2006

The woman who would much later call herself Mary Morstan stepped into the arrival hall of the big airport and looked around. She wasn't blond, her hair was brown and she wore an elegant beige coat. Her eyes shot over the people who were moving in patterns around her. Tourists were meeting, finding their ways and collecting their bags. Business people walked with determinate pace, not what she was looking for. She scanned the restaurants; people were eating, having coffee, sometimes reading a newspaper. She looked at the benches where people were waiting, quickly skipping over families. Finally her eyes rested on a middle aged man in a pin striped suit who was reading the New York Times. He sat, seemingly oblivious for his surroundings, with a small bag next to him, slowly turning pages. She felt the danger he radiated.

She walked to the bench as if she would be walking past it, her attention to the exit. When she was next to the bench, she stopped, checked her phone and sighed, as if to say: this is going to take a while. She sat down, five feet away from him. He didn't acknowledge her and she kept looking straight ahead, watching him move from the corner of her eyes. Finally, he straightened and folded the newspaper, his eyes inconspicuously shooting over her.

As if by accident, she lifted her hair, revealing a small tattoo in the hairline; A Christian cross, surrounded by a circle.

'Thou shall be flung into a burning fiery furnace,' the man said.

The woman gave him a faint smile. 'But if not.'

He smiled back. 'Welcome home. What is your name?'

'You may call me Jacky.'

'Welcome, Jacky. Welcome to the family.'

2015

London looked different from above. While a map gives you clear indications of where you are, the reality was different. All buildings looked like grey or reddish rectangles, the streets were almost impossible to recognise. Luckily there was still the Thames, each curve unique, and from there, the general direction could be glanced. Moving up, relatively close to the centre there was a neighbourhood with the most beautiful houses. They'd probably be even more expensive if it hadn't been for Heathrow and the constant noise of low flying airplanes. This was the target area.

Judge Adair stretched out on his white leather sofa and took a sip of his wine. The sun still shone through his sliding doors that led to the balcony as it was slowly making its way down towards the horizon, giving the white modern living room a pink hue. It had been a beautiful day, it had actually been a great day. But Adair wasn't thinking about the weather, in fact, he had barely seen it, nor did he care for it. This had everything to do with a particular game of poker, a particularly successful game of poker. He emptied the glass, poured himself another one, and put the bottle back into the wine cooler, a beautiful thing, handmade. It was a souvenir from India. The TV was chattering away, he wasn't paying much attention, still thinking about the game. Seb's face had been absolutely unforgettable. He knew Seb cheated, that was his downfall. Because if you know how someone cheats, you can sometimes work out a way to cheat right back. Exchanging the fiches for notes had been a victory not unlike what a hunter feels when he finally kills his prey. It was time for a celebratory cigarette. Suddenly the TV drew his attention. It was about the Project.

'The face on the video has been confirmed to be James Moriarty, one of the biggest criminals the country has ever seen,' said the newsreader.

Adair grinned. The biggest criminal, he corrected the newsreader in his mind. And it was going to be good. The country was in for a big surprise and he was going to earn a lot more than today. This was a bigger game of poker and a lot more complex. He looked at her, slim, olive skin, black, curly hair and beautiful breasts. His type. He laughed again. 'You keep reading, pretty,' he said aloud. 'I know something you don't.'

The houses all looked the same and it took a reference picture to find out which house was the right one. It was absolutely vital that there was no mistake. Every angle of the road had to match, the house had to be the one facing east with the balcony on the west. Everything had to be exactly right. And then it was just waiting for the right moment.

She kept chattering, 'Sources revealed that Sherlock Holmes is looking into this mystery.' Adair laughed even more. You keep looking, Holmes boy, he thought, you don't know what's coming for you. The news moved on to another topic, something about the Horn of Africa. Boring. Cigarette. He got up, he never smoked inside because of his designer furniture but the sun was still on the balcony. He opened the door and stepped outside. The sun felt warm on his face as he took out a cigarette and lit it. They say it's bad for your health, but so are many other things. Driving for example, and riding a bike through London was probably more lethal than smoking.

The next moment, all that was left of judge Adair was splattered on the pavement.

Despite its mysterious image with the people, the building was basically an office. A place where ordinary people did their ordinary jobs. However, one of the meetings that were held wasn't so ordinary this time. Sherlock looked into the board room, eight people, seven men and one woman, all formally dressed. He only knew two of them and they were not friends. He'd been speaking for more than an hour now and he wondered whether he should have made a slide show presentation. Bullshit always looked better when it was presented on slides.

He continued. 'As we all know,' they didn't, 'there is a correlation between the frequency of left handed stabbings and the average London temperature, if, of course, corrected for humidity values.'

'Spurious.'

The voice came from the man in the corner who was leaning back with his eyes closed and his fingers pressed together underneath his chin. If you didn't know better, you would think that he might be asleep. However, everyone in the room knew better. He seemed to be intent to make Sherlock's life miserable and Sherlock knew that he was capable of that like no one else in the world. It was Mycroft.

'You can put together any large number of data and run tests and eventually something is going to correlate to something. That doesn't mean anything. A child knows that, Sherlock.'

'You've got a strange impression of the knowledge of children.'

'Professional deformation, I work with adults. At least most of my time.' Mycroft opened his eyes. 'Unfortunately, sometimes, exceptions must be made.'

'What about you two keep the bickering to your private life and focus on the issue at hand?' The speaker was the other person Sherlock knew, the only woman in the room, Lady Smallwood, an MP and ex-client whom Sherlock once had to disappoint with fatal consequences. Unlike the men, she was dressed in a light coloured suit, but Sherlock still saw the signs of mourning on her face and mannerisms.

His speech was mostly designed to tire them and to confuse them while at the same time give them an idea of the depth of his knowledge. Sherlock had hoped that this would encourage them to let him do what he wanted. Mycroft's presence was a problem, he saw through Sherlock as if through glass. Not only would he understand the speech, he would know why it was constructed in that way. Worst of all, the others seemed to know him and to trust his judgement. Sherlock knew that he wasn't just on thin ice, he was basically walking on water.

'Sherlock,' he said. 'I'm sure you have hours of material on, say, the conformation of sawdust, its reaction to oxygenating haemoglobin and how this might stick to people's shoes...'

'That'd depend on the leather quality or the permeability of the nylon...'

'What I mean is this,' Mycroft gave him a threatening look. 'Get on with it.'

'Right, the video, that's why we're here, of course. The question is of course, why would anyone do this?'

'Never mind the why. How?'

The men all wore impeccable suits and polished black shoes, not much to go on, other than that their office environment was rather formal. The man who spoke had the muscle development of a long-distance runner, but a pale complexion, which meant that he did most of his training indoors, probably because he made long hours at his job, probably a function with lots of responsibilities and prestige. Though his ring meant he was married, the long hours wouldn't make this marriage the closest relationship the world has ever seen. He was in his late forties, but his skin was relatively smooth, that could be explained because he spent much time inside, it also meant that he probably never wore makeup, not strange for a man, but people in public functions would often wear makeup for TV-appearances, so his job, while important, was not public. Obviously, there was a quicker and more reliable way to work this out. Sherlock never took the time to watch telly, even though it would sometimes be useful. One of the many reasons why having John at his side was an advantage.

'Do you know how?' Sherlock answered. It was a rhetorical question, the man was not a technician, nor remotely knowledgeable.

'Neither do I at this stage. Back to the why then. Most criminals prefer to work out of sight.' Sherlock grinned. 'It kinda goes with the territory, wouldn't you say?' He got some eye rolls in return, most people just stared back.

'So this one is something special. He wants to be seen. Who wants to be seen? A criminal advertising on national television? Possibly, though it doesn't happen often this way. More likely it's a terrorist network, ready to sow fear among the people. In that case, more actions will follow. It could be a friend or relative, ready for revenge, or perhaps it's just their sense of humour. Or it could be a total stranger of course, a copycat of some kind.'

'So basically, you don't know,' said the runner.

'Of course not, how am I supposed to know from so little data?'

'So what is going on with the international terrorist network?' said Lady Smallwood.

Sherlock laughed. 'Well, it could be that. Or it's just a prank.'

Mycroft looked at him with ice cold eyes. 'This is a threat to the national security,' he said. 'You must take this seriously.'

'Nothing that can't be done by a seventeen year old hacker with an internet connection.'

Lady Smallwood looked shocked. 'The entire broadcasting network? Public and private?'

'You're right.' Sherlock looked at the ceiling, pretending to be thinking. 'Maybe eighteen. We can't tell because we don't know the method.'

'Ha.' She pulled up her eyebrows and gave him an amused look. 'Well, whatever, or whoever it is, he needs to be found, prank, criminal, terrorist or hostile nation. We don't know what it is.'

'That's right.'

'You've got a budget, you can hire your own personnel. This has to remain secret.'

'I work alone.'

'A budget.' Mycroft grunted. 'My brother attracting employees. Are you going to hire the drug addict or the conspiracy theorist?'

'Both. And maybe the assassin, though she'd probably have to be on pregnancy leave.'

'Glad that you take this seriously.'

'I am taking this seriously. I will find you your teenager.' Sherlock grinned, a big smile full of teeth, but it wasn't funny. In reality, he had no clue where to start and at some point there had to be some results. The only thing he could do is hope that the perpetrator would make a mistake.

A black car pulled up and made its way across the Thames, slowly weaving its way through the traffic. Sherlock looked outside through the one way window, staring, and consciously ignoring his brother sitting next to him. Which was rather difficult because Mycroft was a large man and he made noise when he talked.

Mycroft gave Sherlock an exasperated look. 'It's fine Sherlock, I told you.'

Sherlock didn't move. 'How do I know?'

'Trust me.'

'Trust you?'

Mycroft's voice was soft and ice cold .'What choice do you think you have? 'There was never a shooting, there were never witnesses, there was never a suicide mission. It has all disappeared. You were needed for urgent matters over here and reality was subsequently adjusted,'

'Really? For this little thing?'

'Any sufficiently advanced bureaucrat is indistinguishable from a wizard.'

'Bullshit.'

'I have granted you little favours in the past but I've never before swept a murder under the rug. You seem to be incredibly inventive in the various ways you inflict misery on me.'

'I was doing you a favour.'

'At some point my patience might end. Sherlock...' Mycroft gave him a threatening look. 'It's not a prank.'

Sherlock didn't take his eyes off the city. 'And now no longer my problem. Thanks to the non-existent witnesses.'

Mycroft sighed, his voice became irritated. 'It's important that you solve this.'

Sherlock finally looked at him. 'Well, I have nothing to go on, do I? It might as well have been a bored school kid!'

Mycroft rolled his eyes. 'We both know that that's not true.'

Sherlock had repositioned himself into his previous position, looking out of the window with a blank stare. He shrugged. 'Sure if that person was serious he would want to draw my attention, all I have to do is wait.'

'Why can't you for once cooperate?'

'What should I do that for?'

'Oh, it's about that.' Mycroft leaned back. 'I only did what was right.'

'Yes you did.'

'At least I'm not a killer.'

Sherlock snorted. 'Bad luck. Maybe next time you'll be more successful. Should be no problem, I know what you're capable of.'

'Ignorant as usual, Sherlock. You have no idea what I went through. No idea what I had to do.'

'No, I understand perfectly well. Lives depend on you and lives depend on your position. I'm one person, the others are more than one. It's only a matter of adding and subtracting and come to the logical conclusion. As you said, you did what was right.'

'You think I sacrificed you for the greater good?'

'I know you did that.'

A sudden noise interrupted them, Sherlock recognised Mycroft's ring tone, something that must have been fashionable at some point in whatever circles Mycroft moved. He didn't listen to the conversation until he heard Mycroft's voice becoming more and more agitated.

'What, no, that can't be! No, no one must know about it.'

One sided, the conversation didn't make much sense. Mycroft hung up, visibly emotional.

'What's that?' asked Sherlock at an even tone, pretending not to be interested.

'None of your concern. A mismatch in the stock logs for some military equipment.'

'Missing guns?' Sherlock gave him a broad insincere smile. 'Interesting. I saw something on the news the other day...'

Mycroft looked back gravely. 'If I ever see you near this thing. Seriously, Sherlock, stay away.'

'I will stay away.' said Sherlock cheerfully. 'And I will certainly stay away from you. What about we never see each other again?'

'And how did you think you're going to accomplish that?'

'By not speaking to you.'

'I could visit.'

'I could move.'

'I would find you.'

'You wouldn't bother. In fact, you wouldn't bother to visit either.'

Mycroft leaned back into the leather cushions. 'Probably not.' he said slowly. 'It was more hypothetically speaking.'

'Good, so that's sorted then. We're both gonna be very happy.' Sherlock resumed his stare out of the window and didn't speak for the rest of the journey. He was relieved when the car pulled up into his street and stopped at his house. Without looking at his brother, he got out of the car.

Mycroft called after him. 'This is ridiculous, Sherlock, how long have you known me for?'

Sherlock looked back into the car at his brother, his face entirely neutral. 'Nobody knows you, Mycroft, and you like it that way.'

And with that, he closed the door and went into his apartment, not once looking back. He was on the stairs when he heard the car pulling up and disappearing out of his life.

A bell went and ten dogs shot out of their starting gates. John watched intensely. Number three, Red Lightning, was his dog and she was second place. They went into the second half, number seven closing in. 'C'mon, Red!' he shouted.

'Why do people get so excited about this?' asked Sherlock.

John looked at his friend next to him. While everyone's focus was on the track and people were shouting the names of the dogs they had bet on, Sherlock had his back turned and faced the audience with an expression of wonder. In his black coat, he looked slightly bat-like, and John figured that he might as well have been hanging upside down, his positioning would have been equally weird.

'Because they think they might win a lot of money. And because it's fun.'

The dogs were now at the finish. Red Lightning was overtaken by number seven, making her third. 'Ay!' said John disappointedly and tore up his ticket.

'Yeah, great fun.' Sherlock took his eyes off the audience and turned to John. 'There are ten dogs, only one can win, so if you bet on the winner, you get a 90% chance of losing your money. You might as well shout at a rolling dice. At least then your chance is one out of six.'

'Depends on how you bet. And the dogs don't all have the same chance of winning.'

'Which is already accounted for when you place the bet. Everybody knows the chance to lose is higher. Why do people bet on dogs?'

'Why do people take cocaine?'

Sherlock smirked. 'To think. No one, in the history of mankind, has ever bet on a dog in order to think.'

'It's just for fun. It's a thrill. People don't actually think they'll get rich.'

'A thrill for the dogs, perhaps. You, however, willingly play a game you know you will lose.'

John shook his head. 'You might win.'

'Maths. You don't even need to do maths, the fact that the industry is there tells you all you need.'

John sighed. 'I knew you would be a terrible companion.'

Sherlock took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. 'And I knew that if you were bored enough to get into this kind of nonsense, it's probably time to find some serious danger for you.'

John looked at the cigarette, but decided against commenting. 'You're working?'

'I'm always working.'

A new set of dogs had now taken off. Sherlock stared over the track into the other side of the audience. John followed his eyes but just saw some people talking to each other.

'So...' said John.

'So what?'

'Moriarty. Not dead?'

'Blown his brains out when I was four feet away. It was rather hard to miss. But I don't know, you are the doctor, can people survive such a thing?'

John rolled his eyes. 'Are you looking for who's behind the video then?'

Sherlock blew out smoke and wrinkled his nose in mock disgust. 'The video might as well have been a prank by a seventeen years old with an internet connection. I've got nothing to go on. But here's a guy who claimed he did it, which is interesting by itself. But he's probably also the one who killed the judge so at least I'd have a reason to go after him.'

'Who's he?'

Sherlock nodded towards the other side of the track. A tall and rather big man with dark hair sat in the middle of a group of rough looking men. He took up most of the space. From the way the others looked at him, it was obvious that he was the leader.

'Sebastian Moran.' said Sherlock. 'Son of Lord Moran and inherited his fondness for things that go boom. Ex-soldier, professional gambler, thrill seeker, sniper.'

'Maybe you can introduce us.'

'Drug lord? And he's rather fond of hunting tigers.'

'Aren't they an endangered species?'

'The more endangered the better. This sort of person relishes the thought of being the one who exterminate an entire species. Gives him a feeling of power.'

'That's not very nice.'

'And there is the additional bonus of using a small child as a bait.'

'Jesus!'

'Quite.

That's what he did in India. Took a small boy, tied it to a tree and then waited in his den with his gun to shoot the tiger. Apparently he got a white one. Beautiful animal, very rare.'

'And the child survived?'

'What? No, that was eaten by the tiger, obviously.'

'That man is thoroughly evil.'

Sherlock grinned. 'And he used to be Moriarty's best friend. Inasmuch those kinds of people can have friends. Needless to say, since what I've done to Jim and his father, that I'm not one of those.'

'That would have been rather surprising.'

'He's probably missing his power. Maybe he's done a little advertising on the national network.'

'So he's behind it. In order to take over Moriarty's position. That's your theory?'

'Hypothesis.'

'And now you're trying to prove it?'

Sherlock looked at him with an expression of shock. 'No, of course not. If everyone would only ever try to prove what they already believe, we'd still be running after mammoths with spears.'

He shook his head. 'I'm trying to disprove it.'

Every time John entered Baker Street, he felt the familiarity of his former home, mixed with the absurdity of Sherlock living there alone now. After the race, Sherlock had asked him to meet him the next day to see a client but hadn't told him why. For some reason, the thought of Sherlock alone with all his experiments made John a bit uneasy. He rang the doorbell, another thing that kept feeling a bit absurd even though it had been years since he moved out. At least it was always great to see Mrs. Hudson again. The door opened and he looked into the face of Bill Wiggins.

'Hi, doctor Watson,' Bill said. 'Sherlock is expecting you.'

John wiped the look of surprise off his face. 'What are you doing here?'

'I work for him, doctor Watson.'

'Right, I see.' John didn't see, but followed Bill up the stairs. Sherlock sat in his usual position, slumped in his chair. The only difference was the cigaret he held in his hand.

'What's he doing here?' said John.

'He's my assistant. He helps with experiments and runs the homeless network. He blends in quite naturally.'

'Yeah. I'm sure he does.'

Billy sat cross legged on the floor, looking at some papers he had put there. There was a stack on the table too, and the wall had turned into a new collage.

John turned back to Sherlock. 'You think you can trust him?'

'Time will tell. Time and superior observational skills.'

John grabbed Sherlock's sleeve and dragged him to the hallway. 'What are you doing?' he whispered a bit too loudly. 'He's a drug addict.'

'Recovering drug addict. You know the type.'

'That's exactly what worries me.'

'I'll be watching him. I'm good at that sort of thing, in case you hadn't noticed.'

'You think you can deduce whether he's used? Or whether he intends to steal your money? Or the eyeballs in the fridge?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'It's been done to me.'

'Did that work?'

'Mmm.' Sherlock looked inside where Billy was spreading out all the papers that were on the table. Billy looked at the collection with a pensive expression. Sherlock grinned. Billy saw him watching.

'I don't understand.' he said. 'If you believe something, why do you want to disprove it? Seems like a rather pointless action.'

Sherlock looked at John. 'We've talked about this, you remember?'

'Yes, falsification, not verification, important distinction in science.'

'Which you had forgotten.'

'I'm a doctor, not a scientist.'

They walked back in.

'If you believed that all swans are white, how many white swans would it take to be absolutely sure that you're right?' asked Sherlock.

Billy thought about it. 'All the white swans in the world,' he said eventually.

'Good. And how many black swans would it take to prove that you're wrong?'

'Ah,' said Billy in realisation. 'One.'

'That's why we're looking for black swans. We don't learn anything from looking for white swans. It's the intellectual equivalent of sleepwalking.'

'So that's what you do to Lestrade?'

'Yes and what I do to myself. I'm wrong all the time, and the sooner to find out how you're wrong the better.'

'I see.' The doorbell rang and Billy went downstairs. John followed him with his eyes.

'He got Mrs. Hudson's job.'

'Never. His coffee is terrible.'

John laughed. 'So who are you excluding then? Sebastian Moran?'

'I'm taking his claim seriously but he's not my only suspect. There are way too many people who have a motive. There's none of whom I know they'd have the means. I give him a forty percent chance.'

'That's pretty high.'

'The highest.'

'That's pretty good. Why did you ask me to come?'

'I'm meeting an interesting client. I hope he can tell me more.'

Footsteps sounded on the top of the stairs and the door opened.

'Hello, boys,' said a familiar Irish voice and John felt the chills crawling up his spine.

'Have you missed me?'