NOTES: In the end, this will probably end up being a super-crossover. But because it focuses on the Sherlock characters and more of a Sherlock-esque story line, I decided not to put it in the crossover section. Please let me know what you think!
The Architect
When living with Sherlock Holmes, one had to be prepared for just about anything. Body parts in the fridge, poisonous jellyfish in the tub, exotic weapons scattered around casually like coffee mugs—every day a new adventure.
So really, waking up to a gunshot at 4 AM shouldn't have startled him. But it did. Right out of his bed and onto the floor. He scrambled to his feet and rushed down the stairs, ready for anything, and anyone.
"What's happened?" he blurted out immediately. Sherlock sat on the sofa, looking at—wait, was that his laptop? Oh, bugger it—a computer screen, but pointing a recently fired gun at the blasted yellow smiley face that marred the wallpaper.
"We've got an eight, John. Maybe even a nine," Sherlock said excitedly, closing the computer and bounding off the couch. John was amazed to find that he was (properly) dressed in a button-down and slacks, no ratty bathrobe in sight.
"What?" John's sleep-addled mind could only really handle one concept at a time, and while Sherlock had been talking he had been distracted by the fact that Sherlock was properly dressed on a week day before noon.
"Honestly, John. A case. And not just any case—an interesting one. Might even be something new, John. New. Do you know how often that happens? Never."
Rushing over to the coat rack, he put on his signature scarf before proceeding to rush erratically around the room. Looking for something, apparently, even though John couldn't fathom what.
"And the gun?"
"I needed you up."
"You couldn't just—"
"Too far."
"But Mrs. Hudson—"
"Zimovane, John. She'd sleep through an air raid. Honestly, keep up."
By now, Sherlock was midway through buttoning up his signature coat and John was still staring at him dumbly in his pinstripe boxers and undershirt.
"Come on, John. Scotland Yard awaits!"
Honestly, he should have known better than to expect a full night's sleep.
"Freak's here. Brought his dog."
It may have been half-past four in the morning, but Donovan was still charming as ever. Sherlock ignored her, as always, and walked briskly to the crime scene without waiting for an invitation. John followed closely behind, still completely in the dark as to exactly what was going on—even more so than usual.
"Sherlock! I wasn't expecting you so soon."
"Really, Lestrade. A case like this? I couldn't possibly stay away." Sherlock quickly put on a pair of latex gloves, ignoring the body suits. Body suits were for amateurs.
"Have your idiots touched anything yet?"
"No."
"Good. Get rid of them. I need some time alone with the scene before they muck it up."
John looked around, trying to get an idea of exactly where they were—something that was easier said than done in the dimly-lit night. They appeared to be at a hotel—midrange price, completely unremarkable, mediocre location. Approximately fifteen storeys tall. Judging by where people were gathered, the body appeared to be around the corner, on the right-hand side of the building.
Indeed, once they turned the corner they saw a body—from what John could see, most likely a man, but it was hard to tell in the dark. The police had brought lamps, but the hard lights provided little help from a distance.
He could see the gears in Sherlock's head turning, and it seemed to him that Sherlock had already deduced most of what he needed before he even reached the body, because once he did he showed minimal interest in it.
Once he got close enough to do a proper inspection, John discovered that his earlier guess was indeed correct—the victim was a man, seemingly mid to late 30s, dressed in his pajamas, who had clearly fallen from a great height. John winced. He had seen many corpses in his life, but deaths from falling always struck a nerve with him. The gruesomely crushed bones and splattered brains lying in a pool of congealing blood made it clear that the poor sod was gone the second he hit the ground.
"Lestrade!" Sherlock called, pulling the Detective Inspector's attention from Donovan and Anderson.
"What is it, Sherlock?"
"I must see his room. Now. Time is, as always, of the essence."
Lestrade sighed. "We're still in the process of figuring out which room the victim was staying in."
"Please tell me you are not truly as ignorant as you currently appear to be," Sherlock berated, looking personally insulted.
"He has no identification on him, Holmes. It's not quite that simple," Anderson argued, speaking as if talking to a child.
"Is your brain truly that small or do you just not use it? He's in his nightclothes, for Pete's sake, of course he doesn't have any identification on him! Or do you sleep at night with your wallet in your boxers?"
Lestrade snickered.
"Still," Sherlock continued, "the victim's room is obvious. Based on the location of the body, there are only four windows which he could have fallen from. The only one high enough, based on the damage done to the skull, is the open window on the fourteenth floor, which, if I am correct—which I almost certainly am—should be the fourth door on the right down the rightmost corridor."
No one made any obvious indication of agreement or otherwise, but Lestrade did head in the direction of the hotel's entrance, muttering something about asking the front desk for keys. Sherlock followed along briskly, his coat billowing behind him.
"Come along, John."
However, once they reached the lobby, Sherlock veered to the left while Lestrade continued straight. John looked at Sherlock questioningly—particularly once he realized they were headed towards the lifts—but continued to follow silently. It was only once the door closed that he succumbed to his curiosity.
"What are we doing, Sherlock?"
"Isn't it obvious? We're investigating a crime scene."
"We don't have a key."
"Who needs a key?"
The lift stopped, and Sherlock was down the hall, kicking the door open, before John could even think of a response. He rolled his eyes as the door hit the wall with a bang and Sherlock let out a loud whoop.
"Why, exactly, can you manage to do this but can't get your lazy arse to Tesco?"
"Tesco is boring, John. This isn't." Sherlock surveyed the room quickly before settling his eyes on the desk. "Bingo!"
It didn't take John long to see what had caught Sherlock's eye. There was a message written below a hastily drawn maze on the generic hotel stationary, which read It's time for a new game (with better carpets).
"Moriarty?" John asked incredulously. "It can't be. He's... he's dead. He blew his bloody brains out!"
"I was dead too, John. So was The Woman. We came back." He paused. "We always come back."
"But what does it mean?"
"I don't know what it means, not yet, but I can tell you what it says." He glanced over the note again. "The victim was left handed—he had a prominent writer's callus on the fourth finger of his left hand, yet the slant and the angle, as well as the fact that the pencil was put down on the right side of the paper, indicate that he wrote the note with his right."
Walking over to the unmade double bed, Sherlock flung the pillow to the side unceremoniously.
"Just as I suspected."
"What?"
Sherlock picked up the revealed pistol. "American."
"How could you possibly know—"
"I suspected from the body—his hair was greasy and his skin was spotty, but his teeth were pristine—no one takes dental care more seriously than an American. And this," Sherlock spun the pistol in his hand (they really would have to have a talk about gun safety one of these days), "is an M1911 pistol. Made in America, one of the most commonly found firearms there as well. The fact that he was sleeping with this under his pillow means he was expecting someone."
Sherlock opened the top drawer of the bedside table and pulled out a wallet. Just as he began to go through the contents, Lestrade came bounding through the door.
"Sherlock? What—"
"I need five minutes."
"Wait—"
"Five. Minutes. And please do close the door before Anderson gets any ideas and decides to lower the IQ of the room."
Lestrade sighed, but nonetheless closed the door. "So, what have you found?"
"Nash Clements. Thirty-seven. American. Architect, possibly Engineer. Left-handed. Connected with Moriarty, somehow. He was running from someone, or possibly something, but they weren't the one who found him in the end."
"How could you possibly know all that?"
"Isn't it obvious?"
John and Lestrade both gave him the same look; the one that said 'no-it-really-isn't-now-get-on-with-it-you-git'.
"First, his driver's license. Name, age, nationality—obviously. Next, the body. He had a prominent writer's callus on the fourth finger of his left hand, and heavy graphite staining on the side of his palm. Now, there are only a handful of professions which require a grown man to work frequently with pencils. Most jobs require the use of a pen, for legal purposes, and almost all record-keeping and the like is done electronically now. He's clearly not an artist—just look at him—which leaves two possibilities: engineer, or architect. Lastly, he had a gun under his pillow. He was worried about something, had anticipated the need to defend himself. If he had encountered who he was anticipating, the gun would at the very least have made it out from under his pillow. Also, such concern for his own safety clearly indicates that he was not suicidal, which means this was a murder." Sherlock paused, before suddenly realizing he had forgotten something.
"Oh, and Moriarty's back." He said this as if he were talking about the weather.
"Alri..." Lestrade began his response automatically before he actually had a chance to process the words. "You're shitting me."
"I don't joke."
"He was dead!"
"I was dead!"
Lestrade rubbed at his temples, feeling the beginnings of a Sherlock-induced headache coming on.
"Alright. But what about the maze, then? And the carpet?"
"Both support my theory that the victim was an architect, but other than that their significance is still a mystery to me. Further research is required. Let's go, John. We're done here."
And there he went, with his popped collar and his cheekbones and his melodrama. For someone who claimed no interest or attraction for members of the opposite sex or otherwise (although the debacle with The Woman left John with the impression that Sherlock, should he ever change his mind, would gravitate towards someone of the opposite sex) he sure did nothing to discourage their attentions.
By the time they left the hotel, the sun had started to rise, and there was a limo waiting for them. If there was any doubt as to who it was for or from, the sight of Mycroft's assistant and her ever-present Blackberry in the back seat made it perfectly clear.
John opened the door, motioning for Sherlock to get in. "After you."
He liked to think that the glare he received in response was Sherlock's way of saying "thank you".
"You know I prefer texing, Mycroft."
"This information is confidential. Come, I have tea in the lounge."
In the end, they were brought to one of Mycroft's several country homes. Idly, John realized that he had never seen Mycroft in the same place twice.
It was only once they were settled in the lounge with tea—John and Sherlock on the sofa and Mycroft in an armchair—that he finally began to explain.
"We had been anticipating this for a while. It was only a matter of time, after all."
Mycroft could get a gold medal in ambiguity, but John had learned better than to ask. The Holmes brothers seemed to have their own language in which insignificant words meant various significant things.
"So who was Nash Clements?"
"You mean you don't already know?"
"Don't be ridiculous. Thirty-seven, single, architect, American, left-handed. But what did Moriarty want with him?"
"Do you remember the death of energy tycoon Maurice Fischer in 2009?"
"No," Sherlock answered bluntly at the same time that John answered, "Yes."
"Really, Sherly, it would serve you well to keep up with current events. But, to make a long story short, his son, Robert, dissolved his empire almost as soon as he inherited it. Now, what could possibly convince the son of one of the wealthiest men in the world to destroy his inheritance?"
"Blackmail."
"Not in this case. And I couldn't figure it out at first either," he added, seeing the disbelief on Sherlock's face. "So I talked to Fischer's greatest rival, a Mr. Saito, who was left with a near monopoly over the world's energy supplies. And he told me. Tell me, have you ever heard of Somnacin?"
"A sedative, is it not?"
"It is, but it's also so much more. It was formulated for use in American military training. Injected intravenously by a device known as a PASIV, it allowed trainee soldiers to share dreams—the ultimate simulation. An architect would design the world of the dream—a battlefield, of course—and then the soldiers would be brought in. They could shoot and stab and kill each other, with no risk of inflicting actual damage. It seemed ideal, but they didn't anticipate the long-term reactions. In the end, somnacin is a drug. Soldiers became addicted—they lost the ability to dream without it. More seriously, soldiers who underwent dream-share training started to lose their sense of reality. It was a mess. The program was pulled, and the use of somnacin and PASIV devices were ruled illegal in most parts of the world. But that, of course, has never stopped anyone. You would know, wouldn't you, brother?"
Sherlock's nostrils flared and a muscle in his jaw twitched but he managed to refrain from retorting.
"Dream-sharing became a tool. A new form of espionage. You could literally get inside peoples' heads, steal their ideas. It was called extraction. But Fischer's case was different. Something much more difficult, and much more dangerous. Inception. Saito managed to gather a team that was able to plant an idea in Fischer's head—the idea to dissolve his father's empire. As far as we know, this is the only case of a successful Inception. Recently we've noticed Moriarty and his criminal web displaying interest in dream-share technology. They've been experimenting with sedatives, weaponizing them. Our inside man had told us they recently had been focusing on a compound which allows them to not only invade a person's mind, but control their body."
"Hold on, hold on," John interrupted, trying to process all the new information, "are you saying that this is what happened to Clements? That he sleepwalked out a window?"
"That's exactly what he's saying John. Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever's left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."
Sherlock paused.
"What is it that you need from me, Mycroft?"
"Moriarty's building a team, and he wants the best. He'll go after the Inception team, and he won't stop until he finds them. I don't know who they are. As far as we know, no one does—besides Mr. Saito, of course. But if anyone can find them, it would be Moriarty. Or you. And it needs to be you."
"But how does Clements fit into all this?" John asked, feeling like a dunce. Clearly, he was missing something.
"Moriarty's sources lead him to Clements. He claimed to work with the Inception team, they tested him, he failed. And then he took a tumble out of a window fourteen stories high."
"Can you do this for me Sherlock?"
"Fine. And once I find them, what happens then?"
"Hopefully, they can shed some light on what Moriarty plans to do with a sleepwalk-inducing sedative and why he would need the world's best extraction team."
They finished their conversation with pleasantries—at least, as pleasant as the Holmes brothers were capable of being—before Mycroft walked them to the limo (Anthea and her blackberry in the back seat—John wondered as to whether or not she had even left the car at all).
"Just tell the driver where you want to go."
John sighed as he slid onto the leather seats—his lack of sleep finally catching up with him.
"221—"
"St. Barts. Quickly, time is of the essence."
John groaned and sunk further into his seat. "Sherlock, can't this wait? Molly and her corpses will still be there tomorrow."
Sherlock looked at John reproachfully.
"No, John. I need to figure out exactly what we're dealing with here."