A Silent End To Belgravia
Silent Findings
Sherlock came home, mind still running circles around the enigma that was the camera phone Irene Adler had sent him.
It had been months since finding out she was in fact alive and he still didn't know what to think about it. He knew it was a logical way out of a bad situation. Hardly the first time anyone's faked their death, he thought, remembering the case of Ian Monkford who relocated to Canada.
But this was different somehow.
Another mystery was why he sent that message. Happy New Year. He never replied to her flirtations, finding it better to simply ignore The Woman rather than play along with her. And he certainly never wished Happy New Year to anyone, knowing in fact it probably wouldn't be.
Seeing that he was getting no where in analysing his own actions and decoding his own thoughts, he'd tried to focus on the tangible puzzle of unlocking the camera phone he'd been left.
After x-raying it, he'd found four small additional components wired into the device. He didn't dare to try and get into the mechanics of the phone manually, knowing that to force his way in, he'd most likely burn the entire system as well as any information that was on it.
He'd carried on with his cases as usual but at night, when his flatmates were fast asleep, he'd be awake, playing and composing, always thinking of new ways to unlock the phone. He'd analysed everything he'd seen over and over, drawing new conclusions and deducing new facts from these theories. However nothing jumped out at him, nothing solid enough to give him a definitive answer to his puzzle.
It was driving him up the wall - and he loved it.
Pushing open the door at the top of the stairs however, he paused, bringing in a lung full of air through his nose. Frowning, he followed the recognisable scent into the kitchen where he found an open window. Still following his nose, he found himself going back to the hall and through to his own bedroom.
He turned the corner as he heard the front door open, two sets of foot steps on the stairs - one steady, calculated, the other softer but the weight of the owner's boots still recognisable.
"We have a client." He informed his flatmates.
"What?" John asked, tone light and teasing. "In your bedroom?"
"Here." Rose said, taking the shopping bags off him from their recent trip to Tesco.
John gave her a smile as she went to put the shopping in the kitchen and put the kettle on, the doctor himself going to see what Sherlock was on about. Turning the corner to see what his flatmate was looking at, John came to stand beside him, seeing The Woman asleep in the detective's sheets. "Oh..."
Rose - not being able to resist something unusual - just flicked the kettle on and put the bags down to put away later, wanting to see what the other two were so occupied with. "What client would be in Sherlock's…?" Having followed John, she now saw Irene Adler fast asleep, echoing John's reaction. "Oh…I'll put out another cup then, shall I?"
A few hours later when Irene came into the living room, long wavy hair let down from her previously tight bun, Sherlock's dressing gown tied around her thin waist as they all sat around; Sherlock in the client's chair, John at the table, Rose smoking on the sofa and Irene in Sherlock's usual chair.
"So who's after you?" Sherlock started.
"People who want to kill me." Irene answered, obviously careful with her words.
"And who's that?" John prompted.
Irene looked up. "Killers."
Rose snorted, but John continued trying to get a bit more out of her. "It would help if you were a tiny bit more specific."
Getting no answer from her, Sherlock pushed on. "So you faked your own death in order to get ahead of them?"
"It worked for a while." She shot back.
"But you let John know you're alive." Sherlock replied just as quick. "And therefore me."
"I know you'd keep my secret." She replied, confident in her choice of confidante.
"You couldn't." Sherlock retorted.
John and Rose just looked on, watching the verbal tennis match between the genius and The Woman, wondering what their friend was thinking; Sherlock didn't take any romantic interest in anyone, man or woman, but this seemed to be the closest they'd seen to the possibility.
Irene looked at him. "But you did, didn't you? Where's my camera phone?"
"Not here." John answered when she looked at him. "We're not stupid."
Rose looked at Sherlock, trying to get some form of idea from him. Seeing him shift slightly, barely catching the shift in his icy eyes as he straightened his top. Repressing a sigh, she knew instantly that John was completely wrong.
"Well where is it?" Irene continued, agitated at her lack of phone. "If they've guessed you've got it, they'll be watching you."
"If they've been watching me they'll know that I took a safety deposit box at a bank on the Strand a few months ago." Sherlock assured her, though his assistant knew it wasn't actually relevant. She let Sherlock play it his way though, knowing the man must have some sort of plan.
"I need it." Irene told them.
John looked between the two of them. "Well, we can't just go and get it can we?" An idea struck him then. "Molly Hooper. She could collect it, bring it to Bart's. Then one of your homeless network could bring it here, leave it in the café and one of the boys downstairs could bring it up the back."
"Very good John." Sherlock praised, nodding at the doctor. "Excellent plan; full of intelligent precautions."
"Thank you. So, why don't I phone…" John started, but soon trailed off seeing Sherlock pull up the phone in question out of his pocket. "Oh for f-"
"John." Rose warned, interrupting the man's bad language.
"So." Sherlock carried on, ignoring the other two. "What do you keep on here? In general I mean."
Irene stood up, walking to stand in front of the mirror with her arms crossed. "Pictures, information, anything I might find useful."
"For blackmail?" John asked.
"For protection." She corrected. "I make my way in the world, I misbehave. I like to know people will be on my side exactly when I need them to be."
"I should be taking notes." Rose chipped in. She knew Irene Adler was a criminal, but couldn't help but like her somehow; she matched Sherlock perfectly.
"So how do you acquire this information?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the other woman.
"I told you." Irene said with a smile. "I misbehave."
"But you've acquired something that's more danger than protection." Sherlock deduced. "Do you know what it is?"
"Yes, but I don't understand it." She admitted.
"I assumed." Was the answer she got in turn. "Show me."
She just held out her hand for the phone, not breaking eye contact with Sherlock.
He wasn't relenting though, holding the phone further away from her. "The passcode?"
She just held out her hand, steady and waiting for the phone to be in her position once more. A few seconds passed as John and Rose just watched, waiting to see which of the two stubborn people would give in first. As it turned out it was Sherlock, giving an impatient sigh and handing the small devise over.
Irene gave him a flirtatious smile, tilting the phone away from the observant man. Rose frowned before having to suppress a smirk; she was too far back and too low to see, but Sherlock, sat closer would be at the perfect angle to see in the mirror behind Irene and see what she typed in. It meant that at least if they got the phone back, they could get into it again.
A loud buzzer rang out through the room making all but Sherlock frown in confusion. "It's not working." Irene said.
Springing up into life, Sherlock walked forward to the chair Irene was sat in, explaining as he moved. "No, because it's a duplicate I had made into which you've just typed the numbers 1-0-5-8." Taking the phone off her, Sherlock missed the impressed look John had and the smirk that tugged at the younger woman's lips. However, he also missed the smug glint in The Woman's eyes as he turned away from her, lips twitching at the resounding sound from the devise; the password was wrong. The three of them frowned, eyes snapping to Irene again as she explained.
"I told you that camera phone was my life. I know when it's in my hand."
Eyes glaring slightly, Sherlock gave a rare compliment. "Oh, you're rather good."
"You're not so bad." Irene replied, holding out her hand.
Sherlock wasn't sure how to react to the woman in front of him, feeling his eyes glare slightly, but found the curve of his lips contradicted the action. She intrigued him, like no one had before.
"Hamish." Snapped them all out of their thoughts. "John Hamish Watson, in case you were wondering; in case you were looking for baby names." Rose gave another not-lady-like snort.
"There was a man, an MOD official, and I knew what he liked." She explained, getting back to business. "And one of the things he liked was showing off. He told me this email would save the world. He didn't know it but I photographed it. He was a bit tied up at the time. It's a bit small on that screen, can you read it?"
"Yes." Sherlock replied.
007 Confirmed allocation
4C12C45F13E13G60A60B61F34G34J60D12H33K34K
"Code obviously." Irene continued. "I had one of the best cryptographers in the country take a look at it, but he was mostly upside down at the time, as I recall. He couldn't figure it out." She saw him frown slightly, mind working on the puzzle he'd been presented. One more little push, she thought. "Go on, impress a girl."
As though time had slowed, the numbers ran through his mind faster than ever before; numbers organising themselves on cue, letters joining their numerical counter parts, joined by relevant diagrams and pictures, the pairs fitting like jigsaw pieces, effortlessly finding their home in the grand scheme that was the mad man's mind..
"There's a margin for error, but I'm pretty sure there's a 747 leaving Heathrow tomorrow at 6:30 in the evening for Baltimore. Apparently its going to save the world, I'm not sure how that could be true, but give me a moment, I've only been at the case for eight seconds." He looked up and saw the incredulous looks they gave him; even Rose looked shocked. "Oh, come on, it's not code, these are seat allocations on a passenger jet. Look!" He said, turning the phone to show John, who sat in front of him. "There's no letter "I" because it can be mistaken for a one. No letters past K, the width of the plane in the limit.
"The numbers always appear randomly and not in sequence, but the letters have little runs of sequence all over the place; families and couples sitting together. Only a jumbo jet is wide enough to need a letter K or rows past 55, which is why there's always an upstairs.
"There's a row 13, which eliminates the more superstitious airlines. Then there's the style of the flight number - 007 - that eliminates a few more. And assuming the British point of origin, which would be logical, considering the original source of the information and I'm assuming from the increased pressure on you lately that the crisis is imminent.
"The only flight that matches all the criteria and departs within the week is the 6:30 to Baltimore tomorrow evening from Heathrow airport." He finished, standing to his full, proud height at his work, looking their guest in the eye as he bragged. "Please don't feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing; John has expressed that thought in every possible variant available to the English language."
Irene just twitched an eyebrow at the slight challenge. She looked him dead in the eye and said with a straight face and a serious tone, "I would have you right here on this table until you begged for mercy twice."
Sherlock blinked, not expecting the response from her. Not quite knowing how to respond to her comment - as was occurring far to frequently around the dominating woman - he simply addressed his friend instead, not breaking eye contact with the woman in front of him. "John. Please can you check those flight schedules, see if I'm right?"
"Yeah…" John replied, slightly dazed at the showdown in front of him; was it a challenge or dirty, intelligent flirting? Hearing Rose clear her throat - and catching her raised eyebrow - he tried to put together a better reply. "I'm on it, yeah."
"I've never begged for mercy in my life." Sherlock told Irene, having composed his thoughts a bit more.
"Twice." She implored.
"Yeah, you're right." John interrupted again. "Flight double oh seven."
Sherlock got that look again though; the one that said the proverbial penny had just dropped and something had clicked into place. "What did you say?"
"You're right." John replied.
"No, no." Sherlock disregarded. "After that. What did you say after that?"
"Double oh seven." John said, looking to the screen again. "Flight double oh seven."
"Double oh seven." Sherlock repeated, over and over. He walked past them all to the middle of the room. Turning, he remembered a figure in the doorway; he was on the phone, saying something very relevant - he couldn't quite get to it though. "Something...what?"
"Double oh seven." Rose chipped in. "James Bond, double oh seven?"
There! He thought, seeing clearly now; his brother, Mycroft, on the phone - Bond air is go…Bond air is go…
Taking advantage of his teetering epiphany, and the distraction he was causing to his flatmates, The Woman texted quickly, carefully keeping the phone just behind her leg - out of sight of the men and not hidden enough that the other woman would notice.
747 TOMORROW 6:30 HEATHROW
Moments later, a man in the streets of London got the message, the screen of his mobile phone tinted by the dark shades that hid his eyes. Smirking slightly, he typed a new message.
Jumbo jet. Dear me, Mr Holmes, dear me.
On receiving the text, Mr Mycroft Holmes quickly sat in the closest chair, immediately thinking about anything that could be done. At some point, he had gotten a strong drink, but as day turned to dusk, his glass held no drink, and his mind held no solution; the entire project was lost.
Now he had to salvage what he could, but first, he'd have to teach his little brother a lesson.
