Tuesday, 6 April 2010

Humans, Sherlock reflected, were very similar to bees. Act like you belonged, penetrate the outer defenses of the hive, and suddenly no one would question your presence. Long strides took him down a cool grey hall — not industrial grey but business-like shades that an interior designer would call 'dove' or 'mist', meant to reassure a client of the bank's professionalism and competence.

If only the customers knew.

A right turn took Sherlock into a cubicle farm, through a maze of padded walls reminiscent of an upscale asylum, towards the sunlight that was struggling and generally failing to penetrate the cloud cover. His goal was not the corner office, but one set enviously close, as though the worker within could be spurred to greater efforts by being placed in sight of his goal.

Sherlock didn't bother to knock. He glanced at the nameplate and pushed the door open. He entered so quietly that the occupant of the office didn't turn away from his contemplation of the skyline. A coiled cord stretched from the desk to the phone in his hand. In twenty years, banks and government offices would be the last places where one could find landlines — as if they couldn't be tapped.

For a few minutes, inane chatter filled the office. In a manufactured upper-crust accent, the low-ranking executive dispensed advice that was high on buzzwords and low on content. Even Sherlock knew that, and he'd never so much as balanced a checking account statement in his life except when it was necessary for an investigation.

"Wonderful, just wonderful. Yes, see you at the conference. Love to the wife," Sebastian Wilkes said as he turned, reaching towards the telephone base to disconnect the call.

His strangled yelp of surprise at seeing Sherlock for the first time in five years was immensely satisfying.

"Good Lord, Sherlock!" he blurted out, fumbling the phone onto the cradle. "What on —"

"Hello, Tiddly-Wilkes," Sherlock said with a smile that was all edges and sharp teeth.

Sebastian went a fascinating shade of pale grey that almost matched the lightest clouds outside, before his face took on a dark, splotchy hue. His gaze slipped over Sherlock's shoulder to the door as he started to rise, hands flat on the desk. "Don't you dare call me that," he said, his voice a low growl. In his anger, his working-class accent slipped to the fore. He was so easy to rattle, it was very nearly unfair.

"Come now, university wasn't that long ago," Sherlock said blandly, inviting himself to sit down. Though he kept telling himself he was above all sorts of base emotional reactions, he couldn't help but feel a growing sense of satisfaction at finally turning the table on the man who'd tried to make his brief, unfinished stint at Cambridge a living hell.

With a sickly smile, Wilkes sat back down. His eyes kept flicking to the glass door in the glass wall where employees walked past. It wouldn't do for them to see his facade crack, after all, which was half the reason Sherlock had decided on this impromptu face-to-face meeting.

"Get out," Wilkes said flatly. "I'll call security."

"And I'll call the American SEC," Sherlock said, still calm and composed. "I believe they'd be most interested in that incident a few years back. What's the statute of limitations on stock fraud over there?"

The purple blotches switched direction, blooming across Wilkes' cheeks once more. "You wouldn't."

"I would," Sherlock corrected. "However, that would be tedious, and I might have better things to do. American stock fraud is boring. You never were very imaginative, always depending on others to do the work. Like that old girlfriend of yours — the cheerleader from Hackney, the one you almost married?"

Wilkes gave him a confused blink. "Rose? What's she —"

"What was it she called you again? 'Silky-Wilky', wasn't it? Yes, too bad about the thinning hair. I suppose it no longer fits," Sherlock said, pointedly looking at the hairline that was built not by nature but by implants.

"What the hell do you want?" Wilkes shouted, before he looked out the glass wall again. His jaw clenched hard enough that muscles jumped all the way down his neck.

"Money laundering."

"What? Oh God, this is another of your cases again —"

Sherlock smiled. "I need to know the major players. So you give me names, and I'll go away."

With a haughty sniff that was almost good enough to fool a child, Wilkes said, "I've no idea. I deal strictly in legal transactions. Even the stock fraud thing was a client, not me."

"Well then, since you're too stupid to actually know anything useful, shall I ask your clients?"

Wilkes sat back, fear creeping into his expression, as though he believed Sherlock actually knew who his clients were. He didn't, of course — banking in general was boring, and Sebastian Wilkes had made banking his life — but Wilkes didn't know that. Sometimes, Sherlock found his omniscient reputation to be very useful. So he just smiled knowingly and waited for Wilkes to crack.

Angrily, Wilkes ripped a sheet off a notepad, put it on his desk, and started to write with heavy, rough scratches of his pen. Sherlock bit his lip to keep from smiling. He'd ended up cracking the stock fraud case because Wilkes' former supervisor had taken notes on a pad, leaving an impression of her writing on the pages below. Apparently, Wilkes wasn't too stupid to learn new tricks after all.

"Here," he finally said, shoving the paper across the desk. "Now get out."

"Always a pleasure," Sherlock said smoothly, picking up the paper. He considered one last parting shot, but Wilkes wasn't worth the effort. He pulled open the office door and stepped out, already looking over the paper.

Because of his work and his connections, Sherlock knew a great many people in London's criminal underground, but he was under no illusions that he knew even a tenth of the real powers out there. By narrowing the field using his knowledge of John, he could possibly cross-reference appropriately-inclined criminals with his list from the Churchill Club and finally reduce his suspect list to something manageable. White collar crime seemed in keeping with what Sherlock knew of John — his move from the bedsit to a new, comfortable flat, for one thing. He might well be a new player in the game.

Two of the names were familiar, and he recognized a third as possibly being related to a counterfeiter who'd retired before Sherlock had started working, but the sixth name down the list froze him in his tracks.

Moriarty.

Sherlock smiled and hid the paper in an inside pocket of his jacket. It was always satisfying to be right.

It seemed like all of London was out in the overcast, taking advantage of the first rain-free day in nearly a month. Though John had originally decided to get a bit of exercise by walking and taking the tube, he'd hailed the first available taxi once he got into the crowds. He was back to using his cane, and he didn't need to take any risks with his still-tender knee.

Despite the traffic, the ride to the bistro was quick. John spent most of it looking back at the surveillance teams that had inexplicably seemed to have vanished some time in the past few days. John's experience in war had taught him to fear the enemy he couldn't see, so their disappearance wasn't at all comforting — and just one more reason for this breakfast meeting.

The bistro was small and unmarked save for a brass plaque by the door. The windows were curtained, obscuring the view of the diners within. It was the type of place where John would never have pictured having breakfast. At least it wasn't as intimidating as the Churchill Club had been.

A waiter — the maitre'd? — opened the door and welcomed him inside, assessing him with a quick glance. John's coat was nothing special, but underneath, he wore one of Kate's favorite suits. Apparently, it was good enough for the waiter, who admitted him to the dining room and showed him to a table for four.

Naturally, the menu was in French, so John just ordered coffee and decided to wait for Irene's advice. After spending most of his adult life in the military, he was adventurous about food, but there were some things he definitely wouldn't eat unless the alternative was starvation.

His mobile buzzed while he was waiting. He discreetly checked it under the table; this seemed like the type of restaurant that would frown on the use of mobiles.

Had a wonderful time last night. I'd love to see you again. Maybe Thursday night? -Jim

John's smile was brief and conflicted. Strictly speaking, last night had been the type of perfect scene that usually only existed in dreams and bad internet fiction. John had pushed, Jim had submitted, and they fit together so damned well that by the end of it all, John had seriously been thinking if things didn't work out with Sherlock...

But he hadn't dared let himself finish the thought — not then and not now, as he sipped coffee and waited for the friends who would hopefully help him sort out his confusion. He put the mobile away without responding, hoping he'd know how to answer by the time breakfast was through.

To distract himself, he took out the anonymous BlackBerry and powered it on. There were three new texts:

I don't yet have a name, but I am certain now that your enemy is in the military. Be careful whom you trust.

Watch for a white man, 6 ft, with short, light-coloured hair. He followed you last night, though he went into the building across the street. Possible sniper.

If you can tell me anything, it would be very helpful. I'm still trying, but every day that passes is one more day that you're in danger.

"Christ," John muttered, trying to push back the fear that twisted through his gut. None of the previous texts had included any sort of concrete information, such as a description. Of course 'six-foot-tall white man with short, light hair' described several thousand people in London alone, including at least two of the people John had identified as possible tails. Hell, the addition of 'possible sniper' put him in mind of Colonel Moran, who'd made his rank in part based on his skill as a sniper and his ability to put sniper teams to excellent tactical use.

Before he could get any more worried, Irene and Kate appeared, and John quickly rose to greet them, smiling with relief. Irene was as gorgeous as always, looking like she'd stepped straight off a fashion runway.

"Look at you," Irene said slyly after she kissed John. "Someone had a lovely night."

"You're impossible," he accused. Not even five seconds into their breakfast meeting and he was already blushing. He greeted Kate with a kiss and a quick hug, asking, "Can't you do anything with her?"

"Quite a bit, Captain. Would you like a list?" Kate offered.

"Stop helping," he told her, trying not to grin.

They took their seats, and Irene ordered coffee before saying, "You do look much better, John."

"Last night did help, yes," he admitted. "I'd like to come back to work, maybe Sunday?"

"As long as you're healthy," she said worriedly.

"I'm a doctor, love. I think I'd know if I needed more time to lounge around and do nothing." Irene pursed her lips thoughtfully, and John quickly interrupted her before she could object, "If I have to sit around my flat for two more weeks, I'm going to kill someone. Please."

Irene sighed and reached across the table to touch his arm. "Of course. We'll start making appointments for you right away. Your regular clients will be thrilled at your return."

Blushing all over again, John distracted her by asking for a translation of the menu. He finally settled on the simplest item on the menu, what he suspected was a complicated version of eggs and toast involving lobster.

Once the waiter had taken their orders and brought them hot fresh croissants and honey butter, Irene asked, "Now, John. What's this really about?"

"Well, it's a bit complicated," he answered thoughtfully. "Remember I said I suspected I was being followed?"

"Yes," Kate spoke up at once. "I've been keeping watch at the office, as you wanted, but I haven't spotted anyone." Irene nodded her agreement.

"I'm certain I was, only now, I think they've stopped." John shrugged, toying with his coffee cup. "I identified at least four of them, and two cars, only I haven't seen any of them since before Easter."

"Well, that's good, isn't it?" Irene asked. "Perhaps you're safe to contact Sherlock now?"

John took a deep breath and put the BlackBerry on the table. "I'd say that, except for this," he explained, pushing to her. "Someone slipped that into my pocket the night I met my old army mates at a pub. I've been receiving texts on it — texts that might be from him."

Irene hummed thoughtfully and picked up the mobile. As she began tapping the keyboard, Kate looked from the BlackBerry to John and asked, "Why 'might'?"

"They sound very much like him, but I know the one who attacked me had access to our texts. It's a perfectly sound military principle — crack the enemy's communications network and send your own messages with enough truth that they're believable."

"Yes, I see," Irene said, frowning slightly. She looked across the table at him, her expression serious. "You know you should get rid of this, John."

He couldn't hide his flinch. "I know." He leaned back in his chair, staring down into his coffee cup. Taking it to be a signal, the waiter interrupted, refilling their cups with silent efficiency.

"This wasn't a one-night stand with him."

For one moment, John thought she was referring to last night, with Jim. Then he realized she was still talking about Sherlock. He sighed and shook his head. "It might have been, but..." He let out a rough little laugh and reached for the pitcher of cream. As he poured it into his coffee, watching the swirling bands of dark and light brown, he said, "This sounds crazy, but you didn't see him at the morgue. He was so bloody brilliant, Irene. I'm a doctor, for God's sake, and it was all I could do to keep up."

"And your feelings haven't changed, even after a month."

John frowned and gave a little shake of his head. His spoon clinked against his coffee cup. "If nothing else, I owe him an explanation, only I can't do that until I know it's safe. Really safe."

"I could try to get him a message, Captain," Kate offered, though she glanced at Irene for permission.

John answered before Irene. "No. I'm not risking you — either of you. I'll... give it another week or two. If no one's following me, maybe I'll find a way to send him a note."

"What about this?" Irene asked, tapping the BlackBerry's screen with one perfect fingernail. "It's dated last night."

"That's the other problem," he admitted

"Well, it bears out the theory that these texts are genuinely from your Sherlock," Kate suggested tentatively.

"Or it would do, if this unknown enemy wasn't as clever as he seems to be," Irene said.

John nodded. "Exactly what I was thinking. He makes a point of having me followed, knowing I'd pick up on it. Then stops the obvious surveillance but keeps sending the texts in hopes of catching me out."

Irene reached across the table to rest her hand on John's wrist. "You do have one other option, love. If Sherlock's truly that clever, then you could allow him to —"

"No," John interrupted. "No, Irene. He's brilliant, yes, but he can barely be trusted to go out in a storm without his coat on. Don't even get me started on the frozen lake." Absently, he touched the pocket where he kept his notebook, remembering Sherlock still hadn't explained why he wasn't permitted past an allied nation's borders.

"He does work with the police," Irene started.

"Which makes it all the worse. I didn't report the... attack. The last thing I need is for police to start questioning me. Which reminds me... I could use your help with something." He felt guilty asking this of anyone, especially Irene, but this wasn't exactly the type of thing he could mention to Paul Dimmock. As it was, Paul had broken enough laws getting him the files he had.

"Anything, love." Irene smiled fondly at him, then at Kate, saying, "After all you've done for both of us..." She trailed off, not actually mentioning the man John had killed to save Kate's life that night so long ago.

"You, ah, have friends on the police force, don't you?"

Her smile turned into a smirk. "Quite a few."

"They've got blood samples from the warehouse where you found me. And my DNA is on file, after my military service —"

"Say no more," Irene interrupted confidently. "They won't find a match."

Sorry I didn't respond earlier. Breakfast meeting with my boss. Thursday sounds perfect. Your place, seven? -John

The text came through to Jim's mobile just as he sat down to lunch. Across the table, Moran watched disapprovingly as Jim sent a quick affirmative response. Then he picked up his menu and said, "No problems last night, then?"

Moran smirked. "Other than boredom, no."

"You need to be more open-minded."

"Thanks, but no. You won't need me again for that, will you?"

Jim smiled, feeling the pleasantly deep ache in his back with every breath. "No. I'm seeing him again on Thursday."

"Wonderful. You two will be very happy together. Does this mean you're going to get off your arse and finally recruit him?"

"Why so impatient? Looking to retire?"

Moran grinned, the expression fierce on his weathered face. In answer, he took a USB drive from his pocket and tossed it onto Jim's bread plate. "When Watson sees that, you won't be able to hold him back."

"Oh?" Jim picked up the drive, turning it in his fingers.

"I got the whole Operation TALENT file before it was deleted. And I mean deleted — not just taken off the main server and archived somewhere. Holmes ordered the drive scrubbed and paper copies incinerated."

Slowly, Jim smiled at the confirmation that Holmes had been running the whole operation without oversight. "Mycroft's been a bad boy," he said, unable to hold back a laugh as he made the USB drive disappear into his jacket.

"So?"

"Hm?"

Moran sighed. "Are you going to tell Watson? He asked for my help nearly two weeks ago. I need to give him something."

Jim rolled his eyes. As if Moran's friendship with John was really that significant, in the greater scheme of things? "I've arranged a little test for him this weekend — a party with a few of my clients. We'll see how he handles that."

"A party with your clients. The only 'party' I can imagine with your clients involves guns."

"Actually, that's the whole point. I'll need one of those US Marine guns you shipped in from Camp Dwyer last week."

Moran couldn't hide his startled twitch. "What?"

"Don't think I don't know about your arms smuggling business, Sebastian. Now get me one of those weapons — and the appropriate uniform, in John's size. Make it all black. He'd look better in black than in desert camo. Don't you agree?"

Mycroft allowed himself a moment of satisfaction as the undersecretary for the defence minister made his way out the door. It truly had been a productive meeting. Both men had risen to exactly where they wanted to be, and then contrived to stay there. Minor roles in the British government were just so much more useful than the big flashy in-for-a-few-years-then-out-with-a-change-in-government positions. Mycroft did so appreciate those few others who'd made similar realizations.

"Sir." His substitute assistant entered the office carrying several files in her hands. "The raw data on the import-export company you requested, and the notes for your next meeting, for which the manager's secretary informs me he's ten minutes behind schedule today. You have a few extra minutes before you need to leave."

"Excellent."

She set down only half of the files she was carrying, and then slid a sheet of paper onto the top. "Also, regarding Operation TALENT..." She frowned, and Mycroft's attention sharpened; officially, TALENT had never happened. "The records have been expunged as you directed, but I'd been reviewing the access logs as I was collecting the hard copy prior to incineration. I believe there's a discrepancy."

"What sort of discrepancy?" Mycroft's voice was cool, oiled silk slipping through the night.

His temporary assistant shivered, prey scenting a predator in the wind. "Martens was assigned as shift leader on the second of April, sir, so it would have been reasonable for him to access the TALENT file the morning in question. But at the specific time he was supposed to have accessed the file, we were having a discussion on how not to spill coffee on me. It rather seared its way into my memory, if you will, since it made me late to another meeting."

By the tone of her voice, the other meeting had been less than pleasant. He had no doubt that her supervisor, whoever that was, had spoken to her quite firmly about her tardiness. So her memory of the time and date of the incident in question with Martens was likely to be accurate.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair as he studied his temporary assistant. She'd been trained and prepped to work with him, so she was certainly competent, but this showed the type of sharp intellect that he sought in his assistants. She might be worth watching, even beyond her time in his front office.

"You were gathering that paperwork last week, no?" he asked. "Hasn't it all been destroyed?"

"Yes, sir. But Martens stopped by my desk this morning, sir, to have me sign off on another project's documentation, and that reminded me of the access log I reviewed last Friday, before I had it incinerated. It's not possible that Martens logged into that file when it said he did, sir."

So someone had used Martens' identity to access the TALENT records. Mycroft leaned forward to pick up the page on top of the files. It was divided into two columns of names, all people with Secret-and-higher access.

"I assembled a list of those who could have had access to a level 'Secret' computer that time, sir, both here and remotely," she continued. "I cross-referenced those whom I could verify were both logged in and verifiably at their workstations at the relevant time. Unless someone has found a way around our login requirements — in which case we have other problems, sir — then the people in column B were otherwise occupied." She tapped the relevant column. "This leaves thirty-two possible individuals not otherwise accounted for, listed here in column A."

She put the rest of her files on the desk. Mycroft immediately saw each file corresponded with one of the names in column A. She'd anticipated precisely what he would have requested; he definitely would keep an eye on her.

Curious, he scanned the file tabs, mentally assessing each person. Field agents and spies were terribly useful but equally untrustworthy. It was the bane of the intelligence business, having to deal with them at all, living in a state of constant suspicion and yet being required to actually trust them. The only way to keep them in check was to maintain rigid internal security protocols and to never, ever fully trust any of them.

He paused, extracting one of the files, and flipped it open. Moran, Sebastian. Codename PILOT. His office entry-and-exit log showed he'd reported to work on 2 April at 0742 and left at 1815. He'd most likely had lunch at the cafeteria; most people did, rather than going back through the security checkpoint. There was a list of the times he'd logged into the Secret database, both at his own workstation and at others, throughout the day. He was, in fact, logged in at the time in question.

But what had his temporary assistant said? Not verifiably present at the station where he'd been logged in.

Interesting.

"Let's start by upgrading PILOT to surveillance level Tango. Maximum discretion," he said, and picked up the next file from the stack of suspects. The thought of running thirty-two Tango-level surveillance operations simultaneously on internal asset was enough to give anyone nightmares. He'd have to hire more analysts to assist with managing the data. He had a feeling he was going to drastically exceed his surveillance budget for the coming months, but he'd find a way to bury the costs.

Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Willing himself not to feel his headache was no longer working. The strain of focusing on grainy pictures, bad text, and the glowing laptop screen was finally bad enough to interfere with his concentration. His lack of sleep probably didn't help.

He might well have to steal Mycroft's CAC card again. If he could access the proper MoD database, he could finish this search in a matter of hours. As things stood now, unless he got lucky, he was looking at potentially weeks of manually cross-referencing and searching. And he didn't believe in luck.

Part of the issue was the popularity of the Churchill Club. There were over two thousand names on the membership roster, and while only two hundred and sixty-one of them had appeared on the log Sherlock had printed out, the club was apparently lax about proper recordkeeping. It mixed the visitor's log with reservations for meeting rooms and tables, which meant that some visitors weren't listed on the log at all, and other names on the log belonged to members who might not have even shown up.

Perhaps this required a more direct approach. Unfortunately, even with his acting skills, he'd be hard-pressed to impersonate a military officer, but perhaps he could impersonate Mycroft. It wouldn't be the first time. It was ridiculous how often people didn't even look at the photographs on identification cards.

He heard noise downstairs — Lestrade's familiar knock, followed by Mrs. Hudson answering the door, saving Sherlock the trouble of rising. For once, he hoped Lestrade wasn't bringing him a case. He wasn't certain he could concentrate without something to help him, and he was positive John wouldn't approve if he resorted to cocaine, no matter how tired he was. He did put on a third nicotine patch, judging that to be more acceptable than the cocaine, and waited for Lestrade.

But it was Mrs. Hudson who finally came up the steps, tapping the door to the flat before she pushed it open. "Sherlock? There you are, dear," she said. In her arms, she carried a white plastic takeaway bag that filled the flat with the smell of Chinese food — fried rice, eggrolls, and Mandarin chicken.

"Where's Lestrade?"

"Busy." Her smile took on a sparkling, girlish quality as she brought the bag over to the couch. "He and that pretty Molly just popped by to bring you this." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper as she added, "I think they're going on a date! Isn't that just lovely?"

"Why come here, then?"

"Greg knows you don't eat nearly enough, so you just tuck into this," she said, putting the bag down. "I've got to get back to mine. Wasn't that sweet of them to think of us?"

The question must have been rhetorical. She left before Sherlock could force an answer through the fog of exhaustion that was slowly creeping through his brain. He'd slept a bit after coming home on Sunday, but that had been a brief kip on the couch, and he'd been awake ever since.

He wasn't hungry until the smell really hit him. Much as he hated to distract himself, he did need to eat something and get a little sleep. John would be furious to find him in this state. With a resigned sigh, he untied the bag and pushed it open to reveal not just styrofoam boxes but a small parcel wrapped in brown paper.

Curious, he ripped it open and took out a black leather holster sized perfectly for his illegal pistol. A folded printout was tucked into the springy black metal belt clip: a newspaper article about a street thug who'd carried a pistol in his pocket until he'd managed to shoot himself in the —

Oh, Sherlock thought, wincing. He skimmed the rest of the article, noting that the surgeons hadn't been able to actually repair most of the damage.

He picked up the holster, regarding it thoughtfully. Lestrade hadn't given it to Sherlock to be practical. This wasn't just Lestrade's way of keeping a useful resource safe. It was the type of thing a friend would do. He cared.

Deciding to analyze the odd way he was feeling later, Sherlock picked up his phone and sent Lestrade a quick text. Then he opened the top container, found the chopsticks, and started to eat, turning his attention back to the laptop.

"I feel bad for her, you know?" Lestrade said, conscious of the distance between his leg and Molly's. She could've put the takeaway boxes on the bench seat between them, but she had them on her lap instead, and was sitting only a few inches away — closer than was necessary. "She has to put up with Sherlock all on her own."

"She's very sweet," Molly agreed, turning to smile at him. "So are you."

Lestrade reminded himself that Molly was the type of person to see good in everyone and that he shouldn't read into her compliment too much. Still, there was a hopeful edge to his voice when he said, "You're the one who let him live with you for four days."

"Yes, well... I've always liked him," she said, glancing out the taxi window. "I mean, he's rude almost all the time. Sometimes he's just awful. But he's very smart."

"And you're too nice, putting up with him the way you do."

"You work with him all the time."

"Yeah, but I don't let him get away with... all that much," Lestrade finished hesitantly, considering he'd returned Sherlock's illegal pistol to him last night, after spending almost four hours illegally reviewing CCTV footage.

Shit.

Molly smiled at him again. "You're a good friend."

Before Lestrade could think of a way to get Sherlock out of the conversation, his mobile buzzed. He muttered an apology, hoping it wasn't work, and dug it out of his pocket.

Thank you. -SH

He stared at it, even going so far as to check the phone number to verify that it really was from Sherlock. "You might be right," he said, extending the phone to show Molly the text.

She put her hand over his to tilt the mobile in her direction. "Oh," she said quietly, just as surprised as he was. "See? Even he thinks you are."

"I suppose so," Lestrade said, and managed to put the mobile back in his pocket without letting go of her hand.

Distracting as it was to eat and type at the same time, Sherlock was determined to continue searching until he collapsed from exhaustion. He was already on the sofa, and his bed wasn't currently usable, buried as it was under the plastic-wrapped dry cleaning Mrs. Hudson had brought up earlier. Sherlock couldn't be bothered to hang his suits at the moment, and Mrs. Hudson knew better than to try; she always sorted them incorrectly.

At least he had his search process perfected. Take each name from the Churchill Club's membership roster. Google for any information. If nothing was found, mark the page and move on to the next name. If Google did give any useful information, review. If the information was enough to eliminate the suspect, cross out the name and move to the next. Otherwise, mark for further research. It was mindlessly boring and the type of thing he'd prefer to farm out to someone else, like Lestrade, but it had to be done.

He had finished with the fried rice and started on the Mandarin chicken, in the bottom box, when a Google search of 'Sebastian Moran' pulled up an article in Time magazine, dated eight years ago. Britain's Stealthy War was printed beneath the picture of a man in profile.

A very familiar profile.

Shoving the food aside, Sherlock dug through his papers until he found the printout of the surveillance footage. He put the printed image up next to his screen, comparing the two men. Same nose; same chin. The CCTV had been black and white, so he couldn't confirm eye color or hair color beyond 'light'. Haircut was too easily changed. But still...

It was the same man.

Dropping the photo, Sherlock opened the article.

Major Sebastian Moran never hesitates when tasked with pulling the trigger. The Royal Army veteran has served in 'more locations than I can disclose,' he explained to embedded journalist Brian Mitchell at Prince Sultan Airbase, Saudi Arabia. Major Moran is one of Britain's elite snipers, though these days, his job involves command decisions on a broader scale than a sniper's single target.

'I've been there in the field. I think that gives my men a greater sense of confidence, knowing I've been where they are now.'

Command has come easy to Major Moran, who has been described as a natural leader. When asked if he prefers his desk job, he answered, 'I still keep my hand in. Ask any sniper, and he'll say the same thing: It's in my blood.'

Sherlock leaned back, staring up at the ceiling as he considered his options. He needed more information on Sebastian Moran. He needed to confirm, beyond any doubt, that Moran was his target. He didn't trust instinct — he trusted facts, evidence, and logic.

At least now, he had a place to start. With a name and a description, his Homeless Network could find anyone in London. Meanwhile, he'd make contact with criminals who owed him favors and see precisely how Moran was in competition with John. He doubted it was drugs — John seemed very opposed to that sort of thing, even when chemical stimulation could be useful — but the other possibilities were nearly infinite. Then, once he knew everything there was to know about Sebastian Moran, he'd be able to design the perfect trap.