yes, exactly. I was trying to get information out of her, involving the person who hired her, presumably Conner Walker, and the assailants involved in the Judge Morstan case.”
“Well, she’s dead, so you won’t get anything.” Hopkins said, “You could try that other bloke you mentioned.”
“He wasn’t as open.” John stated, “I spoke to him, trust me, Marilyn was a fountain of information compared to that desert that was Walker.”
“We could bring him in, force him to talk.” Hopkins said.
“He’ll lawyer out.” Sherlock said, “And, no reason to bring him in. Nothing to charge him with.”
“He’s living out of the loo at a restaurant. That’s something.” John said.
“Shall I see it done?” Hopkins asked.
Sherlock shook his head, “No, forget about it. We’re going to find another way. Until next we meet, Hopkins!” Sherlock waved as they departed.
“Well, now what?” John questioned.
“We see the only other person I can think of who can help.” Sherlock said, hailing a cab.

******************************
Getting out at a gentleman’s club, John was confused, until Sherlock put his mind at ease that it wasn’t a strip club, but a proper gentleman’s club.
“If you know that, then why don’t you know things like Valentine’s Day?” John questioned.
“When speaking of this place, the confusion has come up in the past.” Sherlock explained, “However, with Valentine’s Day, I block it out.”
“Why?”
He touched his pocket, feeling his lighter. John didn’t have to hear words to know his answer, or to know what he was touching.
Sherlock knocked on the door, awaiting someone to come. When the door opened a crack, Sherlock said, “Sherlock Holmes, here to see Mycroft Holmes. Doctor John Watson accompanying me. Neither of us are members, but we wish to see my elder brother, your co-founder.”
“How do I know you’re who you say you are?” The man demanded.
“Exclusive club.” John whispered. Sherlock nodded.
“The Diogenes Club wasn’t named for Diogenes the Cynic, rather, the Greek explorer.” Sherlock said.
The door opened, allowing the two men to enter. The man closed and locked the door after them, “This way.” He said, leading them down the warm, lit, well furnished hallway.
John looked into rooms as they passed. Some were larger, with men gathered, talking in easy-chairs, or playing billiards. Some were smaller, more private rooms with two or three easy-chairs, many books in shelves, and a personal fireplace and sometimes a personal mini-bar.
“How did you know to say that?” John asked Sherlock.
“Mycroft told me.” Sherlock replied, “He said if I ever had to get in, to use that.”
“So, what is your brother like?” John asked.
“My elder by seven years. He’s a brilliant man. If you think I’m brilliant, then he’s even more so. He has a gift far exceeding mine in the terms of deduction and analysis, but, alas, there is one downside to him. He is exceedingly lazy in comparison to me. As a boxer, swordsman, and more, I’m active. As a consulting detective, I’m active through the city. Mycroft? He prefers to lounge around here at his club rather than do anything with his gift.”
By the time Sherlock finished, the man told them to enter a larger, but yet private room. There were three easy-chairs, with the central chair occupied by a man in his early forties. He had a belly on him, as Sherlock had implied with his lazy nature. He was a large man as a result, but not obese large, not in any health dangers.
He had a bald spot on the top of his head of brown hair. He had a beard developing, but it kept close to his face. He was dressed in a brown suit with a brown tie, white shirt underneath, and brown trousers with slippers, considering the quality of the club and the relaxation he found in its walls.
“Ah, Sherlock!” He exclaimed in a northern accent, just like his brother. His voice was a little deeper, huskier, than his brother’s.
“Mycroft, I have a favour to ask.” Sherlock said, cutting right to the chase.
He motioned for them to take their seats.
Sherlock and John took the seats provided for them. Sherlock leaned forward, interlocking his fingers, gazing over them, “Mycroft, I have use of your connections.”
“Which ones?” Mycroft asked.
“I need to speak to an American agency, for one.” Sherlock stated, “About a woman, a fence, named Irene Adler. She knows too much that I don’t, and seems to have killed a woman I was about to speak to about something that seems to be going on behind the scenes.”
“So you want Irene arrested?” Mycroft questioned, “She’s on British soil, why not use the police?”
“I can’t prove anything, yet.” Sherlock said, “Not even the forged painting.”
“Ah, ‘Woman III’.” Mycroft said, nodding.
“Yes.” Sherlock replied, “But I believe if she has some record in America, I can find something useful to use against her.”
“I’ll contact MI6 to get you the CIA.” Mycroft stated nonchalantly. To John, it was as if Mycroft was used to referring to such organizations in such a way, as if he had them in his pocket.
“Thank you.” Sherlock said, rising from his chair, “If anything occurs, give me a call.”
“I shall.” Mycroft replied, “Dear brother, can I talk you into joining us? It would make it so much easier to get into here.”
“I would join, Mycroft, but I cannot stand having to do things like sit through meetings about this place. As much as I would like to use this place for my studies, I’m sure they wouldn’t appreciate my using this place for chemistry and the like.”
“Very true.” Mycroft said, “Well, until we next meet.”
Sherlock nodded to him, and departed with John, this time, just the two of them to the door, rather than the escort.
“What was that about?” John questioned, “About MI6 and the CIA?”
“Mycroft has connections, and often works with MI6.” Sherlock said, “Gets paid a lot better than I do, too, even for less work. However, he sits around. I prefer to be active.” He shrugged, “Well, anyway, because of said connection, he can as well contact the CIA through them, and the like.”
“And they’ll give us information?” John asked.
“We can only hope.” Sherlock replied.

******************************
During the night of the 12th of February, 2011, John and Mary dined at a well known restaurant in London.
“Valentine’s Day is coming up.” Mary stated simply to John.
“Yes, it is indeed. A good thing I met you first.” He replied, “Or the day wouldn’t matter as much.”
She smiled at him, “Well, I was thinking…we have each other, and Sherlock…he has no one, does he?”
“He’s not the type of man to get involved that easily.” John replied.
“Well then, how is he?” Mary questioned.
“He’s not looking for the things most people look for…I don’t think. Most people are attracted to beauty, but if I know Holmes as well as I think I do, then he won’t care as much about that, but rather, the mind of the woman. She would have to be at least around his intelligence level, clever like him, and…well, just like him, almost.”
Mary smirked, “From what I know from my few interactions with him during the case, that’ll be hard.”
“He did have a woman, once.” John said, taking a drink of his water, “He tends not to talk about her.”
“He did?” Mary was shocked to hear this, “Who was she? What happened?”
John shook his head, “You know, it’s supposed to be about us tonight, but you’re more obsessed with Sherlock.”
“He doesn’t seem like a human.” She admitted to him, “But hearing this makes him sound like any of us. It makes him sound more like a human, less like the enigmatic genius that many in the public believe him to be.”
“Ok, I understand.” John said, “Well, I don’t know much about her.” He shrugged, “Sherlock didn’t tell me much. He didn’t say what she was like, where they met, what their relationship was like. What he told me, though, was that she made him a better man. When she was slipping away from him, he did all he could think of to keep her around, but believed that he made things worse inadvertently. He said he wasn’t good at the affairs of the heart. One day…he just woke up, and she was gone, with everything she had, except for a lighter, which Sherlock still has and uses, because it’s all he has left of her. I don’t know the nature of their relation, but based on the way that Sherlock spoke of her, and how he is any other time…I’d have to say it was a pretty good thing they had. That he was probably in love with this woman.”
“What was her name?” Mary asked softly.
“McKenzie Williams.” John replied, “Does it mean anything to you?”
“No, it doesn’t.” Mary said, “Wow…Sherlock has a sad story. No wonder he’s the way he is.”
“Yeah.” John agreed, “He began to use drugs after she left. Fortunately, I replace some of her void and keep him from using.”
“We should try to find her.” Mary said.
“Why?”
“For Sherlock. He deserves someone, something good, on Valentine’s Day.” Mary said.
“We’ll see.” John said, “I don’t want to hurt Sherlock, I don’t want to go behind his back.”
“I understand.” Mary replied, “If we can’t do anything for him, at least the two of us will still have each other.”
John nodded at her sentiment, and they went back to their meal.

******************************
The next morning, Sherlock let out a cry from his easy-chair. It was a cry of victory.
John hurried out of his room, “Sherlock, you scared me! What is it?”
“I have the call!” Sherlock announced, “From Mycroft’s contacts. The CIA gave me the information they have on her. It would seem that Irene Adler is a fence, as we already assumed. She’s as well linked to a few murders and assaults on important figures in various ways, such as crime linked to diplomats from other countries. She’s someone we have to get, John!”
“The opera only goes until tonight. They leave on the morrow.” John said, “We’ll have to work quickly.”
Sherlock nodded in agreement, “What’s worse is that Irene had an ‘injury’, and is no longer in the show. Her understudy is taking her place…the other brunette. So that means we’re stuck for now. We can’t get her at the opera, so we’ll have to find her, unless she’s already returned to the States.”
“Can’t we find flight records? With the security levels, we’d know if she got onto a flight.”
Sherlock nodded, “I’ll call Hopkins and ask him to do just that. Meanwhile, we can as well get Lestrade to help us set up security at the airports to get her if she tries to leave. Now, all we have to do is find where she was, and if she’s still there.”
“I think the group is staying at the Dorchester.” John said.
“We’ll cheque there, then.” Sherlock said, dialing his phone, “Hopkins, can you cheque flight records for an Irene Adler? Thanks.” He hung up, “Let’s go.”

******************************
On the drive to the Dorchester, John turned to Sherlock, “I have a question, if you wouldn’t mind answering it.”
“Go ahead.” He replied.
“Just what was the nature of you and McKenzie Williams anyway? Your relationship?”
“I was in love with her.” Sherlock replied simply, without bothering to dodge the question, “Or at least, I cared for her more than anyone else. I don’t know if it was love…I don’t buy into that stuff, not that quickly. I cared for her so much…and I don’t know, but I assume she cared about me as well…for a time. When I felt I was losing her to my cold, calculated life in this business, I tried harder…and ruined things with her. And like I said, then she left.”
John looked out the window, unable to look at Sherlock at the moment. He had known Sherlock as almost an inhuman force. Hearing his voice shake as he spoke about his love life like this, about the one woman he wanted, the woman who got away from him…John couldn’t face Sherlock.

******************************
“Irene Adler? With the opera group?” The clerk asked, shaking his head, “I’m sorry, but the rooms are all booked under the New Jersey Opera name.”
“But have you yourself seen her as of late?” Sherlock asked.
“I wouldn’t know.” He replied, “I’m sorry.”
Sherlock nodded to John. The two of them left the front desk and headed for the lift. Sherlock looked to the clerk, “We won’t be but a minute!”
“Wait!” He shouted, “You can’t get in, you know!”
Sherlock smiled as the door closed and they rode up. When it opened, they headed out, quickly finding the rooms. Sherlock chequed each door in turn, but none of them were unlocked. There were four rooms. He assumed two men to a room, one woman in one room, two in the other, or something similar.
Listening, Sherlock was sure nobody was inside the room as he started to pick the first lock. John reminded him, “You thought the same at Marilyn Davies’s flat, and look at that.”
“This is different.” Sherlock replied, opening the door, “There is nobody here this time.”
They quickly searched the rooms, but found only men’s things. They chequed the next, but the same.
The third resulted in only finding one woman’s items. They weren’t Irene’s, based on the blonde hairs on the brush in the loo. Chequeing the final room, only one woman’s items. They took a quick cheque of her personals, and found that it wasn’t Irene.
“Blast! She’s gone!” Sherlock shouted, shaking his head, “No matter, we’ll get her yet.” He pulled out his phone, “Let’s go, John.” He dialed, “Hopkins, anything? No records, ok, thanks.” He hung up and dialed again, “Lestrade. Yes, she’s not here. Get your men in place. Watch the airports. We’ll have her.” He hung up as they entered the lift and headed down. As the clerk was talking to security, he pointed at the two of them, but Sherlock shook his head, “We’re leaving, don’t worry. And like you said, locked.”
The two left without a problem, but were warned not to return. Sherlock shrugged at the thought of it. They had a flat, they didn’t need to return.
“So, now what do we do?” John enquired.
“We return to the rooms.” Sherlock replied, “Or go after Walker.”
“Let’s go to the rooms.” John replied, “I’d rather not see Walker again.”
They hailed a cab, and headed back to Baker Street.

******************************
John returned around ten on the next morning, on Valentine’s Day. He found Sherlock lounging in his dressing gown, in his easy chair, smoking. He rose from his spot at the fire and put out his fag as he heard the door close.
“How was your meal with Ms. Morstan?” Sherlock implored.
“We’re engaged.” John said with a smile, “Isn’t it fantastic?”
“You want to drag me in by using my word. No, it’s not. It’s wonderful for you, yes. But for me? No.”
John shook his head at Sherlock’s manner of looking at what he said, ignoring the big picture for such a small detail. It helped in crime, but not here.
John hobbled over, “Well, anything on Irene Adler?” He asked, taking his spot on his easy-chair. He undid his suit jacket and loosened his tie, dressing up due to the occasion that was presented. He wore a continual smile on his face from the events of the morning.
“No.” Sherlock said, “Nothing yet.” He put out his fag and was about to light another, when a knock came at the door.
Sherlock walked over and opened it. Mrs. Hudson was at the door, with a tray with tea, the paper, and an envelope.
“Mrs. Hudson, I have some wonderful news!” John announced, rising from his chair, coming towards the door to take a cup of tea, “I’m engaged!”
“How wonderful! Are you going to take his name?” She asked, looking to Sherlock.
“Enough of these jokes.” Sherlock said, turning away, taking the paper and envelope, and returning to his chair on the other side of the room.
“Ok, ok.” Mrs. Hudson said, “I guess I can’t say that anymore.”
“Did you ever actually think it?” John asked.
“At the start, yes.” She said, “So, who’s the lucky woman?”
“Mary Morstan.” John replied.
The name had meaning, because of the Judge Morstan case, and because of her staying at 221B Baker Street for some time during the case itself. Mrs. Hudson nodded and smiled to John, congratulated him, and took her leave.
John returned to his chair and sat down, taking a sip of his tea. He looked to Sherlock, who was glancing over the paper, and then put it on the table. He stood up, holding the envelope.
“Ah! What I’ve been waiting for!” He told John, “News of Irene’s capture, no doubt!”
“Why not call?” John questioned.
“I would prefer to get a letter.” Sherlock replied, “That’s who I am.” He stood, walked to the window, took a letter opener off of the shoulder high shelf, and returned to his chair. He cut the envelope opened and pulled the letter out.

[Continued in next post]

[Cass Hoban]

‘Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You must think you are a clever one. Tracking me to the hotel, but not finding me. Chequeing flight records, but only confirming I have yet to leave. Setting up undercover agents and officers from both the police and MI6 who want me, because of the CIA. Good plans, I shall admit, but nothing to one such as me. You will find that all of your best laid plans are nothing. I knew who was real, who wasn’t, in the airports, because I stayed close, watching them. How did I get by them? Money is a powerful thing, Sherlock. Paying a few people off to do certain things to distract those agents…buying a fake passport while I was here…it all worked, don’t you think? I wish I could give you more, but I cannot. The name of your foe is to remain with me. Meanwhile, I’ll go and continue my work, evading anyone who comes after me. Sherlock Holmes…one of the greatest, but not good enough. I’m on top, don’t you see?

Sincerely,

Irene Adler’

“Blast it!” Sherlock shouted, rising to his feet, walking towards the windows. John took the letter from the table and read it over. He looked to Sherlock.
“I’m sorry. I can’t believe she got out! I can’t believe she beat us!”
“Beat me.” Sherlock corrected, “I was her foe in this game she played, not you. It was more my fault than anything else. I should have realised that such a woman was to be more than I could handle as I always handle things.” He shook his head in shame, but a slight smile spread across his face.
He stood tall, clasping his hands behind his back. John watched with Sherlock as a plane flew out in the distance, heading away from London, away from Europe. “There she goes.” Sherlock said softly, “The woman who bested me. My greatest adversary yet, and a better woman than I thought.”
Sherlock reached into his pocket and removed his pack of fags. He drew one out and then reached into his breast pocket for his lighter. He took it, looked at it for a long, hard minute, and then set it on the shelf at his shoulder.
He turned to his left, to the fireplace that sat between the windows. He took a match from the top of it, lit it, and lit his fag. He took a long drag, and then let out the smoke before putting out the match.
Irene may have gotten away. She may have been a very wanted woman, and someone to have defeated the great Sherlock Holmes, but one thing came out of it, at the least.
Sherlock moved on.

[Cass Hoban]

The Adventure of the Ouroboros

As of early May 2011, the cold was starting to die down. It was getting warmer, resulting in less wearing of their larger coats, much to Sherlock’s dismay, for losing his ‘dashing’ coat and scarf to the season changes.
John’s marriage had not yet occurred, but rather, would occur at the month’s end. He already had some of his things from the rooms at 221B Baker Street packed in preparation to move out, presumably, doubting that he and Mary could have a good married life with Sherlock around in the same rooms.
As early as the 20th of February, John had seen Sherlock start to smoke with his lighter, much to John’s chagrin. He didn’t know how Sherlock felt about going back to it, and he didn’t ask. It wasn’t his concern anymore. Sherlock was a powerful man, but he had to have his own crutches in life.
By this time, John’s leg had begun to heal fairly rapidly. He no longer needed his cane, and was able to walk properly, even run a little.
On this day, John was going out for a jog in the morning, testing his leg out. It was a bit difficult, more of a walk, then run a few yards, then walk again, but it was working for him. He was alone in the cold morning, wearing a light jacket, khaki trousers, more comfortable shoes than his boots, and a white sweat absorbing shirt under his jacket, since he was working up a sweat.
John stopped, clutching his knees, panting from his run. He was near an abandoned warehouse. It wasn’t too uncommon for abandoned buildings, like warehouses or pubs or even churches to be nearby the common places he travelled to. Not in London.
Something caught his eye, however, on this day, at this location. He stood tall after taking a breather and walked towards the warehouse, which had a large, sealed door, and a smaller, open walkthrough door.
He walked into the walkthrough because there was a light on inside. He looked at the fairly dim bulb in its metal casing, swinging back and forth, obviously unstable. It was a cold, dark morning, creating gloom. The light did nothing to fight it.
“Ah, I was hoping you would see the light. You see, I know you come this way. I’m glad you’re astute enough to notice such an out of place detail.” A voice said.
John stayed in the doorframe, looking around. He saw a man walking out from behind a metal pillar. The man was in his mid fifties, roughly, and wore a black trench coat. He had a dark coloured suit on underneath, with a gray tie, black trousers, and black accompanying shoes, as if he were someone of class, rather than do something like wear boots, like Sherlock did.
He bore similarities to Holmes in his manner of dress, but some of the small things made him different. His suit was open, unlike Sherlock’s, which was closed at one button. He had a tie with a tie clip; Sherlock wore no tie, and would hate a clip. He had a handkerchief in his breast pocket, Sherlock had no pocket, nor would he use it as a classy man, if he even had it.
This man had a well worn face, but yet, retained fire and vigor. He had piercing blue eyes, a graying beard kept trimmed close to his face, and short blonde hair that stuck close to his scalp. His accent was fairly common, with a hint of Scottish in it, but that was perhaps for flair.
“What?” John questioned, “You watched me?”
The man plunged his hands into his pockets and walked closer, “Doctor John Watson, of course I’ve watched you. You are a person of my interests. You are someone I must have a word with.”
“Then why set up something like this?” John demanded, “Why not come my way? To the flat? I’m sure you know where I live, if you bothered to follow like this.”
“I do know where you live, yes.” The man confirmed, “But I prefer this way. This out of the way place, this odd circumstance that this visit gives off…”
“Are you going to kill me?” John questioned, “I have a gun.”
The man shook his head, holding his hands up as he approached, “I’m sure you do have a gun, Doctor Watson. You were a soldier. Once a soldier, always a soldier, am I right?”
“Yes.” John simply stated.
“Well then, you’d be a fool not to have your gun on you. Ever since the Morstan incident…”
“How do you know about that?” John demanded.
“I’m the one who set it all up.” The man answered, “I’m the man that your mate, Sherlock Holmes, is so interested in finding. Now, as I was saying, and pray don’t interrupt, I’ve watched you. Ever since killing those men I hired, you started to sink into your old mentality from Afghanistan. That’s why you brought your gun on the last leg of the case. That’s why you carried it with you after that, and you would even have it during a jog.
“You don’t hate the War, Afghanistan, your past, Doctor Watson. You love it. You want to embrace it again, don’t you? You miss the danger, the excitement…sure, you can get those with Holmes, but what can’t you get? The killing.”
“I don’t need to kill people.” John told him.
“Maybe not, but you do want to fight, do you not?” He questioned.
John didn’t answer.
“That’s all I need to know.” The man stated, lowering his hands as he stood close in front of John, “I just read you, by the way, just like Sherlock.”
“Just who are you?” John demanded, reaching under his jacket, pulling out his firearm. He didn’t lift it.
“I’m just someone like your mate, that’s all.” The man answered, “I’m no detective, though, my name is James. I’m a professor, that’s all you’ll get from me.”
“What is it that you wanted me to come here for?” John demanded, eager to get on with this, and probably, kill this man.
“I wanted to talk to you, simple as that.” James answered, “More importantly, I wanted you to take something away from this today.”
“What is that?” John demanded.
“A name.” He replied, “I want you to go to Sherlock, and ask him about a name.”
“Why?”
“Because, staying with him will destroy you, John.” James warned, “Sherlock destroys people’s lives. Not only those who he views as criminals, but others, as well. It’s an Ouroboros cycle. That’s why you should leave his partnership, that’s why you should join me. All will be made clear when you ask him about this name.”
“Tell me the damned name!” John snapped, losing his patience with this man.
James smiled, the way a cat smiles when it’s about to pounce on a bird, “Phillip White.” The way he said the name ‘Phillip’ made it sound like ‘Phil-leap’, as a result of his accent.
“Phillip White…” John muttered, thinking the name over. He said the name normally, and tried to think if he had ever heard the name.
He hadn’t.
“Ask Sherlock Holmes about that name, and all will be made clear to you.” James said, “And then, you’ll realise that Sherlock isn’t the man you think he is. He’s a destroyer of lives, Watson, nothing more.”
John turned and left, putting his firearm back into his belt. James walked out after him, his open coat being blown in the breeze.
“When you realise it, John, return here any morning! I’ll be waiting!”
John ignored him, but tucked the information away at the back of his head. He proceeded to jog back towards Baker Street as James returned inside.

******************************
As John hung up his jacket and changed his clothes, Sherlock was sitting and smoking in his easy-chair, noticeably using his lighter yet, having been unable to overcome the symbolism, even with the thoughts of Irene Adler.
Though she may have been a murderer, a fence, and an all around criminal, she was more like Holmes than anyone else that John had ever met, including Sherlock’s own brother, Mycroft. There was a definite connection, even if it wasn’t romantic, between Irene and Sherlock. No doubt that if circumstances were different, she would be his soul mate.
“Ah, John! Pray join me.” Sherlock said, “I could use the company.”
After John had changed his clothes, he took his chair. As Sherlock exhaled a mouthful of smoke, he turned to John, about to say something, but John interrupted him as soon as he opened his mouth.
“Sherlock, who is Phillip White?” John blurted out in question.
Sherlock looked astounded at the name. His mouth stood agape. He closed his mouth, sighed, put his fag out, and turned to face John.
The words were simple.
“He was your predecessor. A man whose life was destroyed by this job.” Sherlock said grimly.
“The job, or you?” John questioned.
“How could you ask such a thing, John?” Sherlock questioned, “How could you ask me if I destroyed the life of the one man, before you, whom I considered to be my mate?” He sounded like he meant it, as if this Phillip had meant a great deal to him.
“Then pray, tell me what happened.” John encouraged.
Sherlock looked down for a few minutes. John sat in silence, waiting for Sherlock. When he looked up, he didn’t look to John, but rather, looked out the window, into London.
“It was five years ago when I first arrived in London.” Sherlock stated, “I was still using drugs at that time, and I had no real place to work, no real expertise outside of chemistry, which wasn’t too conventional. I believed the law to be where I would work, with my various sources of knowledge, but I didn’t care for the police.
“I started up working freelance, but had problems spreading myself, had problems getting people to know about me. Then, one day, I met a young man out of the university, where I was allowed to borrow a lab from time to time. Phillip White.
“You know some about my relationship with Stanley Hopkins, about how I took him under my tutelage and molded him into a protégé of sorts. And then, there’s you, who joined me and picked up my work as we went. Phillip was like a cross. He was smart, like you, and able to pick things up, and then, there were things I explicitly had to teach, like with Hopkins.
“With his help, word spread about my abilities, and we I got more cases. Admittedly, my cases have gone down in number as of late, compared to back then. What…only ten cases since we met? Yes. But because of Phillip, I had many more in much shorter amounts of time.
“I eventually felt that Phillip had learnt enough, and I offered him to be my partner. I knew him for six months; it only took two for me to decide to have him join me.
“The first month, we had one large case that involved multiple stake-outs, thus making it last into the fourth month of us being mates. In the end, however, we probably ended up saving the British government millions of pounds with what we uncovered.
“After that, we had a relatively short case that involved a murder. The victim was a woman, hardly, really. She was a pregnant sixteen year old girl. She was murdered, and we had to find out who and why. It wasn’t the father of the child, or anyone connected to the family. Phillip figured it out. It was only by looking into this woman’s heritage that we found out she was Croatian, and had some connections with a gang of Croatians and some others of mixed heritage. It turns out the connection wasn’t as clear-cut as you would think. She was a sex slave who got killed when she fled. Her parents had said she had run away a week earlier, giving her that much time to work for them. She was killed when, after working for a month with them, she got pregnant from her boyfriend who knew nothing of what she was doing, and when it started to show after she went back, she was killed. In short, the gang was taken down and their rings disbanded.
“Finally…we had one more case, the final month that I knew Phillip. One of Phillip’s old mates from the university, Sandifer, came with a problem. He was being extorted for money. He had a rich lineage hailing from the French bourgeois. He told us that he was told not to tell anyone of what was happening, or he would die.
“He was brave enough to come to Phillip and myself, whilst we were located at Knightsbridge. He told us that they wanted his wealth, or they, whoever they were, would kill him and his family. Seeing as he was the head of the household at this point, there wasn’t much use in going after another member, so he was the target. Then…well, this is the only of our three cases to tell you about Phillip…

******************************
“How did these men approach you? Where did they come from? Where did they find you?” Sherlock questioned across the table to the figure of Sandifer, sitting on a sofa next to Phillip.
Sandifer was a man with light skin, sandy brown hair, and fair features. He looked somewhat frail, but had strength to talk about this case, under the threat of death that he had. He was dressed in a brown suit coat, brown trousers, black shoes and had a white shirt underneath. He spoke with a hint of a French accent, mostly overtaken by a British one.
“They came to my house.” He said, “I don’t know how they found me. But they just parked on the street, walked to my door, and knocked. When I opened it, they forced their way in and started to threaten me. One held me in place whilst the other two drew weapons to drive their threat home on me.”
Sherlock nodded, “I see…” He himself was dressed in his boots, black trousers, white button-up shirt, and black waistcoat, buttoned up. He nodded, “Well, they certainly seem to know a decent amount about you, then.”
“How do you figure?” Sandifer questioned.
Phillip, dressed in dark trousers, black shoes, and a pale white long-sleeved shirt, spoke, “If they were able to just walk in and threaten you, they were sure that nobody else was around. Therefore, they know you well enough to know you live alone, have no security, and would just be able to walk in. And threaten you without you telling, based on who you are as a person. Too bad they didn’t consider the fact that you’re braver than you look.”
Phillip had blonde hair that came down to just above his eyes. He had sharp features, green eyes, and a fast-talking approach to explain things. He carried a working man’s accent in the form of a bit of a lisp.
“I think we’re going to have to set up a stake out, don’t you agree, Phillip?” Sherlock questioned.
“I disagree.” Phillip replied, “What good would that do for us? For all we know, they aren’t watching anymore. And how would we identify them? What if they work through agents?”
“Exactly.” Sherlock answered, looking to Sandifer, “I don’t know what to tell you, I have no plan. I’ll get back to you when something does come up.”
“But…”
“I’m sorry, but that’s all there is to it.” Sherlock said, “Good day.” He started to leave, with Phillip following him a moment later.
“Sherlock, what did you just do?” He demanded.
“I made sure he wasn’t aware of my plan.” Sherlock answered, “Now, we must be off, and fast. We have work to do.”
“You actually have a plan?”
“Of course I do. Who do you think I am?”
“Then what’s your plan?” Phillip pressed.
“Phillip…you need to get a job.” Sherlock said.

******************************
“I set it up so that Phillip would get a job at the Riyad Banque. Once he had the job, he continued to monitor things, watching Sandifer’s account, and chequeing the balance regularly by hand, to be sure it was all still there.
“Then, about two weeks later, something else happened. I returned to see Phillip at Riyad, and found Sandifer there, withdrawing, but it was a different clerk, so Phillip was completely unaware…

******************************
“Sandifer, what, pray tell, are you doing?” Sherlock questioned of the young man.
“I’m withdrawing my sum.” Sandifer answered simply, defiantly, “What does it look like?”
“You’re giving in?”
“You have no plan.”
“Then pray tell, why am I here today?” Sherlock questioned.
“You followed me.”
“You’re not questioning it, you’re stating it. You’re wrong.” Sherlock told him, “I came here because Phillip is here.”
“What is Phillip doing here?” Sandifer questioned.
“He works here. I got him a job to monitor your account. Now listen, we have this worked out, you just need to have patience! We’re almost there!”
“How so?”
“I’ve been told that the account has found some security issues.” Sherlock answered, “Phillip cleared them up, but he told me about them with a programme I got him to utilize. They’re growing impatient, and won’t wait for you forever. They’ll carry the threat through, which is why you need to go into police protection. I was going to get you tomorrow, but today works better.”
“Wait, how did you know I wouldn’t be dead yet?” Sandifer questioned, sitting down on the chairs in the lobby on the far side of the banque.
“Because they tried to hack first, instead of using you. They would try once more, no doubt, due to their persistence. Then you would be extorted, and if not, you would be killed.” Sherlock shrugged, “Less chances hacking than using you directly. If they had to use you directly, it would have gotten dangerous and deadly, and they wouldn’t bother hacking first.”
“You’re not sure on that.” Sandifer said, “I can tell, you’re assuming.”
“I know these types.” Sherlock said, “Trust me, I’m right.”
Sandifer looked around the banque, then back to Sherlock, “Ok, take me to police protective custody, then.”
Sherlock nodded, “Ok, let’s go.” He rose from his seat with Sandifer, and looked to Phillip across the banque. He nodded to Phillip, and the two departed.

******************************
“This was when I first met Detective Inspector Lestrade.” Sherlock said, smiling at the thought, “Oh, how much I changed him!”
“You changed Lestrade into who he is now?” John questioned, “I can’t really see that.”
“I annoyed him with my abilities until he became the harder edged man he is today.” Sherlock answered, “It does good for a detective to have a hard edge, don’t you think?

******************************
“Sherlock Holmes is my name.” Sherlock told the officer at the front desk, “I’m a consulting detective, you know? You should have someone here who knows me, considering I did some work for the police.”
“Could you give me a name?” The woman asked him.
“Yes, Detective Inspector Harrison.” Sherlock said.
“Harrison retired a few months ago.” The woman said, “After a case involving…” She started to pull up files, “Ah, after a case involving a double homicide at a…”
“At a train station, I know, I worked it with him.” Sherlock said, “I solved it with him. And he left after that?”
She nodded, “That was his last case before retiring.”
“Then is there someone else I can talk to here?” Sherlock questioned, “Who replaced him? Harrison was always a good man; I assume someone like him took his place.”
The woman nodded, “I’ll get him. That would be Detective Inspector Lestrade.”
“Lestrade, eh? Sounds like a good man to me.”
The woman left the desk, and moments later returned with another man, with graying hair, a well built body and a sharp face. He was dressed in a black suit with an open front, black tie and a white shirt underneath.
“I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade.” He said, holding his hand out, “Sherlock Holmes, I read about you in Harrison’s notes. It’s a pleasure.”
“Yes, I’m sure it is.” Sherlock said, patting Sandifer on the back, “Look, he needs to go into protective custody for some time. This case is very dangerous, and…”
“You’re a consulting detective, what are you doing working a case on your own?” Lestrade questioned, “And yes, that is an occupation you created, but Harrison had it defined. You work when consulted.”
“I’m freelancing as well.” Sherlock said, “Got to make money somehow, we can’t all just sit around an office, or a desk…or a corpse.” He patted Lestrade on the shoulder, “For hours on end, thinking. I like to be doing.”
“Are you implying that we sit around a body and can’t figure anything out?” Lestrade demanded, raising his voice.
“In a manner of speaking, yes.” Sherlock replied, “That was so often the case when Harrison called me in. Often I would drive in from Cardiff, or Leeds just to come to London, find what the police have missed, and leave again for the most part. I haven’t seen you lot do that much, honestly.”
He smelt his hand after patting Lestrade, “You were at a crime scene recently, I smell the blood and the stench of death. I imagine that to have this strong a smell, yet to look presentable, you were there for some time, and even the hour, two, maybe, that you were back here to clean yourself up, the stench lingered.” He looked to Sandifer, “Well, if you can take him into custody and let me finish my work, I’d appreciate it.”
“You think I would do you a favour after all you’ve just said?” Lestrade demanded.
“You’re the police, of course.” Sherlock replied, “And a man’s life is in danger. You can’t very well just ignore it, can you?”
Sherlock started out, leaving Lestrade and Sandifer behind. Lestrade muttered something that Sherlock couldn’t make out, and pulled Sandifer along towards the inner rooms of the station.

******************************
“I see why he doesn’t like you that much.” John said.
“Yes, but he also has grudging respect for me.” Sherlock replied, “I caused both to happen on that same day. I’m pretty good, aren’t I? Anyway...”
“So, Sandifer remained in police custody, right? What about Phillip and you?”

******************************
Two days passed before Sherlock’s trap could be enacted. He had given Phillip a piece of software to install every day, and to remove every night. Sherlock had a connection that he didn’t tell Phillip much about, but he had saved the man from certain death in a case, or something along those lines, that was all Phillip knew.
Whoever this man was, he made quality software. Every morning, once installed, it would be undetectable as it ran. If someone tried to hack into the accounts again, Philip would have more than just knowledge, as before, he would know the moment it happened, and be able to monitor everything.
Best of all, when they did it, Sherlock had given Phillip enough instructions to be able to lay the trap. Utilizing the software as the hack was happening, Phillip was able to trace the location of the hackers, and call Sherlock to inform him.
Sherlock made his way to the location. Whilst the banque was located on Curzon St., it sat close to S Audley St., which ran up to Mount St., which followed, would lead right to a location outside of Hamiltons Gallery, an art museum.
It took Sherlock only a few minutes to get there by cab. They were close, and probably preferred to be able to keep close in case it worked, and they could change the account data to allow them to withdraw personally, without the need for Sandifer.
Sherlock looked around the somewhat busy street. He saw cars moving, and he saw a few parked. He skimmed the lines of cars, and pulled his phone out.
“Phillip, are they moving?”
“Isolated.”
“Parked.” Sherlock corrected, looking through the windows as he walked past the cars. He caught the one ahead of him showing movement inside. He pretended not to look, but caught a glance inside. Three men and a laptop, with the computer screen running codes. As he walked by, he dropped his wallet. He turned around, picked it up, and as he rose caught the licence number. He put the wallet away and continued to walk, before taking the corner and pulling his phone out again.
“Phillip, I need you to do something for me. I need you to use the programme and send them a message. Tell them…tell them that ‘the game is up’, but we don’t want Sandifer to die. Tell them that we can’t find him, and are sure they have him. If they’re smart, they’ll play along. We’ll bring the ransom to Hamiltons Gallery tomorrow night at midnight. Actually, tell them ‘I’, not ‘we’, or anything like that. Make it singular.”
“Got it, sending it…now.” He could hear Phillip typing the reply to send through the programme.
Sherlock came back around the corner, heading back the way he had come. As he passed the car with the hackers inside, he saw them reading the response, and looking at the gallery. He could tell that by their confused looks, they knew nothing of Sandifer, but decided to go along with it, when he saw the resolve on one man’s face.
Sherlock smiled smugly to himself as he started back towards the banque.

******************************
“Sounds like you had a good plan going.” John said.
“We did. It was the best plan I could think of. Such software really is amazing, you know? He was ahead of our time, making such a thing in 2005 without anyone catching on. I’m just glad he owed me a favour.”
“So, did you guys go to the museum, then? Did you bring the police? Alone?”
“We went alone…

******************************
As the darkness set in, Phillip and Sherlock rushed to the locked doors of the Hamiltons Gallery. Sherlock was quick as ever, pulling out his leather pouch and picking at the lock with his tools. He got them in within moments, and rushed through the darkness, hiding behind walls as he watched for security cameras.
“There.” He said, pointing.
Phillip reached into his pocket and removed a laser pointer. He held it up in the camera’s general direction and pressed the button.
As they moved, Phillip kept the beam in the camera. The video would show a flash of red across the camera, obscuring whatever else was there. Whilst they would know someone was there, they wouldn’t know who. If things went bad, Sherlock didn’t want his identity involved with this, neither did Phillip.
As they moved into blind spots, they were safe. They kept moving, Phillip blocking two more as they continued until they found a longer pathway where they heard voices ahead. The two men crouched behind pedestals holding exhibits, and glanced out into the darkness.
Sherlock’s eyes quickly adapted in such situations. He was able to make out three figures. He motioned to Phillip to give him the number. Phillip nodded his reply, and looked as well, his eyes starting to adapt.
Both men could see that the men were talking to each other, not paying attention in their area. Phillip stayed low, and moved forward, ready to move towards an exhibit about two yards away from where he was crouched. Sherlock wanted to stop him, but couldn’t make a sound to do so, or he would risk alerting the other men.
Phillip stayed in a partial crouch. He reached for the statue, sure that this would have a security trigger, that moving it would cause an alarm to sound. He had done his research, and evidence seemed to point at a pattern. If his pattern was correct, and he believed it to be, this one would have an alarm, since not all of them would, for cost purposes.
“Hey!” One of the men shouted. The three turned in on Phillip, “Who do you think you are? Are you here with the money?” The other two drew handguns, keeping them trained on Phillip, “Well?”
Phillip stood for a moment, silent, unmoving, and then he spoke.
“My name is Sherlock Holmes.” He said, using it as both a signal and distraction for Sherlock to move around his pedestal, going left instead of right, the aisle where Phillip and the men were. He stayed along the wall, keeping low, trying to get into a better position, whilst Phillip continued on, “I don’t have your money. You know, you blokes really should think of a better place to do your hacking, rather than in a car a few blocks away. Makes it easy to spot.”
“Where is the money, then?” The lead man demanded, “If you don’t give it to us, your mate, Sandifer, is dead!”
“You don’t have him.” Phillip said, “It was a bluff. I know where he is, and I know he isn’t with you.” His hand crept closer to the statue, ready to set the alarm off, hopefully, whilst his left hand crept towards his back, to his waistband. He had his handgun there, waiting for him. If he could only grasp his revolver…
Sherlock drew his handgun, a M1911 pistol. He had seven shots, whilst Phillip’s old revolver held six.
“Then this was a trap?” The man demanded, “You have police?”
“No.” Phillip said, “Sherlock Holmes needs no police, just himself.”
Those words would haunt Sherlock for the rest of his life. In context, it made sense. From Sherlock’s view, and no doubt Phillip’s as well, they both knew what he meant.
Sherlock was alone, always, even when he had a partner. He needed no one, but he wanted them. He wanted someone like himself.
Phillip quickly drew his weapon, lifting it in his left hand. He started to pull the trigger, whilst his other hand moved at the statue, but the other two men fired faster, whilst the third, the lead man, pulled his and fired a single shot.
Phillip was struck four times. The first shot went through his chest, the second through his left shoulder, the third into his right hand, stopping him from even knocking it over as he would fall, and finally, through his chest yet again.
“Phillip!” Sherlock shouted, grasping the gun in both hands. He rose from his partial crouch, came up around the pedestal next to Phillip, and lifted his weapon, opening fire three times, missing all of them.
The men began to retreat as Sherlock emptied his last four rounds. He could hear two shots connect. He was an expert marksman, the darkness was no problem.
His loss was the problem.
Sherlock dropped his own gun and took up the revolver. He fired all six rounds, but apparently didn’t hit anything. He was about to give chase, but stopped after two steps. He crouched by Phillip’s body, feeling for a pulse.
Nothing.
“Phillip…” His tears trailed down his cheeks, onto the man’s body, “Phillip…I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”
He could hear police sirens coming. He heard the back door burst open, and heard shouts from the police. At least the criminals were being taken care of.
Lestrade came up to Sherlock, one of the lead men on this alert.
“One camera caught you guys.” Lestrade said simply, “Security guard saw it, decided to call for backup when he recognised you, Sherlock. He wanted us to come, since nothing good could be happening. Turns out he was right to call. We got those three men.” He looked at Phillip, and then to the tearful Sherlock. He put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, “I’m sorry, Holmes.”
“Leave me…” Sherlock said, looking up with his tear filled eyes at Lestrade, “Leave me alone with the man that I killed.”
“You didn’t kill him. You tried to save him.”
“I killed him.” Sherlock muttered, “I drilled it into him so many times. I always told him that logic and reason would win the day. He tried to use logic to confuse them with using my name, to trigger an alarm. He reasoned it would work, and he could fire first. He was wrong, even with surprise; they were trigger-happy, and able to get him first. It’s my fault for not teaching Phillip better…for not making sure he was ready for this…”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t blame you, Sherlock.” Lestrade said, moving away from him, “I’ll get an ambulance ready to remove the corpse.”
Sherlock stayed still, crying into Phillip’s corpse as Lestrade left them in the darkness.

******************************
Sherlock was shaking as he finished his story. John could hear his voice cracking as he told the painful parts about Phillip’s death.
“It worked…they were caught, Sandifer went on to live without any more problems…and the three men were locked up, still in prison. However, we know one more thing about them. We know their motive for that night, for the money. It was for an employer, a mysterious employer who wasn’t named. And after his death…I fell into my habit of drug use.”
“Sounds like the current cases.” John said.
Sherlock nodded, “I thought the same when Ms. Davies spoke to me. I figured that these men were working for the same man. Think about it, John, all of them were involved with monetary affairs. Walker was stealing from the banque, Davies was killing people to get the money from wills, these people were then freed for their schemes to continue, no doubt. At least Irene Adler wasn’t involved. We can at least stop a decent chunk of the inflow of money to whoever this person is. Irene’s sum would have been too much to allow.”
“So…about Phillip…you said you caused his death by teaching him about logic and reason.” John said, “Is that what you still believe?”
“Yes. I molded him. He wasn’t a worldly man, so I made him what I could. You, on the other hand, were already a worldly man. I had no need to teach you in the same way. That’s why I know you can surpass Phillip, even if he’ll never leave my memory.”
“Or you’ll end up destroying me as well.” John said, rising to his feet.
“What? You’re different. I would never be able to do the same to you! You have the knowledge that Phillip lacked! You know what he didn’t! You can avoid the same fate, because I won’t be involved!”
“It doesn’t matter, Sherlock.” John said, “I said at the start, I questioned, if it was the job that destroyed Phillip White, or if it was you. It seems to be you, because of what you taught him.”
“The job was a risky one.” Sherlock said, “I do admit responsibility, but it was the job! The heat of the moment!”
“I don’t believe that.” John told him, “It was you. You destroyed his life, there’s no doubt about it.” John walked to his coat and pulled it on, “I’ll be going.” He said.
“Where?” Sherlock questioned, starting to follow him.
“Nowhere.” John said, walking out the door.
Sherlock rose and rushed into his room, changing from his dressing gown into clothes. He pulled on his white shirt, black suit jacket, trousers and boots. He rushed after John, ignoring putting on a coat. He rushed down, but John was gone.
“Fast for a recovering cripple.” He muttered, rushing off in the direction he assumed John would go.

******************************
“Have you made your choice, Doctor Watson?” James questioned, hands thrust into pockets, walking towards him.
“Yes, I have made my choice.” John told him, “I asked about Phillip.”
“And?”
“Sherlock destroyed him.” John replied, “There is no doubt in my mind about that.”
James looked over John, “I like your style.” He said, “Casual, but refined.”
He wore his black trousers, boots and a red button-up shirt. He nodded to the man as he pulled his worn black leather jacket off, “Thanks. I need to say nothing about your dress. It speaks to me as who you are. Refined, a man of knowledge, of the world? A man who knows what he wants, and how to get it.”
“That’s exactly who I am.” James said.
“So, you know who I am. Could you tell me who you are?” John asked.
James smiled.
“My name is James Moriarty. Professor James Moriarty.”
“You told me the professor part already. What did you do?”
“I was a mathematical chair.” James answered, “That’s simply all there is to that.”
John nodded, walking past him. He looked around, “Are we going elsewhere?”
“No, this is fine.” James answered, “You know, I have intelligence as great, if not greater, than your mate, Sherlock Holmes.”
“Why tell me that?” John questioned.
“Because then you won’t be surprised when Sherlock arrives here in…two minutes, as a result of using your habits, remembering what state of disarray you were in when you returned, and chequeing weather patterns. He’ll be here in roughly two minutes as a result.”
As they waited, they could see Sherlock walking down the street, looking around for a destination. He noticed the open door of the warehouse, and rushed inside.
“Chequed the weather against your memory of John, did you?” James questioned.
Sherlock nodded warily, “Yes, how did you know?”
“Same I knew it would take two minutes, two minutes ago.” James replied, “I’m as smart as you, if not more so. I am Professor James Moriarty, the man behind it all, as you might say.” He said, clasping his hands behind his back, walking towards John. Sherlock moved closer, staying on the far edge of them, moving further into the warehouse.
“What’s going on here?” Sherlock demanded, “John?”
“James told me about Phillip’s name.” John replied, “It’s because of James that I know my eventual fate. I’m just changing sides now, to avoid my own death.” He stepped in front of James.
Sherlock moved a little closer, until they were about ten feet apart.
“John, you can’t honestly believe this man? You can’t think this way, after all this time?” Sherlock questioned, “How could you do this to me? How could you betray me like this?”
“I didn’t just betray your trust, Sherlock.” John said, drawing his handgun from under his shirt, tucked into the waist of his pants at his back. He directed it at Sherlock, “I came here to see to it that nobody like Phillip is destroyed again! No more lives, Sherlock, will fall prey to you!”
“Drop the gun!”
John stared down the end of the barrel of the handgun at Sherlock, who was nearly ten feet away. He put his hands up.
“Doctor Watson, I’m imploring you, drop the gun!” He shouted again, trying to plead with John.
“Holmes…” He muttered, firing as he blinked.
Nothing happened. John had no ammo loaded.
Sherlock quickly opened his suit jacket, removed his handgun, his M1911, and took aim. He fired quickly, catching Moriarty, just behind and to the side of John, without hitting John.
Moriarty cried out and cursed in pain, grabbing his right side in his left hand, trying to apply pressure to stop the bleeding. With his right hand, he gripped his own handgun from his waistband, under his suit coat, and pulled it free. He took aim as John span around to stop him.
He was too late. James pulled the trigger, catching Sherlock along his side. His wound was more of a graze than the wound Sherlock had inflicted, however. Sherlock accounted that to either James being a terrible shot, or, his blood loss affecting him.
“You claim to be superior to me, Moriarty.” Sherlock muttered, holding his wound in his left hand, even though the wound was on his left, “My skills are superior. John and I knew, without saying anything, what was going to happen. You underestimated us, our ability to understand each other, in case you had us bugged. You had no idea what was going to happen. And, you’re a terrible shot at that. I’d say I’m the winner, Moriarty. For all of your plans, all of your brilliant ideas in your crimes, you’re done.”
“You stopped me at every turn, Sherlock.” Moriarty hissed, “I was funding my empire, you see. All of the monetary crimes were for my empire. I have agents, if I have an empire, right? You won’t get away alive, Holmes.”
“Oh, but I will.” Sherlock said, “None of them are as smart as you. Michael is in prison, thanks to Irene Adler taking care of him, and your agents have proven to be…not too good at their jobs. I can stop them at every turn.”
“Sherlock, I’ll have you yet, even if I must do it from Hell.” Moriarty told him, swaying. He fell to a knee, “It’s over.” He lifted his weapon, and fired once more.
“No!” John shouted, leaping in front. He took the bullet to his side, using his momentum to carry himself into Moriarty, knocking the gun away before it could be used again. The wound wasn’t severe, but it would keep John down.
Sherlock stumbled over, holstering his gun in his waistband. He pulled Moriarty’s gun up and tucked it in as well. He helped John to his feet, and the two men struggled together to stand, with their wounds still open and bleeding.
“This is the end of our game, Moriarty.” Sherlock told him, “Hell will welcome you.”
Moriarty’s face twisted into one of rage, and one of laughter. He reached into his pocket, but Sherlock stomped on his arm to prevent him from drawing his weapon.
“Won’t work.” Moriarty said, “It’s no gun.”
“What is it?” Sherlock demanded. He nodded to John, who kicked Moriarty in his wound, making him scream in absolute pain.
“I have plans, backup plans, and even plans within those.” Moriarty said, “I own this warehouse for a reason. I’m not just using it. I could be discovered if it wasn’t owned.”
“What are you talking about?” Sherlock demanded.
They could hear a click. It was a button of some sort that Moriarty had pressed.
“See you in Hell.” Moriarty said.
Explosions tore through the factory. From the back, all the way up to the front, in sequence as one explosion set off the next, and so forth. Flames and heat tore through the room. Debris fell all around them. Smoke filled their nostrils, their vision.
They were doomed to die with Moriarty if they didn’t do something fast.
“Sherlock!” John shouted, pulling him along, “Follow me!”
He pulled Sherlock along behind him. John had been in the warehouse longer, and had paid attention thanks to his military training. Sherlock paid attention, but not enough to manoeuvre through the flames and debris.
In moments they were out. John pulled Sherlock away; the both of them stumbled away from the flaming wreck. The roof soon collapsed, coming in on itself. The walls began to fall. Already they could hear sirens coming to deal with the flames and explosions.
“I think it’s over.” John said.
“Let’s pray so.”

******************************
After receiving some medical care, and having their bullets removed and wounds bandaged, Sherlock and John stood at the remains of the warehouse.
The corpse of Moriarty was being drawn out and taken away in an ambulance. The two men had turned down immediate medical care, and instead looked at the burned out building with police doing routine investigations into the case.
“We’ve taken care of the greatest mastermind in London.” Sherlock said, shaking his head, “At least it’s over, even if I won’t have such a foe again.”
“Leave it to you to get depressed about stopping crimes.” John said, shaking his head at Sherlock’s prospect.
“What will I do now, if crime decreases?” Sherlock questioned.
“Get a hobby, take up a day job.” John told him.
Sherlock looked to John, “I don’t think so. Something will turn up.”
John nodded, “You’re right. Moriarty is done, but there is more out there, isn’t there? It’s like an Ouroboros, in a sense. Our jobs will never end, we’ll continue to cycle.”
Sherlock smiled, “Until the next Moriarty makes his appearance, until the Ouroboros cycle continues, until the snake devours his tail once more.”
The two men stood together, and then left, heading back for 221B Baker Street to await the next challenges life would throw at them.