A/N: Hello, FanFiction readers! This story will be a three-parter, updated weekly. I hope you like it! Please review!
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were a strange pair indeed, standing by the side of the road with their hands waving desperately for a taxi. A battering rain plunged down upon them, soaking through Sherlock's heavy coat. Poor John was far worse off; his light coat was completely sodden.
"Oh, I don't believe it!" Sherlock complained. "This is urgent!"
Soon, a cab rolled to a stop in front of them. They slipped off the curb into the puddles lining the side of the road, their shoes quickly filling up with freezing water. They tumbled into the car, sighing in relief. They had been standing for minutes in the deluge.
"Where to?" a gruff voice came from the front seat.
"St. Paul's Cathedral," Sherlock said. Distractedly, he scrutinized the cabbie through the mirror. He committed the man's face to memory.
"What are you doing?" John asked curiously, though he didn't expect for Sherlock to answer.
"Just making sure," Sherlock said, shaking some rain from his coat. Though John was slightly upset Sherlock hadn't elaborated, he felt he was making some significant progress in understanding the ways of the secretive man. Now that he thought about it, John assumed that he probably knew Sherlock better than anyone else had ever known him. He shook the thought off, busying himself with more important matters.
"And… what exactly are we going to do at the cathedral?" John queried.
Sherlock sighed into his scarf. "So many questions, John," Sherlock mused. He stared out the cab window at the bustling sidewalks. He took in everything he saw and analyzed it in a split second, sorting and packaging new data into his vast mental library. Like an eagle, he examined every person walking by.
In twenty minutes, they climbed out of the cab into the rainstorm again. Holding their coats to themselves, Sherlock and John ran through the grounds. An intimidating wall of pillars faced them. In between the central columns, an open door was visible.
John hurried in the direction of the front door. A second later, he heard a snapping comment from Sherlock. "C'mon, you dimwit. We can't well go through that entrance!" he said. "There are loads of security cameras."
Dubious, John fell into step behind Sherlock. He peered up to the tall building but was unable to spot any cameras. John shook his head; there was no way he could achieve Sherlock's level of perception.
Sherlock strode purposefully to the side of the building. The finely-cut stone was flat as the edge of a knife. Sherlock hurried over to it, the bouncing of his gait proving that he was excited. John stood back a few feet, watching Sherlock do his magic.
The detective dove a wet hand into his deep pocket and brought out a silver spoon. He tapped it on the wall repeatedly, listening intently for shallow sounds.
"A-ha!" the detective cried after a few minutes' work. He crouched down and levered open a small trapdoor, perfectly disguised against the rest of the stone. Sherlock climbed into the small tunnel head first. Once Sherlock was a few feet down the passageway, John climbed in and pulled the trapdoor shut behind him.
It was extremely silent inside the tunnel. Even the sounds of their knees and hands on the ground seemed to be eerily muffled. The darkness, like the silence, was like a dense fog, wreathing around their heads and suffocating them.
Nonetheless, the duo continued crawling for minutes down the passage. Finally, Sherlock saw a hint of light ahead.
"Almost there," he grunted to John.
A sheet of translucent wallpaper covered the source of the light. The sound of muffled voices and footsteps came from the other side of the thin membrane. Soon, the voices quieted down and a distant door slammed. Then, the lights came off, casting the friends into darkness yet again.
A tremor of fear ran through John's body like a drop of water falling into a still pool. Reminding himself to be fearless, John steadied himself by taking deep breaths. Ahead of him, Sherlock took out his small knife and cut open the membrane of wallpaper neatly. When three sides had been cut, Sherlock shimmied out of the passage and stood up. John mirrored his action and smoothed his wet coat absently, looking around.
"Mind telling me where we are?" John asked, straining to see in the darkness.
"The organ room," Sherlock responded. He produced a small flashlight from his coat and said, "mind holding this for me?"
When John clicked the button of the torch, the small room flooded into color. Rows upon rows of metal pipes extended the length of the room. The pipes protruded from the floor perpendicularly, like stalagmites. Long-handled bottle brushes lay dust-covered on the floor in rough approximations of piles.
Sherlock closed his eagle-like eyes and focused on the note he had received earlier that day. It came to him effortlessly, like a photo being drawn from a giant album.
VIP - Organ - Smallest pipe
AB
"Over here," Sherlock said, opening his eyes. John made his way over, shining the light on the reflective metal organ pipes.
Sherlock crouched down to look for the smallest pipe. He located it easily. A small scroll was stuffed inside the pipe. Sherlock managed to wedge it out. John peered over Sherlock's shoulder to read the hastily-scrawled note.
Mr. Holmes,
Something terrible is going to happen here tomorrow. I don't know much. There've been rumors that there will be an attack. Mass is at 8:30. Please save us.
From Archbishop Bainfield
John exchanged a look with Sherlock.
"Well, that's helpful…," John muttered sarcastically.
"No, John, don't you see?" Sherlock explained. "This note tells us all we need to know."
John shook his head slightly. John had no doubt that the detective had gleaned much more information than he had from the short note. He bowed his head in preparation for the explanation he knew was coming.
"First, we know the time and place where this alleged attack might occur," Sherlock elaborated. "Also, we know that the archbishop is scared. And that, in and of itself, is proof that we're looking at one or more shooters."
John looked at him hesitantly.
"You just don't get it, do you?" Sherlock asked.
John nodded his head side to side.
"Then tell me… What would a religious leader be most frightened of?" Sherlock asked. Giving John no time to respond, he answered his own question. "Losing followers. If there's a massacre, people get scared. If people get scared, they stop coming to church. Someone has something against the church…
"Who are the enemies of religion?" He muttered, his mind working overtime. "Of course," he breathed, after a moment's thinking. "Of course, of course, of course! The Narejin!"
John breathed in with an air of surprise. As always, he was amazed at his companion's powers of deduction. He did have one question, however.
"Er, Sherlock, who exactly are the Narejin?"
