Chapter Three: Wanderlust, Part I
"Sherlock, I want to sleep. I don't know about you, but I've had one hell of a day. I'd love to help Molly, but I can't until after at least six hours of sleep," John tried to explain for the millionth time. This morning, or rather, the morning two days ago, seemed an eternity away. He barely remembered what sleeping even felt like.
"You were tranquilized. That counts as sleep," Sherlock argued, unconsciously tiling the door knocker off-center as he unlocked the door to 221B. "Oh, Mycroft," he sighed, "I don't have time for a case now."
"Mycroft?" John asked. "How do you know he's even in there?"
Sherlock pushed open the door and commented, "He always straightens the knocker."
"No I don't," Mycroft said smoothly, stepping down from the staircase. He had his umbrella in hand, and John wondered if he ever let that thing out of his sight.
The consulting detective said flatly, "Whatever it is, I can't."
"Can't?" Mycroft repeated, leaning forward slightly on his umbrella.
"The stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time," Sherlock explained, waving his hand at his brother dismissively.
"Never mind your usual trivia, this is of national importance," Mycroft replied snappishly. It amused John immensely that for once, the British government was out of the loop.
Sherlock marched up to the stairs and shoved his face in Mycroft's. "First of all, my work is not trivial. And second of all, Molly is not trivial! You of all people should know that."
"Molly Hooper...?" Mycroft feigned ignorance for a moment. "Oh, the registrar from St. Bart's, I'd almost forgotten about her. You know what I always say, brother dear. Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side," he advised Sherlock blithely.
"Hold on, you always say that," John said to Sherlock. "You got that from Mycroft?"
"It doesn't matter where it came from," Mycroft allowed before Sherlock could say anything in reply. To John, he continued, "Anthony North, known as Tony to his friends." He pulled a plain manila folder out of his coat pocket and handed it to John. "A civil servant, found dead near the mouth of the Thames this morning, drowned."
"Suicide?" John asked.
"That would seem logical," Mycroft conceded.
"But you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident," Sherlock said impatiently, clearly wanting to get back into his flat. Probably to serenade Mycroft with "God Save the Queen" or some other such nonsense.
Mycroft said meaningfully, "The MOD is working on a new kind of virtual offense. Skeleton Key, it's called. Able to unlock any door, allow entrance into any system." His gaze flicked to Sherlock as John started thumbing through the folder.
"Secret, missing, unimportant," Sherlock said dismissively. "Not worth my time."
"We can't let Skeleton Key fall into the wrong hands, Sherlock. I shudder to think of the damage it could cause. You've got to find those plans. Don't make me order you," Mycroft said lightly, but his words were anything but.
Sherlock snorted. "I'd like to see you try."
"Think it over." Mycroft then smiled humorlessly at John and said, "Goodbye, Mr. Watson. I'll see you very soon."
John tried his best to not look nervous as Mycroft brushed by him and left the hall in front of 221B. Mycroft, who John knew to be an earth elemental, had most of Britain dancing on the end of his puppet strings. And he would gladly bury his enemies under a mile of solid rock, despite his disdain for "legwork." John really didn't want to find out what that felt like.
The two of them returned gladly to the flat, and collapsed into their respective chairs with a sigh of relief. The manila folder got tossed unceremoniously onto the kitchen table, almost knocking over a beaker of something red. Sherlock took one of the sapphires out of his pocket just as John's eyelids finally started to droop closed. He was so unbelievably tired...
And then Sherlock's phone rang. "Sherlock Holmes," he answered, and John wished he'd take the call somewhere else for once. Unfortunately, consideracy was not one of Sherlock's strong points.
"How could I refuse?" Sherlock got up out of his chair and said to John, "I've been summoned by Lestrade. It's about Molly. Care to join me?"
"Only if you want me to," John said politely, stifling a yawn.
"Of course," Sherlock replied, pulling on his scarf. "I'd be lost without my blogger."
A faint smile spread across John's face, and he didn't mind leaving the comfort of his favorite armchair quite so much.
In the cab, John yawned widely again and let his head rest on his chest, thinking to close his eyes for a moment or two. He must've dozed off somewhere along the line, because the next thing he knew, he was waking up with his head resting on Sherlock's shoulder.
"Sorry," John mumbled, stretching and hearing his left shoulder crack. "Must've..."
"It's quite all right, John. But Lestrade is waiting for us." Sherlock let John pick himself up and fumble around for the door handle before getting out of the cab himself.
John managed a kind of zombie sleepwalk into Scotland Yard and a flappy wave to the guards at the door. Donovan took pity on him in the precinct and made him a cup of coffee, which was infinitely better than sleep.
By the time he'd been woken up enough to be properly aware of his surroundings, Sherlock had a creamy white envelope in his hands and was speaking slowly and intently to him. "I said, it's from the Tower of London," the consulting detective repeated.
"That envelope? Oh, what's in it?" John asked.
Sherlock just sighed, and Lestrade snickered softly before explaining, "It's from the rooms under the Tower of London, where Moriarty was keeping you. They were in a bubble of water, so clearly Moriarty wanted you to find it. We x-rayed it, and it seems harmless."
Sherlock nodded and rubbed the paper between the tips of his fingers. "Bohemian. Nice quality..." He flipped it over and read his own name written neatly on the front. "She used a fountain pen. Parker Duofold—iridium nib."
"She?" John inquired.
"Obviously," Sherlock said dismissively. Then he snatched a letter opener from Lestrade's desk and carefully opened the envelope, dumping its contents on the DI's table. A shower of small diamonds and sapphires skittered over the desk, scattering light across the room in multicolored motes. Nestled among them was an ordinary hospital ID bracelet, made of cheap white plastic.
Sherlock picked up the bracelet and mouthed the name to himself. "Oh, not now!" he burst out petulantly.
"What is it?!" Lestrade and John both shouted at the same time, making grabby hands for the bracelet. John won, to his immense satisfaction, elbowing the DI unceremoniously in the face.
Irene Adler
Lestrade snatched the bracelet from John, and his mouth formed a little o of surprise.
And then Sherlock's phone rang. Or, rather, it sighed lovingly. "You have one new message," Siri announced.
There were five short beeps, followed by one long one. The Greenwich pips, John realized. And another message appeared on the phone. It was just a cruise advertisement, depicting a ship in the middle of a sea of turquoise water. Boutique Travel Travel Boutique, cruises for £250 or less! Inquire within, the advert announced.
"And what the hell are we supposed to make of that?" Lestrade demanded. "A travel agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!" The DI crossed his arms and looked in desperate need of coffee.
"It's a warning," Sherlock said distantly, deep in thought.
"A warning?" John asked.
"Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that. Five pips. They're warning us it's going to happen again... I've seen this ship before." He squinted at the photograph for a moment before he started striding out of Scotland Yard as fast as his long legs could carry him.
John and Lestrade hurried to catch up. "H-hang on," John said, almost tripping on a flat floor tile. "What's going to happen again?"
Sherlock turned to face them and raised his hands dramatically. "Water!"
Lestrade surveyed the port in front of them skeptically. "You know, I don't think the Yard will cover a three-person cruise to the Mediterranean. 'Specially since you aren't even in the force."
"Really, Lestrade? Don't you watch the news?" Sherlock shook his head. "Early this morning, a woman named Charlotte Shurley was found dead on board a cruise ship. This cruise ship, as a matter of fact." Sherlock gestured to the pristine white ship in front of them, with a conspicuous length of yellow caution tape running around it.
"The ship in the photograph," John recognized. "And we're here because...?"
Sherlock's pink phone began to ring. He took one glance at the blocked caller ID and put the call on speakerphone so everyone could hear.
"Hello, sexy," Irene said, as if this call were just like any other.
"Irene," Sherlock answered. He was about say something more when she continued, "I've set up a little puzzle, just to say h-hi." She let out a tiny, involuntary sob that instantly set off all Sherlock's mental alarms.
"Why are you crying?" he asked, already starting to move away from the dock.
Irene hardened her voice. "I'm not crying. I'm typing, and this... this stupid slut is reading it out," she spat contemptuously. "Twelve hours to solve my puzzle, Sherlock, or else I'm going to be very naughty."
The line went dead with a click.
"And the penny drops," Sherlock said softly.
"Was that the dominatrix on the phone?" Lestrade asked after a long moment. "The one who beat you?"
John leaned in curiously. "She beat you? Do tell." He hadn't known that was even possible. Especially not after the case with the "hounds" out in Baskerville, which ruined John from ever wanting a dog again. Except for one of the little ones, like teacup chihuahuas. Or something.
"Oh, Lestrade, how many times must I tell you that I let her win?" Sherlock replied crossly. "Beat me? Don't be ridiculous. Very few people have the resources, intelligence, or willpower."
Lestrade tried not to snicker, and John quipped, "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Sherlock."
"We have a case to solve, if you don't mind, John," the consulting detective said pointedly.
"All right, all right. But don't think I'm forgetting about this," John conceded. "So, where to next?"
"Her room," Sherlock replied, holding up the caution tape for him. "Assuming the police haven't mucked up all the evidence."
John ducked underneath the tape and started up the ramp connecting the ship to the dock, missing Lestrade walking full-speed into the caution tape and swearing at Sherlock halfheartedly.
The consulting detective frowned at an ice maker leaning against a nearby wall and fished around behind it for a moment. Then he pulled a set of room keys out from behind the ice maker and strode towards one of the lower decks. "Room 207," he muttered.
"How are you so sure that's hers?" Lestrade asked. "You just found it behind an ice-maker. It could be anyone's."
Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Do I have to do everything for you? Her room was locked. There were two keys, one in her room, and one that she brought with her when she left the room."
"So wasn't the other key be with her body?" John wondered out loud.
"No, of course not. They found her body, no key." Sherlock held up the room key he'd found. "Hence..."
They rounded a corner and almost crashed right into Donovan. "What are you doing here?" she demanded sharply.
"Investigating a case, of course," Sherlock replied smoothly, stepping around Donovan and into the room. He dropped the room key on the nightstand, and Anderson glared and was probably about to make some comment about the integrity of the crime scene. "Where's the body?" Sherlock asked quickly.
"Gone, cleared it out before you got here," Donovan answered. "Go ask Molly if you want to know more."
Lestrade jumped into the conversation before Sherlock could say anything too abrasive. "Listen, Sally, Phillip, can I talk to you outside?"
"Phillip?" Sherlock asked John, a confused look flashing across his face.
"Anderson. His first name is Phillip," John clarified.
"Ah." Sherlock started scanning the room from floor to ceiling, hands clasped behind his back.
"You just deleted that from your mind palace, didn't you?" John asked suspiciously.
Sherlock answered frankly, "Of course."
"What happened to Molly?!" Donovan shrieked in the hallway.
Sherlock opened one of the side tables' drawers and pulled out a piece of paper, folded neatly in half. The paper bore the heading "Boutique Travel Travel Boutique; travel cheap, travel well!" and had written on it, "Room 207." Sherlock gave the paper to John and left the room only to stare at the door intently.
"Did you find something?" John looked at the door too, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Presumably, Sherlock had already deduced next week's lottery numbers out of the wood grain.
"Look at the lock, John. It's scratched. Why not just ask the captain, or whoever's in charge around here, for another key? If you'd lost yours behind an ice maker?" Sherlock frowned and said to Donovan, "Did you find anything unusual inside the room?"
"We're shipping it all back to her parents," Anderson answered. "It was just a bunch of suitcases, but if you wanted to see them, they're being loaded into one of the–"
"Yes, thank you," Sherlock said brusquely, and he left the room without another word.
John scooted out the door and said to Anderson, "He hasn't slept in days. Does things to his manners."
"Yeah, he's usually ruder," Anderson commented.
John let out a short laugh and followed Sherlock back onto the dock to find the detective giving one of his intense stares to an open suitcase, phone in one hand.
"Her clothes," Sherlock muttered. "The room. They don't match."
"What about them?" John asked, staring at the woman's suitcase in confusion. "They're just clothes."
Sherlock frowned. "They're old and cheap, washed too many times. But this ship, her room, it was all expensive. Out of her price range."
"So? Maybe someone bought her a ticket for her birthday or something," John suggested.
The detective huffed and started dialing a number from memory. "Is this Boutique Travel Travel Boutique? I understand a client of yours, Charlotte Shurley–" He stopped and looked disgruntled. "She hung up on me."
"One of her clients did get murdered," John said. "It's understandable that she might not want to talk about it."
"She hung up too fast for it to be that simple. Something to hide? Either that or she just remembered something in the oven, that happened once." Sherlock paused for a moment and then started emptying the suitcase, tossing articles of clothing over his shoulder. "There has to be some other element... aha!" He dumped a load of t-shirts into John's arms and pulled away a compartment in the suitcase. "She was being paid."
"Oh, don't tell me," John sighed. "It's another bloody enormous diamond. Or is it an emerald this time?"
"Guess again," Sherlock said, an odd smile on his face.
"Severed head? Bar of gold? Contraband weapons?" John craned his neck to see inside the suitcase. "Oh."
It was, in fact, a matched set of plaster monkey statuettes.
A/N: Sorry it's been so long! There were delays on both the writing and beta-editing fronts :\ And if you recognized the premise, then you are AWESOME because that is the BEST SHOW EVER and I THINK I LOVE YOU.
Don't forget to drop your writer a review, please :3