Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'Sherlock'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.
A/N: In browsing through the 'John's blog' website for the show, I found that not only did A Study in Pink happen at the end of January (year unspecified – and I've arbitrarily decided to set this during 2011, mainly 'cause John's obviously in his late thirties and I wanted a unique birthday for him), but that The Blind Banker didn't occur until late March. What did they do in the interim? I attempt to fill some of the gap in this chapter, then move on to TBB plot, hence the sudden introduction of dates at the beginnings of specific segments. And since this is AU, keep in mind some things are going to be… different – canon Nazis beware! Also, The Blind Banker is – by far – my least favorite Sherlock episode (mainly because there's no Lestrade – I love Lestrade), so it's going to get the least attention of all the episodes. I'm also going to warn y'all that I've taken a track the writers of the show ought to have taken: John, as an ex-Army doctor who did time in a freakin' war zone would have been able to see that Van Coon hadn't committed suicide, just by the fact that the gun (a Sig Sauer P226) didn't match the hole in the body's skull (a .22 is about the only caliber bullet that won't – normally – punch through a skull and .22-caliber Sigs are only slightly less rare than hen's teeth). Yes, this isn't magical knowledge, but it is something that John – even as presented in canon – should have known.
And I now have a second grand-niece: My sister's oldest just had her second little girl on 03/22. Her name's Isabel, but I'm calling her 'Izzy'.
Warnings: All warnings from chapter one still apply. And do I really need to tell y'all not to try the othersight spell in real life? Good, thought not. And there are some emails quoted herein that required some irritating formatting tweaks, but I'm sure y'all are smart enough to know why they look like they do (I freakin' hate FFN sometimes).
Again, major thanks to Ariane DeVere for her tireless efforts in posting transcripts over at livejournal!
Infinitely Stranger
Things must be done decently and in order. – Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes
Chapter Three: Settling In
February 1
John woke to the sound of his phone ringing. Peeling one eye open, he idly noticed it was far brighter in his room than it should have been. He reached over and picked the phone up. That can't be right. The screen said:
Tue, 01 Feb. 13:47
You have ONE missed call.
He scrubbed a hand over his eyes, dislodging granules of sleep-sand, and blinked. He refocused on the phone as the voicemail-alert chimed. It hadn't changed much.
Tue, 01 Feb. 13:48
You have ONE missed call.
You have ONE voicemail message.
"Damn," he breathed the word in total disbelief. Last time I slept 'til two in the afternoon, I think I was sixteen. Yawning, he stretched, receiving only a token complaint from his shoulder, then checked the call-log on his phone.
Missed Calls (13)
1. Ajay Today, 13:47
2. Harry Yesterday, 22:19
3. Harry Yesterday, 21:20
4. Harry Yesterday, 19:51
5. Harry Yesterday, 17:23
6. Ella Yesterday, 14:58
7. Harry Yesterday, 12:34
8. (Withheld) 30 Jan, 21:32
9. Harry 30 Jan, 21:05
10. Harry 30 Jan, 20:38
11. Harry 30 Jan, 10:02
12. Harry 29 Jan, 12:41
13. Harry 27 Jan, 13:27
John winced at the visual proof of the number of times he'd ignored his sister the day before, then had the phone clear the list. He called his voicemail and listened while collecting clean clothes from the wardrobe. "Hey, John – it's Bea, Ajay's assistant? He asked me to call you. You know how he is around anything tech-related. Anyway, he wanted to know if you could come by the store sometime today. He's wound up about something, but won't tell me what. Ring back and let me know, okay?"
After telling the automated system to delete the message and disconnecting, he stared at the phone for a long moment. Wonder what that's all about? Shaking his head, he went back to getting dressed. I suppose I'll find out soon enough. After a quick shower, he headed downstairs, calling Ajay's business number. It rang three times before Bea answered. "Hanuman's Hideaway, how may I assist you?"
"Hi, this is John Watson. Is this Bea?" John spoke, striding through the living room towards the promise of caffeine in the kitchen. Sherlock glanced at him from his perch on the sofa as he went by.
"Oh! Hi, John. Sorry I missed you the other day," Bea replied.
"Yeah, me, too. Got your message," he grabbed the kettle and started filling it. "What's Ajay doing now?"
Bea let out an explosive sigh. "That's just it, John – he won't tell me! He was tinkering with that bronze statue of Ida – you know the one I mean?"
John turned off the tap. "Yeah," he said, his memory supplying him with an image of when Ajay had found the blasted thing. "I know exactly what you mean." He sat the kettle on the counter and flicked it on. "What did it do this time?"
"He won't say! He's locked himself in the coffee-nook with fully half the books we carry on portents and omens and won't bloody come out! All he'll say anytime I try to drag him away is 'call John and see if he can come by, please'!" Bea was panicking. From what she was describing, John figured it was either entirely warranted or a simple misunderstanding. It wouldn't be the first time a non-mage panicked over nothing.
John let out a sigh. "I'll be by in about half an hour, all right? Think you can handle it until then?"
"Thank you, John – he's really starting to worry me."
Yeah, I can see that. Out loud, he simply said, "Don't fret. I know him – it's probably nothing."
"I can only hope," Bea replied. "See you soon, then."
John ended the call and tucked his phone into his pocket. "Going somewhere?" Sherlock asked from the doorway to the living room.
John nodded. "Yeah. But, I've time for a bit of breakfast first. Want some tea?" he asked, looking over at his new flatmate.
"Sure," Sherlock agreed, settling himself at the table. He nudged a Petri dish and peered at its contents for a moment. "You mentioned an Ajay – is this the same man who taught you?"
John nodded again, and set out the things to make two cups of tea. "Yes. His assistant just called. She thinks he's acting strangely and is worried about him, so I'll head over and see what's up here in a bit. You can come if you like."
Sherlock made an odd gesture with his head that was halfway between a nod and a shake, then opened the Petri dish and sniffed the contents. Frowning, he grabbed a transfer pick out of a chipped coffee mug containing an assortment of tweezers, pipettes, and other small tools, and scraped an infinitesimal quantity of the whiteish growth out of the Petri dish. John added two sugar cubes to Sherlock's tea mug, and simply watched. The brunette smeared the contents of the pick across a clean glass slide, added a drop of crystal violet stain, and centered a slide-cover over the drop before securing it in place on his microscope.
"Looking for anything in particular?" John asked, idly wishing the kettle would hurry up.
"Simply trying to ascertain whether or not certain materials present in the growth medium have any adverse affect on the development of Clostridium tetani," Sherlock replied, adjusting the focusing power of his microscope. "Thus far, no luck."
John winced. "I trust your tetanus vaccine's up to date, then?" Sherlock nodded. The kettle finally boiled. John made a mental note to check his own records. Sure, it was standard practice to give a booster whenever warranted – say, for example, when one winds up having a .50-caliber chunk of metal go tearing through one's left shoulder – but it never hurt to double-check. He poured hot water over the teabags in their waiting cups, stirred Sherlock's, and sat it on the table at his roommate's elbow, then sat across from him. "What have you tried so far?"
"The usual – arsenic, mercury, cyanide."
John blinked and wondered if there was any way he could get Sherlock to consent to doing his experiments somewhere other than the kitchen table. Figuring it would likely be a lost cause, he resolved not to eat or drink anything that smelt of almonds or garlic – unless he himself had prepared the dish. Even then, I might not.
Sherlock was now staring at John over the eyepieces of his microscope. "What?" John asked.
"No lectures on the inadvisability of poisons in the kitchen?"
"Considering I keep hemlock and wormwood in the tea cabinet, I think that would be a bit hypocritical, don't you agree?" John sipped his tea and mentally reviewed his supply of herbs. I'm nearly out of everything, though. His bank balance drifted in front of his eyes for a split-second. Hmm… Might be able to do some minor restocking, but – even with rent here being less than the bedsit, I need to start looking for a job.
Sherlock's eyebrow twitched slightly and he went back to peering through his microscope. "You are… Singularly refreshing, John," he commented.
"I could say the same about you, you know," John replied, only slightly surprised to find that it was true. Not too many people I've told about magic can just take it in stride.
Almost as though Sherlock heard the thought, he asked, "So… Have you finished unpacking yet?"
"Mostly," John replied. "I still need to get the last of it from storage, but everything from the bedsit's been put away." And even though the flat didn't look it, Sherlock had also finished unpacking the day before. It was cluttered – and, if Mrs. Hudson were to be believed, 'messy' – but John didn't mind. He found it a nice change of pace from the ordered precision that had ruled his life since basic training. And if I can't quite bring myself to leave my own bed unmade, or my things scattered about, then well… That's just to be expected, isn't it? "Oh, I checked my supplies. I don't have a cat's eye quite large enough for othersight, so that'll have to wait a bit. However, I can show you something equally interesting, if you're willing?"
Sherlock scowled at what he was seeing in the microscope, removed the slide and placed it in a small, wooden box half-full of similar slides, and scribbled a note on the pad by his right elbow. "And what would that be?" he asked while writing.
"Gate travel," John replied, then finished off the contents of his teacup.
The fire of curiosity – something John could easily spot, having seen it looking back at him through the mirror on more than one occasion – flashed into life in Sherlock's eyes. He dropped his pen on the notebook and pushed away from the table. "What are we waiting for, then?" he asked, springing to his feet.
Chuckling, John took the time to set his teacup in the sink before joining a hyperactively bouncing Sherlock. "Grab your jacket," he said, heading back up to his room. By the time he'd collected his own coat and a stick of chalk, Sherlock had followed him up to the landing. He echoed his own posture from the day before in leaning against the balustrade rail, and was staring at the incomplete anchor carved into the wall.
"You said this," he gestured to the design – which now looked rather more like a door, complete with a Celtic-knotwork-style braid around the edges – "wasn't yet complete."
"It's not," John replied, shrugging into his coat. "Which is why we'll gate to Ajay's, but we'll have to come back home the regular way." Picking a bare spot of wall, he quickly sketched a rough door with the chalk. As he had done to evade Mycroft, he placed his hand over the illustration of a keyhole, then rattled off the too-long-to-be-a-nursery-rhyme string of Hindi. As normal, the door – to John's sight – gained a three-dimensional presence.
He was just about to open it when Sherlock interrupted him. "May I?" he said, a hand extended in the direction of the invisible-to-him doorknob.
John let go and stepped aside. "The magic's set. Once it is, anyone can use it, so knock yourself out. You recall what I said, though, about keeping your eyes closed?"
Sherlock nodded and tossed a quick glare in John's direction that quite obviously said 'I'm not an idiot'. However, as the younger man's hand blindly groped for and located the knob, a flicker of trouble stirred in John's mind. Sherlock opened the door and stepped through before John could say anything more, however. John reached out to catch the door from slamming shut and thus ending the spell. Damn it… He kept his eyes open, didn't he? Sighing, he stepped through after his companion, wondering if Ajay kept ginger tea on hand.
He didn't notice Mrs. Hudson's face appear behind the rail surrounding the stairs as he stepped through the wall and across London.
Emerging in Ajay's flat above his store, the chime of the 'doorbell' ignored, John's suspicions were confirmed on finding Sherlock facedown on Ajay's paisley rug. "I told you to keep your eyes closed."
Sherlock groaned and grasped the carpet with his right hand – his left was still hanging on to his Belstaff. "Your warning was insufficient," he mumbled to the rug's weave.
Impressed he could open his mouth without vomiting, John headed to Ajay's kitchen and rummaged in the cupboards until he found a tin of ginger candy. Stealing a piece for himself, he unwrapped a second one and lightly charged it with healing magic. "Here," John said, kneeling next to Sherlock's head. "Eat this – you'll feel better."
The tiniest sliver of blue-grey peeked out from behind Sherlock's eyelids. He forced his hand to unclench from the carpet and shakingly took the sweet. Looking from it to John and back, he popped it into his mouth. "Can't make it worse."
John had to tap into his inner doctor to keep the majority of the smug 'I told you so' at bay, but patiently waited until his flatmate's greenish cast had faded back to his normal vampiric pallor. "Better?" he asked, offering a hand up.
Sherlock ignored it and carefully climbed to his feet. "Yes. I suppose a 'thank you' is in order, even though your warning was cryptic enough to simply trigger curiosity."
No stranger to backhanded gratitude, John let it roll off him. He was just about to indicate they head on down to the shop itself when Bea's voice sounded from the hallway outside Ajay's living room. "That you, John?" she called, then appeared around the archway.
"Morning, Bea," John smiled kindly at the woman who was approximately five years older than himself. "May I introduce my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes?" Sherlock stepped forwards, his eyes taking in the tallish woman with a single head-to-toe glance. "Sherlock, this is Beatrice Archer."
John wondered what details Sherlock was seeing in the tallish woman with her short, graying auburn hair, emerald green jumper, comfortable jeans, and well-worn trainers, then decided it didn't really matter. He didn't know Bea all that well; she had only started working for Ajay four or five years ago, and for the majority of that time, he'd had slightly more important things to be worried about. "Ajay still in the nook?" he asked.
Bea nodded. "Yes, and he won't come out at all. Kept telling me to call you – so I did."
"All right, I'll see what it is he needs. You ought to go back to minding the store," John replied, heading through the arch and down a long hallway bordered by storage rooms on either side. "I've no idea how long this will take." The stairs down emerged in Ajay's store, right behind the cash register. Bea took up a position by the register, watching as John and the newcomer worked their way through the mazelike racks to the bright little area Ajay called his 'coffee nook'.
From just behind John, Sherlock's eyes quickly took in the ambiance of the rather dark store, noting the racks of candles, incense, and non-Christian statuary, immediately knowing just what sort of store John had brought him to. The ease with which the man navigated spoke of longstanding familiarity. A thousand little details were noted, then dismissed as unimportant as the majority of his mind focused on what he'd just experienced with the 'gate'. Holding on to an invisible doorknob – smooth, cool, would have said bronze or brass had it been a case of identification sans sight – had been odd enough, but it had taken him more willpower than he would have otherwise assumed to take that step through what looked like a solid wall. And of course he'd kept his eyes open. What had followed next was a prime example of the plasticity of subjective time: Actual time elapsed could only have been a split-second, yet it had felt like an eternity. The world had seemed to melt, reforming into what seemed like a photographic negative, but the colors hadn't been right for that to be a truly accurate description. A truly disorienting sensation of sudden movement – simultaneously both upwards and downwards – caused the not-a-negative image to stretch and skew around him, breaking apart into a thousand individual points of light on the darkest of purple backgrounds, overlaid with what Sherlock could only describe as an amoeba of pulsating electric blue, stretched so far holes and tatters had appeared in the organism's structure. It was bright and beautiful and breathtaking, but it was also disturbing and distressing and wrong in a way that Sherlock had never before experienced. Then there was an inaudible but very physical snap and everything inverted and coalesced and he was suddenly standing in an unfamiliar sitting room.
"Ajay?" John's voice dragged Sherlock away from his attempt to understand what he'd experienced. "You called for me?" John pulled a few strands of a bead curtain aside, revealing a bright little sitting area, filled to bursting with pillows and cushions and books.
Ajay, sitting on the blue-and-green paisley print chair, his nose buried in a book, didn't even look up. He tossed a small metallic object to John. "Take a look at that, John," he said.
John peered at the object. It was an oval, three inches long and about two inches wide, made of a golden-colored metal – John figured it was probably brass – and sported a raised Celtic knot pattern on one side. He flipped it over. The reverse showed a stylized line-etching of the all-seeing eye. "Okay," he drew the word out, "what is it?"
"A medallion," Ajay replied, snapping his book shut and finally looking up at his student. He noticed Sherlock standing just behind John and blinked. "Who's this, then?"
John, still looking at the medallion, stepped into the room. "Ajay, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, Ajay Singh." Ajay nodded at Sherlock, but didn't get up. "But this is a what now?" John asked, handing the metal oval back to Ajay.
"A medallion," Ajay repeated, refusing to take it back. "And, so far as I can tell, it's yours."
John blinked, then looked a little more closely at it. "Uh… No, I've never seen it before." Sherlock held his hand out for it, and John unthinkingly handed it over.
Ajay shrugged. "Doesn't mean it isn't yours," he said, setting his book aside. He stood and climbed over a pile of books to the coffee urn in the corner. "There's been something building lately. I've noticed a tension growing; Mary's even felt it."
John's interest sharpened. "She's back?"
Ajay shook his head. "Been and gone, mate – she was here for about a month, back in late August and early September."
John had been shot on September twentieth, and had been back in London as of September twenty-fourth. "Just missed her, then," he couldn't have masked his disappointment even if he'd tried, which he didn't.
Ajay poured three cups of coffee. "How you take it, Mr. Holmes?" he asked.
"Black, two sugars, please," Sherlock replied, studying the medallion. "This looks as though it was dug out of the banks of the Thames; somewhere around Hungerford Bridge, unless I'm much mistaken."
Ajay finished fixing up the coffees, then handed one to John and a second to Sherlock. "Just under it, in fact," Ajay confirmed, picking up his own coffee and sipping at it. "After you dropped by, I felt Ida calling my name, so I went downstairs and had a little chat with her."
John groaned. "Haven't you learned yet nothing good ever comes of that?"
"Hey! Don't be insulting my lady, Watson!" Ajay's tone was somewhat sharper than he'd intended, but he couldn't bring himself to apologize for it. "You can't blame her for what happened last time. All she did was let me know what was going on so I could come save your sorry hide."
John winced and rubbed the back of his head. "Sorry, Ajay – you know I didn't really mean it like that. Far be it for me to ever insult a lady."
Ajay looked slightly appeased, though still a little irritated. "Anyway, she told me to go looking and that's what I found."
John glanced at Sherlock. The 'consulting detective' seemed to be following the conversation rather well. After figuring out Harry walked out on Clara – not to mention her issues with booze – just from her phone, it's no wonder I'm not surprised. "Still doesn't explain why you said it's mine, though."
"You're the only one I know who favors Celtic knotwork, John," Ajay replied, as though that explained everything. To him, it likely did.
Knowing he wasn't going to get a better answer than that, John let out a little sigh. "Fine, so it's mine – that still doesn't explain what it is."
Ajay gestured to the books. "And I've been trying to figure that part out, but so far, I haven't had any luck. Maybe you'll do better, yeah?"
February 2
John lounged in 'his' chair by the fireplace in the living room, his laptop taking up space on his knees. The leyline, as had become normal, had a tendril coiled around his ankles. Sherlock had run out not long after sunrise, muttering something about clay-content of potting soil or some such. John hadn't yet had his morning tea and so hadn't really been listening. It was nice to have the flat to himself for a bit. Had he not missed his appointment last week, he would have had to suffer another scolding from Ella regarding his lack of updates to his blog the day before. However, with missing the Tuesday appointment, they got shifted so he wasn't due back until Saturday. I might as well make sure she's got nothing to gripe about this time. He logged on to his blog and started typing.
So, I went and looked at the flat. It's a fantastic location, and the flat itself is as close to perfect as I could have hoped for. When I saw it, Sherlock had already moved in so it was a bit of a mess. Still is a bit of a mess to be honest, but it's a nice change from where I was before.
And the madman himself? He's fascinating. Arrogant, imperious, pompous. But he's got this weird streak of vulnerable insecurity running through it all that actually makes him more likeable than he'd otherwise be. He's not safe, I know that much. I know I'm not going to be bored and I doubt we're going to be arguing about whose turn it is to pay the gas bill or what we're going to watch on the telly. And yeah, he is probably most likely definitely mad. But he plays concert-level violin, so he can't be all bad.
So I had a quick look at the flat and chatted with the landlady. Then the police came and asked Sherlock to look at a body so we went to the crime scene, then chased through the streets of London after a killer and wound up solving that serial suicides thing – which weren't suicides at all, but murders.
Since then, I got the rest of my things out of storage and met up with Ajay Singh, an old friend of mine. I'm now mostly moved in to the flat on Baker Street. I just have a couple of boxes left to unpack, but I'll get to those later today.
He reread his post and nodded. It was sufficiently vague enough to not raise any eyebrows, so-to-speak. Once it was posted, he sat his computer on the small table next to the chair and busied himself with the morning paper. It wasn't long before he heard the chime that alerted him to a reply to his post. Before he could set the paper down, a second chime sounded. Setting the newspaper on the arm of the chair, he pulled his computer back on to his knees.
Wwhat!? Answer your phone! ! !
Harry Watson 02 February 09:47
Please answer your phone.
E Thompson 02 February 09:47
Smirking a little, he hit 'reply' for Harry's post. If you'd quit calling me for stupid stuff all the time, I'd be more likely to answer when you call, now wouldn't I? He posted the reply, then stared at the comment from Ella. He had to double-check the call-log in his phone to verify, yes, Ella had tried to reach him the day before. He hit 'reply' once more, then typed, Sorry I missed your call, I forgot my phone when I went to pick up the rest of my things from storage. Was there something in particular you needed?
He didn't even get the chance to move his computer back to the table before a reply came back.
Seriously, John! What's going on? Are you all right?!
Harry Watson 02 February 09:48
John sighed, then replied to his sister. I'm fine. In fact, I'm better than fine. You don't need to panic. He hit 'post' and his mobile rang. He wriggled a little to retrieve it from the pocket of his jeans and noticed it was Ella. He hit the little green button. "Morning, Ella."
"You certainly sound better," the therapist replied.
"I'm fine, really," he assured her. "But I assume you had a reason to be calling?"
"Yes, yes," there was the sound of computer keys clacking in the background. "I have had a family emergency crop up, John, and will be out of the area for two weeks. So, we need to reschedule our next appointment. Does Thursday the eighteenth at ten work for you?"
"Um, yeah," John replied. "Sure."
"I shall see you then, John," she said. "Take care of yourself."
"You, too," he said. "See you then."
After disconnecting the call, he sat the phone on the side-table and sighed. He rubbed lightly at his temples. Mandatory counseling – what a complete waste of time. At the very least, we ought to be allowed to chose our own therapists! You'd think, what with the sheer number of injuries involved that result in chronic pain, they'd be sure that any therapists on the list were of the opinion that chronic pain wasn't solely mental! It was an old argument, one he'd had firm opinions on even before landing with nerve damage himself. His computer chimed again, halting the stream of thoughts before they could develop into a sulk.
Didn't realize you were keeping a blog, John. I wouldn't have thought you were the type. As for what you said about Sherlock, and what happened, it doesn't surprise me one bit. Good luck, mate.
Mike Stamford 02 February 09:51
The well-wish had John smiling a little once more. "Thanks, Mike," he muttered, then decided the computer had taken up enough of his morning. He closed the lid and sat it on the floor next to his chair. Once more picking up the paper, he began scanning the headlines, only to be interrupted by his mobile's text-alert noise. "Oh, for the love of–" he snapped the paper down and picked up his phone. It was from Harry.
when u say ur fine & not to panic thats when i panic most
John sighed. I'm not going to get a nice, quiet morning, am I? he wondered, then hit 'reply' and sent, I honestly am fine. You don't need to worry.
"Yoo-hoo," Mrs. Hudson's voice came up the stairs, seemingly in response to John hitting 'send'.
"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," John greeted the landlady as she walked through the door Sherlock had left standing open.
"Your mail, dear," she handed him a small pile of advertisements and a bill from the gas company, while looking around the cluttered living room.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John said, taking the stack and flipping through it. "How're you doing today?"
"Oh, fine," she replied, still not looking directly at John – everywhere else, certainly, but not directly at him. "Just fine, dear, thank you for asking." She picked up one of Sherlock's books and fidgeted with it before setting it back on the stack on the coffee table.
"Would you like some tea?" John asked, slightly puzzled by her uncharacteristic behavior. His own had long since grown cold on the side-table. He picked up his RAMC mug and made to stand.
Mrs. Hudson startled slightly, then said, "Thank you, dear, but no – I've left the kettle on downstairs, myself. I really should go see to it before it burns us all out."
She left before John could say anything else. That was… Odd. She's usually so friendly. What happened? He finished standing, stepped out of the leyline coils, and headed for the kitchen. Depositing the mail on the table next to the microscope, and his mug in the sink, he walked out the side-door and down the stairs to flat A. He knocked lightly, hearing the sound of a radio playing quietly inside Mrs. Hudson's flat. "Mrs. Hudson?" he called through the closed door. "Are you certain you're alright?"
She pulled the door open after a long few seconds' worth of waiting and smiled falsely at John. "Yes, dear, I'm certainly fine. No need to worry yourself on my account."
Donning his very best 'concerned doctor expression', John frowned at her. "Please, Mrs. Hudson – I can tell something is bothering you. I'd like to help, if I can." A thread of magic wound through his voice; it was similar to the Captain Watson tone, but instead of urging blind obedience, it whispered of the promise to keep secrets silent.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she wilted a little. "My apologies, Dr. Watson, won't you come in?" she stepped aside. John joined her in her sitting room. The music from the radio was slightly louder, but the device itself must have been in the kitchen. "I'm certain I'm just being silly…" Mrs. Hudson trailed off, her eyes focusing on something slightly off to John's left and about a million miles away.
He laid a warm hand on her shoulder and surreptitiously herded her to her settee. She sat automatically. John sat next to her, angled so he could easily see her, and kept his hand on her shoulder. "Silly about what?" he quietly asked.
"Yesterday, I was bringing up the mail – there was a letter for Sherlock, and I thought it might be important…" she was still looking at something only she could see, but John didn't mind. "I saw – no," she corrected herself with a shake of her head. "I thought I saw something I couldn't possibly…"
"Was this in the afternoon, by chance? Around two o'clock or so?" John was pretty sure he knew what she'd seen.
Mrs. Hudson nodded. "I'd just gotten back from the market. I thought you and Sherlock were home. I had thought I'd heard you. But…" she trailed off again.
John shifted a little to put his face in her line-of-sight. "You came looking for us, heard us up on the landing outside my room, right?" She nodded, focusing on him for the first time all day. "And I'm guessing you saw us disappear, right?"
"Am I losing my mind?"
John smiled reassuringly at her. "Not in the slightest, Mrs. Hudson. We truly did 'disappear'."
She blinked in confusion at him. "How is that possible?"
John settled himself a little more firmly in his seat and began explaining. They were still talking when Sherlock returned home at six o'clock that evening.
February 9
It was shocking, really, just how easily John fell into the rhythm of life at 221B – experiments, middle-of-the-night violin, and all. Once everything was unpacked, all setspells were put into place, and his gate anchor set, he turned the majority of his attention to attempting to determine what the medallion might be. After researching it every way he knew how – both magically and through more mundane methods – he had to admit defeat. It was time to contact an expert.
To: m_morstan at EuropeanArchaeology dot com dot uk
Subject: HELP
Mary,
It's been a while, hasn't it? But I suppose that's only to be expected. It's not like I've had reliable internet access since the last time I was in London. I don't know if you've heard or not, but the Army booted me. I got shot and they sent me home. So, if you wind up back in London again any time soon I'll be here. Are you still working that site in Cyprus? Or has the institute moved you on to better things?
On to why I'm bugging you 'at work'. Ajay found a thing. Says it's mine though I never before laid eyes on it. I can't figure out what it is, though. It's an oval, about three inches long, two inches wide, and about a centimeter thick. Has a Celtic knot on one side and an all-seeing eye etched on the reverse. It seems too bulky to be a coin but doesn't have any points for attaching a pin or necklace chain. Ajay called it a "medallion". My new flatmate says it's made of brass if that helps, and it itself isn't magical but resonates quite like that pendant of yours. What was that thing made from again? I can't recall. Any help would be vastly appreciated.
In other news, my mailing address has changed (again). It's now 221B Baker Street, right here in London, and Harry gave me her old mobile, so I've her old number too. And the shrink I was assigned to see after being shot has me blogging. Quit laughing, it's not particularly funny. However, if you want to get a hold of me, you can through the website: triple-w dot johnwatsonblog dot co dot uk
I think that's all for now. I eagerly await your reply.
John
February 10
To: drjhwatson at memail dot com dot uk
Subject: re: HELP
John,
Always a pleasure to hear from you! And I'm sorry to hear we missed each other. Ajay tells me it was just a matter of a week or so, too. Yes, I'm still working the dig on Cyprus, but not for much longer. The higher-ups want me back in London soon to oversee work on what's assumed to be a structure of some sort just under the Thames (right outside MI6 HQ!). They got the C-14 dating back, and it's around 7K years old, which would make it the oldest structure in all of London, if that is indeed what it is and not just random wood, of course.
Now, what's this about getting shot? Why am I only hearing about this now? What happened? Are you alright? You were supposed to have been CAREFUL, you stupid sod! What were you doing that you got SHOT?
Ahem. Sorry.
And you? With a blog? Hahaha! You! You can't even get a photocopier to work properly, and you're blogging? Hahahaha!
Ahem again.
Okay, so Ajay found a strange little trinket and decided it belongs to you. From the description, there's not a whole lot I can say about it. Do you have any photographs? Or, if it's not pressing, I can take a look at it in person soon. I should be back to London no later than March 1st. That reminds me, if I do manage to be back in time, I'll buy the first round (even though it's your turn).
See you soon,
Mary
To: m_morstan at EuropeanArchaeology dot com dot uk
Subject: re: re: HELP
What do you mean it's my turn to buy the first round? I got it last time. Remember? The Christmas party? That redheaded girl who was wearing the antler-headband threw up on Dr. Iverns shoes? Any of this ringing a bell?
February 11
To: drjhwatson at memail dot com dot uk
Subject: re: re: re: HELP
Hmm… I might remember something about that night. Specifically, something concerning that same redhead an hour earlier, the broom cupboard on the third floor, and you losing your pants.
To: m_morstan at EuropeanArchaeology dot com dot uk
Subject: re: re: re: re: HELP
OK. It's my turn to buy the first round.
And didn't we agree never to speak about that incident?
February 13
To: drjhwatson at memail dot com dot uk
Subject: re: re: re: re: re: HELP
Speak for yourself, Captain Three Continents.
To: m_morstan at EuropeanArchaeology dot com dot uk
Subject: re: re: re: re: re: re: HELP
Oh my god. WHO TOLD YOU ABOUT THAT? ? ?
February 14
To: drjhwatson at memail dot com dot uk
Subject: Happy Commercialized Greeting Card Day!
I retain the right to keep my sources anonymous.
So, does 'Three Continents' have any big plans for tonight? I'm planning on a nice, romantic session with this lovely chap. He's quiet, but wholly engrossing and utterly fascinating.
To: m_morstan at EuropeanArchaeology dot com dot uk
Subject: Happy VALENTINE'S DAY
Attachments: thing1 dot jpeg, thing2 dot jpeg download all
How much do you want to forget you ever heard that nickname?
No, no major plans, which is a pity because my flatmate, Sherlock, is going to be out again tonight. He's spent the last three nights in the morgue at Bart's, trying to track down the source of some weird noises that have been freaking out the pathologist (a really lovely girl named Molly, by the way) who works there. It's been driving him, and me by extension, absolutely nuts.
And you're the only person I've ever known who could seriously say that spending Valentine's picking rock out of an ancient skeleton is in any way 'romantic'.
In any case, I've attached a couple of photos of that medallion. Let me know what you think.
February 17
To: drjhwatson at memail dot com dot uk
Subject: Thing1 and Thing2? Seriously?
It would take more money than is currently available on planet Earth to make me forget that particular gem of a nickname, Three Continents. Even you have to admit it's better than 'Easy John'.
From what you've said on your blog (and, yes, I still laugh every time I picture you hunt'n'pecking your way through those rambling entries), your flatmate doesn't seem the type to be interested in a ghost hunt, so what's going on there? Is he trying to impress the pretty pathologist?
Without seeing it in person, I can't say anything with 100% accuracy, but it looks modern to my eyes. The medallion can't be any older than about 50 years or so – that particular version of the eye of providence was only put into use around 1810 and the Celtic design shown wasn't used prior to 1960 (it's a decidedly modern interpretation of more ancient symbols). If what you said about it resonating like my rhodochrosite point, then… Well, I'm going to need to see it in person.
I'm definitely going to be back by March 1st. Just got the confirmation from the institute today – my flight lands at Heathrow on Feb. 24, at six-thirty in the evening. Care to pick a girl up from the airport?
February 18
To: m_morstan at EuropeanArchaeology dot com dot uk
Subject: So I'm not that great at naming things. So sue me.
Oh, god. I'd forgotten that one. Thanks for bringing it up.
I'm getting better at typing, I promise. Mostly, it's because the phone Harry gave me has a regular keyboard, and it seems like everyone these days sends texts instead of calling (except Harry – she still calls me at least twice a day). I'm hopeful that I may even get to the point where I can type without having to look at the keys.
Yeah, Sherlock usually doesn't bother with 'ghost stories' but he's not trying to impress Molly so much as remain in her good graces. Any time she gets an unclaimed or unidentified body Sherlock usually winds up with pieces of it for various experiments. I don't think Molly blackmailed him into checking out the noises, but I can't be sure. She's the one interested in him, but he seems to not notice. How that manages to slip past him, yet he noticed she'd gotten a kitten because of a snag in her sock, I'll never understand. The source of the noises, by the way, was a pigeon that had gotten into the ventilation system. I have to wonder both at how it managed such a feat and at just what it was eating because the noises had persisted for a solid week before Sherlock looked into the matter.
Thanks for the info on the medallion. I hope we can come up with something slightly more useful when you see it firsthand.
And six-thirty in the evening? Are you kidding? There is absolutely NO WAY I'm braving rush hour traffic at the airport! However, I've got a gate anchor set. You're welcome to use it. That is, if you remember how.
February 21
To: drjhwatson at memail dot com dot uk
Subject: I'd say what was on my mind, but I'm a lady.
Of course I remember how to use a gate. You know the only reason I don't just gate home every night is because BBiWY. If someone spotted me in London when I'm supposed to be in Cyprus, and there weren't the customs records and such, it would cause such an awful stink.
So… Are you going to tell me the activation phrase? Or do I have to guess at it?
To: m_morstan at EuropeanArchaeology dot com dot uk
Subject: Big Brother is Watching You, Not Me.
Aut viam inveniam aut faciam.
I thought it particularly appropriate.
February 23
To: drjhwatson at memail dot com dot uk
Subject: As long as there's no elephants.
Ha! I see your love of puns has yet to die a slow, agonizing death. I'll see you tomorrow evening, John. If possible, could we have curry for dinner? I've not had any decent Indian food in months.
February 24
Sherlock could easily see that John was anxious. However, this anxiety was expressing itself in odd ways: John would sit, attempt to read either the paper or something online, then get distracted no more than five minutes in, sigh, and set aside whichever he'd been attempting to read, then he'd stare into the distance for a solid ten minutes, shake his head, and start all over again.
What do I know as fact? John has said – multiple times – that an old friend was coming over this evening. Mary Morstan, field researcher for the UCL Institute of Archaeology.
John reached to the side table and picked up his mug, only to find it was empty. Sighing for the umpteenth time, he sat it back down and refocused on the newspaper. Sherlock smirked. That had been the fourth time John had attempted to drink from an empty cup.
Now, 'old friend'. If there's a phrase in the English language more vague or fraught with more mutually-exclusive meanings, I've never heard it; save, perhaps, for the ever-present 'fine'. However, it is safe to assume that the sarcastic and negative connotations may be disposed of – the emotional overtone when John said the words was fondly nostalgic, not sarcastic or mocking in any way.
The distinctive chiming beep of a text message coming through John's phone interrupted the former soldier's repetitive behavior. He nearly jumped out of his skin, then scrambled to remove it from his pocket. A bright, childlike smile nearly split his face in two on seeing the message.
Miss Morstan, then. Sherlock glanced at the clock on the microwave. And only ten minutes later than expected. John quickly typed out a reply, then sprinted for the stairs up to his room. Sherlock followed at a more leisurely pace. Not a romantic interest, that much is clear from John's behavior when we are out. He's the sort wired to be monogamous; the sort who likely wouldn't even look at other women if he were in a relationship.
On reaching the landing containing the doors to the upstairs bath, John's room, and the aesthetically-pleasing design of the gate anchor, Sherlock leaned against the door frame to John's room and shifted his constant stream of John-data to the back of his mind and brought forwards the one on magic. He didn't need to wait long, only a moment or two, before the air surrounding the anchor point acquired a thick shimmer, like heat waves bouncing up off of pavement in summer sun. Heartbeats later, Mary Morstan stepped through the shimmer. The ghostly echo of a slamming door sounded as though through water and from very far away, snapping that shimmer out of existence with its noise.
"Mary!" John all but shouted, even as she echoed his tone in saying his name at the same moment.
Under the main file heading of 'John Watson' in his mental hard drive, Sherlock quickly created a sub-folder for Mary. Morstan stood a solid five inches shorter than John, even in her sturdy hiking boots, and likely only reached five feet, one inch tall while barefoot. She had long, board-straight blonde hair of a hue several shades lighter – and far more yellow – than John's, and it was patiently obvious that the white streaks in it were not grey, but the simple result of long hours under the Mediterranean sun. She had it pulled back into a tight ponytail that was none the worse for wear after her recent airline trip; Either she failed to fall asleep during the journey, or she took the trouble to freshen up prior to coming here. Either scenario is equally likely. I need to check the arrival time for her plane to accurately determine which is the case. Her face likewise showed evidence of sun-exposure, bearing a solid tan, numerous small brown freckles across the bridge of her nose, and a hint of sunburn. Her features were, altogether, rather plain, save that her slightly-too-large eyes were a clear and bright greenish-blue. A pair of plain gold studs graced each earlobe. Fourteen karat, hypoallergenic backing, possibly a gift. She also wore a silver chain around her neck from which a blood-red crystal point hung. Rhodochrosite. Rather difficult to locate, but not completely uncommon, either.
She wore what was undoubtedly a variation of her standard 'working clothes': Khaki cargo pants with the option to unzip the legs and so have a pair of shorts, held up by a worn leather belt sporting a hand-tooled silver-and-turquoise buckle – spent time in the Grand Canyon area of the American southwest – topped with an olive-colored tank-top under a lightweight blue canvas jacket with numerous pockets and the sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her hands showed the distinctive calluses of someone familiar with long, tedious, hard work – had he not already known she was a field archaeologist, it would also have been easy to deduce. A battered grey backpack was slung carelessly over one shoulder, a button-pin secured to the visible strap which read We have enough youth; how about a fountain of smart? Sherlock couldn't help but agree with the sentiment. Lastly, her suitcase was similarly-battered, grey, soft-sided, wheeled, and big enough that the woman herself could have curled up within it with room to spare.
In normal circumstances, Sherlock would have immediately dismissed the thirty-something woman as inconsequential. She was utterly, utterly dull and ordinary and normal.
Yet, she was also a mage like John.
And so Sherlock couldn't simply write her off just yet.
John hadn't been aware of just how much he'd missed seeing Mary until she arrived. He hugged her in welcome, kissed her cheek, and then she smacked his arm and immediately began poking him. "Hey!" he complained, as she poked the extremely ticklish bundle of nerves in his side. "What gives?"
"You," poke, "were," poke, "shot!" She quit poking at him and stepped back a pace, letting her backback slide off her shoulder and land at her feet. "I was just checking for holes."
"It's been five months!" John protested. "They've healed. Promise."
Mary glared at him. "You. Were. Shot," she repeated. "And nobody told me! You weren't supposed to get shot, John!" she punctuated his name by stamping her foot. "And what do you mean, 'they've healed'?"
John winced. "I mean any and all holes have healed," he said, trying very, very hard to be reasonable. "It wasn't just a graze, Mary – they wouldn't've sent me home if it were."
"Where?" she asked.
"Outside Kandahar," John replied.
One of Mary's eyebrows arched up halfway to her hair. "Not that where, you twit!" she smacked his right bicep.
"Oh, sorry," John might have pulled off the apologetic look, if it weren't for the fact that his eyes were distinctly mischievous. "My shoulder."
"Show me," Mary ordered.
John unbuttoned his red-checked flannel and slid his left arm out of the sleeve, then rucked up his t-shirt so the white cotton was gathered in a bundle next to his neck. The scar on his front wasn't all that impressive, just a circular indentation about the same circumference as a thumb with a small raised ridge surrounding it, located just below the collar bone. A pair of surgical scars traced angry red lines to either side of it, arching over his shoulder and leading to the far more impressive scar on his back.
Mary let out a distressed noise, then stepped back into John's space. She reached up and lightly traced the scar on his front, then followed the lines around. She laid her hand over the exit-wound scar sitting in the center of a web of surgical lines, and closed her eyes. "Titanium scapula replacement," she murmured, "and… Fourteen pins. Oh, Johnny…"
"Hey, Mary," John whispered, reaching up with his left hand. He laid it gently on her cheek. She opened her eyes. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
Sherlock could tell they'd forgotten he was there. Either that, or they simply haven't noticed me. From their interactions, he now felt reasonably secure in labeling the relationship. Close friends at the least, certainly closer than John is with his sister. If they've ever been romantically entangled, it was an amenable parting.
Mary leveled a watery smile at John. "I guess we'll both set off the metal detectors at the airport now, won't we?"
John let out a small laugh, knowing she was referring to a set of pins resulting from a badly-broken leg when they'd been sixteen, and set to straightening his clothes. "I suppose so," he agreed. "So, you know where you're staying yet?"
Mary made a visible effort to push aside her emotions. "Yes. The institute's springing for a hotel until I can find myself a decent flat." She cleared her throat. "For now, though… You had something you wanted to show me?"
John turned to lead the way to his room and stopped short on seeing Sherlock. "Oh!" a slightly sheepish expression flitted across his face. "Um, sorry. Sherlock, this is Mary Morstan. Mary, this is my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes."
Mary smiled at him, the expression one of honest friendliness. "Good to meet you," she said with a small nod.
Sherlock made a small 'whatever' gesture, and opened his mouth. John quickly shot him a warning glare, which Sherlock knew was meant to be a reminder of his promise to be on his best behavior. "The Pyla-Koutsopetria project is going well, then?"
Mary's smile brightened. "Certainly! Every season we're finding more and more. The latest finds are actually helping us cement the role of Pyla during the time of the crusades."
What followed was a long and intense conversation – during which John felt hopelessly outclassed, and both proud and irritated at Sherlock's ability to actually interact with someone in a manner other than outright confrontational belittlement – that trailed down the stairs and into the living room. Somewhere between Mary pointing out that her entire career was about noticing the 'little things' and knowing what they meant and Sherlock revealing that a knowledge of history was essential 'because it has all been done before', John gave up even trying to follow along and ordered takeaway.
Eventually, after all that remained of the chicken tikka masala and garlic naan were crumbs and smears of sauce and a half a container of rice, Mary brought up the medallion again. John fetched it from his room and handed it to her. She spent a full five minutes examining it, then handed it back to him. "It's new," she said. "More than that, though – it wasn't made by anybody."
John peered at the metallic disk and let out a small sigh. "You ever hear of anything like this before?"
Mary nodded, slowly, but Sherlock edged in and asked, "Excuse me? How can it not have been made by anyone? And how can you tell?"
The blonde looked up at him, then glanced at John. John shrugged. "He's been told about our side-line."
"I can tell because it's what I'm good at. I know it's new – less than a couple of months old, at the most – and that magic herself crafted it the same way I know you over-paid for your sofa. You got ripped off, by the way; the salesman may have called it 'Italian leather', but the cow who once wore this skin," she patted the cushion she was sitting on, "lived in Texas."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "The salesman wasn't lying – I would have noticed."
She shrugged, "Then his supplier was the one lying."
Shoving aside the dubious origins of his beloved sofa, Sherlock returned the conversation to the matter at hand. "You still haven't answered how you know."
Mary looked at John, seated on the opposite end of the sofa. "I thought you said you told him…?"
"I did!" John protested, then paused for a moment. "Well, I've gone over some of the basics…"
Mary let out a small giggle. "Which, in John-speak, means he's answered questions as you've thought of them, right?" she moved her gaze back to Sherlock. At his nod, she sighed. "Okay, let me see if I can't set you straight on a few details – mainly because I doubt they would have occurred to Johnny-boy here," she nudged John's thigh with her sock-clad foot. Her boots were sitting under the kitchen table. "With John as the exception, every other mage I've ever met can do a handful of spells really well, typically all of the same type. Our mentor, Ajay, is particularly gifted at divinatory spells. Penny Kapstan, a girl I met in Arizona a few years ago, is truly scary when it comes to travel spells. And me? I've a knack for seeing the history of a place or object – it's why I wound up in archaeology."
"How is John the exception?" Sherlock asked, taking a seat on the coffee table. John suddenly became inordinately interested in studying his half-empty beer bottle, the red tint of embarrassment flooding his face like fog.
"He's bloody good at everything!" Mary replied, friendly exasperation coating her words. "Honestly, I don't know why he wanted me to look at the coin – he could have figured it out on his own."
"Not true," John protested. "I did look, but…"
"But you doubted what it was telling you," Mary finished his sentence. This time, her tone was enough to tell Sherlock that doubt, specifically self-doubt, was nothing new to her understanding of the ex-Army doctor.
"Wouldn't you have done so, too?" John countered, the light embarrassment fading. "I mean, I've never even heard about magic making a physical object before!"
"I have," Mary volunteered.
"And so having you look at it makes sense," John said, a note of 'so there' threaded through the words.
"So," Sherlock said, drawing out the word, "why, then, was the medallion created? And why did Mr. Singh indicate that it belonged to John?"
Mary took a sip of her own beer before explaining. "I've only ever come across it a couple of times – a magic-made item, I mean. The first was when I was interning as an undergrad outside Cairo. We were excavating a smallish burial chamber and I found a side-corridor that had been bricked over. Would have missed it completely, but it practically screamed to be noticed with othersight – you've been told of othersight?" She waited for Sherlock's confirmation before continuing. "The side-corridor held some setspells tied in to the local leyline system. Basic stuff, for the most part – notice-me-not to shield it from robbers and a strengthening charm for the structure itself – but one setspell was particularly nasty. The mage who'd crafted it wanted to make sure nobody ever disturbed the tomb with malicious intent, so he set it up that if anyone ever entered that side-corridor with bad things on their mind, they'd be hexed with never-ending nightmares."
"And what was this ancient mage protecting?" Sherlock asked, filing away the knowledge that setspells could be used for more than simple pest-control or fire-suppression.
"Well, if you asked any of the others who worked that dig, they'd reply that it was just an empty room," Mary said, then took another swig of her beer. "Just another prime example of the Egyptian tomb-builders' love of dead-ends and false passages. However, it wasn't entirely empty. There was a small alcove in the northern wall of the room that supported a medallion not unlike John's. It was the same basic size and shape and also made of brass, though the imagery on it was decidedly different. On the raised side was an image of Thoth. I've no idea what was on the back of it – I wasn't about to trigger the setspell just to satisfy my curiosity."
"If you didn't touch it, how did you know it was magic-made?"
"I don't have to touch something to read it," Mary replied. "I'm not a ruddy psychometrist, you know. The history it showed me was… well, it was fantastic." The way she breathed the word indicated that it was also rather unbelievable. "I saw that it had been dug up from the banks of the Nile by a little kid who'd taken it to his mother. The woman thought the boy had stolen it and so had taken it to the nearest temple of Thoth and handed it over to the priests. Eventually, the coin made its way into the hands of the mage who'd laid the setspells on the tomb. The entire history of the medallion flashed through my mind in a matter of moments – I'm still sorting out bits of what it showed me."
John took her pause for breath to say, "I remember you telling me about that. Didn't you have a similar experience when you were in Choco Canyon?"
Mary nodded. "Nearly identical, except for the cultural differences. Same sort of thing, too – the medallion was secreted away from the sight of any but a mage and protected by setspells tied into the local leylines. The history of it, too, was nearly identical. Pulled out of the nearest river, wound up in the hands of a mage, and so forth." She finished off her beer and sat the empty bottle on the floor. "Now, as to it's purpose… John, you weren't far wrong when you compared it to my point," she gave the red crystal at her neck a small tug. "It's – from everything I saw with the other two – a focus."
John looked at the disc, turning it over and over one-handed. "A focus for what?"
"Tying leylines into spells, from what I've seen," Mary replied.
John didn't need to look at Sherlock to see the questions around him. "Typically, tying a leyline into a spell is rather… tricky."
Mary scoffed. "Tricky? Try damn near impossible!"
Ignoring her, he continued, "It makes it so that whatever spell it's tied to is permanent, constantly renewing itself by the connection to the leyline."
"And as to why it'd be yours, well, I'd think that much would be obvious now you know what it's for," Mary said. John nodded absently, still examining the oval of bronze. Sherlock cleared his throat, but before he could say anything, Mary spoke. "John's got the strongest othersense I've ever heard of. Me, Ajay, the few other mages I've met in my life – we can all sense when something's magical, though it manifests in different ways. Personally, I hear it. A humming noise, not much different to that of electricity, but I have to practically be right on top of it before I notice it. But John? From what he's described, he's always seeing it or smelling it or feeling it."
John nodded again, still pondering the brass coin. "True. I have to actually block it out most of the time." The leyline below 221B chose that moment to send up its tendril. It wrapped around John as had become its custom, but this time, the narrowest point of the tentacle coiled down his arm, wrapping around his right hand and the medallion it held. John stilled and felt the coin grow warm. He saw it begin to glow a warm golden color that pulsated in time with his own heartbeat. The tendril patted his hand, then sank back to the main 'line.
"What just happened?" Mary asked. "Something… Wait, you live on a leyline!" She smacked John's right shoulder hard enough to bruise. "Why didn't you tell me!"
John closed his fingers around the medallion and grinned at Mary. "You really should've paid attention when you got here," he teased. "I noticed it before I even stepped inside the first time."
Mary looked at Sherlock and hooked her thumb at John. "See? That right there's what I was talking about."
February 25
As interesting as Sherlock found magic, and as much as both John and Mary wished otherwise, Mary had duties she needed to attend to, and so after spending the night on their not-Italian-leather-after-all sofa, she departed to the hotel her employer had arranged. Not long after bidding her farewell, Sherlock got a phone call from a potential client. Though John would have loved to tag along, his own phone had chirped out a reminder that his weekly session with Ella was scheduled for ten o'clock. And I really hope I can convince her that I don't need her 'services' any longer. Last time's smugness about being 'right' about the so-called 'psychosomatic' pain in my knee was bad enough.
So, instead of watching his flatmate figure out his latest mystery, John was resigned to an uncomfortable hour in Ella's office. He arrived at ten-to, and waited in his customary spot, idly flipping through a magazine on interior-decorating until Maggie, Ella's secretary, called his name.
"Good morning, John," Ella greeted him, then settled herself in her favored armchair by the bank of windows.
"Morning," John replied, sitting in the chair that faced her.
"How have you been?" she asked, the question always the same.
"Good," John replied. "Met up with an old friend yesterday. Hadn't seen her in three years. She just got back from Cyprus."
"It's good you're spending time with others," Ella said, marking something down in her notebook. John found it slightly humorous that Ella'd begun taking notes at an angle that meant he couldn't read what she was writing. "You side-stepped the question last week, so I'll expect an honest answer this time: Are you still having nightmares?"
Not since I recharged my charm, but I don't think you'd believe that answer. "No," he replied. "Not since before I moved."
She made another note. "And how is that going for you?"
"Good," John said, knowing she'd only get worried if he told her about the sheer unpredictability of living with Sherlock – particularly the ongoing experiments and illegal body parts. "It's going good."
"We focused rather exclusively on other matters last time," she calmly stated, though John knew she was crowing inwardly about having 'proof' that chronic pain was all 'psychosomatic', "so we didn't get the chance to discuss it, but you noted in your blog post of February second that your flatmate was," she paused and checked her notes, "a 'madman'. Would you care to elaborate?"
John sighed a little. "If you've been reading, you should know what I think already. Sherlock's… well, Sherlock. He's exceedingly brilliant and not shy at all about letting you know so."
"And that doesn't bother you?"
"Why would it? It's true." Anyone bothered by the truth ought not bother getting out of bed in the mornings.
Ella didn't answer his question. Instead, she said, "In the comments section to your entry on February ninth," that was the date he'd posted the details on how he and Sherlock had captured Jeff Hope, "he seemed to take exception to your view of events. Does he do so often?"
John shrugged, "I don't see how that's relevant."
"Living with someone who cannot – or will not – curb the sharper side of their tongues is far from a healthy environment, John."
He couldn't help it. He laughed at her. "Oh, please! What? You're thinking this is some sort of abusive relationship?" At her pitying expression, John just laughed harder. "That's just absurd! I'm a grown man. I can take a little constructive criticism. I saw that comment, too. All Sherlock said was that my version of events read like an adventure novel and that I should've focused more on his science! It's not like he was calling me stupid or an idiot." He very carefully didn't mention the number of times those particular epithets had been aimed his direction by his flatmate. He only means them when people simply don't see what he sees. And he doesn't mean them as insults, not really, more like simple statements of fact.
Ella took a moment to furiously scribble in her notebook. John forcibly regained control of himself. "Look," he said with a small sigh, "I've done everything you've asked of me. I'm not hiding in my room, I go out with friends, I'm living my life. I've not had any bad dreams lately. I don't even need the cane anymore!" He took a breath. "To be completely frank, Dr. Thompson, I don't think I'll be back next week. It's not as if I'm going to be sent back to Afghanistan again; the Army's done with me." He held up a hand to forestall any interruptions. "I won't lie and say I'm entirely okay with that, but it isn't anything you can really help me with. When you introduced yourself back when I was still in hospital, you said you were supposed to help me readjust to civilian life – I think you've done that. Anything beyond that, and… Well, it really isn't any of your business."
John stood and headed for the door. He paused and looked back at Ella. "I'm sorry," he said, apologizing for the outburst. "But…"
She shook her head with a small smile. "No, John – I've been waiting for that, actually."
"Excuse me?" he turned around fully to face her.
"It's the easiest way to tell if someone really is doing as well as they claim," she explained.
"What? By picking at them until they snap and they tell you to sod off?"
She nodded a little. "Not precisely, but close enough. I think you'll do well, John, but don't hesitate to call me if you need me."
February 28
John smiled contentedly. Despite the pouring rain, or rather, because of it, he was in a good mood. Slipping between raindrops, he ignored the icy breath of wind snaking down his collar as he walked purposefully towards the Tesco a couple of blocks from their flat. Tea, milk, bread, cheese… Anything I'm forgetting? He ran down the list of groceries they were in dire need of, but couldn't think of anything else.
The sound of a car horn to his immediate left startled him out of his thoughts. It also shattered his concentration, so the rain quit ignoring him and had his hair plastered to his skull in a matter of moments. He looked over and sighed. The black car was another Non-Descript Vehicle™, and John could see Anthony behind the wheel. He walked over and stood next to the window for the back seat. The beautiful woman whose name he still didn't know rolled the window down about three inches. "Your presence is requested, Dr. Watson."
John sighed. "I've got things I need to do today. Can't your boss just call me?"
She powered the window up and opened the door. "No."
So much for John's good mood. The woman slid over and he sat in her abandoned seat. "What's this about, then? Thought I told him I wasn't interested in his 'offer'," John buckled his seat belt as he spoke.
"I'm sure I don't know," the woman replied, turning her attention to her Blackberry.
John sighed and stared out the window as the car maneuvered its way into traffic. It soon became apparent that the car was heading towards Whitehall. I suppose that answers that question. So, Mycroft Holmes is some sort of government official… He gave a small internal wince. Perhaps I shouldn't've just disappeared like that. But I didn't know so at the time. Granted, John wasn't up to Sherlock's level of deductive reasoning, but he didn't really need to be; he could conclude that the man likely had something to do with state security, what with his access to CCTV and all, without needing someone to point it out to him.
Half an hour after being interrupted on his shopping-run, John followed the beautiful woman through a maze of blandly imposing offices and corridors until they emerged into one that seemed to serve as the master template from which the rest of the building had been struck. The décor was tasteful and expensive, but not ornate, and favored dull and uninspiring shades of paper, ecru, eggshell, and the like, coupled with dark woods. The overall effect was one of inoffensive overt intimidation. An atmosphere that can only be generated by governments, specifically the ones who like to think themselves fair and open-minded.
"Mycroft Holmes," John greeted the man, a hint of Captain Watson threaded through his voice almost without his permission.
"Dr. Watson," Mycroft replied, then gestured to a comfortable-looking wooden armchair with a beige cushion. "Have a seat, please."
John stepped forwards, halting between the pair of identical chairs which faced the man's desk. "Why am I here?" he asked.
Mycroft sat, picking up a file-folder as he did so. He opened it and paged through its contents until he located what he was looking for. He handed a glossy, high-quality photograph to John. "I have a few questions," Mycroft said.
John looked at the photo. It showed the door of 221B and the entrance to Speedy's next door. That wasn't the most interesting bit, though – this particular photo showed Mary exiting the flat, John right behind her with her suitcase. "Doesn't this constitute stalking?" he asked, trying not to let anything other than minor irritation show on his face. Is this a threat of some sort? And if so, is he threatening me? Or Mary? And if so… What for? I mean, yeah, I did manage a minor bit of humiliation when we first met, but that wouldn't call for something like this, would it? And Mary? What could she have to do with this? But then again, what is this?
"Certainly not," Mycroft sounded slightly insulted at the prospect. "It is simply the only way I have to ensure my brother's safety – he won't allow a more direct form of protection."
A little of the panic that had been building within John managed to dissipate. "You keep surveillance on your brother?"
Mycroft nodded. "There are any number of unsavory individuals who would think nothing of causing harm to befall Sherlock simply as a means of getting to me. Sherlock, too, has a rather lengthy list of people who would dearly love to see him come to trouble."
Involuntarily, the corner of John's mouth twitched. "Sherlock doesn't need to come to trouble – trouble seems to have him on speed-dial."
Mycroft chuckled. "You might be right about that."
A little more of the unease in John's mind drifted away, only to be replaced by an equal amount of frustration. "You might have said something about this the last time we spoke."
"No," Mycroft replied. "At the time, you had yet to decide whether or not you would be moving in with my brother. Surely you can see why you were not informed."
John looked at the photo again. "So why tell me now? And if you were just informing me that you were watching, why pick this photo?"
"Anyone who visits my brother is checked by my security team," Mycroft explained. He gestured to the chairs once more. "Please sit, Dr. Watson."
Sensing this wasn't the power-play that had occurred in the warehouse – Not the same sort, at any rate – John settled himself on the edge of one of the chairs. "I can't imagine your team found anything of interest against Mary. I've known her all my life."
A small smile surfaced on Mycroft's face. "Typically hyperbole, but I am inclined to believe it in your case, Dr. Watson."
John shrugged. "Can't help being the truth – we were born at the same hospital, on the same day. I only have her beat by four hours. We lived next door to each other while growing up. Like I said – I've known her all my life. Still, though, you've not gotten to the point. Why this photo?"
"It isn't so much the individual, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, leaning over to retrieve the photo. "It's the fact that there isn't one detailing her entrance to the flat which concerns my team." He flipped through the folder once more and withdrew two pairs of photos. The first showed Lestrade entering, and then leaving, on the day John had first visited Baker Street. The second showed the paper-boy arriving at Mrs. Hudson's door – what had once been the townhouse's back door – and then leaving with a handful of biscuits and a broad grin. "She arrived by means other than the doors into the building, and that is what concerns me."
"I can't help it if whoever you've got manning the camera ducked off to the loo at a bad time," John said, handing the photos back to Mycroft.
"My people work in teams for that reason, Dr. Watson. There is no way possible that they would have missed someone entering the flat."
"Obviously, they did."
"Or Miss Morstan found another way there," Mycroft countered. They stared at one another for a long minute before Mycroft spoke again. "I find it equally intriguing how her flight from Cyprus landed at Heathrow at six-thirty-two, yet," he found one more photo to show John. It showed Mary through the windows of the living room, "she was within your flat by six-forty-five."
Visions of being sequestered in some secret government lab flashed through John's mind. "I don't know what to tell you," he said, hoping none of his sudden fear showed.
"Perhaps the truth might be a good place to start," Mycroft suggested, his tone implying dire consequences if John failed to comply.
The fear John felt hit a tipping point and surged into anger. I will not sit here and take this. Not from some bureaucrat drunk on his own power. John shifted his awareness into othersight and felt about for the nearest leyline. It wasn't far – the merest trickle of a 'line ran not thirty yards off to the north, at the outermost edge of his ability to tap. Simultaneously reaching for that power-source and pulling all the inner strength he possessed into position, he spoke with the most-powerful version of Captain Watson he could craft. "You honestly don't want the truth, Mycroft Holmes. You will find valid reasons to any discrepancies such as these, you will not go digging any deeper. You will not interfere in my life. You will not interfere in your brother's life, not unless there is a real and valid risk to his safety. Understood?"
While John was speaking, Mycroft's face became placid and his eyes glazed and vacant. At the all-but-barked 'understood', he blinked, animation flooding his features once more. "I see," he said. "You are correct, that is one possibility I had not considered."
John wondered what it was that Mycroft thought he'd said, then decided it didn't matter. "Happy to help," he stated, getting to his feet. "But, if we're done here, I really do have things I need to get done today."
"Certainly, Dr. Watson," Mycroft replied. "Anthea and Anthony will take you wherever you need to go today – consider it an apology for wasting your time."
John considered the free ride a pretty fair trade, considering he'd just tinkered with Mycroft's perception of reality. He only hoped that the compulsion stood the test of time. He headed for the door. As he exited, he heard Mycroft hit the button for his intercom. "Patricia? I need Stetler and DuVall in my office in ten minutes!" John could almost feel sorry for whoever Stetler and DuVall were – almost, but not quite. Serves them right for spying on normal people.
It wasn't until he got home that he thought to wonder if Mycroft's office had any sort of security cameras.
March 5
"Oh, come on! That looks worse than the blue thing did!" John threw a kernel of unpopped popcorn at the television screen.
Mrs. Hudson tutted, "Come now, John – I think it looks nice. And it wasn't blue, it was cornflower."
As had become customary for Saturdays, John and Mrs. Hudson were in her flat, watching horrific talk-show television programs. The latest one was a makeover program which both enjoyed, though for different reasons. Mrs. Hudson enjoyed the tips and tricks portion of the program, John liked poking fun of the 'contestants'. Sherlock also enjoyed his flatmate's newfound hobby – it guaranteed one morning a week where he could experiment without fear of lectures on noxious fumes or smoke.
The stench of rotten eggs drifted down the stairs and into Mrs. Hudson's sitting room. "What's Sherlock doing?" Mrs. Hudson asked, going over to the bookshelves next to her television and picking up a spray-can of aerosol deodorizer. She spritzed a generous amount into the air, masking the stench with a rather cloying orangey smell.
"No idea," John replied. "And with odors like that, I'm not too sure I want to know!"
March 10
The ringing of his phone dragged John out of a perfectly comfortable sleep. His room was still dark, so he knew without checking a clock that it was still the middle of the night. He picked up his mobile, just as it went silent.
Thurs, 10 Mar. 02:11
You have ONE missed call.
Before he could check the log to see just who called him so late, his phone started ringing again. He sighed and honestly considered hitting 'ignore'.
Call From:
Harry
He hit 'accept'. "Hello?"
"Oh, thank god – you're the first one to answer."
John didn't recognize the voice. It was female, upset, but it most definitely wasn't his sister. "Who is this? Why d'you have my sister's phone?"
"My name's Linda. Harry and me were out for drinks, y'know? Everything was going okay, but then something happened and…" the girl on the other end of the line started hyperventilating.
Visions of a million different ways that sentence could be concluded poured through John's head as he reached for the light switch. …and she had too much to drink and wandered in front of a night bus. …and she caught sight of Clara and snapped and is now in jail for manslaughter. …and the bar suddenly exploded, killing everyone inside, but I lived because I'd ducked out back for a cigarette. Instead of allowing his panic to rule him, he simply grabbed his best Dr. Watson voice and soothed, "Calm down, Linda. Please, tell me what happened to Harry."
The girl took several shuddery breaths before replying, "I think it was the nibbles. She'd asked for pretzels – most everyone else in the bar were sticking to the free peanuts. But she'd only had a couple, then she just couldn't breathe."
"Harry's allergic to peanuts," John replied, still using the same tone of voice. "I'm guessing she wasn't able to use her epi-pen?"
"I'm sorry, I didn't know – we could've gone somewhere else," the girl babbled.
"Don't worry about it, Linda," John upped the power-content of his voice, wishing it worked as well over the phone as it did in-person. "Did you call an ambulance?"
"Yeah," she sniffled in his ear. "Yes, I did. They took her to A&E."
"Which hospital?" John asked, getting to his feet and walking to the wardrobe. After Linda told him, he said, "I'll be there in about forty minutes."
He was dressed in record time, and true to his word, arrived at the hospital exactly forty minutes after the call with Linda had ended. It wasn't difficult to locate her, even though he'd never met her before. Harry had a type – tall, red hair, brown eyes, and painfully thin. There was only one woman in the waiting area that fit that physical description. He approached her with a comforting smile. "Linda?"
She looked up from where she sat sprawled on an uncomfortable plastic chair. "John?"
He nodded. "Have they told you anything yet?"
She shook her head. "I'm not family. I told them you were on your way, though."
"Thank you," he said, "I'll go see what I can find out. You wait here."
It didn't take long to find that Harry had, indeed, suffered a severe allergic reaction, likely brought on by residual peanut oil in the serving bowl at the bar, and would be kept overnight for observation. Her doctor didn't anticipate any complications; it was just precautionary. By the time John had relayed this information to Linda, Harry herself had regained consciousness and demanded Linda be allowed to sit with her.
Harry also took a moment to thank John for 'riding to the rescue' – something which she hadn't done since they'd been kids. Must just be a remnant of nearly dying.
John was able to rejoin his bed before sunrise, though he didn't catch any more sleep. He resolved to call Harry later that afternoon. Just to make sure she's really okay.
March 18
A loud thunk, immediately followed by a shivery cracking noise startled John out of his book. He looked up to the windows and it didn't take more than a moment to discern the cause: A gray-on-black bird with a purplish-blue cast to its feathers had crashed against the right-hand window, cracking the pane. The bird itself had landed on the window ledge. John marked his place in his book and got up. Sliding the window open, John picked up the bird. Broken neck, he thought, then took a closer look at it. Jackdaw, he identified it. Member of the crow family. He closed the window and took the bird's body into the kitchen. He laid it on the table, then rummaged about in the cupboards.
The scent of cinnamon oil began to pervade the air around John, but he ignored it. Coming up with an empty jar, he sat it on the table next to the bird's body, then took a seat. It took him nearly two hours to strip the bird of primary and secondary feathers, which he saved in the jar. The rest of the bird's feathers, he took less care with, and disposed of them. He was about to start stripping the other unusable bits off the skeleton when Sherlock's voice interrupted him. "I trust that isn't supper?"
John let out a small laugh. "God, no! Though it would give new meaning to the phrase 'eating crow', I doubt this is what they had in mind." A fresh wash of cinnamon swirled on the air as Sherlock stripped out of his coat, answering the question as to where his flatmate had gone. "Did Molly have anything interesting for you?"
Sherlock sighed and flopped into his chair. "Sadly, no," he replied. "And Lestrade's had a slow week, too." He looked at the bird John was working on for a moment. "What of you? You doing anything fun?"
"Fun? Not particularly. If you like, you can do the next bit."
"'The next bit'?"
John nodded. "Yeah. Crows only have two spell components – feathers and bones. The rest can be tossed."
Sherlock looked intrigued. "I know where I can get some demestid beetles…"
"No!" John nearly shouted it. "You are not bringing flesh-eating beetles into our flat, Sherlock!"
"Why not? They'd be in a terrarium."
"Because they'd escape, and you'd get side-tracked on a case, and we'd come home to find the only thing left is Yorick over there," he gestured to the skull on the mantelpiece, "sitting inside a hollowed-out brick shell!"
"It was just a thought," Sherlock said, then fell silent for several minutes. "Okay, fine – hand it here. I'm bored enough to try anything at this point."
John slid the bird carcass over. "The long wing-bones and the skull are the most important parts. The rest of it… Well, I'm sure you'll find some use for it."
While Sherlock started dissecting the bird, John returned to his cabinet and rummaged about inside. "What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, as John extracted his wooden box of herbal spell components.
Rifling through the plastic bags for the right ones, John glanced over at his flatmate. "The cat's eye stones you ordered arrived this morning. That is, if you still want me to cast othersight on you."
Sherlock grinned. "Absolutely." He split his attention between extracting the wing-bones of the bird and watching John.
John grabbed the green marble mortar and pestle off the counter and moved it to the table, along with the two packets of dried herbals from the wooden box, then disappeared into the living room. He quickly returned with a small box that had come in the mail, then left once more to go up to his room. He returned after a couple of minutes with a leather pouch roughly the size of Sherlock's hand and an empty glass bottle with an eyedropper lid. The purpose of the pouch soon became clear as John emptied part of it onto the table – it contained innumerable semi-precious gemstones, both in their natural state, and cut and polished. John picked out a small sphere of polished amber, then returned the rest of the stones to the bag. He then opened the package and, after disposing of the wrapping and packing paper, came up with a small ziplock containing six greenish-grey cat's eye gems, all of which were about half again larger than John needed.
"You didn't need to buy so many," John said. "One is more than enough."
Sherlock shrugged. "Didn't have the option to buy just one. Besides, this way you've got spares, should the need arise."
"Doubtful they'd ever be needed, but I suppose it's the thought that counts." John opened the baggie and selected one of the stones for closer scrutiny. "However, these are nearly perfect."
"'Nearly'?"
John nodded. "They could do to have a touch more of the cat's eye effect, but really, they're more than adequate," he said, setting the baggie with the other five stones aside. He lined up the two baggies of herbal ingredients, the bead of amber, and the cat's eye next to the mortar and pestle, then grabbed a seldom-used coffee mug out of the dishes cabinet. John measured about a tablespoon's worth of mugwort leaves into the mortar, then began grinding it to dust with the pestle. Once the leaves were ground fine enough, he poured the powder into the coffee mug, and repeated the step with the same amount of wormwood. The wormwood was rather tougher than the mugwort and took a fair amount of time to grind.
"I've a question," Sherlock said, carefully separating tendons and ligaments from the bone he was focused on.
"Just one?" John asked. "Usually, your questions come in veritable floods."
Sherlock gave a half-shrug, both admitting John had a point, and clearly stating he wasn't about to apologize for it. "Why all this?" he nodded to the table, indicating the bird, the jar of feathers, the components John was working on. "If it's magic, then why all the paraphernalia?"
"Try cooking a six-course meal without any pots and pans, then ask me that again." John checked the status of the wormwood. It wasn't quite fine enough, so he kept at it. "Not all spells need a physical component. Some need words or gestures instead. Still other uses of magic – I wouldn't call them spells, exactly – simply need the desire for a particular effect."
"What dictates whether a spell needs anything more than desire?"
"What you need it to do," John replied. "For example, I know three separate spells for unlocking something. The first is the most basic sort of spell. A gesture and words and will. But, it'll only unlock the simplest of locks." He let out a laugh. "I used it as a kid to unlock Harry's diary. She used to get so mad at me… No matter where she hid it, I always found it. Told her I unlocked it with a paperclip." John checked the wormwood again and found it sufficiently powdered, so he added it to the coffee mug, then grabbed the kettle. "The next unlocking spell I know is only good on door locks – it won't work on a padlock that's bolted to a door, it has to be an actual door lock. It's a little more complicated, needing words, a physical component, and will."
"What physical component?"
"Chicory," John replied, setting the now-filled kettle on the counter and flicking it on. "A braid of the root, stems, and leaves." While waiting for the kettle to boil, he used a paper towel to clean out his mortar and remove the traces of dust from the pestle. "In this case, since the component doesn't get consumed by the casting of the spell, it's classified as a charm."
"Sounds like something that could be handy to have around. And the third?"
"No words, no gestures, one physical component, and will," John listed. "The physical component in this case is my own blood. It's considered a last-resort spell, since it causes yourself harm to cast, but because of that, it's one of the more-powerful ones out there."
"Didn't you use blood when you set up the gate anchor?" Sherlock asked, pausing in his efforts with the bird.
John nodded, "Yeah, but it wasn't for the same reason. For the gate, you use your own blood as a keying mechanism. That way, even if another mage finds out your activation phrase, they still won't be able to use it without your permission. It's why gates are so secure. We could be out somewhere – even on the other side of the globe – and I can open the gate and we could go through it to come home. Even if we were being chased by someone and they somehow managed to catch the door before it closed, they wouldn't be able to walk through without my permission. As of right now," he paused as the kettle started to boil and turned it off, then carried it over to the mug of herbals. "As of right now," he repeated, pouring water into the mug, "there are three people other than myself who have permission to use the gate upstairs. Ajay, Mary, and you." With the mug half-full, he returned the kettle to its place on the counter. "Tea?" he asked, getting out his RAMC mug.
"Sure," Sherlock agreed. "I know that once it's set, I can walk through it, but if you need to give me permission, why was I able to accompany you to Ajay's?"
"Ajay doesn't have as many restrictions on his gate. His gate is set to read intentions, rather than individuals. Anyone tries to gate into his place with nefarious purposes in mind, and the spell simply won't work." With the tea ready, he carried Sherlock's over to him, then resumed his seat at the other side of the table. He took a sip, then sat the mug down and tossed the bead of amber into his mortar. "It's actually easier to set a gate anchor to read intentions than individuals, since the most important part of magic is what you intend to do with it." He started grinding the amber. "It's why any spell component can be replaced by the blood of the mage doing the casting, if it's an emergency."
They worked in silence for nearly five minutes before Sherlock thought of another question. "Your sister doesn't know about the magic?"
John shook his head. "Nope. None of my family know – none of them want to know. To this day, they're convinced that Mary stole her dad's car when we were sixteen, and that's why she has surgical pins in her leg and why I wound up with a broken arm." He sighed. "They never did like Mary much."
"So what's the real story?"
John checked the amber, then went back to grinding. "Mary and I had been studying with Ajay for just a little over a year. Remember me telling you how all the spells I know come from books?" Sherlock nodded. "Well, the way I can tell if a spell's real or not is that the text in the book shimmers a little, like it was printed with a little bit of glitter in the ink. When we were sixteen, I found a bridging spell in a book at Ajay's. If you cast it right, and the magic worked, it was supposed to let you walk on air over a waterway. It was the closest thing I could find at the time to flying – my main interest at the time. There was this little ravine with a brook at the bottom of it that formed the boundary between Mary's dad's sheep farm and Mum and Dad's apple orchard. It was the quickest way from her house to mine, but that ravine was a nuisance; slippery and muddy and cold even on the hottest summer day." He checked the amber again and found that it was now powdered to the proper consistency. He poured the powder atop the floating clumps of herbal dust steeping in the coffee mug.
"Anyway," John continued, "I found the bridging spell and thought it'd be a great idea. Her dad had vetoed building an actual bridge, but this wouldn't leave anything around for him or my parents to get upset over." He added the cat's eye to the mortar and paused long enough to drain half his tea. "I still don't know what went wrong – if I cast it incorrectly or if it was one of those times when magic simply doesn't work – but we were both halfway across the bridge when it dispelled. Fell a solid sixty feet into that cold, muddy brook. Lucky we didn't kill ourselves." The cat's eye shattered with a crunching noise not unlike the sound of crushing ice. "Harry's the one who found us, nearly six hours after the fact."
"And how did your parents come up with the car crash story?"
John shrugged. "You'd have to ask them, but they weren't the only ones who told themselves a little story and believed it – Mary's dad thinks we were climbing the apple trees." Another piece of the cat's eye crunched into smaller fragments. "Needless to say, I rather lost my taste for high places after that."
Comfortable silence once more descended on the occupants of 221B, broken only by the sound of chrysoberyl crushing into dust. It took nearly ten minutes of concentrated effort for the stone to be pulverized into the proper consistency, and by the time it was done, John's hand and arm ached. He picked up the mortar, then said, "You might want to close your eyes – this will be bright."
He waited until Sherlock positioned one hand over his closed eyes, then moved the mortar over the coffee mug and squeezed his own eyes shut before dumping the powdered cat's eye into the mug. A long flash, similar to a nearby lightning strike or the pulses of light from an arc welder, flooded the room. Once it faded, John opened his eyes and looked at the contents of the mug while setting the mortar back on the tabletop. "Interesting."
Sherlock dropped his hand and his eyes snapped open. "What's interesting?"
"The color," John said, indicating the mug's contents. "It's always different, depending on who it's for." Sherlock leaned forwards and peered into the mug. The liquid contained in it was a clear emerald color, similar to – but purer than – the green glass used to make bottles. John shook his head, dismissing memories of the other times he'd crafted this particular spell, then removed the eyedropper-stopper from the bottle he'd brought down from his room. There was just enough liquid to fill the bottle.
"What next?" Sherlock asked, his tone eager.
"Now, it's gotta sit for a while."
"How long?"
"At least a week, though a month would be better," John replied as he started cleaning up the mess. At Sherlock's disappointed expression, John said, "The longer it sits, the longer the effects will last. Right now, you'd only have a couple of seconds of othersight. After a week or so, the effects will last up to about ten minutes. If you can stand waiting the full month, it'll last at least an hour."
Sherlock sighed and went back to picking flesh off the jackdaw carcass.
March 23
It's just going to be one of those days, isn't it? John had thought it twice so far this morning, and that made the third instance. First, he'd broken a shoelace. Then there'd been no hot water left for his shower. Now, it was the direct result of smashing his face against the plate-glass of the automatic doors of Tesco. Definitely one of those days. A harried young mother with two small children gave him an odd look as they sidled past him and through the doors – that actually opened like they were supposed to. John hurried after her before the doors could close shut. With the way my day is going, they'd wind up slicing my hand off.
John wasted no time in quickly locating the items they needed and rather than wait forever at one of the standard check-outs, he headed for the self-service one that was empty. The first item scanned without issue. The next one beeped, and he saw it appear on the screen, but when he went to put it in the bag, the automated voice – at a decibel-level that he felt rivaled rock concerts and the television at his great aunt Milly's house – droned, "Unexpected item in bagging area. Please try again." He gave the computer a moment to 'catch up', then did as it suggested.
"Isn't technology wonderful?" a middle-aged woman commented, smiling lightly at John.
"When it works," John agreed, then picked up a head of lettuce. He dragged it slowly across the scanner.
"Item not scanned. Please try again."
John blinked at it. Who sets the volume on these things? "D'you think you could keep your voice down?" he muttered at the blasted machine. He tried scanning the lettuce again.
"Item not scanned. Please try again."
The woman let out a little chuckle. John glanced over and found a young man had joined the queue to use the machine. Great. No pressure or anything. He looked at the plastic wrap on the lettuce and spotted a flake of brown slimy gunk spread over the barcode. With a small grimace, he wiped it away with his thumb and tried one more time to scan it. The machine beeped. He gave the computer a moment, then added the lettuce to the bag.
Lastly, he scanned the milk. It beeped immediately, and John let out a small huff of relief when the computer accepted it in the 'bagging area' without comment. He hit the 'pay now' button and dug his debit card out of his wallet. The other self-check machine had cleared by this point, and the woman who'd smiled at him was now using it. He inserted his card and waited.
"Card not authorized. Please use an alternative method of payment."
John had the urge to kick the machine, but managed to hold back; however, his frustration and irritation with the way his morning had gone hit a breaking point and he couldn't help but lash out at the machine. A spike of magic speared it straight through the card-reader.
The automated voice sounded once more, "Card not auth–" and devolved into a long, shrill buzzing noise. Luckily, the noise only lasted a moment, before the touchscreen dimmed, then brightened, then dimmed again. It flashed the 'blue screen of death' for a split-second, then the entire terminal powered itself down. John lifted a hand to his forehead and rubbed at his temples.
"Is there a problem, sir?" a pimple-faced kid in his early twenties came over.
"That," John nodded to the machine, "just died, I think." He reached over and removed his debit card from the slot. The smell of slightly-charred plastic accompanied it. "And it killed my debit card, too."
This sort of situation was obviously out of the kid's depth, so he said, "Wait here a moment, sir – let me get the manager."
Not even thirty seconds later, a man in a cheap suit and tomato-red tie strolled over, the kid at his heels. "Good morning, sir," he greeted John.
"Not particularly," John argued. "Your machine just fried my debit card."
Half an hour later, John exited the Tesco with his groceries, a Tesco gift card containing a hundred quid, and was feeling slightly better about life in general, though he was still angry about having to replace his bank card. On returning to 221B, he clomped up the stairs. Sherlock was still sitting in his chair, reading. "You took your time," he said, not bothering to look up from his book.
"Yeah, well, it's just been that kind of morning."
"How so?"
John deposited the bags of groceries in the sink – the only place along the kitchen counters they'd fit. "Broke a shoelace, had a cold shower because someone used all the hot water, and nearly broke my nose because the bloody doors at Tesco didn't open for me. Then I nearly didn't get the shopping because the spee bachee chip-and-PIN machine hates me." (1)
"How can a machine hate anybody? It's a machine."
John paused in putting the milk in the fridge. He turned to face Sherlock. "Everything mankind makes has a bit of a personality, Sherlock. Surely, you've noticed. Maybe a bit of lab equipment that only ever seemed to work properly for you, or a camp cot or folding chair that liked to bite people?"
Sherlock shook his head. "Can't say that I have."
John sighed and went back to putting the shopping away. "What happened with that case you were offered? The Jaria Diamond?"
"Not interested." Sherlock snapped his book closed. "I sent them a message."
"Not interested in a missing diamond? For the amount of money they're offering?"
"No amount of money is interesting, John. It's the puzzle that I'm interested in, and theirs wasn't a puzzle. It's obviously an insurance scam they wish to lend verisimilitude by hiring me and thus is not my area."
Finished with putting things away, John bundled up the plastic sacks and tossed them in the rubbish bin under the sink. He'd just reached over to grab the kettle when Mrs. Hudson's voice echoed up from the hallway outside her flat. "John? You home?"
John poked his head out the kitchen door. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson. You need something?"
"I've dropped an oven mitt behind the stove, could you help me fetch it out?"
Tea. All I really want right now is a cuppa. Maybe a biscuit. John was about to decline when the selfish little voice at the back of his head spoke up. Mrs. Hudson made chocolate biscuits yesterday – you know because the whole building smelled delicious for hours. Surely she'll give you one if you help her. Besides, when have you ever visited with her and not wound up with tea? Tea you didn't have to make yourself. "Be right down!" he called out. He glanced over at Sherlock, who was staring at the sofa with a self-satisfied little smirk.
John just shook his head and headed down to Mrs. Hudson and her chocolate biscuits.
Two hours and four chocolate-chip-laden biscuits later, John returned to his own living room. Sherlock had finally moved from his chair to the desk. John was half-tempted to congratulate the man on actually getting off his rear end when he spotted the laptop open in front of his flatmate. He frowned. "Is that my computer?"
Sherlock didn't look up from the screen. "Of course," he said, beginning to type.
"What?" Sometimes, John really wanted to strangle his flatmate.
"Mine was in my room," Sherlock explained.
"And you couldn't be bothered to get up?" John made a mental note to set a notice-me-not on his computer in the future. "It's password-protected!"
"In a manner of speaking. Took me less than a minute to guess yours," he said, still typing. Even as frustrating as Sherlock was being, John still had to admire the talent it took to say one thing while, presumably, typing something else. "Not exactly Fort Knox," Sherlock droned on.
"Right," John stated, fed-up. "Thank you," he strode over and snatched his computer away from Sherlock, barely missing slamming the detective's fingers between the screen and keyboard. Setting the computer next to his armchair, he flopped down, entirely too weary with the day. And it's not even noon yet. The pile of mail resting on the end table next to his chair drew his attention. I need to thank Mrs. Hudson for bringing it up… again. He flipped through them, noticing more than one bill marked 'past due'. He sighed. "Need to get a job."
Sherlock replied, "Oh, dull."
"Dull or not, bills don't just pay themselves." John returned the stack to the end table and realized he was beginning to get a headache. The thought triggered the return of his pet leyline. It curled up around him and sent a vibrating hum through him, easing tense muscles and draining away his irritation. This really isn't fair, you know, he thought at the 'line. I had a perfectly good mad going. It just 'purred' a little harder.
"I need to go to the bank," Sherlock announced, springing to his feet.
John poked the leyline into releasing him. "What? Why?"
"Might be nothing. Probably is nothing," Sherlock said, slipping into his coat. "But then again… He wouldn't have emailed if it were nothing," this bit was said in an undertone. John wasn't altogether certain Sherlock was aware he'd said it.
Intrigued, John stood and followed Sherlock downstairs and into a taxi.
An hour later, and John was once more irritated to the point of wanting to hit someone – only this time, it wasn't his flatmate, but a self-important smug git of a banker. Luckily, he didn't have to suffer the man's presence for too awfully long. Another hour later, and John was back to wanting to strangle Sherlock.
He pressed the doorbell outside Van Coon's flat once more. "Sherlock! Let me in."
Silence. Sighing, John glanced around and didn't see any people. He spotted the security camera in an upper corner over by the lifts, and hoped he was far enough away that what he was about to do wouldn't be clearly seen by it. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a recent addition to his charm collection; a braided stick, roughly one centimeter wide and six inches long, made from dried chicory roots, leaves, and stems. He held it against the lock of Van Coon's door and whispered, "I command you to unlock; remove this obstacle from my path."
The lock clicked and John opened the door. The flat was very obviously the home of a rich man; the furniture alone had likely cost more money than John had ever seen in his life. Well, unless I don't count the advance check that Wilkes just handed over, of course. "Sherlock? You okay?" he called out, looking around.
"Back here!" Sherlock replied, his voice emerging from a short hallway that connected the living areas with the bath and bedroom. John hurried over and stopped short at seeing his flatmate standing over an obviously dead man, sprawled atop the bed. "I believe it's safe to assume the graffiti at the bank was, indeed, a warning."
John walked over to the bed and spotted the small-caliber bullet hole in the man's temple. "Think you might be right about that," he said, frowning at the man.
"I'm going to call Lestrade. Back in a moment," Sherlock exited the room, pulling his mobile from his pocket as he did so.
John took a closer look at the dead man. A .22, he thought, mentally comparing the hole in the man's temple with the innumerable bullet holes he'd patched up in Afghanistan. His eyes took in the man's lack of color and drifted down to the gun in his hand. Mental note, Watson – start keeping some latex gloves in your jacket. The gun wouldn't let his eyes move. Sig Sauer P226, .40-caliber. His thoughts ground to a screeching halt. Wait. If his gun's a .40-cal, then there's no way this is what it looks like. He turned around and headed out to the living room. Sherlock was still talking into his phone, relaying the address. He disconnected before John could tell him what he'd found. "The police will be here in a few minutes," he said, then started examining the contents of the flat. John opened his mouth to tell Sherlock what he'd found, but Sherlock interrupted before he could actually say anything, "Quiet, please – I need to think."
John just left him to it, heading back to the body. Okay, so I know he didn't kill himself, not with the gun he's got. Aside from it being the wrong caliber, had he used the Sig, there would have been a massive exit-wound. No exit-wound, small entrance wound, hence not the .40-caliber. Besides, he's got the gun in his left hand and the wound's in his right temple. Not impossible, but had it been suicide, he wouldn't have wound up sprawled on his back like that. So – definitely not suicide. So… Who killed him? Since the door was locked when we got here, he could have known whoever it was. Let them in. But that doesn't make sense, either – not if Sherlock's right and the graffiti at the bank was some sort of warning. Unless it was a case of not knowing who was doing the threatening to begin with. But that doesn't track, either – if he didn't know, then why the gun? And who'd let someone they didn't know into their flat? Just precisely how Sherlock had managed to get in flashed through his memory. Okay, so the Wintle woman in the flat above needs a stern lecture on trusting complete strangers. John walked over to the wall of glass that overlooked London and opened onto Van Coon's balcony. The door was unlocked. Definitely needs that lecture. He idly wished the building was older, then he could ask it to show him what had happened. Unfortunately, you can't communicate with a building spirit that's newer than about five years or so. This place is only two or three years old at the most.
He walked over to the bedroom door. Yeah – this one was locked, too. He sighed and straightened from his quick examination of the now-broken latch and leaned against the wall. Who would want to kill you? Why? Did you lose a bunch of money? Sleep with the wrong woman? He continued musing on possible motives until the police arrived. Forensic technicians began to swarm the flat, and a coroner began taking pictures of Van Coon's body.
Not long after, Sherlock strode into the room, pulling on a pair of gloves. "D'you think he'd lost a lot of money? Is that why he was killed?" John asked, watching Sherlock kneel next to a suitcase on the floor.
"Been away…" he rifled through the dead man's suitcase, "three days, judging by the laundry." He stood. "Look at the case; there was something tightly packed inside it."
"Thanks, but I'll take your word for it," John snarked, rapidly losing what little patience he'd managed to keep during the course of his day.
"Problem?" Sherlock asked, leveling his narrowed gaze at John.
"Yeah, I'm not desperate to root around some bloke's dirty underwear."
Sherlock turned and faced the body, peering at it with his singular level of intense concentration. "Those symbols at the bank," he said, walking to the foot of the bed.
"You said it was likely a warning," John said.
His flatmate nodded, looked at Van Coon's shoes, and began carefully rifling through the dead man's pockets. "Why were they painted? If you want to communicate, why not use email?"
"Email's a cinch to track these days," or at least, that's what a million different procedurals on the telly claimed.
"Precisely," Sherlock agreed, bending over to examine the body's hands. "But who would send a threat in such a manner?"
John shook his head. He'd not come up with a possibility to that particular question yet himself. "Don't know. Any ideas?"
"Six," Sherlock said, then moved up the body and gently pried the man's mouth open. He reached in and withdrew a piece of crumpled black paper. "Well," he examined the scrap of paper. "Make that three." He slid the paper into an evidence bag.
Before John could ask for more information, a plainclothes policeman strode into the room. Sherlock looked up and said, "Ah, Sergeant. We haven't met." He offered the newcomer his hand, but the man ignored it.
"Yeah, I know who you are, and I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence."
Sherlock handed the man the evidence bag containing the crumpled paper. "I've phoned Lestrade. Is he on his way?" Sherlock's voice carried more than just a hint of scorn, coupled with an undertone that seemed to say 'just who do you think you're dealing with, you gnat-brained baboon?'.
"He's busy," the man replied. "I'm in charge. And it's not 'Sergeant', it's Detective Inspector," he paused, "Dimmock."
John shared Sherlock's expression of surprise. This kid doesn't look old enough to shave. How on Earth did he manage Detective Inspector? John managed to close his mouth before the man's eyes landed on him, though it was a near thing.
Dimmock turned and strode out to the living room, Sherlock close on his heels. John hurried to catch up. "We're obviously looking at a suicide," Dimmock said to one of the forensics techs.
"Wrong!" Sherlock said, pulling the DI's attention back to him.
Dimmock glared at Sherlock. "It's the only explanation that fits the facts!"
"It's one possible explanation of some of the facts," Sherlock argued. "You've got a solution you like, but you're ignoring anything you see that doesn't comply with it."
"Sherlock!" John interrupted, not wanting to completely alienate the kid.
The consulting detective looked over. "What, John?"
John made a small gesture that he hoped Sherlock would understand meant 'tone it down'. "Far be it for me to disagree with a Detective Inspector," he spoke to Dimmock, "but Sherlock's right – this wasn't a suicide."
"And just who might you be?" the kid sneered at him.
John used just enough Captain Watson to make the kid actually listen to what he had to say. "Dr. John Watson, late of the RAMC. The bullet hole in Van Coon's temple is from a .22 – god knows, I saw enough of those in Afghanistan to be able to tell the difference. The gun he's got is a Sig Sauer P226, .40-caliber. Had he used the Sig, which he couldn't possibly have done, it would have punched straight through his skull, leaving a bloody great mess behind." John straightened a little on seeing Sherlock's quickly-buried impressed look. "Even ignoring the fact that a .40-caliber bullet would have gone straight through, he's got the gun in his left hand and the wound's in his right temple. Granted, it's not impossible for someone to suicide that way, but had he done so, he wouldn't be sprawled out across the bed on his back – he would have been found in a crumpled ball-like position on the floor."
Sherlock nodded in agreement and picked up where John left off. "Conclusion: Someone broke in here and murdered him. Only explanation of all of the facts."
Dimmock appeared to be having a little bit of difficulty processing all the new information. "But the gun… Why–"
Sherlock answered before he could finish the question. "He was waiting for the killer. He'd been threatened." He then walked away, sliding back into his coat.
Dimmock blinked. "What?"
"Today, at the bank where he works," John supplied the information. "Sort of a warning."
"But the GSR test came back positive!" Dimmock protested.
"He fired a shot when his attacker came in," Sherlock explained, tying his scarf around his neck.
"And the bullet?"
"Went through the open window."
Dimmock let out an annoyed huff of air. "Oh, come on! What are the chances of that?"
"Wait until you get the ballistics report," Sherlock said, pulling his gloves on. "The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun. I guarantee it." John nodded his agreement.
"But if his door was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in?" Dimmock asked.
Sherlock let a sarcastic little smile surface on his face. "Good," he said, condescendingly. "You're finally asking the right questions." Without waiting for a reply, he headed for the door that would take him to the lifts and back to street-level.
John lingered long enough to smile apologetically at the newly-minted DI. "Sorry about that. He takes a little getting used to, but he's normally right about these things," he also didn't wait for Dimmock to reply before hurrying after Sherlock.
Later, after a phone call with Wilkes' secretary to determine the man's whereabouts, and a caustically-delivered chiding, John, Sherlock, and Wilkes were in the men's loo of a restaurant John figured he'd need a major bank loan in order to afford so much as an appetizer. Wilkes was going on about Van Coon. "Harrow, Oxford. Very bright guy. Worked in Asia for a while so…"
"You gave him the Hong Kong accounts," John finished the sentence, hoping that they could finish up quickly. Maybe grab some lunch ourselves. My stomach's beginning to think my throat's been cut.
Wilkes didn't appear to have noticed John's comment. "Lost five mil in a single morning – made it all back a week later. Nerves of steel, Eddie had."
"Who'd wanna kill him?" John asked.
"We all make enemies."
Yeah, I'm beginning to see why, you unmitigated prick. The least you could do is actually seem like you're going to miss the guy. Even if it's just that you'll miss the money he could have made for you. Something that doesn't manage to put me in mind of that blasted chip-and-PIN machine from this morning! "You don't all end up with a bullet through your temple," he said, and didn't bother trying to keep his sarcasm in check.
Unfortunately, it seemed to fly right over Wilkes' head. "Not usually," he agreed. His phone began to ring. He removed it from his pocket and checked the screen. "It's my chairman. Excuse me for a moment." He answered the call. "Sebastian Wilkes… Yes, Mr. Onogaisho… No, sir, not as yet… I understand, sir… Yes, sir… Thank you, sir." He ended the call and returned his phone to his pocket. "The police have been in touch with my boss. They're unwilling to state a cause of death at this point, but want to speak with me 'at my earliest convenience'." He let out a long breath. "Still, it won't do any harm to conclude my meeting first," it had the tone of a thought carried unwittingly into the physical world. Wilkes looked hard at Sherlock. "I hired you to do a job, Sherlock. Don't get side-tracked." He walked away before Sherlock could reply.
Once Wilkes was gone, John sighed. "It is wrong of me not to like that smarmy git?"
A small smile tugged at the corners of Sherlock's mouth. "No, John, it's not wrong – I never liked him much myself."
Surprised, John had to ask, "Then why are we working for him?"
"'Bills don't pay themselves,'" he quoted John's own words from earlier. "And it's either work for Sebastian or ask my brother for money. Of the two, I'd rather deal with Seb."
John simply couldn't argue with that.
Later that evening, as the pair sat down to dinner, Sherlock looked over at John. John could practically feel the gears spinning in his flatmate's head. "What?" he asked.
"Tell me what you think of the case," Sherlock said, ignoring the sandwich on his plate and downing a gulp of coffee. "What do you know so far?"
"Um… Sure," John contemplated a potato crisp for a moment. "Let's see… Van Coon worked at Shad Sanderson, late nights, trading with Hong Kong. Last night, someone broke in and left a threatening message in the form of some spray-painted squiggles, the exact meaning of which we still don't know."
"Ignore what you don't know for now. Stick to what you do."
"Okay," John blinked at Sherlock, then popped the crisp in his mouth. After washing it down with a drink of water, he reordered his thoughts. "Okay, so someone left a threatening pair of squiggles. At some point, Van Coon headed home, where he got out his Sig Sauer P226 and waited. Also at some point, Van Coon fired his weapon – the gun shot residue test the forensics techs performed said as much. Again, also at some point, Van Coon was killed by a .22-caliber shot to his right temple. Death would have been nearly instantaneous." He paused to take a bite of his sandwich.
"Is that all?" Sherlock sounded disappointed.
John shook his head and chewed rapidly. After swallowing, he sipped his glass of water. "That's everything that can be proven. There are a few things I've got ideas on, and a couple of other odds'n'ends that aren't particularly relevant – not to mention a whole host of questions we don't have the answers to just yet."
"What are some of your ideas?"
"Well, firstly, I don't agree with your theory that the bullet Van Coon fired went out the open window."
"Why not?" Sherlock asked, taking another drink of his coffee. "It would explain why there are no bullet-holes in the room itself."
John countered, "Could also be that the murderer was wearing body-armor. It'd hurt – like getting kicked by a horse," he absently rubbed his sternum, recalling precisely how much it hurt to get shot, even wearing armor, "but the bullet itself would get caught by the armor."
"A valid point," Sherlock said. "And one I'd not thought of, but which has little bearing on the case as a whole." He glanced at the contents of his mug and got up to refill it. "Go on. What else were you thinking?"
"You said he'd been away three days. That's something that'd need checked out." John ate another crisp. Sherlock leveled a look at John. "What?" the doctor asked.
"Do you doubt my deduction?"
John shook his head. "No, just curious as to when he'd been gone, when he got back, where he went. You never mentioned any of that. Could have something to do with why he was killed. And speaking of that – why was Van Coon killed?"
"Immaterial," Sherlock waved away the question. "We find who killed him and the why is usually self-explanatory."
"But wouldn't knowing the why of it make it easier to find the who?"
"Where we find one, we'll have the answer to both, but since we have neither motive nor murderer right now, this branch of the conversation serves no purpose. So – back to what we do know. What else have you come up with?" He added a pair of sugar cubes to his coffee and returned to the table.
John took another moment, both to eat a couple of bites of his supper and to consider everything they'd learned so far. Swallowing, he said, "There'd need to be someone at the bank who knows what's going on."
"How did you come to that conclusion?"
"Well," he took a drink of water and swished it around his mouth a moment. "Firstly, there's the security footage. Someone would have had to either turn off the camera while the graffiti artist painted his message or they'd had to have gone back after the fact and deleted that minute of recording. Secondly, you said it when we were leaving the bank – there's only one place where the squiggles could be seen. Only someone familiar with the bank's layout would know where to place the paint in order for Van Coon to have seen it. Since only one minute was missing from the CCTV, it couldn't have been that the 'artist' took the time to figure it out."
"It could also be that someone hacked into the feed and manipulated it externally," Sherlock countered.
John frowned. "It's a bank, though – aren't they supposed to have pretty decent anti-hacking software?"
"Computer hacking isn't my specialty, but even I could get into Shad Sanderson's security feed. Wouldn't take more than an hour."
"I'll take your word for it." John finished off his sandwich. "Still begs the question of how the painter got into the bank to begin with."
"Same way he got into Van Coon's flat," Sherlock replied. "Through the window."
"You do realize, don't you, that that answer is the one Wilkes hired you for in the first place?"
Sherlock just shrugged. "And I'll tell him, but not until the rest of this delightful little puzzle has been worked out."
I really should have been expecting that answer. "Why not tell him now?"
"Because we might need to revisit that office. It is doubtful, yes, but I do like to keep my options open."
The next day started off much better than the previous one had. John actually had a hot shower, there was plenty of tea, and he didn't break any shoelaces. After breakfast, while Sherlock was busy staring at printouts of the photos he'd taken of the graffiti at the bank, John shrugged into his jacket. "I've got an errand to run," he said. "Anything you need while I'm out?"
Sherlock didn't reply, so John took that to mean 'no'. Despite the lack of cash he had on him, and his rather charred bank card, John paused on stepping onto the pavement and let out a happy little sigh of content. I wouldn't've taken a cab today anyway. It was one of the rarest things in his experience: A brightly sunny, unseasonably warm and pleasant early spring day. Whistling somewhat tunelessly to himself, he set off at a brisk walk, heading for his bank to replace the now-dead debit card in his wallet.
The weather seemed to have infected everyone he came across, as smiles were the main expression on passersby. Even the bank staff were pleasant and helpful without crossing the line into 'I'm just doing my job because it's a paycheck'.
Three hours after leaving, John returned to 221B with his wallet sporting a newly-printed debit card. He slid out of his jacket and deposited it on his armchair. "I said, 'could you pass me a pen'," Sherlock stated, not looking away from the photos he'd printed earlier.
John looked over to see that he'd taped the pictures to the mirror above the fireplace. "What?" he asked. "When?"
"About an hour ago," Sherlock replied, still staring at the photos.
John sighed a little and tossed Sherlock a pen. "Didn't notice I'd gone out then," he said, walking over to the photos. "Find anything new?"
Sherlock made a vague gesture to the laptop open on the desk behind him. "Have a look," he said, clicking the pen and focusing his attention on a notebook.
John stepped around his flatmate, grabbed his laptop off the desk, and carried over to the sofa. Flopping onto the couch, the first thing he did was access the computer's security features and changed his password from JHW021972 to his military ID number. Once that was taken care of, he then paged to the open web browser and read the article Sherlock had located.
Ghostly killer leaves a mystery for police
An intruder who can walk through walls murdered a man in his London apartment last night. Brian Lukis, 41, a freelance journalist from Earl's Court was found shot in his fourth floor flat but all of his doors and windows were locked and there were no apparent signs of a break in. A police spokesman said they are still uncertain how the assailant broke in…
"This sounds awfully familiar, Sherlock," John said, closing his laptop and setting it on the coffee table.
"It does at that, doesn't it?" Sherlock smiled, the expression both one of pleasure at the puzzle and slightly grim. "Shall we see if DI Dimmock is willing to actually listen now?"
"That's not entirely fair," John said, putting his jacket back on. "He listened yesterday."
"Correction – he listened to you yesterday."
Following Sherlock back down the stairs to the street, John said, "Do I detect a note of jealousy there?"
Sherlock scoffed. "Hardly," he scoffed, then hailed a taxi. Ten minutes later, Sherlock turned to face John and said, "Okay, fine. Why did Dimmock pay attention to what you were saying?"
John smiled. Glad to see I was right. "It's one of those uses that I don't consider a spell, per se. I can thread magic through my voice. Came in handy in a war zone, both in shouting orders and warnings and in getting the boys I patched up to follow doctor's orders." Seemingly satisfied, Sherlock went back to staring out the taxi's windows.
Three hours later, after a trip to Lukis' flat and a stop by the West Kensington Library, John and Sherlock returned to Baker Street. Pictures of the spray-painted squiggles they found at the library were printed and added to the growing collage on the mirror. "So, the killer goes to the bank, leaves a threatening cipher for Van Coon. Van Coon panics, returns to his apartment, locks himself in. Hours later, he dies."
John picked up the thread and spoke, nodding, "Then the killer finds Lukis at the library, writes the cipher on the shelf where he knows it'll be seen. Lukis finds it, goes home –"
"Late that night, he dies, too," Sherlock concluded the story.
"Why these two men, though?" John asked.
"Only the cipher can tell us," Sherlock said, running a finger over the squiggles in the newest photos.
"What are you thinking?"
"If this," he tapped the photo, "is, as we are assuming, a code of some sort, then there must be other examples of it out there. We need only to find them."
"Easier done than said," John replied.
"Don't you have that idiom backwards?"
John shook his head. "Not this time, no. Sympathetic magic – traces the connections of things. I get enough practice at it that it's become second-nature."
"Practice?"
John gave him a rueful little smile. "You'd be shocked at how often I misplace my keys."
With a twitch of his eyebrows – John knew, just knew Sherlock was laughing at him in his head – Sherlock looked back at the photos of the squiggles of yellow paint. "What do you need?"
"Depends on what line of commonality you want me to look for," John replied.
"More symbols such as these," he tapped the photo once more.
"Okay, then I'll be right back." John darted up to his room, grabbed a broken compass out of his desk drawer, then dashed back to the living room. "Give me one of the photos, preferably one that shows both symbols."
Sherlock handed him the one from the library. "Anything else?"
John shook his head and lit the photo on fire with his blue plastic lighter. "Fire sprite, fire sprite, burning brightly in the night, as you glow, consume and feed, kindly please don't hurt me," he murmured, watching the flame creep across the photo. As it crept closer to his fingers, he felt the currents of air rushing around it, but no heat. He let out a teeny breath of relief. With a wisp of white smoke, the flame reached the end of the paper and died. Crumpling the ash in his hand, he dusted it on the outer surface of his battered compass. "Show me the way to that which I've seen," he commanded, then opened the case. The needle inside pointed directly to the collage of photos on the wall. John paced across the room twice to make sure it was working properly, then handed the compass to Sherlock. "Okay, it's all set."
"It's not of much use if it simply keeps pointing to the photos we already have," Sherlock commented.
"To dismiss the nearest link, all you need do is say 'seen and acknowledged'. The needle will then aim for the next-nearest link." As he said the words, Sherlock watched as the compass needle swung around and aimed at a point off to his left.
"How long will this last?"
"Long as you need it or until I dispel it."
Sherlock smiled, then handed the compass back to John. "Best get going, then. I'm going to go talk to Van Coon's PA, then see if Dimmock will let me take a look through Lukis' things, see if the man had a diary or something else that would tell us his movements."
Is it wrong of me to find this fun? John pondered the thought while following the compass-needle across London. The first place it tried to lead him was straight back to the library. A quick 'seen and acknowledged' reset the needle. The next location was a bit of a mess, layers upon layers of spray-paint coated every surface available; he earned several odd looks from the juvenile delinquents loitering in the area. John ignored the kids and found some of the same yellow paint from the bank and the library. Though whatever message it was intended to convey had been partially painted over, John still photographed it, then used his penknife to chip a flake of the paint away. Never hurts to be prepared. It looks like they – whoever's behind this – uses the same paint for everything.
After leaving behind the skateboarders and BMX-riders, the compass directed John towards a nearby set of train tracks. John wound up having to scale a chain-link fence, but not ten minutes later, he found a brick dividing wall covered top-to-bottom with more indecipherable squiggles. I think this is what Sherlock sent me after, John thought, taking a couple of photos in the late afternoon sunlight. He reset the compass and continued on his strange little scavenger-hunt.
The next place the compass tried to lead him to was the bank. John dismissed it as quickly as he could. From there, the compass directed him to the National Antiquities Museum. Unfortunately, the building had closed not five minutes before John got there. Sighing, John tucked the compass into his jacket pocket. The sun had just finished setting and it was rapidly getting chilly. He pulled out his phone and called Sherlock. When the automated voicemail kicked in, John disconnected, then sent a text.
Found some interesting things. How about you?
Two minutes later, his phone beeped.
I know what the symbols are. Meet you back at the flat. SH
Idly wondering why Sherlock felt the need to sign his texts – Hasn't he noticed that most mobiles will tell you who sent a text? – John flagged down a taxi. "221B Baker Street," he told the cabbie.
Once back at the flat, John wasted no time in sprinting up the stairs. He stopped dead on opening the door, though – the thickly sweet scent of fried rice and lo-mein and potstickers pervaded the air. "Thought you didn't eat on cases?" John asked, taking off his jacket. There was a take-away bag from one of the best restaurants in Chinatown sitting on the kitchen table.
"I don't," Sherlock replied. "I was in Chinatown anyway, though."
"Thank you," John said, sincerely, while reaching for the take-away. "What all did you find out?"
"The symbols are Hangzhou – Chinese numbers, in other words. Mostly, only street-traders use them, it's a bit of an obscure and ancient dialect otherwise."
John stripped the paper off a pair of disposable chopsticks, then opened the carton of lo-mein and breathed in the steam. "What else did you find?" he asked, digging into the noodles and flopping into his armchair.
"Both Lukis and Van Coon were in Chinatown the day they died. Recall me mentioning something was packed in Van Coon's suitcase?" John nodded, his mouth too full to answer verbally. "I'm fairly certain they were smuggling something back from Hong Kong."
Swallowing hastily, John asked, "If they both met up with whoever was running the smuggling at this end, then why were they killed? It doesn't make any sense, not if they finished already."
"Unless one of them stole something," Sherlock countered.
John slowly nodded, "Yeah, I suppose I can see that – something goes missing on the Hong Kong side, but since both Lukis and Van Coon were there at about the same time, they don't know which stole whatever it was." John inhaled another large bite of his dinner.
"What of you?" Sherlock asked. "Did you find anything of note?"
John nodded, chewing madly, and fumbled in his jeans pocket for his phone. He swallowed enough to say, "Yeah. Took photos. The last couple I think are the most promising. Gonna need to go back out tomorrow, though – the compass indicated there was some sort of similar message at the National Antiquities Museum, but they'd closed by the time I got there." John tossed his phone to Sherlock.
Catching it, Sherlock shook his head. "I already know what we'll find there – another set like is at the bank and library, only sprayed across a statue."
"Who was the warning for?" John asked, not too sure he really wanted to hear about another body, not while he was trying to enjoy the best example of his all-time-favorite Chinese food dish he'd ever tasted.
"Soo Lin Yao," Sherlock replied, hooking John's phone to the printer. "She lives, or lived, above the front for the smuggling operation and works at the museum. My guess is they used her experience with antiquities to appraise the smuggled goods prior to sale." The printer began spewing out hardcopy of the photos John took. "It seems she's somewhat more able than either Lukis or Van Coon – she's disappeared. I contacted Molly and she's confirmed that there haven't been any unidentified bodies in London that match Yao's description, either."
His appetite surged back, and John took another bite. After swallowing it, he asked, "Why would they go after her, though? If she's their appraiser, I mean, wouldn't she be needed?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Perhaps she wanted out. Perhaps she has whatever it is that was stolen. Perhaps she committed some unpardonable sin against the people behind this and her being a target is a simple matter of expediency. We won't know unless she turns up." He plucked the new photographs off of the printer and handed John his phone, then taped the printouts up with the rest of his collage. There was barely any scrap of mirror to be seen through the pictures and notes.
While Sherlock mused on the possible meanings for the numbers, John finished off the lo-mein and half the potstickers. The rice and remaining potstickers he tucked into a safe corner of the fridge to have for lunch tomorrow. "Getting anywhere?" he asked, returning to the living room.
Sherlock ignored him.
Or he just didn't hear me. He tends to block out the rest of the world when he focuses like that, doesn't he? John left him to it and turned his own attention to more mundane tasks, such as cleaning up the collection of half-empty tea and coffee mugs spread around, and taking out the garbage. When three hours had passed with Sherlock having moved only enough to be breathing, John stretched out on the sofa and immersed himself in a medical journal. He was asleep even before he finished reading the first page.
"We're not going to be able to crack this without Soo Lin Yao," Sherlock's voice yanked John out of his slumber. He glanced at his watch. It was half-past eleven at night. He'd been sleeping for a little over two hours.
"Pardon?" John yawned.
"The numbers are in pairs, John," Sherlock said, pulling on his coat. "Always in pairs."
John stood, stretched, then grabbed his own coat and followed Sherlock outside. During the taxi ride to the museum, Sherlock actually called someone on his phone, rather than send a text. "Andy Galbraith? Yes, this is Sherlock Holmes. Could you meet me at the museum? Oh, good – you're still there. I'll be there in half an hour."
Forty minutes later, following a mildly confusing conversation with a lovestruck history geek, Sherlock located Soo Lin Yao. John lingered behind long enough to convince the boy to go home; he wound up needing to use his Captain Watson voice to do so. Once finished with Andy, John rushed to catch up to Sherlock. He found him in the museum's restoration room, already talking to Soo Lin – who was far younger and much prettier than John had expected.
"You saw the cipher," she was saying as John entered the room and joined them at the table. "Then you know he is coming for me."
"You've been clever to avoid him so far," Sherlock replied.
"I had to finish," Soo Lin looked at the teapot on the table, her eyes sad, "to finish this work. It's only a matter of time." She looked up at John, then at Sherlock. "I know he will find me."
"Who is he?" Sherlock asked. "Have you met him before?"
Soo Lin nodded. "When I was a girl, living back in China. I recognize his signature."
"The cipher," Sherlock said.
"Only he would do this – Zhi Zhu," she said the name like a curse, then shifted on her stool, bringing her right foot up to her knee. She then took off her shoe and revealed a tattoo on her heel. "You know this mark?" she directed her question to Sherlock.
Sherlock replied, "It is the mark of a tong."
"Every foot soldier bears the mark. Everyone who hauls for them," she said, putting her shoe back on.
John blinked at her. "'Hauls'?" Soo Lin just looked at him. "You mean you were a smuggler?" He couldn't quite wrap his mind around it – that this pretty girl had done anything illegal, let alone smuggling.
"I was fifteen," Soo Lin explained. "My parents were dead. I had no livelihood, no way of surviving day to day… Except to work for the bosses."
"Who are they?" Sherlock asked.
"They are called the Black Lotus. By the time I was sixteen, I was taking thousands of pounds' worth of drugs across the border into Hong Kong. But I managed to leave that life behind me. I came to England." She smiled, though the expression still seemed sad to John's eyes. "They gave me a job here. Everything was good – a new life."
"Then he came looking for you," Sherlock said.
"Yes," Soo Lin agreed. "I had hoped after five years maybe they would have forgotten me, but they never really let you leave. A small community like ours – they are never very far away." Silent tears started coursing down her face. She wiped at her cheek. "He came to my flat," she said. "He asked me to help him to track down something that was stolen."
"And you've no idea what it was?" John asked.
She shook her head. "I refused to help."
"Good for you," John said, leaning across the table. Soo Lin looked up at him, confused. "It would have been easy for you to say you'd help, if only to avoid all this." John laid a comforting hand on hers.
"Easier than you know," Soo Lin replied. "Zhi Zhu is my brother." She paused for a moment, almost as though to allow the men time to digest this fragment of information. "Two orphans. We had no choice. We could work for the Black Lotus, or starve on the streets like beggars. My brother has become their puppet, in the power of the one they call Shan, the Black Lotus general. I turned my brother away. He said I had betrayed him. Next day I came to work and the cipher was waiting."
Sherlock reached into his coat pocket and pulled out one of the photos John had taken, but before he could ask, John shook his head at him. "Now's really not the time, Sherlock," he muttered. Louder, and to Soo Lin, he said, "Come with us."
"Why?" she asked.
"Because it's better than waiting to be killed," John replied. "Maybe we can stop that from happening."
Soo Lin turned her hand over and clasped his wrist. "Do you really think so?" she asked.
John nodded firmly. "I know so."
As Soo Lin slid off her stool, all the lights simultaneously went out. "He's here. Zhi Zhu. He has found me!" There was no mistaking the terror in her voice.
The flutter of Sherlock's coat in the faint light coming through the windows caught John's attention, and he snapped his left hand out, snagging its hem. "Let's not go haring off after mad assassins in the middle of a museum filled with priceless artifacts, shall we?" John whispered urgently.
Irate at being thwarted, Sherlock spun around. "Then what do you plan to do to catch him?" he hissed.
John let go of Soo Lin's hand and dipped into his jacket pocket. He held up a stick of chalk. "Let's get her out of here, first – then we can worry about it." Or better yet, let the police handle it. It's their job, after all. "Come on," he ordered, not letting go of Sherlock's coat, and strode over to a wooden panel in the wall. Ignoring Soo Lin's confused look, he quickly drew the outline of a door. He held his hand over the keyhole and whispered, "Aut viam inveniam aut faciam." As soon as the door manifested, he yanked it open, pushed Sherlock through, then Soo Lin, and then jumped through himself.
He landed in a tangle of limbs on the landing outside his bedroom at 221B. After sorting themselves out, Soo Lin took a look around. "Where…?"
"You're in our flat," John replied, offering her his hand.
She accepted his help in climbing to her feet. "Moshu shi," she breathed in wonder.
"Huh?"
"She just called you a magician, John," Sherlock absently translated, brushing imaginary dust off his coat.
"Accurate, I suppose," John allowed. "Come, let's go downstairs. No sense in lingering in the hallway."
Still somewhat dazed, Soo Lin followed John and Sherlock into their living room. She muttered something in Mandarin. John paused in taking off his jacket. "Pardon?"
Sherlock hung his Belstaff on the hook on the back of the door. "She just said, 'I should have known better than to disbelieve Grandmother's stories'." He added his scarf to the hook.
John blinked, then finished removing his jacket. "What do you mean by that?" he asked Soo Lin.
She fell onto the end of the sofa. "When I was very young, Grandmother used to tell stories about moshu shi. About the magics they used. I always thought they were fairytales."
John smiled at her. "Well, to be fair, most of them actually are just stories." He tossed the jacket on his chair and sat next to her on the sofa. "Just so you know, just in case anyone asks…" he said, somewhat awkwardly, then trailed off, not too certain how to conclude what he wanted to ask.
Soo Lin proved to be as smart as she was pretty, though, and nodded. "We took a taxi from the museum. Who would believe anything else?"
"I hate to interrupt this rather touching moment," Sherlock sounded more impatient than apologetic. "But we do need your help, Miss Yao."
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Of course," she said. "Anything."
Sherlock handed her the photo John had taken of the spray-painted numbers. "Can you decode this?" he asked.
Soo Lin nodded. "These are numbers," she said, pointing to the squiggles of bright yellow paint.
"Yes, Hangzhou, we know," Sherlock interrupted. "What we don't know is what the numbers mean."
"It's based upon a book," Soo Lin replied.
"Ah! Page number, then word number, right?"
She nodded. "Yes."
"Which book?" Sherlock pressed.
"The London A to Z," Soo Lin replied.
Sherlock frowned. "Damn it!"
Soo Lin looked to John in confusion. John smiled a little. "One of the few books Sherlock doesn't own a copy of. No matter," he said. "I've got one in my room." He dashed up the stairs, grabbed the book off his desk, then hurried back to Soo Lin and Sherlock.
It took about two minutes to translate the squiggles. When finished, the message read: Nine mil for jade pin dragon den black tramway.
On reading the message, Sherlock's face broke into a pleased smile and he collapsed into his armchair. "Call DI Dimmock, John – let him know… Well," he gestured vaguely towards Soo Lin, "everything."
Three days later, John met up with Soo Lin at Speedy's. He'd heard through Sherlock that Dimmock managed to track the Black Lotus back to a Chinese circus, and all fourteen individuals arrested – including Liang Yao, also known as Zhi Zhu.
"How are you doing?" he asked Soo Lin after paying for their lunch orders.
"Well," Soo Lin replied. "I wanted to thank you and Mr. Holmes… Where is he?"
"He had some business to deal with at the bank," John replied. "Otherwise I'm sure he'd be here." That was a complete lie, but he didn't see the point in telling such a sweet girl that Sherlock found her 'boring'; Sherlock and John had visited Wilkes the day before, and while Sherlock spoke to Van Coon's PA, John had told Wilkes about the hole in their security system. "And no thanks are necessary. I'm just glad you're alright."
"They are placing me into witness protection until after the trial," Soo Lin volunteered.
"You don't seem pleased."
"It will be hard, I think," Soo Lin said. "Can I ask…?"
"Certainly," John replied. "What do you need?"
"Grandmother used to tell of small trinkets, things overlooked…"
"Charms," John supplied. "And I think I know what you want. I've already thought about it." He rummaged in his pockets for a moment, then pulled up a small piece of jewelry – a turquoise point, wrapped in silver wire, and strung on a piece of black silk cord. He handed it to Soo Lin. "Keep it with you – you don't even have to wear it."
"A protection charm?"
John nodded. "It won't stop everything, but it should keep you off the radar of anyone who wants to cause you harm."
"Thank you."
John shrugged, "Like I said – no thanks are necessary. You just take care of yourself."
Soo Lin stood, pulling the necklace cord over her head. "Don't worry," she said. "I will."
A/N2: Am I the only one wondering just why Sherlock needed a roommate when his freakin' coat cost £1,350 (that's over $2000 in US money) and he wears Dolce&Gabbana? Hmm… Maybe that's the answer – freakin' clotheshorse spends all his cash on his closet…
Anyway, the phrase John uses as his 'password' for his perma-gate (aut viam inveniam aut faciam) is a quote by Hannibal (the man who took elephants over the Alps in a bid to conquer Rome), which translates to 'I'll either find a way or make one'.
As much as I actually liked Sarah (she was one of the redeeming features of this particular episode), I couldn't really work that angle into the AU plotline I'm developing (at least, not yet – she might show up later, though).
And if someone (anyone, really) spends enough time in an area where another language is spoken, that language will eventually be absorbed (I speak from experience). Ergo, since I have this version of John having spent a number of years in Afghanistan, I figured he's at least passably familiar with Pashto. With that in mind, I figured he'd likely cuss in Pashto when particularly upset. Any and all instances of this will be noted with footnotes (though I don't anticipate it becoming common). And, if you know better than I (who had to look things up online, and we all know how unreliable interwebz sources can be), please feel free to correct me.
1.) spee bachee – 'son of a bitching'
Please remember to let me know what y'all think! Thanks in advance.
Until next time folks!