At long last, a moment of truth! HA Ha ha. Sherlock manages to figure out one of the poem lines! And what the hell is Jacob up to? Here you go!
"Sherlock, if you stare at that piece of paper any harder, your eyes are going to bug out of your head." Sherlock was lying on the couch, holding the not-poltergeist's (especially if you asked Astley) message over his head, frowning at it.
"I'm just trying to understand it, John." He replied cooly. "Why poems? Why these two poems? What's special about them?" John rolled his eyes.
"I suppose eating is still out of the question?" When Sherlock ignored him, he sighed. "Right. Figured." As he went over to make his way around the insane things that tended to be in their refrigerator, he heard Sherlock muttering under his breath, reciting one of the poems to himself. Suddenly, he shot up off the couch.
"Callooh Callay!" John jumped, dropping a plate.
"Augh! What?" Sherlock was already pulling his coat on.
"'And, has thou slain the Jabberwock? Come into my arms, my beamish boy! Callooh Callay!'" John shook his head.
"I still have no idea what you're talking about, and there is no bloody way I'm 'coming into your arms.'"
"No, John. The poem. Callooh Callay is a bar in London that Lestrade sometimes visited. He knew one of the bartenders there. Come on, it closes in a few minutes." John blinked.
"Oh. Well, why didn't you just say that?"
Churchill Darke nodded a farewell to the other bartenders who had shared his shift, trying to tuck some of his thick, dark hair behind his ear, only to have the long strands fall into his face again. It wasn't quite raining, but the air was wet and dreary, sort of like his disposition. He checked his phone briefly before tucking it away. There had been nothing ever since the update on Emilia Cooper's death. He shuddered, reaching into his pocket and feeling for the small, round pill he always kept there.
Better to die than be killed, better to be killed than taken back.
The young man swallowed, scuffing a thick-soled boot on the pavement before starting across the street. He was an unusual man, dressed like one of those 'goths' that so often appeared in pop culture. He wore a pair of black, fingerless gloves, a thick black choker, and pure black clothes. He was pale, and a trifle gaunt, a sort of permanent sadness in his expression. His dark brown hair hung like perfectly straight curtains around his thin face, accentuating his tired appearance. He walked with his head down in long, slow strides, alone amid the bustle of the street.
Which was why he was so surprised when he heard his name.
"Darke! Churchill Darke!" Sherlock called, shoving through the crowd to get to the black-clad man when he turned. When he stopped, John came to a breathless halt beside him. Darke frowned, confused, facing them. His breath back, Sherlock straightened. "Sherlock Holmes. We met during the investigation of the severed leg that turned up in the sewer of this street. I wanted to ask-" Sherlock suddenly stopped, noticing Churchill's expression. The bartender had been bewildered when he turned around, but now his expression was morphing into one of horror, he faltered a step backwards. "Mr. Darke..." He said, more gently than was his wont, and took a step forward, holding out his hands.
Apparently, that wasn't a good idea.
Churchill took off running, dashing his way expertly through the crowd, ducking under arms and dodging prams. Sherlock and John exchanged a look, and then took off after him as fast as they could. It surprised John how fast the thin man seemed to be, when before he had looked like a strong wind would snap him in half. They managed to stay behind him for at least half an hour until he vanished down an alley, taking another route before they could turn the corner. The two stopped, catching their breath.
"What do you think made him run?"
"I don't know. He seemed to be afraid of us." John brushed off his jacket.
"What do you know about this guy?"
"I met him during an investigation in the area. He's a friend of Lestrade's, works at the Callooh Callay. I remember noting that he seemed to be unusually quick at mixing drinks."
"Drinks?"
"Slight of hand, John. Not to mention a joke he made about poisoning people." They began trudging back toward a place where they could catch a taxi.
"Right. Any other people of interest?" Sherlock thought about it.
"There's someone else I met during that investigation. A Greenwich DI by the name of Julian Black - he's said to be the best shot in the area. Got a thing for firearms-" Sherlock suddenly stopped walking. "The tattoo."
"What?" The Detective was already slapping his forehead.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid! The tattoo! The one we found on the Einarsson! Black had a similar one on his neck!" He began fumbling with his phone, texting, then waiting. Nothing happened. "Alright then, Detective Inspector, ignore me for now." He tucked the phone away, walking even faster towards the street. "I'll make certain you have to talk to me soon..."
When they arrived back at the flat, Sherlock froze as soon as they were in the door, then raced upstairs.
Churchill Darke was sitting on the sofa, rubbing his hands together.
John came in behind his friend, frowning.
"I don't get it. Why run away from us and then come meet us at our flat?" But Sherlock was looking sideways at the man.
"... It wasn't us you were running from." Darke swallowed, but nodded.
"Yes. I'm sorry. I had to consider what would happen if they saw us talking."
"They." The bartender stood.
"A long time ago, Lestrade, as you know him, told that when the time came, I had to be sure to give this to someone. More recently, I was told to give it to you." From his pocket he pulled a small black thumb drive, holding it out to Sherlock, who took it hesitantly. Churchill stuffed his hands back in his pockets ambling past the Detective to look around the room. "... I suggest you don't look for me again after this. Until such a time as we can get this sorted out, I need to drop off the map." He made to leave, then stopped, turning back. "You ever have a pet?" The other two blinked.
"Sorry?"
"A pet. You know. An animal. They're kind of fun, 'cept for the fact that you gotta pay for their upkeep and all. Not to mention health." He looked directly at Sherlock. "There are only so many good vets in London these days." Then he left. Sherlock watched him go thoughtfully. Then he turned, crossed to his computer, opening the drive and plugged it in. When he clicked on it, the screen went black, words quickly follow:
Collect all the pieces to open me.
Underneath the words was the outline of a black diamond.
Sherlock ejected it, frowning, then looking after Churchill again.
"... A vet, hm?"
The darker alleys of London were practically empty, save for a few drug dealers and one or two drunks. Jacob looked out of place among them, striding through the shadows in a fine suit and pristine dress shoes. He stopped in front of an abandoned shop, where a shadowy figure was sitting on one of the rotted crates, turning his back and folding his arms.
"Before you ask, they don't know I'm here." The shadows moved slightly.
"How'd you know?" It whispered hoarsely.
"Because I know you." Jacob replied. They were silent for a moment. "You realise how foolish this is, surely. Did you think changing your name would throw us off? You cannot escape us, Alec."
"And yet I've been doing just that for twenty years." Jacob's teeth gritted.
"Listen to me. Your sister is coming here herself. That's how badly she wants this resolved. You can fix it now by giving up this diluted dream and coming home." The other man didn't answer, and Jacob's voice became venomous. "Is it for them? Those people?" No answer again. "Why don't I tell you about them? Right now, DI Christian Gregson is working unpaid overtime at the station. Detective Inspector Hannah Harding is on the tube reviewing the files. Nathan Astley is forcing the staff at St. Barts to let him check himself out. Commissioner Kenneth Winters is supervising the clean up of the remnants of City Hall. Molly Hooper is still in the morgue trying to see if there's somethings he missed in identifying a certain body. Sergeant Donovan and Anderson are over at her place. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are walking out of 221B Baker Street with the intention of catching a cab to Scotland Yard." As he spoke, the other man stood slowly, stepping forward and into the faint light.
"If you so much as touch any of them," Detective Inspector Greg Alecsandar Lestrade informed him, "You will regret the day you met me."
Even Jacob was afraid of the threat in his voice.