Thanks to Chappysmom for being so understanding and to MapleleafCameo for listening to my wails of despair!
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Sherlock characters (Wish John was mine though!) – Thanks to all the actors, writers, etc etc that make the original series so worth writing about!
"When did you work out the connection?" They were travelling back to Baker Street, leaving the police and fire crews to deal with the aftermath of the explosion.
"Sorry? Oh, yes, once I knew we were being directed to the events of 1665."
"Right, I get it….no I don't. What did I miss?"
Sherlock though a moment, then smiled. "Actually John, it wasn't that you missed something, more that I had directed you away from it." The puzzled looked remained on Johns face so Sherlock elaborated, "I sent you to talk to the daughter yet what I found in the victims house, and dismissed as being unimportant, was all the equipment required by a good baker. I'm certain that if we look into her time working at the Mansion House we'll find that Mrs Howard's speciality was bread making."
"Hmmm. Get it now."
"I admit that I got a little side-tracked with the reference to desserts, although I'm surprised Mycroft didn't see it!" For a second they looked at each other, then exploded into giggles. They were still chuckling as they stumbled tiredly out of the vehicle and made their way into the flat.
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Sherlock was becoming more fractious by the minute. It had been three days since the quiz master had set them the fire puzzle and the waiting was becoming a bore. He was certain they hadn't heard the last of him, so he had spent the intervening time reading through the history of London that he had inflicted on John on Sunday and trawling the internet for possible clues as to the next puzzle. Now he was at a loss. He moped around, and argued every little thing until eventually his much tried flatmate had fled, grabbing his black jacket, wallet and mobile and shutting the door firmly behind him!
For almost half an hour Sherlock stared at the door, willing the doctor to return, before reluctantly picking up his phone.
'Where are you? – SH'
No response. Sherlock stared at the screen, then rattled off another text, this time to Lestrade.
'Any more forensic from the Pudding Lane bomb? – SH'
'You had it all Monday. – GL'
Sherlock hissed through his teeth in frustration. He needed to talk to someone. With no sign of John's imminent return he looked at the mantelpiece, but the skull had taken a leave of absence.
"Mrs Hudson!"
Silence. He scowled at the floor as if to see through to their landlady's flat to see what was preventing her from answering.
Moments later his phoned pinged. He snatched it up and opened the message.
'Where's John? He's not answering my texts – GL'
Sherlock stared at the words on the screen. Surely John wouldn't be avoiding Lestrade? That didn't make sense.
'Went out – SH'
'What did you do to him? – GL'
The sound of footsteps on the stairs interrupted Sherlocks pithy response and he stared hard at the door. It wasn't John, the step was all wrong. Nor was it Mycroft.
A woman's footstep, yes definitely a woman. Upset, worried…..his musings were abruptly halted by a thundering on the door, and a plaintive voice calling out.
"John Watson! I know you're in there you bastard – open the fucking door!"
It didn't sound like his flatmate's usual line in girlfriend, they tended to just get angry and leave, not scream and swear on his doorstep. Sherlock was curious. As he walked towards the door she hammered on it again.
"Come out you bloody coward!"
He opened the door and stared down at the bedraggled woman who stared belligerently back at him.
"Who are you?" she sniffed, wiping her running nose on the sleeve of her coat. "I know who you are! You're his posh-boy flatmate! Where's John?"
A brief look was all that Sherlock had needed to know that he was face to face with John's sister Harry. The family resemblance would have been remarkable were it not for the ravages of years of drinking that had left her face blotchy with the tell-tale spider veins visible even under her make-up.
"Harry Watson, I presume?" he kept his face wiped clean of expression.
Harry stared momentarily then tried to push past him into the flat, but Sherlock was completely blocking the doorway.
"How did you get in Harry?"
She stopped pushing and stepped down a couple of steps, pointing towards the hallway. "The old biddy downstairs let me in – I told her I was here to see John." Sulkily she looked back at him. "Let me in – I want to see that bloody useless brother of mine!"
"He's not here. He left." Sherlock deliberately chose not to elaborate on that statement, leaving it to Harry to come to whatever conclusion she cared to.
"Left? Where's he gone?"
"I'm afraid I have absolutely no idea." Again it was no lie. He calmly watched as she sniffed and scrubbed at her eyes, smudging mascara and eye-shadow as she did so.
"He arranged an appointment for me with a doctor; I wanted him to come with me." She wailed, her distress real even if her tears were three parts vodka, "I would've phoned but I forgot my mobile."
"What time is your appointment?"
She looked at her watched, blinking rapidly, trying to clear her fuzzy vision. "Four thirty, at St Thomas' Hospital."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, less than an hour. St Thomas' Hospital was opposite the Houses of Parliament, easily a half hour cab ride at this time of day, possibly more if the traffic was heavy. At this rate she wouldn't make it in time. With a slight shake of his head he grasped her arm and started to walk her down the stairs.
"Lemme go!" She shrieked "What are you doing?"
"I'm putting you into a cab and sending you to the hospital. If your idiot brother has taken the trouble to make you an appointment the least you could do is keep it!"
Hailing a cab he thrust her into the back seat then leaned in through the window and spoke to the driver.
"Take her to St Thomas' Hospital, outpatient's entrance. Make sure she goes in." He handed over two twenty pound notes "Keep the change."
Standing back from the curb he watched the vehicle pull away, his last glimpse of his flatmates sister was her tear-streaked face staring dolefully out of the back window.
Returning to the flat he picked up his phone, his response to Lestrade forgotten as he tried again to reach John.
'John, when are you coming back? – SH'
He waited, fidgeting with impatience. What the hell was John playing at, sulking like this? What if they'd got another riddle? Didn't he know the quiz master could contact them at any time?
Just as he was on the verge of giving in and ringing his brother for help he heard the familiar tread on the stair, and knew his friend had returned. He sat down in his chair and waited.
John walked through the door and hung his jacket on the hook on the living room door before walking through to the kitchen. Sherlock followed him with his eyes.
"Tea or coffee?"
"Coffee for me. Black, two sugars."
Carrying the two mugs in one hand and a plate of digestive biscuits in the other John wandered through from the kitchen and carefully placed them on the table before taking his usual seat.
"Alright then?" he asked, looking at Sherlock. "All quiet still?"
"Where did you go?" Sherlock answered the question with one of his own. "We were trying to get hold of you."
John sipped his tea and picked up a biscuit.
"We?" he pulled out his phone and looked at it. His face registered surprise as he noticed he had missed three texts from Lestrade inviting him for a drink later this evening as well as the two from his flatmate.
"So? Where were you?"
John shrugged. "I went to Madame Tussauds. It was packed with kids, apparently it's half term and nearly all the mothers in London decided it would make a nice Halloween treat to go and stare at wax models of murderers. It was quite noisy though so I must have just missed the text alerts." As he spoke John sent a quick text to Greg.
"Your sister should be arriving about now for her appointment."
"What?" John looked up from his phone distractedly at first, then his gaze sharpened. "What appointment?"
"The appointment you made for her to see someone at St Thomas' Hospital. I assume you're making another futile attempt to get her to dry out."
John's mug hit the table hard as he leaned towards the younger man.
"What. Appointment. Sherlock? I've not seen, spoken to or make contact with my sister in any way since the summer, when she told me in no uncertain terms to stop interfering with her life." Standing up he walked to the desk and dug around for the telephone directory. Flicking through he found the number he needed and dialled, walking through to the kitchen to afford himself a degree of privacy as he made the call.
Sherlock knew by the expression on his friends face exactly what question had been asked, and the answer he had received. His concern was obvious as he returned to his chair.
"How did you know about the appointment?"
"She came here wanting you to accompany her."
A slight smile lightened his features. "Trust Harry to almost scupper his plans." His smile faded and he let his head drop into his hands. "Shit, I should have been here!"
"He set her up, that much is obvious - the game has just become personal." Sherlock observed as he picked up his phone and finally made that call to his brother.
"Have you had a communication from our friend?" No 'hello brother' this time, Sherlock had no time for niceties.
"You will just have to be patient Sherlock," his older brother responded sounding bored. "I told you yesterday I would let you know as soon as he gets in touch."
"Then you are one step behind him, Mycroft. I think you'll find if you look at the CCTV from St Thomas' outpatients that he's kidnapped John's sister."
In the background he could hear orders being snapped out to various faceless minions on the other end of Mycroft's intercom. He waited.
"How is John?"
"How do you think Mycroft? He's worried about his sister!"
"Then I suggest you both join me at my office. By the time you get here I will have the CCTV footage and very likely the next letter."
Sherlock glanced at his flatmate who responded with a simple nod. His answer to his brother was a simple "Alright." as he ended the call.
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Anthea met them at the reception and escorted them straight to Mycroft's office where they were surprised to find Greg Lestrade waiting for them.
"Your brother thought it might be a good idea to include me in your discussions," Greg pre-empted Sherlocks scathing comment. "considering who's involved and how close it was last time."
"Mycroft. We can deal with this…."
"Actually Sherlock," John interrupted the tirade "I'm quite happy for Greg to be involved. Regardless of our personal relationship I just want my sister back in one piece."
"As do we all" Mycroft reassured the doctor, taking the most recent letter from his desk drawer and sliding it unopened across the desk to his brother. "It arrived just after we spoke"
"Feast your eyes upon my next offering, Mr Holmes. As has happened many times through the ages, tomorrow will see the just removal of a Royal pain and all will rejoice in Whitehall. Cometh the hour, cometh the Axe Man"
John closed his eyes to shut out the vision of his sister at the mercy of this madman.
"But what does it mean Sherlock?"
"It means, Lestrade, that if we don't find out which historical event this relates to, then 'cometh the hour' as our quiz master says Harry is likely to fall victim to the Axe Man."
Even Mycroft looked a little uncomfortable at Sherlocks blunt explanation. His eyes flicked in Johns direction but the doctor hadn't moved a muscle.
"Any thoughts John?"
John looked at the others, a slight frown dinting his brow.
"Henry Vlll? Didn't he bring in a specialist to behead Anne Boleyn?"
"He practiced the French method of beheading" Sherlock informed him "Used a sword."
"Oh." He retreated back into thought.
"Although you may be on the right track John." He waited until he had his friend's full attention. "Anne Boleyn wasn't the only one beheaded; Catherine Howard faced the axe for adultery."
"Axe? You're sure?"
Reaching into his coat pocket he pulled out the history book and handed it across.
"Almost certain," he smiled slightly. "Mycroft – I need a computer and sight of those CCTV images!"
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An hour later they were examining yet another series of CCTV generated photographs. The car that had so obviously been waiting for Harry Watson had been spotted in Southwark, Borough Market, Battersea, Whitechapel and Tower Hill, and each time the cameras had identified three people in the car.
Greg had arranged traffic police to pick up the car and trail it, alongside an elite team of Mycroft's people. The car seemed to be driving randomly around, and every now and then would slow right down or speed off through changing traffic lights.
When John had casually mentioned that the car driver was almost deliberately drawing attention to himself as if he was taunting them, Mycroft and Lestrade both looked as if someone had suddenly hit them over the head with an unexpected truth, and Mycroft immediately ordered the car to be intercepted.
The three occupants, when they were brought to the anonymous interview room under the Whitehall offices, knew nothing about the Harry or her kidnapper. They had been offered the opportunity to legally joy-ride in a fancy car and all they had to do was collect the car from the docklands area and drive it around. Tellingly they said they had a very small time frame in which to pick the car up. They could arrive too early, but had to be away within five minutes of the appointed collection time. Also, the man who paid them to take the car was insistent that while they should be sure to drive within the law they were speed up and slow down and attract attention to the car.
While Greg questioned the joy-riders the Holmes brothers and John watched on a television screen in a room next to Mycroft's office.
"The kidnapper obviously had another car waiting at the docks, the only question is did he leave before his hired joy-riders or once he was sure our attention was back on the car?"
Mycroft pressed a button on the intercom, ordering more detailed footage from the area where the exchange had happened and also a vehicle to be ready to take Mr Holmes' brother and Dr Watson out to that same area.
John sat in the back of the car, the book still in his hands, a torch illuminating the pages. "Not only were you right about Catherine Howard being beheaded by axe, did you know that according to your book we now have a time-frame? She was taken out to Tower Green just before 9 am."
Sherlock nodded, then realised John was still staring at the book.
"It is the best lead we have so far. Once we have finished at the docks we are to meet Lestrade and as many men as he and Mycroft can muster between them at the Tower of London. If the connection is a Royal execution then that is the obvious place to start."
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There was little of note at the dockland warehouse where the switch had taken place, no usable tyre tracks or footprints left by the kidnappers, in fact they may have considered that they were in the wrong place were it not for the dried blood splatters across the floor. Sherlock and John knelt to get a closer look.
"Blood splatter like that means she was quite probably backhanded for resisting or trying to get away" Sherlock observed, half an eye on his flatmate's reaction. He needn't have worried. John was in full 'soldier' mode, putting personal consideration aside and concentrating on the job in hand.
"Yeah, my sister has a knack of pissing people off!" the soldier said with a dry laugh.
"No point in collecting this – even if we could get a usable sample it would take days to get a confirmation of DNA. It's too much of a coincidence for blood this fresh to be anything other than as a consequence of this case" Sherlock tried to be careful how he vocalised the case, and could see by John's eyes that he was grateful for that consideration. "We'll do better to move on to the Tower – by now Mycroft will have arranged for them to let us in and have access to all areas, well almost all"
"Yeah, I think they'll insist you leave the Crown Jewels alone! They've had enough of nutty geniuses playing with the Queen's dressing up box"
They slid into the rear seats of the car and were soon alighting again, this time just inside the gates of the Tower of London.
John glanced around the twenty or more people that were awaiting their arrival. Four of them were Mycroft's security staff, another dozen were the Tower's own Beefeaters, the rest were from the Yard. Sally Donovan walked over to him as he closed the car door and put a hand on his arm.
"John, I'm so sorry…" her voice and eyes were sincere.
"Yeah, thanks Sally."
"We'll find her….." she might have said more, but Sherlock had walked around from the other side of the car and was sneering down at her.
John noticed that everyone seemed to be looking at him, and he was unsure whether it was because they were feeling sorry for him as Sally was, or if they were expecting him to organise the search. Catching the eye of the most senior looking of the Towers officers he beckoned the man over.
"It seems to me your officers know the Tower better than any of us, I would suggest we split into pairs, each with one of your officers. Do you have some kind of map we can use to assign search areas?"
Gesturing to the little office the man led John towards the door. Hesitating momentarily the doctor turned to Lestrade.
"Greg, organise them into pairs, one Beefeater with one of your guys or one of Mycroft's." And he ducked into the stone building.
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The search took almost all night. They looked into every room, every nook and cranny, but there was no sign of Harry or of the mysterious quiz master. The sun was barely rising as they finally regrouped in front of the office, tired and frustrated at their lack of success.
They knew that this was not the end of the puzzle, and that the Tower Officers and staff would have to be especially vigilant to prevent a murder on their historic green. A swift call to Mycroft's office produced a number of photographs of John's sister that could be distributed to enable her to be spotted if the kidnapper was foolish enough to try to bring her into the Tower when the gates opened to the public. John was not happy, but unfortunately there was little else to be done. Sherlock bullied him and Greg back into Mycroft's car and they travelled in silence back to the office in Whitehall.
Mycroft looked as well turned out and alert as ever, and not for the first time John wondered what it was about the Holmes brothers that allowed them to keep going without sleep indefatigable and unimpaired. Now that the search was over so John's own stamina levels had dropped through the floor and he felt ready to drop.
Sitting in Mycroft's office the four men sat mulling over the riddle again. John stared at the riddle, trying vainly to make some sort of sense of the words and Greg sat reading over his shoulder, at the same time massaging his temples to try to stave off the impending headache he could feel building up behind his eyes. The British Government and his brother were both sitting, almost identical bookends, fingers steepled against pursed lips and eyes closed.
Suddenly Sherlock sat up straighter and his eyes opened sharply. "Why would Whitehall rejoice?"
"What?"
"What is it about this execution that would cause Whitehall to rejoice?"
"Whitehall only became a seat of power after the Civil War." Mycroft informed them. "Before that the power sat squarely with the King."
"That's it!" Sherlock jumped up and began to pace furiously. "The other royal execution - Charles the first!
"But…" John stared at his friend.
"We missed it John. He used the word 'Feast'. I wondered about it when we first read it but thought he was just using flowery language, but now it makes sense." He paused and looked at his brother who nodded and took up the explanation.
"Charles was beheaded on a scaffold that had been built outside a window in the Banqueting House. He stepped through the window onto the platform and was executed in Whitehall."
"Bloody hell!" Greg stared at them "What time?"
John was already looking through the book. Frowning he looked up at Sherlock. "It doesn't say…"
"No matter," Mycroft interrupted "We can access the building without delay." He lifted his telephone receiver and punched in a four number extension, demanding the keys to the Banqueting House be brought to him immediately. The voice at the end of the phone obviously said something unexpected because it triggered a rapid fire series of questions that culminated in a demand for the keys to be brought regardless. He replaced the receiver with more force than was necessary.
"Apparently there has been a closure order on the main hall of the Banqueting House for routine maintenance."
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John was almost beside himself with impatience as he waited with Greg and Sherlock for the custodian to arrive with the key. As the elderly man approached them grumbling about how they would upset the delicate work being done, he almost snatched the keys from him and turned towards the door. His hands shook as he inserted the key in the lock and turned it.
The door swung open and a horrific sight met their astounded eyes. Harry was lying face down along a velvet covered bench, tied securely so that she was unable to move. Above her , blade sharp and glinting in the light coming from the many lights around the room was suspended a headsman's axe, poised to swing down and take her head off with one clean sweep. The only thing stopping the blade from swinging free was a rope and pulley mechanism, attached to a timer.
John started to move towards his sister when Sherlock grasped his arm.
"Wait, John. Slowly. It may be booby trapped."
Closing his eyes John took a deep breath and nodded, then opening his eyes once more he scanned the room for obvious traps. Sherlock did likewise, while Greg stepped back, taking the custodian with him and pulling his phone out to advise Mycroft.
Slowly they worked their way across the room. As soon as they were close enough Sherlock grabbed the axe and pushed it away from prone figure of Harry Watson, while her brother grasped the end of the bench and pulled it in the opposite direction. Once he was sure his sister was out of harm's way John made short work of the ropes holding her down and removed the filthy gag in her mouth before pulling her into his arms and holding her as she cried.
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Harry had been unable to tell them anything about her captor. She had not really taken much notice as he pulled up beside her at the hospital with a message from her brother. As she had leaned into the car he had pulled her in and covered her head with a black hood before knocking her out with chloroform. When she woke up she was tied to the bench.
Seeing how badly she was shaken by her ordeal, John agreed to return with her to her Surrey home and arranged for her to go into rehab at a local NHS facility. He had arranged with Sherlock that the detective would let him know if anything happened while he was out of London for a couple of days but all remained quiet, and he returned to Baker Street late on Sunday evening to find Sherlock deep in thought over the results of his latest experiment but no less glad to see him return.
"We were lucky this time, John" he admitted "the timer on that mechanism was set to drop the blade at 2pm. I somehow feel he will be angry that we worked it out so early."
"You probably right. You've heard nothing from him?"
Sherlock was by now standing looking out of the window onto the bleak November streets. Something caught his attention and for a moment he was silent, then he glanced at his flatmate.
"We have a visitor."
"Oh? Who?" John joined him and was surprised to see Mycroft's black car parked outside.
A light knock on the door heralded the arrival not of Mycroft Holmes but of his assistant, Anthea. In her hand was an envelope which she handed over to Sherlock. He frowned, looking at the envelope which was unusually addressed to 'the Assistant of Mr M Holmes'. His frown deepened as he looked across at the petite brunette.
"I'm sorry Mr Holmes," Anthea said quietly "but we believe your brother's been kidnapped!"