"Sod off, Sherlock". The response was less than dramatic: Holmes simply raised one eyebrow in mock outrage. He yawned, put down the newspaper that had held his attention for a record thirty seconds and turned. "Come on, John" he said. "Exactly how long are you planning on keeping this up for?". This conflict was getting tedious, even more so than those dull sessions when he was forced to sit there and continually answer that dreaded question, "So, how are you feeling?".
All questions and what seemed like no answers. For someone who prided himself on his intellectual abilities, it was a less than perfect situation. Finding no answer from Dr Watson's firmly turned back, he turned his attention to the newspaper instead. Sherlock carefully folded the paper into halves until it was a perfect rectangle and placed it on the table, exactly perpendicular to the edge of the solid oak wood. .
Any further discussion was interrupted by the shrill ring of the doorbell. Sherlock hesitated for a moment, and then recalled that Mrs Hudson was away visiting relatives. At least that's what she had said on her departure. Since Watson had assumed the position of a limpet attached to his armchair, Holmes made his way downstairs. The heavy wood panelled door swung open to reveal the unexpected visitor. He was a slight man, with a nervous disposition. There was a slight dusting on his right sleeve, which he had made a poor attempt to disguise and a few small flakes remained. On his left arm the faux gold watch was done up on a hole not normally used on the strap, and yet his shoes were an immaculately polished and buffed black leather. He was clearly a man of contradictions, yet there was no immediate clue as to the reason for his visit to Baker Street.
"Hilfe…." he began but got no further. Slumping suddenly towards the cold stone step, his abrupt collapse almost took even Sherlock by surprise. He lay there, unmoving, while Holmes shouted for Watson to come down to assist. While checking the man's pulse, Sherlock noticed a small piece of folded paper that had been hurridly tucked into the front pocket of the man's suit. It was slightly torn and the writing on it looked like it had been written by a rapidly moving and urgent hand. The slight imprint of a finger upon one corner suggested that, whatever it was, the stranger hadn't wanted to risk losing it. Sherlock quickly pocketed the paper and turned to find Watson, in the process of calling for an ambulance.
After the man had been taken away, Sherlock and Watson sat and waited for the inevitable arrival of the police. "We don't know who he was" John told the officer. "We've never seen him before". The policeman then turned to Sherlock. "And you, sir? Do you have any idea who he was or why he came here?". Sherlock raised his eyebrows in condescension and sighed. "He had no identification. You said so yourself". He turned to face the officer, the disapproval evident on his face. The policeman snapped his notebook shut, having barely written a few perfunctory words. After he had left 221b Baker Street, the door firmly shut behind him, Sherlock turned to Watson and extracted the small piece of paper from his jacket pocket. He held it between two fingers, perusing the off-white paper and its contents. Watson turned and looked at him. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Honestly, Sherlock, is that what I think it is?". Still not taking his eyes off the sheet, Sherlock didn't even move. "That depends, John, What do you think it is?". It was now Watson's turn to raise his eyebrows in mock exasperation. "Come on Sherlock" he said. "For once in your life, can't you just give a straightforward answer?" Sherlock smiled. "But John, where's the fun in that?". He headed downstairs towards the door of 221b Baker Street. "Now, John" he said. "I think you need a coffee".
When they came back, hardly fifteen minutes later, the door was a fraction ajar. Sherlock noticed it immediately: John a few seconds later. Sherlock cautiously pushed the door open fully, then stepped inside. He motioned for John to follow, and the pair made their way quietly up the stairs. Sherlock held his finger to his lips and signalled for John to remain quiet. Sherlock opened the door of the living room, and it swung back to reveal a woman. Not Adler. A stranger. Like Adler, she appeared poised and confident. Unlike Adler, at least this individual was wearing clothes. For one of the few times he had ever known, Sherlock was momentarily lost for words.
"That woman" the voice asked, smooth as silk. "The…friend of yours. What's her name? Molly, isn't it?". Sherlock didn't answer. Instead the musings continued, leisurely and unhurried. "Honestly, Sherlock what are you thinking? She'd bore you to tears in a moment. I wonder if she hasn't done so already". Sherlock turned. "Not everyone has to be an intellectual genius" he began. "What you need is an equal" she continued. "Someone who can meet you, like for like, not a blindly devoted follower". "Really?" countered Sherlock. "And exactly who did you have in mind? Yourself, perhaps?". She laughed. "Good God, no. Dear Mr Holmes, when it comes to me I'm afraid even you couldn't keep up". Sherlock didn't answer. The voice persisted. "And that other fan of yours, Adler. A slightly better candidate. Vulnerable though, thanks to her fondness for you". She leaned forward. "Never have feelings for a person you're trying to manipulate. It doesn't end well". She leaned back and surveyed the scene. Sherlock was looking but not seeing, lost in his own thoughts.
"Nothing to say? That's unusual for you. I know, let me try my own analysis. You're holding a tabloid paper, not your usual selection so there must be a reason. The headline got your attention, changed your usual choice. The crumbs on your left sleeve suggest a hurried lunch, eaten while on the move. A faint smell of coffee; again something that's unusual for you. More a tea devotee as I remember. Then there's the scarf. Tied quickly and without care, you left where you were in a rush. The dust on your shoes tells me you didn't take a cab here as usual, perhaps a bus? No, the faint odour of stale air tells me it was an underground train. From Waterloo to Baker Street, naturally. Bakerloo Line. Did I miss anything?". She sat back in the tall armchair, with an air of quiet satisfied confidence. Then, with a slight but sure smile, she stood up carefully and picked up her black coat. "Goodbye, Sherlock" she purred and swept out of the room. Sherlock and John were left watching as she hailed a cab immediately and departed. "What" John asked "was that about?". Sherlock turned and looked at him "I have no idea" he said "but it'll be interesting finding out".
Sherlock then turned his attention to the small piece of paper he had pocketed earlier. Holding it between finger and thumb, he turned it in the air as John watched. "Strange" he mused. "Obviously important, hence the need to hide it." He unfolded the item and held it out to see. "But why bring it here?". From where John watched, he couldn't see so much as a dot or a mark on the paper. "Anything?" he asked. Sherlock looked over. "Sometimes" he began. "It's not about what you see. What you don't see can be of far greater importance". Like he had several times before, John was left slightly confused as to what Sherlock meant. Immediately Sherlock turned with sudden intent, so much so that he nearly collided with John in his hurry to get to the door and depart. He stopped as abruptly as he had begun moving, looking at John. "Come on, John" he said. "Dr Watson, what are you waiting for?".
Unusually, for once, it seemed impossible to find a cab anywhere. The skies had opened, depositing a seemingly endless and relentless fall of rain that threatened to soak John and Sherlock in seconds. It battered down on the awning of the café next door, bringing their swift departure to an equally abrupt halt. Instead, like a magician revealing his hand, Sherlock pulled a sleek black umbrella from his inside pocket. He set off quickly, with John attempting to take shelter alongside. Heading for the safety of Baker Street Underground station, it seemed as though half of London had decided to do the same. They crowded in along with tourists from Madam Tussauds and students from the nearby university, along with a few semi-drunken rugby fans. "Where are we going?" John asked Sherlock, who appeared to be intently studying the map of the tube line. "What are you not telling me?". Sherlock looked back at John. "We're going to find out what our recently departed friend was looking for".
They departed the train at Waterloo and, after cutting a swathe through the commuters heading determinedly for the Waterloo and City line, Sherlock and John emerged into the concourse of the station. Instead of following the majority of people towards the main exit, Sherlock turned right and headed for the opposite end of the terminus. Finding themselves standing on a side road they immediately headed towards the high spectre of the IMAX Cinema. "Why go this way?" John asked. "We could have used the other exit". Sherlock shook his head. "Too obvious" he replied. "The indirect route may take longer but for our purposes is far safer". John shook his head, still unsure what their 'purpose' was, or where they were actually going.
They passed the IMAX and the Franklin Wilkins building that housed students from King's College University. Ignoring the towering and imposing buildings on the main road, Sherlock turned quickly down a side street. They stopped eventually at an unassuming door, where Sherlock consulted the small piece of paper and nodded to himself, then rang the doorbell and waited. "Why here?" John asked. "And what are you reading on a piece of paper that has nothing on it?". Keeping his eyes trained on the door, Sherlock replied "Because it's not only words that you can read". He looked at John. "The paper may have started white but is now slightly tarnished with a fine layer of thin dust. A combination of train fumes, from overground engines. Stale air churned up by the traffic on a busy roundabout that has to be close by. The place where it was secreted must have been near where both these occurances could be found. That narrowed the search area significantly. So, then to identify the precise address, further thought is required. Not the kind of paper that a student would use. A higher quality, designed for someone who cares about what they write on. Single sheets, obvious since there is no indentation caused by writing on a previous one. So, where around here would a person who used such paper be found? In a mostly office heavy area, so certainly not there. This is not the only house occupied for residential purposes, that is not rented by a shell company and so standing empty. However" and he looked up. "It is the only one with a light on". The door swung open, and with only the faintest pause Sherlock and John stepped inside.
They found themselves in a stark white hallway: white walls, white floorboards. In contrast to the traditional exterior, this was minimalism personified. The inside was as intimidating as the exterior: two sides of a divided personality. They waited, trying to ascertain what their next move should be. Sherlock took the initiative and headed towards the front room. He and John stepped inside. "You're late" a voice informed them. It was a statement, not a question. As they came into the room, the speaker was revealed. The woman from before, who had found her way into 221b Baker Street, sat in an upright chair. The chair was the only piece of furniture in the room, which was as equally empty as the hallway. "Late?" Sherlock asked. "Yes" was the answer. "You certainly took your time. I was expecting you at least half an hour earlier." She paused. "Losing your touch?". Sherlock didn't rise to the provocation. "Tell me about the paper" he said instead. "This piece of paper" and he held up the small folded white square. She looked at it. "Oh" she replied. "That".
"It means…." she began. "Nothing" Sherlock interrupted. "Nothing at all". She nodded. He continued "It never meant anything. How could it? It's just a folded, unmarked piece of writing paper". With a small smile he replaced it back in his coat pocket and faced her. "So, why was it so important?". Now it was her turn to smile. "Because people thought it was. And, when people believe that something is important, that is exactly what it becomes."
"You have your mind palaces, Sherlock. Your place where you keep all your knowledge and memories. I have an alternative method. A way of storing information that can't be copied, or hacked or taken by someone else. A photograph". She folded her hands in her lap and sat there, watching John and Sherlock. "A photograph?" John asked. "How does that work?". Immediately the woman switched her attention to John, albeit briefly. "Not that kind of photograph" she said dismissively, and looked at Sherlock. "Such obvious questions" she noted "Sherlock, where did you find him?". John looked offended. Sherlock maintained a dignified poker face. "Gentlemen, it's called a photographic memory. I see something that must be remembered, and then take a mental picture. Then I store it away, for future reference, as required. It can never be stolen, or sold on or posted for the world to see". Sherlock looked somewhat intrigued. "So" he began. "You led people to believe that the paper was important, knowing full well that it wasn't. Why?". The woman smiled again, savouring the pause in conversation. "Why not?" she asked.
"Brilliant" said John, having listened to the entire exchange. "Simple, but brilliant". He turned to Sherlock. "Careful" he said. "She's almost as good as you". Sherlock rolled his eyes by way of a reply and considered what he had just heard. "So, that's how you managed this. The only question left is: why?". She smiled again. "Simple" she said. "What better way to eliminate the competition than to let them do it themselves?. If one person thinks you have something of value, then no doubt others will want it too. Then all you have to do it sit back and watch." From the other side of the room Sherlock looked over. "And, it seems, that is something you are extremely good at doing" he replied. "Oh dear, Mr Holmes" the smooth voice countered. "That is hardly the only thing I'm 'good' at".
Even though they now had at least some of the answers they had come for, one thing was still troubling John. "What about the man?" he asked, turning to Sherlock. "The one you took the paper from. Where does he fit into all this?". However the answer came not from Sherlock but instead their new acquaintance. "Just another player" she replied simply. "One of many. German, I believe. Most probably killed by a competitor". Although Sherlock had thought he had all the answers about the 'how' in regard to this matter, some aspects of 'why' remained unanswered. "What did you gain from all this?" he asked. "Was it some kind of game to watch them destroy themselves?". The woman considered his question carefully. "Don't be so dull, Sherlock" she said. "Why does it have to be so complicated?". She leaned forward. "Money, Sherlock. Pure and simple. And the greatest part of it? With no physical evidence, how could it ever be traced back to me?".
"The power of suggestion" Sherlock mused. "Simple, yet effective". He turned and walked out of the room, towards the door. John quickly caught up with him. "Is that it?" he asked. "What do we do now?". Sherlock looked at him. "Sadly, nothing John" he replied. "As she so clearly pointed out, any evidence is simply heresay. One person's word against another." He opened the door and stepped outside into the cold crisp air and the darkness. "For the moment, that is". He smiled. Then he and John headed from the dark and secluded side street into the bustle and crowds heading for Waterloo Station. They soon became lost among a sea of people, just two more figures among many.