It was already dark as Mary was walking down Baker Street to surprise John and pick him up. He had texted her earlier that he would drop by Baker Street on his way home. She had been relieved and a little giddy at the idea that John would be once again involved with his most peculiar friend. After all she loved the ex-soldier deeply and was convinced a bit of action would do him (-and with any chance her-) a lot of good. With any chance she would be the younger Holmes today. She smiled at the prospect.
Her phone blipped and she fished it out of the pocket of her very pink and inconspicuous coat.
Save souls now !
John or James Watson?
A second message followed.
Saint or Sinner?
James or John?
The more is the Less?"
She frowned and hurried. She was but a minute from the flat.
...
Sherlock was just home from the hat guys' place who happened to monitor the District Line Tube's security footage. Boring individual but oh so interesting problem. Last train on the Friday night from Westminster Station, one passenger getting in. But the passenger in missing when the same train gets to Saint James Station. No stop. And missing driver. Thank you so much Mr. Shilcott.
He was toying with the problem in his head and was about to watch the footages again when he heard a bit of ruckus from downstairs. He frowned. Someone had pushed through the front door past Mrs Hudson and was hurrying up the stairs.
"- Oh Mrs Hudson, I think someone's got John. Is John Watson here ?
- I don't think so ! Who are you ?" answered a flustered Mrs Hudson.
"- I am his fiancé !
- Oh !"
Sherlock pushed the living door open and frowned at the intrusive lady.
"- Sherlock Holmes ?" The blond women asked.
Newly engaged, only child, part time nurse, linguist, short-sighted, clever, cat lover, disillusioned, secret, baker, liar.
She walked right to him without a second thought and displayed her phone screen to give him a clear view of the screen. He raised an eyebrow but kept silent. Looks like it was his lucky day and he would have entertainment for the evening too.
"- Look, I think John is in danger. At first, I thought it was just a Bible thing, you know, spam, but it's not. It is a skip code."
Sherlock shrugged off a bizarre uneasiness at those words and read the message intently. His stomach dropped several inches lower.
- We leave now ! Look Mary, I think you are right, and your fiancé is in danger. You need to go to Saint John the Less at once. It is a church. I will have my phone on to guide you when you'll be there.
- But where are you going ?!
- Got place to be."
He heard her ask Mrs Hudson his number as he dashed out while dialling Lestrade number.
"- Sherlock ? What do you …" Started Lestrade.
"- Whatever is happening in front, around and in Saint James the Less needs to be put on hold right now. There is a life at stake here, most likely.
- Well there are policemen in the area making sure everything goes all right with the bonfires tonight. But it is not my division so...
- Deal with it."
Bonfires… He hanged the phone and started to think. There were two messages in the text Mary received. Of course, she notices the one about John Watson. One every 3 word -Save John Watson, Saint James the Less-. But one every 6 words told another story -Save James, Saint John-. Several churches were called Saint John so which one was it ? Think, think, think. He was turning on himself in the middle of the street, the light blurring, at loss for a direction. Perhaps try to dash for the closes one and to the farthest one ? No, that would take too much time.
Then he heard it, his own voice echoing within his head : "He is the Napoleon of crime." Of course. Saint John's Church, Waterloo it was. 15 to 20 mn by car, too long. He cross checked information for good measure. Bonfires were planned tonight both at St James the Less and St John (Waterloo) but none at a closer homonym church. A loud sound had him rise his eyes from the screen to the source of the noise. A motorbike. A fast one. Perfect. He locked gaze with his owner, who was just starting the machine, and walked straight to him. He made a move to go but Sherlock ran the last few meters.
"- Wait ! I need to borrow your bike. Look, this is urgent." The stocky man didn't budge. From his built and stance Sherlock had no hope to overpower him easily. He had come to recognise men trained in combat extremely fast these past two years. "Look, I am Sherlock Holmes ? Famous detective from the paper ? And there is a life at stake so can I please borrow the bike ?"
- Where are you going ?" Answered gruffly the driver.
"- St John, Waterloo." The driver seemed to consider him for a second, unmoving. "URGENTLY!
- I'll drive, put the helmet on and keep it.
- You'd better be fast there is no time to lose."
Sherlock hardly had half a second to jump on before the motorbike assumed an adequately insane speed. Good.
They made it in under 8mn. A true feat and compliment to the biker's skill. An enthusiast crowd occupied the pavement and cheered as the newly lighted bonfire was fast coming ablaze, illuminating the columns of the church's porch. Sherlock jumped from the motorbike and rand for the bonfire while trying to pull off his helmet. But the biker, while both running and fidgeting with his phone, pushed the helmet back on with an angry "Keep it on !". He himself had kept his helmet and Sherlock chose not to argue for the time being. They pushed in the crowd and started digging up in between the alight timber.
They found him thrashing around as much as a tightly bound and gagged man can do (-which is to say, not much-), covered in scratches, sweat and soot. Jim Moriarty, at arm's length at last. He was wearing inconspicuous shirt, jeans and a black coat, torn and singed by the starting fire. And looked, of course, extremely pissed at the situation at large. They dragged him out from the flames. He did not look badly injured but, as he took the detective in, positively baffled. The biker produced a knife to cut loses the bindings while Sherlock worked on the gag. Sherlock frowned as he took in several little details. Moriarty seemed to have relaxed a bit at the sight of the biker and the later was purposefully positioning himself to block the view of the Criminal from the crowd and the street. This was good thinking, if you knew who the soot-covered individual was, and you wanted to cover for him. All around them people were screaming and looking shocked. Soon they would start to ask questions, they had to move. He took his scarf and gave it to the Criminal to cover his face. When their gaze met a drilling, pain pierced Sherlock's brain that had him almost loose his footing. Oh, he had it nailed now. The same black coat, but on a rooftop. A handshake ? The scene unravelled in a blur in front of his eyes with its stomach-churning end. He gasped but managed to collect himself.
The biker helped Moriarty up, his bulk and pace dissuading the people who had started to gather their wit to start asking questions. A black car had pulled on some meteres away without Sherlock noticing, and Moriarty lost no time going in. The biker turned to Sherlock with a not so subtle body language stating -Get in.- and waited for him to do so. Well this was an unexpected turn of event even for his evening, but he was not complaining. London really was the thing.