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castironTitle: A Study in Squawking
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Length: 27K words
Also on AO3.
Chapters 1 and 2 on DW
Chapters 3 and 4 on DW
Chapters 5 and 6 on DW
Chapters 7 and 8 on DW
Session 9
Only five injuries and no known fatalities—that is good. What further information do we have on those flats? Or the people who lived there? It is not an address I am familiar with, so if it is Moriarty's work, I do not know why he chose that place.
Tell me when we have more information, then. And tell them to search the area for a black-and-blue sock with skulls on it. And if further socks turn up, or further pigeons visit, I want to know immediately. I dislike failure.
Of course I have had failures. I am no different from a human in that respect; I err, and I misjudge. Or I find the correct solution, but circumstance intervenes and renders it useless.
There was one case—it was a few weeks after solving Mr. Wilson's case. That day had started well; we received a letter addressed to Richard Adler from a high-ranking government personage praising our work. I was annoyed that they did not name John as well, but John was philosophical. "It's better than that anonymous threatening text that we got yesterday. And it's not like I'm the brains behind this operation. You really are brilliant."
*I know. But I could not do my work as effectively without your help. Your name should be on that commendation too.*
He shrugged. "Yours isn't actually on there. Why should I complain about mine?"
*Richard Adler is my name; it is not my primary name, but it is me. I'm used to pseudonyms.*
"Pretend the middle initial is my pseudonym, then. It's just a piece of paper." He pulled The Sands of Crime off the shelf. "Speaking of names, I've been meaning to ask, how did these books get autographed to you? I didn't think you were old enough to be around when she was alive."
*I am not. And they aren't autographed to me, as the 'from your great-aunt' should make obvious. While it is likely that I have one or more great-aunts, I strongly doubt any have made literary endeavours. She was Mycroft's great-aunt. He says all his cousins received complete sets of the Robert Templeton mysteries before they were old enough to read.*
"Wait—if she was his great-aunt, that means his great-uncle was.... Christ. That fits, doesn't it?"
*Between his great-uncle's independent work, his great-aunt's writing, and his grandfather's career at Scotland Yard, I am surprised that Mycroft did not take up a career investigating crimes himself. Then again, one could argue that he did, but on a grander scale.*
"'Dear Mr. Holmes: Can you help me find my government? Someone stole it when I was in a drunken rebellion.'"
*'Dear Concerned Citizen: You may only have misplaced it. Have you checked under the sofa cushions?'*
John blinked. "Sherlock, did you just make a joke?"
*Not that I am aware of. I was attempting to continue the metaphor.*
John laughed and shook his head. "So Mr. Holmes's cousin gave you these. First editions, too. That was generous."
*Brother. And any generosity was on Mycroft's part; inheritance, though inaccurate as I was not the heir, would be a better term than gift.*
"Oh. I'm sorry."
*Why should you be?*
There was one of those pauses that told me I had violated a human norm. I felt that I must explain further. *It was well before I met Mycroft; I never knew him.* When that did not remove John's odd expression, I added, *I had a sister. Well, I likely had or have other siblings, but she was my clutchmate and lived in the lab with me. She was as intelligent as I, likely even more so, but she developed seizures before she even fledged, and she died before she was a year old. I would have liked it if she had lived, but I do not feel any particular grief over her. I suppose with humans it is different.*
"Usually, yeah." He said no more on the topic.
Do you know, even though we have lived together for nearly a year and a half, I have never met John's sister? She comments on his personal blog regularly, and I know they have dined together a couple of times, but he has never introduced me. I asked him why once, and he said he was quite sure Mycroft wouldn't approve. Which is odd, as usually that is a reason John offers in favour of doing something.
At any rate, perhaps that conversation is why John was marginally more accomodating when Mycroft visited later that evening.
"Congratulations," Mycroft said. "I understand that Mr. Adler is to be commended for his work."
"As he should be," John replied.
*Thank you.* I did not specify who I was replying to.
"A quaint pseudonym—after your youthful nickname and the singer, I presume—and Mr. Adler has quite a baroque personal history that, when read between the lines, certainly explains why no client will ever see him face-to-face. Did the two of you come up with that fictional biography together?"
*It is entirely John's doing.*
"Not entirely. Sherlock suggested the basic information; I just tried to make it interesting and medically plausible."
"I believe you have missed your calling, Dr. Watson; perhaps you should take up novel-writing as a future career. Well, let me not waste any more of your time. I am still not in favour of this...freelance work. But if you must do it—"
Who is here?
Excellent. Are you sure you want to let them in after the mess they made last time?
I did not attempt to escape earlier today; I looked for the obstacles in the way of escape. There is a difference. Now, kindly send in the pigeons.
Interesting. It sounds like the same type of sock; black and green with smiling faces, containing a small metal tube or canister. Found in front of the London Nautical School—
Oh. Oh. How obvious. I am the greatest fool that ever existed in the class Aves. I am good only for plucking, roasting, and serving à l'Orange. Give me a map so I can verify the street names.
That block of flats—does John's sister happen to live there?
It fits. The addresses. The first sock was found on Sawyer Street. The second was found at Watson Mews. They are the surnames of the people whose homes are going to be bombed. Though in this case, I would check Barts as well, because this sock is on Stamford Street. If the second sock is left when the explosive is placed, that may help narrow down between the two.
I will text...no, I will wait; if I am incorrect, I prefer not to give Mr. Moriarty the satisfaction of gloating. I hope I am not incorrect.
Are you sure you want me to continue the story?
Very well, then. Mycroft had come because he wanted us to take a case. "A translator with whom I have occasionally worked has contacted me regarding her client, who vanished while trying to find his missing sister. I would like you to investigate his disappearance."
John glanced at me, clearly waiting for my response. I said, *Is it a scenario of remote interest, or is it a dull case that you are involved in solely because it has unfortunate diplomatic implications?*
"While there are, as you say, implications, it has aspects that would interest me if I had chosen your vocation."
*Then I am willing to hear more. John, what do you think?*
"I can't wait to hear how we're going to risk our lives this week. Mr. Holmes, since you've visited our website, I assume you're familiar with our rates?"
"My dear sir, while I will be happy to defray any expenses, might I remind you who Sherlock belongs to?"
John's forehead and cheek muscles tensed in the way they do when I have broken the last pencil on his desk. "Well, I can't stop you from taking him if you need his help."
Mycroft actually showed a hint of surprise. "Are you refusing to work on this case?"
"I'm refusing to work for you. My boss is the one with the feathers. If he's taking this case, gratis or not, I go where he tells me."
*That is not what you said this morning when I asked you to go to Tesco and buy me some wooden spoons.*
"That wasn't for a case. Are we taking this one?"
*If Mycroft agrees to pay 50 percent of our usual rates. He is entitled to demand my services for free, but not yours.*
Mycroft shook his head. "I have no time for childish games. Dr. Watson, if you would please send my assistant the bill, we will pay your standard rates."
After a pause, John nodded. I said, *Tell us about the case.*
I did decide to take the case, but I do not want to talk about it in detail. It is too distressing.
Oh, I solved it, in that I uncovered a trafficking ring that the Yard was eventually able to break up. But by the time we located the house it was run from, the traffickers had fled with their victims, leaving Ms. Melas and Mr. Kratides secured in a garage to die from carbon monoxide poisoning. John pulled them both from the garage, and Ms. Melas survived, but Mr. Kratides died before the ambulance arrived, and John inhaled enough carbon monoxide that he also needed hospitalization.
I am afraid that I did not handle that situation well, though granted, returning to Baker Street and spending the rest of that day alone did not help. When Mycroft visited late that afternoon, I had destroyed all my chew sticks and every pencil in the flat, broken one lamp by throwing a cuttlefish bone at it, and ruined the corners of the bookcases. I may also have been producing distress cries, as Mrs. Hudson later received a complaint from Mrs. Turner next door.
Mycroft shook his head at the mess. "I was afraid this might happen. Pull yourself together, my dear bird."
*Says he who has no one to lose.*
"You are being melodramatic. Dr. Watson will be released from hospital shortly; he will be more comfortable in a flat that does not resemble a sawmill. Come with me to retrieve him so the cleaners can work unimpeded."
We did indeed bring John home soon afterwards, and I spent the evening sitting on John's shoulder as he watched a Hitchcock movie that Mycroft had never let me see. I even refrained from commenting on its more ludicrous parts, though it really is difficult to take it seriously when you understand what the birds are actually saying. And John quietly bought more pencils the next day and has never said anything about the bookcases or the lamp.
We have solved two other cases for Mycroft since then, one of which I cannot discuss at all; the other is also shrouded in secrecy, but during that case I did have the opportunity to make the acquaintance of a Phalacrocorax carbo. I fear we had translation difficulties, however; while I was able to learn some useful and accurate information about items she had retrieved from the sea floor, I must have misunderstood when she said she was friends with a Chroicocephalus ridibundus that used to live in a rabbit warren. At any rate, both cases were successful, but I must confess that when Mycroft says he has a case for us, I am always reminded of the sight of John in an oxygen mask.
In retrospect, that failed case is likely why Mycroft had me talk to you now.
After all, if Mycroft had merely wanted to keep me out of the way, he could have done this without calling you in. He could have locked me in a room that even I would have trouble escaping from. He could have brought me to where his people are working, kept me where I could at least know what was happening. For that matter, he could have simply had a veterinarian put me under sedation until all was resolved one way or another.
So what purpose is this serving? It is keeping me distracted so that I do not go mad with waiting. It is, I suspect, to have you on hand should word come that John is injured or worse. And it is, I am certain, because however much he denies it, Mycroft does have an attachment to me and wishes for my well-being.
But he is misguided. Speaking to a therapist should not be an end in itself; there is supposed to be some goal, something the patient wants to change, correct? And then, if the therapy is truly successful, the patient is able to change, to act. What is my goal?
That is not a helpful response. Of course you cannot answer that question for me. And as long as I am trapped here, I cannot act.
Enough of this. What news is there?
In Dr. Stamford's house? At least it was not in Barts; that would have done far more damage. And now that I know I was correct, I can tell Mr. Moriarty so.
Session 10
I do not care what Mycroft thinks about my last text to Mr. Moriarty.
Yes, I know, I should not goad him. But perhaps he will do something reckless. One can hope. In the meantime, it might be best to move Mrs. Hudson to a safe location—
Oh? Good. I am not at all surprised that Mycroft already arranged it. He is a master of advance planning; what little expertise I have on the topic is entirely due to him. If disaster were to strike London tonight, he has a choice of boltholes to retreat to, inside and outside the city and in Europe as well, all stocked with the essentials to survive and continue his work. I have done somewhat of the same—nothing to the extent that he has, but I have a few small caches scattered about town, so that I can find food and some simple tools if I cannot return to Baker Street.
If I told you where they were, that would also enable Mycroft to find them. Likely he knows where some of them are anyway, and he would find access inconvenient unless he commandeered a helicopter or a very long ladder, but I refuse to make his interference easier.
The black and green sock is here? Let me see it.
Oh. Oh.
Not a tube or a canister. The shell from a cartridge. A cartridge that fits in a—
I must stop this chain of logic, because if the phone was John's and the wallet was John's and the shell is from—
I cannot think of it now. It is merely a possible inference; it is not proven. If it is only a threat, I must work harder. And if it is a fait accompli....then John has gone nowhere that I will not follow in time; the question is how long a time.
I will get away from here, one way or another. And I will finish this. And then I will rest.
First I must pull myself together. It may not have been used on him; it may simply be—
Well, there is no point in my concealing it, and I am sure Mycroft knows anyway. This is almost certainly from John's gun. I do not know whether he somehow smuggled the gun home from Afghanistan or acquired it after his return, but he owned it when he moved into Baker Street, and he has carried it to crime scenes ever since the first time he accompanied me. Well hidden; I doubt that anyone at the Yard has noticed it. But I see the change in the line of his clothing when he wears it.
I did not tell him that I knew, though, until the night when it was confirmed to me that my continued existence is important to John.
It was another case that we investigated under the aegis of Richard Adler. A patient had come to John's old clinic for follow-up treatment after the reattachment of a severed thumb, and when he said that he needed a private detective, Dr. Sawyer recommended us.
Mr. Hatherley was a mechanical engineer who had been hired to repair some manufacturing equipment. He could not tell us the exact location of his client or even the exact town; he had taken the train to—well, I must not name it; let us just say a station some miles away from Reading—and was picked up and driven for a long time. He thought it might have been anywhere between forty-five minutes and an hour and a half before they reached the jobsite, but as his phone had been confiscated and he did not wear a watch, he could not give us an exact duration. He also could tell us nothing about the route; he was transported in a van with a windowless passenger section and an opaque partition blocking off the front seats, and he was not allowed out of the van until it was already inside a garage.
He had repaired the machinery, but had apparently voiced too many suspicions about its purpose. After his escape from the jobsite, involving the loss of his thumb to a cleaver, he had lost consciousness; he later awakened back at the original train station, his phone in his jacket pocket and his thumb packed in a bag of ice. Beyond that, all he remembered was a description of the inside of the warehouse where he worked, the details about the machine he repaired and had nearly been killed in, the first-floor office window that he had escaped through, and one vital piece of information: that the van had been nearly spotless when they left the station but was quite dirty when they arrived at the jobsite. John took notes and said we would investigate and contact him with anything we learned.
After Mr. Hatherley left, John said, "Not much we can do for him, is there? He could’ve been anywhere within a forty to eighty kilometer circle; there’s no way we can narrow that down."
*On the contrary, we can narrow it down quite easily. The building is not very far from the original train station.*
“Now you’re just guessing.”
*I never guess. I merely form and test hypotheses. It had been wet most of the day, so why was the van not already dirty when they left the station? Clearly, because they had only driven a short distance.*
"But why were they in the van so long, then?"
*They circled. Twenty to forty minutes out, the same time back. Ready to go?*
"Oh, God, I know what you're about to say. I can't. Sarah and I were...."
*It's work. Reschedule. She referred him; she won't be surprised.*
"You said that last time. And the time before."
*She is a doctor; she should understand work calling unexpectedly. If she doesn't, maybe you should start dating a midwife or an obstetrician.*
He snorted. "I can't wait to place the personal ad."
He makes it sound like he never gets to see Dr. Sawyer, which is rubbish; she spends the night at our flat or he at hers at least once a month, and it is very clear that they find the time mutually enjoyable. We also often run into her having coffee with Donovan, who says they have formed a support group for women who come in second after birds. I am not sure whether Donovan is joking or serious, but I rather hope she is serious.
"All right," John finally said. "What are we going there to look for?"
*An office building or other commercial structure with a cleaver mark in the wood on a first floor window and a large adjoining warehouse.*
The building was easier to find than I had feared; there were not many buildings with the right architecture, and I located it after only an hour and a half of searching. A window was open in front, and no one was in the office, so John stationed himself to wait while I entered the building.
A windowed ground-floor door behind the offices led into a large warehouse, in which there was a set of machines as Mr. Hatherley had described. I examined the enormous CNC press, the lathe, the other equipment. Having seen enough to justify calling Mycroft's people as well as the police, I flew back to the door, only to find that I had been discovered.
Two men waited in the hallway. I attempted to dodge them, but I was caught by a large blanket being thrown over me. The blanket was tied shut while I struggled; one voice said, "Shall we save this for Moriarty?" The other silenced him and suggested poultry crêpes.
I was thrown onto a hard surface. I believe I may have been stunned for several seconds; when I came back to myself, I was still wrapped in the blanket and restrained so I could not move. I managed to rip enough of a hole in the blanket to see that I was strapped to the press, but could not release myself from my bonds.
Then I heard the sound of machinery, and I realized that I was doomed.
I would like to be able to say that my thoughts were profound as I faced death, but in actuality, I felt only indignation. That my mind, my speed, my skills were no match for a blanket! My feet had enough freedom of movement to reach my phone and text *help—in press* to John, but I was certain it would be fruitless. As the die lowered and moved towards me, as I heard breaking glass and other sharp noises that at the time I attributed to the machinery, I could only hope that my brain would haemorrhage swiftly under the pressure.
When the die stopped moving, then I felt fear, the handmaiden of hope. I do not possess the belief in a supernatural power that many humans do, and I do not ask natural powers for intervention, as they are non-sentient. But at that moment, if I had believed in a soul, I would gladly have sold it to any offering entity in order to retain my life.
The most beautiful sight I have ever seen, more amazing than a mite under a microscope, more glorious than sunlight in February, was John as he ripped open the blanket and released the straps.
I looked around and realized that the extra noises I had thought machinery had actually been gunshots; the window in the door was shattered, and two bodies slumped on the ground by the controls. *What happened?* I asked.
"I don't know; they were dead when I came in here. But I don't want to meet the shooter. Let's go."
I did not respond or query his lie then; I was feeling the shock that accompanies escape from death, and I wanted only to leave this room. You will understand this, of course, given your profession; humans have not lost their animal instincts, and neither have I.
But several hours later, after the police had arrived, after Mycroft's people had combed the building, after John had made his statements and we had returned home, I followed John to his room—the only part of the flat that I know is never monitored by Mycroft, because I have never found a camera or bug installed there, unlike the rest of the flat. This has been another area of contention between Mycroft and myself, as it is difficult to promise professional discretion to our clients when conversations are being recorded by outsiders.
For further discretion, I spoke rather than texting. "You shot them. Why?"
He looked at me as he took his shoes off. "You do know that you sound exactly like Mr. Holmes when you speak, don't you?"
"Many. Years. Exposure." I immediately resolved to relearn as much of my vocabulary in John's voice as possible. I have not fulfilled that resolution completely, as my John voice disturbs him more than my Mycroft voice. "You shot them. Why?"
"Whatever gave you that idea?"
I flew to his shoulder, gripped his jumper, and bent down to rub my head against his lower back; indeed, he had not yet had a chance to put it away in its hiding place. "Gun. Yours. Illegal." I straightened and rubbed against the back of his head. "Good shots."
He sighed. "I'm certainly glad someone shot them. I wouldn't have gotten there in time to turn that press off."
"Good lying."
"I am! Quite glad."
"That you shot them. I am too. Thank you."
He didn't reply for some minutes, then reached up to rub my side and said, "Well, they certainly weren't good people. Good people don't try to squash other people in presses."
I used my phone so there would be no question of comprehension. *Am I a person?*
"Absolutely." There was no hesitation.
I moved from his shoulder to the foot of the bed, politely closing my eyes so he could hide the gun again, and sang one of the Vaughn Williams tunes he likes.
He saved me. And now that he is in danger, I have not returned the favour. May I have a pencil?
Thank you.
That was the first time we heard the name of Moriarty. And when I began to investigate, I discovered that the name was associated with other crimes. Not often, and in the cases where the name appeared, the criminals who mentioned the name frequently died soon afterwards. But often enough to make me suspicious—and two were cases we had solved, ones about which John had later received threatening anonymous texts.
Over the next months, I gathered more and more data, until it was clear that this Moriarty was the spider at the center of a web of malevolence, the operating system of crime's computer, the dovecote sheltering the pigeons of perfidy—I apologize for the excessive and ludicrous metaphors, but Mr. Moriarty does inspire me. Have you ever read...no, given your academic background, you probably have not read On the Numerical Analysis of Asteroid Dynamics. It is an amazing work. That one person could have the breadth of mind to write it and to manage a criminal empire—it is a pity, a great pity, that Mr. Moriarty's mind and talents were not turned in other directions than crime. He would have been a formidable friend.
What?
Fuck.
Stop looking shocked. If this is not a situation that calls for an expletive, what is?
Oh! John John John. Brave John, brilliant John, amazing John.
I suppose it would only be polite to warn Mycroft, assuming he isn't monitoring our conversation.
Oh? Mycroft wants me to stop this line of inquiry?
Well, then. Tell him I will, on the condition that when I finish talking to you, I be allowed to leave here. I recognize that I cannot go back to Baker Street at this time, but I would at least like a change of secure location.
Chapters 11 and 12 on DW
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Length: 27K words
Also on AO3.
Chapters 1 and 2 on DW
Chapters 3 and 4 on DW
Chapters 5 and 6 on DW
Chapters 7 and 8 on DW
Session 9
Only five injuries and no known fatalities—that is good. What further information do we have on those flats? Or the people who lived there? It is not an address I am familiar with, so if it is Moriarty's work, I do not know why he chose that place.
Tell me when we have more information, then. And tell them to search the area for a black-and-blue sock with skulls on it. And if further socks turn up, or further pigeons visit, I want to know immediately. I dislike failure.
Of course I have had failures. I am no different from a human in that respect; I err, and I misjudge. Or I find the correct solution, but circumstance intervenes and renders it useless.
There was one case—it was a few weeks after solving Mr. Wilson's case. That day had started well; we received a letter addressed to Richard Adler from a high-ranking government personage praising our work. I was annoyed that they did not name John as well, but John was philosophical. "It's better than that anonymous threatening text that we got yesterday. And it's not like I'm the brains behind this operation. You really are brilliant."
*I know. But I could not do my work as effectively without your help. Your name should be on that commendation too.*
He shrugged. "Yours isn't actually on there. Why should I complain about mine?"
*Richard Adler is my name; it is not my primary name, but it is me. I'm used to pseudonyms.*
"Pretend the middle initial is my pseudonym, then. It's just a piece of paper." He pulled The Sands of Crime off the shelf. "Speaking of names, I've been meaning to ask, how did these books get autographed to you? I didn't think you were old enough to be around when she was alive."
*I am not. And they aren't autographed to me, as the 'from your great-aunt' should make obvious. While it is likely that I have one or more great-aunts, I strongly doubt any have made literary endeavours. She was Mycroft's great-aunt. He says all his cousins received complete sets of the Robert Templeton mysteries before they were old enough to read.*
"Wait—if she was his great-aunt, that means his great-uncle was.... Christ. That fits, doesn't it?"
*Between his great-uncle's independent work, his great-aunt's writing, and his grandfather's career at Scotland Yard, I am surprised that Mycroft did not take up a career investigating crimes himself. Then again, one could argue that he did, but on a grander scale.*
"'Dear Mr. Holmes: Can you help me find my government? Someone stole it when I was in a drunken rebellion.'"
*'Dear Concerned Citizen: You may only have misplaced it. Have you checked under the sofa cushions?'*
John blinked. "Sherlock, did you just make a joke?"
*Not that I am aware of. I was attempting to continue the metaphor.*
John laughed and shook his head. "So Mr. Holmes's cousin gave you these. First editions, too. That was generous."
*Brother. And any generosity was on Mycroft's part; inheritance, though inaccurate as I was not the heir, would be a better term than gift.*
"Oh. I'm sorry."
*Why should you be?*
There was one of those pauses that told me I had violated a human norm. I felt that I must explain further. *It was well before I met Mycroft; I never knew him.* When that did not remove John's odd expression, I added, *I had a sister. Well, I likely had or have other siblings, but she was my clutchmate and lived in the lab with me. She was as intelligent as I, likely even more so, but she developed seizures before she even fledged, and she died before she was a year old. I would have liked it if she had lived, but I do not feel any particular grief over her. I suppose with humans it is different.*
"Usually, yeah." He said no more on the topic.
Do you know, even though we have lived together for nearly a year and a half, I have never met John's sister? She comments on his personal blog regularly, and I know they have dined together a couple of times, but he has never introduced me. I asked him why once, and he said he was quite sure Mycroft wouldn't approve. Which is odd, as usually that is a reason John offers in favour of doing something.
At any rate, perhaps that conversation is why John was marginally more accomodating when Mycroft visited later that evening.
"Congratulations," Mycroft said. "I understand that Mr. Adler is to be commended for his work."
"As he should be," John replied.
*Thank you.* I did not specify who I was replying to.
"A quaint pseudonym—after your youthful nickname and the singer, I presume—and Mr. Adler has quite a baroque personal history that, when read between the lines, certainly explains why no client will ever see him face-to-face. Did the two of you come up with that fictional biography together?"
*It is entirely John's doing.*
"Not entirely. Sherlock suggested the basic information; I just tried to make it interesting and medically plausible."
"I believe you have missed your calling, Dr. Watson; perhaps you should take up novel-writing as a future career. Well, let me not waste any more of your time. I am still not in favour of this...freelance work. But if you must do it—"
Who is here?
Excellent. Are you sure you want to let them in after the mess they made last time?
I did not attempt to escape earlier today; I looked for the obstacles in the way of escape. There is a difference. Now, kindly send in the pigeons.
Interesting. It sounds like the same type of sock; black and green with smiling faces, containing a small metal tube or canister. Found in front of the London Nautical School—
Oh. Oh. How obvious. I am the greatest fool that ever existed in the class Aves. I am good only for plucking, roasting, and serving à l'Orange. Give me a map so I can verify the street names.
That block of flats—does John's sister happen to live there?
It fits. The addresses. The first sock was found on Sawyer Street. The second was found at Watson Mews. They are the surnames of the people whose homes are going to be bombed. Though in this case, I would check Barts as well, because this sock is on Stamford Street. If the second sock is left when the explosive is placed, that may help narrow down between the two.
I will text...no, I will wait; if I am incorrect, I prefer not to give Mr. Moriarty the satisfaction of gloating. I hope I am not incorrect.
Are you sure you want me to continue the story?
Very well, then. Mycroft had come because he wanted us to take a case. "A translator with whom I have occasionally worked has contacted me regarding her client, who vanished while trying to find his missing sister. I would like you to investigate his disappearance."
John glanced at me, clearly waiting for my response. I said, *Is it a scenario of remote interest, or is it a dull case that you are involved in solely because it has unfortunate diplomatic implications?*
"While there are, as you say, implications, it has aspects that would interest me if I had chosen your vocation."
*Then I am willing to hear more. John, what do you think?*
"I can't wait to hear how we're going to risk our lives this week. Mr. Holmes, since you've visited our website, I assume you're familiar with our rates?"
"My dear sir, while I will be happy to defray any expenses, might I remind you who Sherlock belongs to?"
John's forehead and cheek muscles tensed in the way they do when I have broken the last pencil on his desk. "Well, I can't stop you from taking him if you need his help."
Mycroft actually showed a hint of surprise. "Are you refusing to work on this case?"
"I'm refusing to work for you. My boss is the one with the feathers. If he's taking this case, gratis or not, I go where he tells me."
*That is not what you said this morning when I asked you to go to Tesco and buy me some wooden spoons.*
"That wasn't for a case. Are we taking this one?"
*If Mycroft agrees to pay 50 percent of our usual rates. He is entitled to demand my services for free, but not yours.*
Mycroft shook his head. "I have no time for childish games. Dr. Watson, if you would please send my assistant the bill, we will pay your standard rates."
After a pause, John nodded. I said, *Tell us about the case.*
I did decide to take the case, but I do not want to talk about it in detail. It is too distressing.
Oh, I solved it, in that I uncovered a trafficking ring that the Yard was eventually able to break up. But by the time we located the house it was run from, the traffickers had fled with their victims, leaving Ms. Melas and Mr. Kratides secured in a garage to die from carbon monoxide poisoning. John pulled them both from the garage, and Ms. Melas survived, but Mr. Kratides died before the ambulance arrived, and John inhaled enough carbon monoxide that he also needed hospitalization.
I am afraid that I did not handle that situation well, though granted, returning to Baker Street and spending the rest of that day alone did not help. When Mycroft visited late that afternoon, I had destroyed all my chew sticks and every pencil in the flat, broken one lamp by throwing a cuttlefish bone at it, and ruined the corners of the bookcases. I may also have been producing distress cries, as Mrs. Hudson later received a complaint from Mrs. Turner next door.
Mycroft shook his head at the mess. "I was afraid this might happen. Pull yourself together, my dear bird."
*Says he who has no one to lose.*
"You are being melodramatic. Dr. Watson will be released from hospital shortly; he will be more comfortable in a flat that does not resemble a sawmill. Come with me to retrieve him so the cleaners can work unimpeded."
We did indeed bring John home soon afterwards, and I spent the evening sitting on John's shoulder as he watched a Hitchcock movie that Mycroft had never let me see. I even refrained from commenting on its more ludicrous parts, though it really is difficult to take it seriously when you understand what the birds are actually saying. And John quietly bought more pencils the next day and has never said anything about the bookcases or the lamp.
We have solved two other cases for Mycroft since then, one of which I cannot discuss at all; the other is also shrouded in secrecy, but during that case I did have the opportunity to make the acquaintance of a Phalacrocorax carbo. I fear we had translation difficulties, however; while I was able to learn some useful and accurate information about items she had retrieved from the sea floor, I must have misunderstood when she said she was friends with a Chroicocephalus ridibundus that used to live in a rabbit warren. At any rate, both cases were successful, but I must confess that when Mycroft says he has a case for us, I am always reminded of the sight of John in an oxygen mask.
In retrospect, that failed case is likely why Mycroft had me talk to you now.
After all, if Mycroft had merely wanted to keep me out of the way, he could have done this without calling you in. He could have locked me in a room that even I would have trouble escaping from. He could have brought me to where his people are working, kept me where I could at least know what was happening. For that matter, he could have simply had a veterinarian put me under sedation until all was resolved one way or another.
So what purpose is this serving? It is keeping me distracted so that I do not go mad with waiting. It is, I suspect, to have you on hand should word come that John is injured or worse. And it is, I am certain, because however much he denies it, Mycroft does have an attachment to me and wishes for my well-being.
But he is misguided. Speaking to a therapist should not be an end in itself; there is supposed to be some goal, something the patient wants to change, correct? And then, if the therapy is truly successful, the patient is able to change, to act. What is my goal?
That is not a helpful response. Of course you cannot answer that question for me. And as long as I am trapped here, I cannot act.
Enough of this. What news is there?
In Dr. Stamford's house? At least it was not in Barts; that would have done far more damage. And now that I know I was correct, I can tell Mr. Moriarty so.
To: [REDACTED]
Did you, perhaps, forget an item at the home of Dr. Michael Stamford? --RSA
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
well done richard!! im so proud of you!!
too bad were enemies. it makes me sad. but you ruined so many of my plans. xoxoxo jm
To: [REDACTED]
Given that your plans included kidnapping Dr. Watson, I am delighted to hear that. Do you wish to continue with this game, or shall we switch to another? --RSA
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
oh, dickie-bird, you have no idea, do you?
evrywhr i turn, yr assistant & yr bird are there.
i found perfect killer. he was good at his job. yr assistant caught him and scared him to death.
smuggling ring paid me for help. yr asst broke them.
almost had submarine plans to sell to frgn gov. yr asst found them.
all set to poison city water supply. yr asst thwarted at last minute.
yr asst broke up traffickers. yr asst found firearms mnfctng plant. yr asst ruined information conduits. yr asst caught money launderers. so much work, so much money, so much time, lost bcs of johnny.
except it wasnt johnny, was it? i thot yr asst was you. now i know he isnt. now i want you.
i ought to kill you. but you read my book, so ill let you live.
ill just rip out yr heart instead. xoxoxo jm
To: [REDACTED]
I look forward to seeing how you accomplish the second without the first. Let me know when you find me. --RSA
Session 10
I do not care what Mycroft thinks about my last text to Mr. Moriarty.
Yes, I know, I should not goad him. But perhaps he will do something reckless. One can hope. In the meantime, it might be best to move Mrs. Hudson to a safe location—
Oh? Good. I am not at all surprised that Mycroft already arranged it. He is a master of advance planning; what little expertise I have on the topic is entirely due to him. If disaster were to strike London tonight, he has a choice of boltholes to retreat to, inside and outside the city and in Europe as well, all stocked with the essentials to survive and continue his work. I have done somewhat of the same—nothing to the extent that he has, but I have a few small caches scattered about town, so that I can find food and some simple tools if I cannot return to Baker Street.
If I told you where they were, that would also enable Mycroft to find them. Likely he knows where some of them are anyway, and he would find access inconvenient unless he commandeered a helicopter or a very long ladder, but I refuse to make his interference easier.
The black and green sock is here? Let me see it.
Oh. Oh.
Not a tube or a canister. The shell from a cartridge. A cartridge that fits in a—
I must stop this chain of logic, because if the phone was John's and the wallet was John's and the shell is from—
I cannot think of it now. It is merely a possible inference; it is not proven. If it is only a threat, I must work harder. And if it is a fait accompli....then John has gone nowhere that I will not follow in time; the question is how long a time.
I will get away from here, one way or another. And I will finish this. And then I will rest.
First I must pull myself together. It may not have been used on him; it may simply be—
Well, there is no point in my concealing it, and I am sure Mycroft knows anyway. This is almost certainly from John's gun. I do not know whether he somehow smuggled the gun home from Afghanistan or acquired it after his return, but he owned it when he moved into Baker Street, and he has carried it to crime scenes ever since the first time he accompanied me. Well hidden; I doubt that anyone at the Yard has noticed it. But I see the change in the line of his clothing when he wears it.
I did not tell him that I knew, though, until the night when it was confirmed to me that my continued existence is important to John.
It was another case that we investigated under the aegis of Richard Adler. A patient had come to John's old clinic for follow-up treatment after the reattachment of a severed thumb, and when he said that he needed a private detective, Dr. Sawyer recommended us.
Mr. Hatherley was a mechanical engineer who had been hired to repair some manufacturing equipment. He could not tell us the exact location of his client or even the exact town; he had taken the train to—well, I must not name it; let us just say a station some miles away from Reading—and was picked up and driven for a long time. He thought it might have been anywhere between forty-five minutes and an hour and a half before they reached the jobsite, but as his phone had been confiscated and he did not wear a watch, he could not give us an exact duration. He also could tell us nothing about the route; he was transported in a van with a windowless passenger section and an opaque partition blocking off the front seats, and he was not allowed out of the van until it was already inside a garage.
He had repaired the machinery, but had apparently voiced too many suspicions about its purpose. After his escape from the jobsite, involving the loss of his thumb to a cleaver, he had lost consciousness; he later awakened back at the original train station, his phone in his jacket pocket and his thumb packed in a bag of ice. Beyond that, all he remembered was a description of the inside of the warehouse where he worked, the details about the machine he repaired and had nearly been killed in, the first-floor office window that he had escaped through, and one vital piece of information: that the van had been nearly spotless when they left the station but was quite dirty when they arrived at the jobsite. John took notes and said we would investigate and contact him with anything we learned.
After Mr. Hatherley left, John said, "Not much we can do for him, is there? He could’ve been anywhere within a forty to eighty kilometer circle; there’s no way we can narrow that down."
*On the contrary, we can narrow it down quite easily. The building is not very far from the original train station.*
“Now you’re just guessing.”
*I never guess. I merely form and test hypotheses. It had been wet most of the day, so why was the van not already dirty when they left the station? Clearly, because they had only driven a short distance.*
"But why were they in the van so long, then?"
*They circled. Twenty to forty minutes out, the same time back. Ready to go?*
"Oh, God, I know what you're about to say. I can't. Sarah and I were...."
*It's work. Reschedule. She referred him; she won't be surprised.*
"You said that last time. And the time before."
*She is a doctor; she should understand work calling unexpectedly. If she doesn't, maybe you should start dating a midwife or an obstetrician.*
He snorted. "I can't wait to place the personal ad."
He makes it sound like he never gets to see Dr. Sawyer, which is rubbish; she spends the night at our flat or he at hers at least once a month, and it is very clear that they find the time mutually enjoyable. We also often run into her having coffee with Donovan, who says they have formed a support group for women who come in second after birds. I am not sure whether Donovan is joking or serious, but I rather hope she is serious.
"All right," John finally said. "What are we going there to look for?"
*An office building or other commercial structure with a cleaver mark in the wood on a first floor window and a large adjoining warehouse.*
The building was easier to find than I had feared; there were not many buildings with the right architecture, and I located it after only an hour and a half of searching. A window was open in front, and no one was in the office, so John stationed himself to wait while I entered the building.
A windowed ground-floor door behind the offices led into a large warehouse, in which there was a set of machines as Mr. Hatherley had described. I examined the enormous CNC press, the lathe, the other equipment. Having seen enough to justify calling Mycroft's people as well as the police, I flew back to the door, only to find that I had been discovered.
Two men waited in the hallway. I attempted to dodge them, but I was caught by a large blanket being thrown over me. The blanket was tied shut while I struggled; one voice said, "Shall we save this for Moriarty?" The other silenced him and suggested poultry crêpes.
I was thrown onto a hard surface. I believe I may have been stunned for several seconds; when I came back to myself, I was still wrapped in the blanket and restrained so I could not move. I managed to rip enough of a hole in the blanket to see that I was strapped to the press, but could not release myself from my bonds.
Then I heard the sound of machinery, and I realized that I was doomed.
I would like to be able to say that my thoughts were profound as I faced death, but in actuality, I felt only indignation. That my mind, my speed, my skills were no match for a blanket! My feet had enough freedom of movement to reach my phone and text *help—in press* to John, but I was certain it would be fruitless. As the die lowered and moved towards me, as I heard breaking glass and other sharp noises that at the time I attributed to the machinery, I could only hope that my brain would haemorrhage swiftly under the pressure.
When the die stopped moving, then I felt fear, the handmaiden of hope. I do not possess the belief in a supernatural power that many humans do, and I do not ask natural powers for intervention, as they are non-sentient. But at that moment, if I had believed in a soul, I would gladly have sold it to any offering entity in order to retain my life.
The most beautiful sight I have ever seen, more amazing than a mite under a microscope, more glorious than sunlight in February, was John as he ripped open the blanket and released the straps.
I looked around and realized that the extra noises I had thought machinery had actually been gunshots; the window in the door was shattered, and two bodies slumped on the ground by the controls. *What happened?* I asked.
"I don't know; they were dead when I came in here. But I don't want to meet the shooter. Let's go."
I did not respond or query his lie then; I was feeling the shock that accompanies escape from death, and I wanted only to leave this room. You will understand this, of course, given your profession; humans have not lost their animal instincts, and neither have I.
But several hours later, after the police had arrived, after Mycroft's people had combed the building, after John had made his statements and we had returned home, I followed John to his room—the only part of the flat that I know is never monitored by Mycroft, because I have never found a camera or bug installed there, unlike the rest of the flat. This has been another area of contention between Mycroft and myself, as it is difficult to promise professional discretion to our clients when conversations are being recorded by outsiders.
For further discretion, I spoke rather than texting. "You shot them. Why?"
He looked at me as he took his shoes off. "You do know that you sound exactly like Mr. Holmes when you speak, don't you?"
"Many. Years. Exposure." I immediately resolved to relearn as much of my vocabulary in John's voice as possible. I have not fulfilled that resolution completely, as my John voice disturbs him more than my Mycroft voice. "You shot them. Why?"
"Whatever gave you that idea?"
I flew to his shoulder, gripped his jumper, and bent down to rub my head against his lower back; indeed, he had not yet had a chance to put it away in its hiding place. "Gun. Yours. Illegal." I straightened and rubbed against the back of his head. "Good shots."
He sighed. "I'm certainly glad someone shot them. I wouldn't have gotten there in time to turn that press off."
"Good lying."
"I am! Quite glad."
"That you shot them. I am too. Thank you."
He didn't reply for some minutes, then reached up to rub my side and said, "Well, they certainly weren't good people. Good people don't try to squash other people in presses."
I used my phone so there would be no question of comprehension. *Am I a person?*
"Absolutely." There was no hesitation.
I moved from his shoulder to the foot of the bed, politely closing my eyes so he could hide the gun again, and sang one of the Vaughn Williams tunes he likes.
He saved me. And now that he is in danger, I have not returned the favour. May I have a pencil?
Thank you.
That was the first time we heard the name of Moriarty. And when I began to investigate, I discovered that the name was associated with other crimes. Not often, and in the cases where the name appeared, the criminals who mentioned the name frequently died soon afterwards. But often enough to make me suspicious—and two were cases we had solved, ones about which John had later received threatening anonymous texts.
Over the next months, I gathered more and more data, until it was clear that this Moriarty was the spider at the center of a web of malevolence, the operating system of crime's computer, the dovecote sheltering the pigeons of perfidy—I apologize for the excessive and ludicrous metaphors, but Mr. Moriarty does inspire me. Have you ever read...no, given your academic background, you probably have not read On the Numerical Analysis of Asteroid Dynamics. It is an amazing work. That one person could have the breadth of mind to write it and to manage a criminal empire—it is a pity, a great pity, that Mr. Moriarty's mind and talents were not turned in other directions than crime. He would have been a formidable friend.
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
im playing your game! i found you, mr so-called richard so-called adler. xoxoxo jm
What?
To: [REDACTED]
Have you indeed, Jim? Oddly, my heart is still intact. And you sound in doubt as to my identity. --RSA
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
no doubt at all! i know who you are now. johnny told me your real name, Mr. holmes. xoxoxo jm
Fuck.
Stop looking shocked. If this is not a situation that calls for an expletive, what is?
To: [REDACTED]
How hard was the blow to his head? His mind is clearly impaired; I can think of several people he may be talking about, but I am not one of them. --RSA
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
youre bluffing. but if you insist. i know who you are, mycroft bredon holmes. xoxoxo jm
Oh! John John John. Brave John, brilliant John, amazing John.
I suppose it would only be polite to warn Mycroft, assuming he isn't monitoring our conversation.
To: [REDACTED]
Are you sure that Dr. Watson is not bluffing? If you are, then tell me why you believe him and how you verified his assertions. No one will appreciate your reasoning more than I, after all. --RSA
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
a little birdie told me! haha!
i found the expmnt where yr bluebird came from. you bought him when it was shut down. too bad i couldnt find more records—i want a bird like yrs. have to start from scratch. or maybe ill take him from you!
how smart is yr bird anyway? xoxoxo jm
To: [REDACTED]
I do not know for certain, but I can tell you that program 35 in your book was beyond him. --RSA
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
funny! i bet hes smarter than you think. smarter than johnny. xoxoxo jm
To: [REDACTED]
Sherlock has a greater vocabulary than most parrots and is somewhat better at solving problems, and he is a reasonably fast learner. I would not, however, overestimate his abilities. He is an unusually intelligent bird, but he is only a bird. --RSA
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
mycroft mycroft mycroft. you can stop signing your fake initials now. i know the bird is yrs. i know yr name is on 221b baker street lease. but you dont live there, just johnny and yr bird. do you miss having yr birdie around? xoxoxo jm
To: [REDACTED]
I see more than enough of Sherlock for my satisfaction. I fear, though, that you have not proven me to be Mycroft Holmes, and there is a good reason for that. --RSA
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
i know who yr birdie is named for too.
do you rmbr Carl Powers? xoxoxo jm
To: [REDACTED]
I have heard the story of his sudden death, but I never knew him. --RSA
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
yr brother thought he was murdered, but the police didnt believe him.
did you? xoxoxo jm
To: [REDACTED]
I'm sorry, but you refer to another young man I was never privileged to meet. --RSA
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
still bluffing, mycroft.
you didnt believe him, did you? no one believed him. no one listened to him.
too bad he was right.
if youd listened to him, maybe idve been caught. maybe i wouldn't be here now. so im glad you didn't listen. im glad you ignored him.
pity about the drugs, though. with tht mind who knows what he couldve been like? xoxoxo jm
Oh? Mycroft wants me to stop this line of inquiry?
Well, then. Tell him I will, on the condition that when I finish talking to you, I be allowed to leave here. I recognize that I cannot go back to Baker Street at this time, but I would at least like a change of secure location.
To: [REDACTED]
As honoured as I am to have been mistaken for one of the most brilliant minds in the nation, I really must end this charade. I am not Mycroft Holmes. If you would like proof, the fact that you are still alive is that proof. --RSA
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
threats, mycroft? and we were getting on so well. xoxoxo jm
To: [REDACTED]
As I said earlier, I have only Dr. Watson and a moderately intelligent bird to assist me. Mr. Holmes has access to far more resources than I. If he were putting his full effort towards finding you, you would have been found.
But I understand your skepticism. You have only my texts to go by; I could be anyone.
What proof of my identity would you accept? Or rather, what proof that I am not Mycroft Holmes would you accept? --RSA
From: [UNKNOWN NUMBER]
proof of yr id? yr passport. yr birth cert. yr driving licence. yr medical records. yr tax records. ive looked for you, richard adler the pseudonym. xoxoxo jm
To: [REDACTED]
I do not drive.
As for the rest, well, my association with Mr. Holmes has been good for something. I am not surprised that you could not find my personal documentation. I fear, then, that we are at an impasse.
A pity, as I am anxious to meet you. Again I say, let me know when you find me. --RSA
Chapters 11 and 12 on DW