Leslie Knope swept her arms out and turned, her mouth open a bit in surprise and wonder as she took in her surroundings. "I don't know which way to look! Every single view is amazing," she said. For once, Leslie's innate sense of positivity did not skewing her perspective, for she was standing in the square of the Old Royal Naval College in Greenwich, London, with Christopher Wren's glorious twin domes straight ahead and the majestic Thames just behind her. "Amazing," she said, awestruck. "Can you believe we're really in London?"

Leslie's husband, Ben Wyatt turned to her and smiled. "No, I can't."

Leslie continued, "I really can't believe I was selected by the International Women in Government organization to receive special recognition for my service to Pawnee. I mean, I've only been a City Councilwoman for a year and already I'm getting an award." Ben turned to Leslie and put his hands on her hips. "Now that, I can believe," he murmured before placing a kiss on her lips.

Leslie turned to shout over her shoulder. "Andy! What does the guidebook say about this place?"

Andy Dwyer, human teddy bear, was not looking at the guidebook. Instead, he was making out with his extraordinarily sarcastic wife, April Ludgate Dwyer, who responded in his stead. "Guide books are stupid."

Andy smiled in agreement. "Good point, babe. You don't have to know the whole back story of something to enjoy it. For example, I know absolutely nothing about this old joint behind us, but I appreciate it as a perfect place to make out."

April noded. "Good point, babe."

That's not good enough for Leslie, who interrupted before they can start up again. "No, the history of a location such as this is critically important to our understanding and appreciation. I brought you to London so that you could soak in the rich culture and history here, to help expand your horizons beyond Pawnee," Leslie said. "Also, making out is called 'snogging' here

April gave a horrified look. "That's disgusting."

Andy grabbed her. "Come on, babe, let's snog."

"Eww," she said, batting him away, "I'm not snogging anything."

Leslie gave up and turned back to Ben. "Why does this place look so familiar to me?" she asked. Ben, geek-culture junkie, saw an opening. "Because a bunch of movies have been filmed here, like Patriot Games…"

Andy snapped to attention. "No way!"

"…Four Weddings and a Funeral…," Ben continued.

"Gross. Where did they film 'One Wedding and Four Funerals?'" April asked.

Ignoring her, Ben went on, "…Les Miserables…"

Leslie squealed and her hand clenched onto Ben's wrist. " Jean Val Jean was here, right here? Oh, my god! I am standing on the exact same place where Jean Val Jean stood when he demanded liberty for the French citizens!"

Ben said, "You do realize he was a fictional character…"

"You said they filmed it here."

"They did. But he was still a fictional…"

Leslie cut him off. "No, no, no. Let me just look out and imagine Jean Val Jean, with his humanity, his grief, his beautiful soul striding across this lawn to say 'death to the tyrants!' Where else but London can you go to feel the spirit of the French Revolution?"

"Paris?" asked April.

"Nowhere else," Leslie said, answering her own question with a sign of utter contentment. "I love London."

…..

At the same time in Central London, John Watson was preparing himself to open the refrigerator. In most homes, this is not a task that requires the girding of loins or the steeling of wills, but at 221B Baker Street, a trip to the fridge could be vomit-inducing, if not fatal. John tried to imagine the contents before opening the door; it was best to get this over as quickly and efficiently as possible and knowing what you wanted before opening the door saved precious time. At other homes, a person might linger once the door was open, letting inspiration strike without the overwhelming need to slam the door shut as soon as humanly possible. John was a doctor, he'd been in battle during a war, spent years living in brutal desert conditions - he was not a squeamish man. But the sights and smells of the refrigerator in his flat, well, they were beyond the pale. The cloying aroma of formaldehyde, the sharp decay of rotting flesh, the impossible-to-avoid glimpses of boils and pustules and tumors the likes of which he had never seen in medical school, any of those things could be behind the door right now, ready to turn John (and his stomach) away from his desire to have a soft-boiled egg with soldiers. Or, if he was really lucky and there were enough eggs and bread, two eggs with extra soldiers.

Well, nothing ventured, etc., etc. John took a deep breath, braced himself and pulled open the door. And it was…not that bad. No cereal bowl full of eyeballs. No intestines next to the sausages. No pungent smell wafting toward him like a lazy, hazy chemical cloud. Well, alright. Not only had he not been put off his breakfast, he was feeling quite ravenous and began rummaging for the eggs. What would be very nice was a proper fry up, but alas, this was pushing the boat out too far. There were no mushrooms, of that he was certain (at least not edible ones) and there wasn't a can of beans left in the house. Ah, but there was a carton of eggs and, would you look at that - two nice brown eggs inside. Excellent. Still within their expiration date, too. Now this was an auspicious day.

The eggs happily in hand, John began bringing a pan of water to boil when he heard a rustling from the sitting room. Sherlock was awake. After lowering the two precious ovals into the pot, John peeked around the corner to take in the sight of his flatmate. And it was a sight. Sherlock Holmes, world's only Consulting Detective, genius extraordinaire and all-round git was sprawled across the sofa in a manner that made it appear he was stuffed with rags and completely lacked a skeletal structure. Ever since moving in with Sherlock, John had always been struck by the way the man had lounging down to an art form. Long, loose limbs, not overly-muscled but taught and lithe, Sherlock looked like a rag doll for the moment, but John knew from experience the man was a coiled spring capable of striking like a viper, and with as much venom, too.

"Do you want an egg?" John said softly, assuming Sherlock would ignore him.

Not looking up from his phone, Sherlock responded, "we're going to have a visitor."

"That's not an answer to the question, 'do you want an egg?'"

"Yes, fine, an egg, whatever," Sherlock grumbled, fingers nimbly dancing across the phone. Damn. John had been counting on Sherlock turning down the egg, and truth be told, if John had thought there was a chance Sherlock would actually accept, he would never have offered. Now he was back to only one egg for himself. And the soldiers, of course. There was that. And it was likely that Sherlock would only eat a bit and then John could finish it off the remainder, as typically happened. Okay, so, one and a half eggs and extra soldiers. That should still set him up nicely.

Checking on the eggs again (he liked his on the runny side, so it wouldn't take long), John called out "whose coming over?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock answered, the sneer evident in his voice. Sherlock and his brother, Mycroft, were two peas in one very persnickety pod. Mycroft was the elder sibling and his haughty demeanor rubbed Sherlock like sandpaper on silk. There were few people capable of irritating Sherlock as effectively as Mycroft could. Of course, the fact that Mycroft had his fingerprints on nearly every aspect of the inner-workings of the British government, in particular, Her Majesty's Secret Service, also was a point of contention between them. Mycroft preferred to be within the framework of rule, while Sherlock was a lone wolf, operating as far on the outside as possible.

Well, he wasn't really a lone wolf any longer. Sherlock and John were now a pack of two, John thought, as he went back into the kitchen. He started in on the toast. He liked his soldiers perfectly golden brown, so toasting the bread exactly right was imperative. Ah, that's it, just the color. The bread popped up and he quickly drew the knife through the butter and then across the hot toast, just as Sherlock piped up again. "He'll have eaten breakfast, but he'll still want an egg and soldiers,"

John froze, mid-buttering. "I'm supposed to make breakfast for Mycroft now?"

"You know what it will do to him to watch us eat, John. I don't want him drooling all over the flat," Sherlock said.

John, who had taken several steps into the sitting room, looked down at the two places holding what was originally to be his breakfast and which now, for some reason he wasn't entirely certain, he was about to serve to the two most pompous, arrogant men in the entire country. Why anyone should be making breakfast for either of these two sods was beyond him, and it was certainly a mystery why he was suddenly without breakfast while the Holmes brothers were about to tuck in to his perfect boiled eggs and soldiers.

The door opened and Mycroft Holmes entered, long umbrella in one hand, despite the sunny day. "Sherlock. John. Ah, I was hoping I would be in time for breakfast," Mycroft said as he made himself comfortable. John put the plates in front of Sherlock and Mycroft and headed back to the kitchen to see what he might be able to scrounge up for himself.

"Some tea would be nice, John," Sherlock called out.

"Then make some," John bit back, even as he was flicking on the kettle.

"Get to it, Mycroft, you've got until you're finished with those soldiers and then you're leaving," Sherlock said to his brother.

"My, you're testy this morning. Fine. We have learned that there is a terror cell operating in London that is funneling directions to smaller cells across the world," Mycroft said with a sigh.

Sherlock responded with a roll of his eyes. "That's hardly anything new."

Mycroft continued, "true, but this is different in that these terrorists do not use any modern means of communication. No email, phone calls, texts, internet, satellite, hell, they don't even use Morse code or smoke signals. Individual terror cells spread all across the world receive orders from the main unit, located here in London, but there is no communication we can trace. Which leads us to believe they only communicate via…"

Sherlock cut him off, "with paper and pen. Novel."

Mycroft agreed. "It seems the most likely way. But how does something written by hand find it's way across the globe?"

"Not paper airplanes, I'm guessing," John, who was gnawing on a somewhat moldy peach, interjected.

"You've heard of drug mules. Well, what we are looking for are information mules. People who unknowingly take these notes between London and cities and towns in every corner of the world," Mycroft said.

"Tourists," Sherlock says.

Mycroft is leaning forward in his seat, tension making his shoulders bent. "Yes, but not just any tourist. It has to be someone from a very particular place, who can be assured to sharing the communication with the terrorists in the smaller cells upon their return home. That's why I need your help, Sherlock. We know that the next message will be instructions to destroy a small community somewhere in the U.S. And when I say destroy, I mean decimate. We must find a way to stop the accidental courier from delivering the message. Will you help me?"

Sherlock scoffs. "You think I can find the one targeted tourist amongst the tens of thousands of visitors to London at any given time?"

"Of course you can," John answers. There is a moment of silence as both Sherlock and Mycroft observe John, who has nibbled all the edible bits of the peach. "Oh. That question wasn't for me, was it? Sorry."

Sherlock murmured, "no, it's quite alright."

"John is correct, of course. You can find the targeted tourist, Sherlock. You must. Thousands of lives depend up on it and the clock is ticking. The message will be passed along soon, and if it leaves the country, an entire town will cease to exist," Mycroft concludes, his words ringing in the flat.

"No pressure, though," John says with a roll of his eyes.

Mycroft laid a thick folder on the desk. "This is background on other tourists who we believe have been accidental couriers of terrorist information over the past year. Many of them have met untimely ends when arriving back home, and in their hometowns, several small terrorist incidents have occurred. But these were practice runs. What will happen next is the sort of event that will destroy lives and radically change the way we live," Mycroft finished, standing. "Please let me know if you need anything. All of my resources are at your disposal."

Mycroft strode toward the door and was gone, leaving behind a quiet in 221B. Sherlock was not only silent, but motionless. John stared at the decimated remains of Mycroft's breakfast and then, longingly at Sherlock's untouched plate. It took a moment for him to realize that Sherlock was staring at him with a crooked grin. "Are you finished with that," John mumbled.

Sherlock pushed the cold egg and toast across the desk. "By all means, John. I can't have my blogger going hungry."