_Chapter 4_

I slide into the cab next to John, John next to Sherlock. On the way, Sherlock suddenly stops the cab. We hop out, and Sherlock gives some money to a random homeless person, saying he's investing. I understand: he's using her to find out some information.

At the gallery, Sherlock gets out. John starts to follow him.

"No," he says to John, "I need you to follow out all you can about the gallery attendant. Lestrad will give you the address," He looks at me and speaks to me for the first time since our row yesterday, "You go with John," He says curtly, and then shuts the door to the cab and goes into the gallery as John phones Lestrade, then tells the cabby the address.

When we arrive, a rather morose, plump lady with a messy pony tail of black hair shows us around, "We've been sharing about a year, you know," she says to us, "just sharin'," John and I look about the untidy room.

John points to something beneath a blanket that we can't see, "May I?" he asks. She nods, and he pulls off the fabric to reveal a telescope.

"Star-gazer was he?" John asks her as I look more closely around the flat. A messy bed, some astronomy books and charts on his book shelf and bed-side table.

"God, yeah," she says, "Mad about it. All he ever did in his spare time," she replied.

I narrow my eyes at the statement, looking more closely at the charts and books. So… he liked astronomy.

"He was a nice guy, Alex. I liked him. He was, uh," she paused, sniffing, "never much of a one for hoverin'." She said stuffily, with a almost a slight laugh at the statement.

John paused and then asked, "What about art? Did he know anything about that?"

I roll my eyes. Many professional artists had looked at that painting and confirmed it to be the real thing. It wasn't art that was wrong with the painting, but I say nothing, and simply watch.

Her answer doesn't surprise me, "It was just a job," she says with a slight shrug.

There are several seconds of silence and I decide to fill it, "Has anyone asked about Alex?" I ask inquire of her kindly.

"No," she says, "A break-in, though."

"What, when?" John and I both say, our timing slightly off.

"Last night," she says, "Nothing taken, though…Oh, there was a message left for Alex on the landline."

"Who was it from?" John posed.

"Well, I can play it for you, if you like, I'll get the phone."

"Please," I say.

She plays the message, "Oh, should I speak now? Alex, it's Professer Ken. Listen, you were right, you were bloody well right. Give us a call, then."

"Professor Kens?" John asks.

"No idea, sorry," She ripostes.

"Can we call back?" I ask, looking at the phone.

"Well, no good, no other calls since sympathy ones," she shrugs apologetically.

John's phone makes a ringing noise, and he opens it up to see the text. I lean in slightly to see it. "Have you spoken to West's fiancé yet? ~Mycroft Holmes."

"Sherlock's brother?" I inquire.

"Yeah," John nods, "He bloody rules the British government secretly," then more quietly he mumbles, "Bloody secret service," He looks around. "Let's go," he says quietly, "I'll tell you more about it in the cab."

We leave and climb back into the cab, "So," I say, "Mycroft?" I voice again.

"Yeah…" John says, "He has a 'small position in the British government,' but he pretty much runs it. I should warn you, he'll probably try to contact you, and not in a normal way." John rolls his eyes, "He'll probably have black cars follow you around, and try to call you via telephone booths you pass. Don't be alarmed, he just likes to impress you and 'avoid the attention of Sherlock Holmes.'" He shakes his head. "Do you care to interview West's fiancé with me?" I shrug, not particularly interested.

John gets out at flats near the London railway, while I wait outside in the cab, thinking.

That evening, John and I go back to 221B, where Sherlock stands outside, and finds out what John knows. He then takes a note from the homeless he had given to earlier in the day.

He reads the note and then says to John, "Fortunately, I haven't been idle. Come on." As I move to slide into the cab with them, Sherlock says, "No, this part's dangerous. You stay in our flat."

I open my mouth to argue, but both he and John give me looks. Angrily, I turn about and stomp into the flat and sit on the sofa of 221B, grumpy. Why did I have to stay behind just because it was dangerous? It could have been fun! Probably would be fun… I sulk on the sofa, waiting for John to call.

It's a good twenty minutes before they come by. John dashes in. "Come on, Neries, I'll tell you what happened on the way. We need to get to the Hickman gallery."

I leap up and follow him quickly back down the stairs. We quickly hop in the cab. The cab takes off, and John tells me all about adventures chasing the Golem. I listen crossly, but still intrigued. They had found him at Vauxhall Bridges, but he had gotten away, and John had looked up Professor Kens, from the message machine in the book. They were too late to save her, and then a battle ensued between the three of them, and Golem ended up getting away.

When we arrive, Lestrade and the lady in charge, Ms. Wincelessness, are all gathered around. Sherlock stands in front of the painting, "It's a fake, it has to be," he utters as he looks on his phone.

"That painting has been subjected to every test known to science," Ms. Wincelessness says in her thick accent, annoyed.

"It's a very good fake then," Sherlock says, frustrated, he turns to her, "You know about this don't you!? This is you isn't it?"

She does her best to look amused, "Inspector, my time is being wasted," she tells Lestrade, "Do you mind showing yourself, and your," she gives Sherlock a sweeping, disdainful look, "friends… out?"

At that moment, the pink phone rings. Sherlock hurries to answer, "The painting is a fake," he snaps at the phone. There is no answer except for heavy breathing. "It's a fake! That's why Woodbridge and Kens were killed," There is still no answer. Sherlock puts his head back slightly, dissatisfied, "Oh, come on, proving it's just a detail." He grumbles at the phone, "The painting is a fake! I've solved it, I've figured it out!" He rants, "It's a fake, that's the answer! That's why they were killed!" He breathes deeply, annoyed, composing himself, closing his eyes in frustration, and resigned, he says, "Okay, I'll prove it, give me time. Will you give me time!?" he demands of the phone.

This time there is an answer, "10," a small, child's voice says. Sherlock instantly whips around to face the painting.

Lestrade looks worried, "It's a kid, oh… God, it's a kid!"

"What did he say?" John asks.

"10," Sherlock answers, "He's counting, he's giving me time."

"The painting's a fake, but how, can I prove it, how!?" he demands of the picture, panicing slightly. He turns to Ms. Wincelessness and shouts, "This kid will die! Tell me why the painting is a fake, TELL ME!... No, shut up, I have to figure out on my own. It must be, it must be, it must be staring me in the face!" he says, quiet and quick.

I want to shout out. I don't know the answer, but I know how he can get it. As the kid counts down, I can't take it, "Astronomy!" I shout at Sherlock. My eyes widen and I cover my mouth. Sherlock gasps and claps his hands together, "Of course!" he shouts. Scared, I look at the phone, and am relieved when I hear the next number, "6," He didn't kill the child because of my outburst.

Excited, Sherlock exclaims how beautiful it is. "What is?" John asks.

"3," the kid says.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yells.

Sherlock grabs the phone, "The Cambrian Super-Nova!" he exclaims, and the counting stops.

"Please, please, help me," the child says.

"Go find out where he is and pick him up," Sherlock says, handing the phone to Lestrade, and exhaling, relieved and pleased to know the answer.

"Cambrian Super-Nova," Sherlock says, pointing to a star on the painting, "Only appeared in the sky in 1858."

John chuckles, breathless, looking at the painting, "So how could it have been painted in the 1640's?"

We leave, following Sherlock out the door, and we all head to the police station, where Lestrade waits with Ms. Wencelessness.

We sit in the station, and Sherlock contemplates the ceiling, "It's interesting… Bohemian stationary, an assassin named after a rogue legend, and you, Ms. Wencelessness. This whole case has a distinctly Czech feeling about it. Is that where this leads?" he demands.

She is quiet, and Lestrade says that Ms. Wencelessness is looking at criminal conspiracy, fraud, the murder of the old woman, the people in the flats…"

"I didn't know anything about any of that!" She cries desperately, "Please, believe me." Sherlock gives Lestrade a small nod, letting him know that she's telling the truth. She says that she wanted her share of the money, after finding a man brilliant with plush work, "Could fool anyone," she says, and Sherlock makes a skeptical noise, "Well… nearly anyone." She amends. "It was just an idea. A spark, which he blew into a flame."

"Who?" Sherlock immediately asks.

She shakes her head, says she doesn't know and Lestrade laughs. Sherlock leans forward, interested, alert, intent. She says there was never real contact, just messages, whispers.

Sherlock leaned forward, "And did those whispers have a name." he hisses, focused completely upon her.

She nods hesitantly, and says, "Moriarty."

Sherlock leans back, putting his hands together and smiling slightly.

I head back to my flat that evening, disappointed that the excitement for today was at an end. However, on the way, I walk down the street, watching for an open cab, and a telephone booth to my right rings. I smirk, thinking about John telling me about Mycroft. This must be him. However, I continue walking, and notice a black car discreetly following me. The next telephone booth I pass, the phone also rings. Rolling my eyes, I step into the booth and answer the phone.

"Hello. Get in the car," says a slow, meticulous commanding voice which I assume belongs to Mycroft. More out of curiosity than fear, I climb into the black vehicle running next to the phone booth. There is a woman texting constantly next to me whom I don't talk to.

The car pulls up to an abandoned factory, and drives behind it. I sigh. A nice, secluded location. So cliché. When the car pulls up, I get out without being asked or told.

A man with short dark neat hair, dark blue eyes, a high forehead, arched eyebrows, and slightly pointed ears that stuck out to the sides a bit stands there. He has a demeanor of superiority and organization. He wears an expensive, neat suit, and has nothing but an umbrella. I stride towards him, rather amused.

He considers me. I look steadily back at him, one eyebrow raised, standing up straight, and looking him in the eye.

"You aren't frightened?" He wonders aloud, and it's the same voice that was on the telephone.

"Should I be?" I reply with a question of my own.

"Well, it certainly would be understandable. You are phoned in a telephone booth, and picked up by a mysterious black car, brought to a deserted place and meet someone you don't know."

I shrug slightly. "There are worse situations to be in."

He raises his eyebrows, thinking about my response, and then lifts his shoulders slightly in consent, "I suppose," he responds slowly. Then he looks directly at me, leaning on the umbrella at his side, "Let's get to the point," he says, giving a small nod and smiling slightly, "What is your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"

I ponder my answer, unsure how to respond, "I met him yesterday, after seeing he was involved in some… strange events."

He gives a short chuckle, "Yes, that does sound like him. But since then, you've started solving crimes with him, and he's even allowed you to stay shortly inside his own flat."

I smile slightly. I hadn't thought of it that way. Despite how slowly I felt things were going, his explanation put things into perspective.

"I want to learn from him."

He raises his eyes, curious and surprised. He doesn't ask however, "You haven't asked who I am."

"That's because I'm pretty sure I already know."

He looks amused and skeptical, "Really?" he asks condescendingly.

"Yes, Mycroft, I do."

He looks taken aback, but covers it up quickly. He looks down at the ground as he twirls his umbrella, and then looks back up at me, "John told you about me?"

I nod, "Yes, that and I guessed. So, are we done here then?"

"That depends," Mycroft replies, "I'm willing to offer you a considerable sum of money for… a service."

I let out a small laugh, "You want me to spy on him?" I answer the unsaid question, "No thanks, but I have plenty to do exactly what I want to for now, thank-you."

Mycroft sighs dramatically, "Alright, if that's your view of the matter." He walks away for no apparent reason or destination, twirling his umbrella. I smile, amused, and walk back to the black car. I ask the girl in the black outfit texting away to take me to 221B, Baker's Street. She smiles mischievously without looking at me and nods, still texting away as the black car pulls back onto the road.