Chapter 2

University classroom

"Archaeology," Sherlock intoned, writing the word on the board for the benefit of the slow-witted, "is the search for fact. Not…truth."

He sneered slightly at the word, and a wave of chuckles rippled through the assembled students. "If it's truth you're seeking, then Dr. Tyree's philosophy class is just down the hall. Although I would be remiss not to note that Dr. Tyree is also prone to falling asleep during his own lectures, owing either to his unfortunate drinking habit or to the fact that his subject is so…dull and pointless." The students laughed again, this time a shocked titter, and Sherlock momentarily bit his lip, then pressed on.

"So forget any notion you might have about fabled cities, exotic travel, and unearthing lost treasures. Archaeologists do not follow maps to buried treasure, and 'X' never, ever marks the spot." He paused for a moment to let this sink in. Other than the front row—mainly populated by girls who'd been shuffled away to college by mothers intent on marrying them off as quickly as possible, he surmised, given the calf's-eyes they regularly pointed in Sherlock's direction—the class seemed hooked.

"So what, then? Where do we find the basis of our investigation, if not buried under the mysterious sands of time? Naturally, in the most exotic, information-rich location of all…" He leaned forward, hands on the desk, and the class seemed to lean forward in their seats.

"The library," he breathed, and the students let out a collective breath, slumping in defeat.

"Yes, the library. Repository of thousands of years' history, right at your fingertips. Seventy percent of all archaeology is done in the library. Research. Reading. Retracing the path. These are your three R's. I suggest you not forget them."

Mike Stamford had eased through the door to the lecture hall and was leaning against the left wall, watching Sherlock expectantly.

"This is why it is so important to rid ourselves of the ridiculous notion that myths, legends, and apocrypha will lead us to ancient relics. If we are to be effective at our craft, we cannot afford to take mythology at face value. This includes much of that which is ascribed to religio—"

But his words were drowned in the buzz of the bell signaling the end of the period. The students quickly moved to collect their books, notebooks, and bags. Sherlock, his brow creasing darkly, slammed a book onto his desk and barked a thunderous, "EGYPTOLOGY!"

The students jumped and sat staring, mouths agape.

"That's better. I believe the professor, not the bell, determines when class will be dismissed for the day. Now. Next week we shall begin the study of Egyptology, starting with the excavation of Naukratis by Blinders Petrie in 1885, so do your reading or don't bother showing up. I will also be…in my office," he added, his jaws clenched, "for the next hour if anyone is interested or interesting enough to actually pose any relevant questions about the class material. Dismissed."

The students looked startled by his pronouncement, but then quickly gathered their things and flowed from the classroom as swiftly as water down a drain. Sherlock watched the last of them go, then Mike turned, closed the door, and approached Sherlock's desk.

But now Sherlock was smiling. "I did it, Mike."

"You've got it?"

Sherlock drew a wrapped item from his satchel and laid it on the desk. Mike approached and delicately unfolded the cloth to reveal the Cross of Coronado, sucking in a breath and then letting out a low whistle at the sight.

"Do you know how long I've been searching for that?"

"All your life?" Mike asked, lifting the cross reverently to examine it.

"All my life."

"Well done, Sherlock, well done," Mike breathed. "This will find a place of distinction among our Spanish collection, no doubt about that."

Sherlock tossed his overcoat over his arm and picked up his briefcase, and two men left the room together. "We can discuss my honorarium over dinner and champagne tonight. Your treat."

"Oh, yes," Mike said, still mesmerized by the cross. "My treat."

Sherlock's brief euphoria was dashed cold when he saw the mass of students gathered in the tiny receiving room outside his office door. Upon seeing him enter, they surged toward him, a tidal wave of hands clutching papers and voices calling "Dr. Holmes! Dr. Holmes!"

Sherlock squared his shoulders and waded into the mass, attempting to ignore them and get to his office door with as much dignity as possible. Irene accosted him halfway to his goal.

"Dr. Holmes! I'm so glad you're back. Your mail is on your desk. Here are your phone messages."

She pressed a stack of notes into his hand and he nodded absently, but she wasn't finished. "Here is your appointment schedule, and these—" plopping a stack of essays into his arms—"are the term papers you still haven't scored."

Sherlock plowed onward to the door, then turned to face Irene. "Put everyone's name on a list in the order that they arrived, and I'll see each one of you in—turn," he snarled to the throng, then turned and squeezed through his office door, slamming it quickly before anyone could get a toe in.

He took a deep breath and put down his things, his eyes drawn at once to a package on his desk. He examined the label; the postage was European—the return address said "Venice, Italy"—the package was a standard one used by the mail service in most countries in that region. There was no specific scent—faint traces of sweat, tobacco, the ink used to write the direction, but nothing that would point to the sender rather than one of the many postal workers who must have handled the package on its journey from Venice.

"Whom do I know in Venice?" he murmured, and wondered if it might be another of those "mystery" packages people sent him from time to time, to see if he could identify an object of unknown origin, or if he could be fooled into thinking that he'd been sent something rare and wondrous. He laid it aside and sorted through his other letters. Nothing of particular interest there, sadly, and his thoughts remained with the mysterious package.

He looked at the frosted-glass window of his office door, saw hands and faces pressed desperately to it, and shuddered. He'd promised the Dean he'd observe office hours this semester (for a change), but this hardly seemed worth his time when there might be an interesting mystery awaiting him inside the package from Italy. He bit his lip, considering, and in a trice was prying open his office window and hoping that the Dean wouldn't happen to be passing on the green beyond.

Outside, he dropped softly onto the green grass of the campus lawn, and found the day was fine and the coast was clear, except—

Men he didn't recognize, watching him. A black Packard, sleek and dangerous, parked at the kerb. Mycroft.

But…no. Three men emerged from the vehicle, each positioning themselves—one to the right, one in front, one behind—so as to prevent Sherlock's escape. Not Mycroft, then. Fascinating.

The man in front of him, wearing a trenchcoat yet looking the least threatening of the three, said, "Sherlock Holmes?"

"Obviously," he said warily.

"Your presence is requested."

Sherlock made a show of looking about him as if to determine his options, before he sighed and got into the car. Best to make them feel they had the upper hand, after all.

The house they drove him to—an in excessively posh neighborhood—was meant to impress. The residents were apparently hosting a rather large, rather high-society party, but Sherlock had no interest in this, and was thankful when the man led him directly to a room off to one side. The room was spacious, elegant, well-lit, and filled with antiquities.

Showoff, Sherlock thought, but barely had time to register any of this before a man entered—tall and middle-aged, with a prominent chin, small but intense blue eyes, and a quick, easy smile.

"Dr. Holmes. Welcome. I trust your trip down was comfortable. I hope my men didn't alarm you?"

His accent was London—Oxford-educated, probably, though he had been born in Kent, Sherlock surmised—but there was something a bit round and throaty about it, as if his vowels had been re-shaped by time in the United States. "Not at all. And you are?"

"Dr. Robert Frankland." He shook hands with Sherlock, whose eyes narrowed.

"Robert Frankland? The museum's—"

"Benefactor and biggest fan, Dr. Holmes, I assure you," Frankland said with a chuckle. "I'm sorry we haven't had a chance to meet before now. I admire your work."

"And I admire yours," Sherlock said. "Your contributions have been extremely generous. And some of your pieces here are quite impressive, as well."

"Like yourself, Dr. Holmes, I have a passion for antiquities. For instance, here's something that might interest you. Come and have a look."

He motioned Sherlock over to a table in the center of the room, where he drew a cloth from an object—a stone tablet, or half of one, with the bottom right half of a Byzantine cross and Latin text inscribed upon it. Sherlock leaned in for a closer look.

"Mmm. Sandstone. Christian symbol. Early Latin. Mid-twelfth century. From the region of…Ankara, I should think. Unearthed in a mine…copper, I'd say, by the mineral traces here, and here." He straightened. "You didn't need me to tell you all that."

"No, Dr. Holmes, I didn't, but I must say," Frankland gave a small shake of his head, "your reputation does you justice."

"Then why am I here, Dr. Frankland?"

"Care to translate the inscription?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You don't need me to do that, either. You know what it says already."

Frankland only raised his eyebrows speculatively and gave a nod toward the tablet. Sherlock traced the words as he read. "... who drinks the water I shall give him, says the Lord, will have a spring inside him welling up for eternal life. Let them bring me to your holy mountain in the place where you dwell. Across the desert and through the mountain to the Canyon of the Crescent Moon, to the Temple where the cup that—" Sherlock looked at Frankland, his eyes widening slightly. "…where the cup that holds the blood of Jesus Christ resides forever."

Frankland was smiling now, and holding two filled champagne flutes. He handed one to Sherlock and held his aloft. "The Holy Grail, Dr. Holmes. The chalice used by Christ during the Last Supper. The cup that caught his blood at the Crucifixion and was entrusted to Joseph of Arimathaea."

Sherlock took the glass and sipped the champagne. It was very, very good. Frankland was pulling out all the stops to woo him into taking the bait. "I know the story. Arthurian. Literature scholars' favorite bedtime yarn. Utter rubbish."

"Eternal life 'rubbish,' Dr. Holmes? The promise of everlasting youth to whoever drinks from the Grail? Now that's a bedtime story I'd like to wake up to."

"An old man's dream."

"Every man's dream," Frankland said, pointing at Sherlock. "Including, I believe, that of your former…er, colleague?"

Ah. All the stops, indeed. Sherlock stiffened, his lips compressed, his jaw tight. "John Watson, yes. Grail lore was his specialty—or, more accurately, his father's, who had been a professor of Medieval literature, the one the students hoped they didn't get. After his father passed, John had developed something of a…minor obsession with the notion of finishing his father's work." Sherlock put the champagne down on the gleaming white table. "Or at least, he did when I knew him."

"A noble cause."

"If you believe that sort of thing."

"You don't believe the Grail exists?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't. References to it are found mainly in artistic works rather than historical records. And even if the cup that Christ used at the Last Supper had been kept, and remains to this day—which seems extremely implausible, to say the least—it certainly isn't going to contain magical properties," he sneered, "beyond a mysterious hold on the imaginations of a very impressionable populace."

"But I'm sure you would be interested in studying such an artifact, if it were to be found," Frankland said speculatively, the pliant smile having not left his face once during the whole of their conversation. "A possibility which is well within our grasp. It's right here, Dr. Holmes," he said, gesturing toward the tablet, "the Grail's final resting place, described in detail!"

"Seems rather vague to me." Sherlock waved a hand toward the table. "This tablet speaks of mountains and canyons, which exist in abundance in that part of Africa. Presumably the starting point is mentioned on the top portion of the tablet. I don't suppose you've that lying about as well?"

Frankland only raised his eyebrows, took a leisurely sip of champagne, and said, "Dr. Holmes, an attempt to recover the Grail is currently underway."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away from the tablet on the table. What an abysmal waste of his time. He should have stayed behind and listened to students' tiresome complaints.

"Let me tell you another bedtime story, Dr. Holmes," Frankland went on. "After the Grail was entrusted to Joseph of Arimathaea, it disappeared and was lost for a thousand years before it was found again by three Knights of the First Crusade. Three brothers, to be exact."

Sherlock turned, giving a one-sided smile. "I believe I've heard this one as well. Two of these brothers walked out of the desert one hundred and fifty years after having found the Grail and began the long journey back to France. But only one of them made it. And before dying of…" Sherlock bared his teeth upon the next word, "extreme old age, the surviving brother supposedly imparted his tale to a—to a Franciscan friar, if I recall."

Frankland grinned broadly. "Not 'supposedly,' Dr. Holmes." He motioned for Sherlock to follow him across the room to an ancient, brittle, leather-bound text resting on a reading stand under a museum-quality display light. Sherlock approached and leaned in. "This is the manuscript in which the friar chronicled the Knight's story... it doesn't reveal the location of the Grail, I'm afraid...but the Knight promised that two markers which had been left behind would."

He and Sherlock both glanced back at the tablet lying on the table behind them.

"As you pointed out," Frankland continued, "half of a whole. But the second marker is entombed with the Knight's dead brother. Our project leader believes that tomb to be located within the city of Venice."

Sherlock frowned at the manuscript, reading quickly. The smell, the style of the paper, the ink, the browning of the paper as it had aged…looking at this volume, everything Frankland said appeared to be accurate. But Sherlock's mind was not really on the Grail, even so. Frankland's mention of John Watson had thrown open long-locked doors of his mind palace, and the memories were beginning to intrude upon his present. He pushed them back and said, "What does any of this have to do with me?"

Frankland opened his arms toward Sherlock. "As you can now see, Dr. Holmes, we are on the road to completing a great quest, one that began almost two thousand years ago. We're only one step away."

Sherlock snorted. "That's usually when the ground gives way beneath you."

For the first time, Frankland's smile wavered, then disappeared entirely. "You could be more right than you know."

"Yes?"

Frankland set his own glass down, now, and looked at Sherlock with a frown. "Our project leader has vanished, along with all his research. All we know is that his colleague, Dr. Trevor, sent a cable informing us of his disappearance."

Sherlock finally understood. "And you want me to find your man."

"Find the man…and you will find the Grail, Dr. Holmes."

Sherlock gave a short laugh. "You've got the wrong man for that job, then, Dr. Frankland. For Grail-hunting you'll need John Watson. I'm surprised you haven't—oh, but you have…" He trailed off, frowning at Frankland.

"Yes," Frankland said, "We had already brought him onto the project." He paused, then confirmed what Sherlock already knew to be true. "John Watson is our missing man."

Sherlock stared at the book before him, seeing nothing. Oh, God.