Chapter One
In my timeline, "The Great Game" took place almost six months after "The Blind Banker."
Also, I made up the location for the black tramway tunnel in "The Blind Banker." I couldn't find the actual location from the show, but since General Shan said "from the shores of NW1," I figured this meant the tramway was in the NW1 postal code of London (which, FYI, is where Baker Street is located).
Earlier that day…
Doctor John Watson woke to the sound of a violin floating up the stairs. Thankfully, it was a soft, melodic song that didn't grate at the ears. That had, unfortunately, been the norm for almost the past week while they had been dealing with Jim Moriarty. While his flatmate tried to think through every one of Moriarty's press-ganged suicide bombers, he would take up his violin whenever he was in their flat at 221B Baker Street and scrape the bow across the strings, his music reflecting the mindset within. Thankfully after the incident at the pool three days ago, it had begun to taper off, and it looked like the man had finally let the whole thing go.
About time, John thought as he flung the covers off of himself and threw his legs over the sides of the bed.
His flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, was a brilliant man and a competent detective, but sometimes, his need to get to the bottom of a mystery bordered on the unhealthy. The man would not let anything distract him from his work, not sleep, not food, not anything. And if that answer continued to elude him, he was liable to go out of his mind. It was a stark contrast—and yet, strikingly similar—to the frenzy he worked himself into when he was bored. It was almost as though he weren't human, a machine built solely for puzzle-solving that melted down when it couldn't perform its job. And John was glad that Sherlock had either found the solution he was looking for or had deemed it not important enough to pursue.
John pulled himself to his feet, grabbing his robe from the end of his bed and wrapping it around himself over his loose pants and shirt. Opening the door of his room, he headed down the stairs to the first floor, where the main area of the flat sat. Walking past the door of the sitting room, he crossed the landing towards the other door, heading into the kitchen. Pulling two cups and saucers out of the cupboards, he filled the tea kettle with water and put it on the stove to boil.
Sherlock continued to play as he headed upstairs to quickly shower and then return downstairs in his jeans and button-down shirt, hurrying over to the whistling kettle and turning it off. Throwing the tea quickly together, he carried the two saucers into the sitting room, setting one down on the table.
Sherlock stood at the window between the table and the fireplace, his back to the rest of the room and swaying slightly as he played. As per usual when not on a case, he was wearing his blue dressing gown over his black trousers and purple dress shirt. He made no indication that he knew John had entered the room, but John had no doubt that Sherlock knew he was there.
Once his hand was free, John grabbed the abandoned newspaper from the table and sat in his armchair with his tea to read it. He was halfway through the second article when Sherlock abruptly dropped the violin and bow to his sides and turned towards John.
"When is your physical therapy session?"
John shook his head with a fond smile, not looking up from his paper. "I'm not even going to ask how you knew that."
Sherlock took a quick breath to answer quickly. "When putting your jacket on, you put it onto your left arm first so that it is your right arm straining to get the rest of it on. When carrying the shopping in the other day, you elected to carry all the bags with your right hand, even though you could have split then with the left. When in public, you make sure to—"
John had glanced up halfway through the deduction and now interrupted him. "You know, that wasn't an actual invitation to tell me how."
"Oh," said Sherlock, glancing down at his violin and fiddling with the pegs absently.
John rolled his eyes and set the paper down on his lap. "Oh, go on, then."
Sherlock immediately looked up at him. "You make sure to put distance between your left side and everyone else. However, this behavior only began two days ago, but was not present the day before that, therefore, the aggravation of the old bullet would in your left shoulder happened that night. They jarred it when they kidnapped you." He looked back down at the violin.
John nodded. "When I came round at the pool, I fought four of them off before one of them shoved a pistol into my shoulder." He looked back down at his paper as he raised it again. "Tuesday, two o'clock."
Sherlock nodded once as he tuned one of the strings. "That should work just fine." He looked up at John with an intrigued look. "Four of them?"
"Soldier, aided by adrenaline," John answered. "Have a new case?"
"Nothing, as of yet," Sherlock replied, setting the violin and bow on the table. "Did that slow you down?" He grabbed his tea from the table and sat down across from John in his own armchair.
"Not really," said John. "They had to clock me in the head."
Sherlock smirked. "And Moriarty had the nerve to call you a puppet."
John frowned. "He didn't call me a puppet; he called me a pet."
Sherlock gave him a pointed look.
The corner of John's mouth quirked a little as he thought back to the parroting of Moriarty's words he'd been forced into at the pool, especially that hateful ventriloquist's phrase (he'd had several nightmares in the past few days that starred Moriarty's maniacal voice on a loop in his ear: "Gottle o' geer, gottle o' geer!").
"Yes, well…" said John, looking away from him.
There was silence for a while, and John's eyes went back to his paper.
"You're not, you know."
John looked up to see Sherlock staring at the arm of his chair, picking absently at it.
"You're not anyone's puppet or pet," Sherlock continued, still staring at the chair. "Not Moriarty's, and least of all, not mine."
"I know that," John told him, confused as to why Sherlock thought that John would think that Moriarty's taunts were worth listening to.
Sherlock's eyes snapped up to his, his hand freezing in its fiddling. "But I need you to know that I know that."
John stared back at him, finally understanding what Sherlock's worry was. He gave his friend a sincere look. "I know."
Sherlock nodded after a moment. "Good. Well, that's…good." He inhaled sharply and got to his feet, heading towards the kitchen. "Well, if Lestrade's going to take his bloody time, we might as well make the most of it."
John frowned as he set his paper aside and turned halfway towards the kitchen. "Lestrade?"
"Yes, he's been sitting in the street for three and a half minutes, trying to decide whether to come up or not," Sherlock told him, bustling about at his microscope.
"He has?" asked John, turning his head towards the window and then standing to head over to it. He looked down to the street outside of their flat, seeing the police car parked there. "How did you know?"
"Elementary, really," Sherlock muttered, switching slides. "Do tell him to come on up before Christmas arrives."
Rolling his eyes, John pulled out his phone, typing out a text and sending it.
Sherlock says to get your arse up here. I'm paraphrasing.
John looked back out the window, watching as, a moment later, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade stepped out of the car, shaking his head as he pocketed his phone. John huffed out an amused breath, turning to sit at the table next to him. He gently nudged the violin and bow aside to make room for him to take notes. After the sound of the downstairs door opening and closing and then footsteps up the stairs, Greg stepped into the sitting room, spotting Sherlock at the kitchen table.
"You know, sometimes, it's spooky when you do that," Greg told the detective.
"Quit stalling and tell us what it is you're so reluctant to share," Sherlock snapped.
Greg nodded as he shrugged, glancing at John and back at Sherlock, still hesitating.
Sherlock huffed out an impatient sigh, standing and striding past the inspector as he spoke. "For God's sake, Lestrade, quit sparing our 'delicate sensibilities' and just tell us!" He gracefully plopped down into his armchair, his elbows on the arms and his fingers steepled in front of his mouth.
"Very well," said Greg. "There's been a bomb threat."
As Sherlock froze in his pose and John's gun hand unconsciously clenched in his lap, it became clear as to why Greg was hesitating. It was only days since the whole business with Moriarty and the five pips. The memories from the pool with the bomb strapped to his chest were still raw to John, and though the man would never even hint at it, John knew Sherlock was still reeling over the old woman, whom Moriarty's third bomb had killed along with twelve others.
"What about it?" Sherlock asked quietly.
"We received a note, stating that a bomb was somewhere in the city, waiting to detonate this afternoon," Greg told them. "Didn't say when or where."
"And I presume you have gathered no other clues from this note," said Sherlock.
"No, but—" began Greg.
Sherlock stood abruptly, tearing off his dressing gown and tossing it on his armchair as he headed for the flat's door behind Greg. "Not to worry, Lestrade. I'll have the location in ten minutes, at the most."
"Good, Anderson'll be waiting for you," said Greg.
Sherlock spun towards him with one arm in his suit jacket. "Why's Anderson on this? He's a forensic pa—" He broke off, eyes widening a moment, before narrowing in excitement. "Where?"
"Outside our front door," Greg answered.
"When?" Sherlock asked, quickly getting the rest of his jacket on and hastily buttoning it.
"Sometime between 6:00 and 6:30," Greg answered.
"Anything on security cameras?" Sherlock yanked his Belstaff coat from the door and began pulling it on.
"They were disabled," said Greg.
Sherlock smiled, chuckling a little. "Ooh, this is getting rather fun—"
"Wait, wait, what?" asked John. "What's going on?"
"A body was dumped outside of Scotland Yard with the note about the bomb strapped to it," Sherlock answered, flipping his collar up. "Do keep up, John." He grabbed his scarf and rushed to the stairs, practically running down them.
"A body?" exclaimed John, grabbing his own coat and his gun as he followed Greg down the stairs.
They all hurried out onto the street, climbing into Greg's car. As Greg pulled away from the curb, Sherlock launched into his pre-crime scene deductions.
"The body is a clue."
"How do you figure?" asked Greg from the front seat.
"Why would you leave a body just to get a bomb threat to the police?" Sherlock bit out like it was obvious. "A simple phone call would have sufficed."
"So…" said Greg, prompting him for more.
"So, the body was left for the precise purpose of having to do with the note," Sherlock told them. "Do you have an identity?"
"Not yet," said Greg.
"Whoever it is, their identity will lead us to the bomb?" asked John.
"Most likely, which means they want us to find the bomb," said Sherlock.
John's eyes widened in realization. "A trap."
Sherlock nodded. "A trap."
"And we're just going to waltz right in there?" asked John.
"May not have a choice if we want to stop this bomb," Sherlock replied.
"Perfect," muttered John, looking out the window.
"No one is going anywhere without a police escort," Greg told them.
Even John looked up at Greg in the rearview mirror with a surprised look.
"I'm sorry, Inspector, you must have me confused with one of your brainless colleagues," Sherlock threw at him, his eyes narrowed.
"I mean it, Sherlock," Greg shot right back, his eyes drilling momentarily into Sherlock's in the rearview mirror. "You are not getting blown up because you were too stubborn to wait for back-up."
Sherlock stared at him before rolling his eyes in assent and staring out the window.
John let the silence continue before asking the question that was surely on all of their minds. "You think this is Moriarty again?"
"Doubtful," Sherlock replied. "He wouldn't pull the same trick twice, especially this soon."
"So, just some random psychopath," muttered John. "Great."
"Not to worry," Sherlock told him. "You'll make your therapy appointment. This shouldn't take more than a few hours."
"Gee, thanks," muttered John, not sure Sherlock was really seeing what he was worried about.
Ten minutes later, they were pulling up outside of Scotland Yard, where the entire pavement out front was roped off. Reporters and cameras swarmed the edge of the crime scene, exhilarated at the prospect of a murder happening at the Yard's front door. Cameras swung in their direction as the car pulled up, flashing at the new arrival. Swinging the car's back door open, Sherlock jumped out amid shouts when they recognized him.
"Mr. Holmes!"
"Mr. Holmes, is this—"
"—are you looking into—"
"—us a statement—"
John scooted across the seat after Sherlock, pushing through the crowd behind him as they reached the police tape and ducked under it. Two police officers swept in behind them, preventing anyone from crossing into the crime scene after them. Greg led them over towards where they had set up a temporary divider to shield the body from the crowd. As Greg stepped aside, Sherlock rounded the edge of the screen and froze, his eyes staring down at the ground in shock.
"Sherlock?" asked John, moving to step up next to him. "What is it—oh."
He had gotten around Sherlock and could now see the body. What was most shocking was the fact that he recognized the woman.
"What is it?" asked Greg, looking between them and the body.
"We know who that is," muttered John absently.
"You do?" asked Greg, raising his brows as he turned more towards them. "A friend?"
John shook his head, still staring at the woman. "That Chinese smuggling ring a few months ago…"
Greg nodded in understanding. "'The Blind Banker.'"
John glanced automatically over at Sherlock at the mention of his blog title, but Sherlock was still too busy staring at the body to even roll his eyes. He looked at Greg, gesturing to the woman. "This is General Shan."
Greg's brows rose, turning his head to look at the woman. "I would've thought she'd be back in China by now."
"She would be," Sherlock suddenly spoke up, coming back to himself. "Based on the failure of her final smuggling operation, her boss would have gotten rid of her."
"What, and he couldn't find her until now?" asked John.
"Oh, no, he has eyes on his operatives at all times," Sherlock told them. "He would have killed her before she left London." He stepped forward towards the body.
"But that was six months ago," said John.
"Yes," said Sherlock, as though it was perfectly obvious, as he knelt down beside the body.
"Sherlock, she hasn't decayed at all," John told him, stepping forward a little. "Surely by now—"
"They've obviously taken extreme measures to preserve her body," Sherlock told them before raising his head from his studying. "Which means they've been planning this…" He stood abruptly and turned around. "Come on, we've not a moment to lose." He stomped past John towards the edge of the screen.
"Wait, wait, where are you going?" asked John, turning toward him.
Sherlock kept going, not looking back. "To take care of the bomb."
"You know where it is?" asked Greg, stepping in front of him.
"Of course," said Sherlock, trying to step around him.
"How?" asked John.
Sherlock stopped and turned halfway back to him, a frown on his face. "What do you mean, how? The tramway; they gave us everything."
"Tramway?" asked John, his frown deepening.
Sherlock rolled his eyes before gesturing at the body. "They picked General Shan specifically for us; she is the clue to the bomb's whereabouts."
John's frown had vanished as his eyes trailed over to the side in realization. "'Dragon den, black tramway…'"
"Exactly," said Sherlock, turning to head off of the crime scene.
"Hold up, Sherlock," said Greg, putting a hand on his chest to stop him. "I'm calling back-up." He pulled out his phone.
"No time, Inspector," Sherlock said briskly.
"You promised," Greg told him, giving him a hard look.
"Technically, I made no such promise," said Sherlock pointedly.
"Sherlock!" said Greg harshly, dialing the number.
"Oh, for God's sake!" burst Sherlock, turning on the spot in an attempt to vent his pent-up energy.
Greg put the phone to his ear. "I need a bomb squad at—" He looked up at Sherlock.
"9 St Pancras Way," Sherlock rattled off.
"9 St Pancras Way," Greg repeated. "We'll meet you there." He hung up.
Sherlock immediately bolted, walking quickly around the screen and towards the crowd. The reporters immediately began flashing their cameras and firing their questions as John and Greg followed.
They got back into Greg's car and sped away to the location.
"That tramway is right under St Pancras Hospital," John muttered.
"Plenty of casualties," Sherlock muttered back.
"Not if you can help it, though, right?" said John, giving him a smirk.
"Right," said Sherlock with a smirk.
Pulling up to the correct address, they hurried out and down into the tunnels towards the tramway. The three of them came to a sudden stop when they heard footsteps around the corner. Greg and John immediately pulled their guns out, inching along the wall towards the corner, at the ready. Sherlock eased up beside John, senses at the ready.
When they came to the corner, Greg paused before stepping out, aiming his gun at the person who had stepped around the other side, gun aimed at him.
Greg relaxed, lowering his gun as John did likewise. "Donovan, what are you doing here?"
Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan lowered her own gun as Doctor Phillip Anderson stepped up beside her. "What do you mean? You called me, boss."
Greg frowned. "No, I didn't."
"Then who did?" asked Donovan.
"The bomber, obviously," said Sherlock as he pushed past everyone.
"Oh, yeah?" said Donovan, her entire posture broadcasting disrespect as her gun hung forgotten at her side. "And you would know, wouldn't you, Freak?"
"Donovan," hissed Greg as Sherlock turned the corner.
"Sherlock!" John called, hurrying after him to cover him. "Why would they make sure Donovan and Anderson were here?"
"Don't know, don't care," said Sherlock. "Just get to the bomb."
They stepped through an archway and emerged into the large tunnel where John and Sarah had been taken captive by the Black Lotus. About two hundred feet down the tunnel, a large structure had been built. It was a concrete, rectangular room about twenty feet long and twenty feet wide.
Sherlock exchanged a look with John before stepping towards it. The three Yard officials followed behind them, Donovan and Greg no doubt covering all the dark corners with their guns. Finding no door on their side, Sherlock circled around until they reached the opposite side. A doorway stood in the middle of the wall, the door (a thick, industrial-strength one, almost like a bank vault door) wide open and light pouring out of it.
Sherlock began to take a step towards the beckoning doorway when he felt a hand on his arm. He glanced over to see John shaking his head and then pointing to his ear. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he nodded, indicating that he had already heard the noises coming from inside. People were in this mystery room; at least two of them.
He stepped forward, reaching the door and listening a moment to the voices inside before revealing himself.
"They forced you into the car? Did they hit you?"
Sherlock straightened in interest. Molly?
"No, they had a gun, but I'm fine."
Sherlock's eyes widened in shock. Mrs. Hudson? He turned to share the look with John before stepping into the doorway.
Doctor Molly Hooper stood in front of Mrs. Hudson, checking her pulse. They both looked over at him in surprise. Even more odd, a man sat in a chair in the middle of the room, strapped to it with handcuffs on his wrists and ankles and restraints across his chest. Sherlock frowned at the spectacle before Molly stepped forward.
"Sherlock," she said. "What's going on?"
Sherlock frowned at her as he stepped into the room to allow the others into the room behind him. She didn't seem surprised to see him, after all; she had expected him to be here. He flashed back to Donovan supposedly being called by Greg in order to get her here. "I called you, didn't I?"
Molly frowned and then widened her eyes in realization. "Texted. You didn't, did you?"
Sherlock shook his head as Greg and Donovan moved over to the man in the chair.
John stepped over to Mrs. Hudson, stowing his gun in his jacket. "Are you all right?"
Mrs. Hudson nodded. "Yes, I'm fine."
"They took her from Baker Street after the two of you left," Molly explained.
"And what about him?" asked Greg, gesturing to the man in the chair.
"He hasn't said a word," Molly told them.
"I've been waiting for you," said the man, his eyes on Sherlock.
Sherlock glanced down at him. The man was wearing old jeans and a sweatshirt, his face unshaven and his hair uncombed. Clearly, he didn't care about his appearance. That, combined with the traces of whipped cream at the corner of his mouth (last meal) suggested this was their suicide bomber.
"The name's Hawkins," the man told them. "Just for your information."
Sherlock broke the stare and looked around the room, seeing nothing but grey walls. Where was the bomb? He turned back to the man, something about the wall behind him catching his eye.
"Looking for this?" said Hawkins.
A hidden panel slid up in the wall behind him, revealing a keypad that had about twenty different buttons on it, all with a different symbol on it. The symbols, however, made absolutely no sense. Sherlock had never seen these symbols in any language in existence; it was gibberish.
"Go ahead," said Hawkins. "Take a look."
Sherlock stepped around him and over to the panel. No matter how much he looked over that wall, there was absolutely no way to get to whatever was behind that keypad.
"Brilliant, isn't it?" said Hawkins, the smile in his voice. "My boss designed it himself. Completely unbreakable."
Sherlock turned to look down at the back of his head. "Your boss?"
Hawkins turned his head to the side to address him. "Oh, not so fast, Mr. Holmes. Besides, that's really not what you should be focusing on."
"Really?" said Sherlock, stepping to the side of the chair to look him in the eye. "And what should I focus on?"
Hawkins' gaze moved up to Sherlock's face, the smirking grin sending alarm bells blaring through Sherlock's mind palace. "The end."
The whir of machinery powering up sounded through the room as the keypad lit up. The space above it flashed up some numbers as a beep sounded.
3:00
Beep!
2:59
BANG!
The door slammed shut, and they all turned towards it in alarm.
