Tinderbox
Chapter 12: Teasing the Ferryman
"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us."
"And I to your long life."
-Edgar Allan Poe
Later that afternoon, in front of the Mongoose, old men sat playing chess; young men sat and drank. Sherlock, finally comfortable in his regular clothes, trimmed hair and-Ah!-overcoat, approached a chess game between Pavlov, who according to Mycroft, whispering deep in Sherlock's ear, ran guns through Eastern Europe to gangs in Africa and Ivan, who had a smuggling business in South American and, it was believed, had used Gustav Moran twice in the last month. When Pavlov moved his knight, Sherlock snorted. "That was stupid. It was mate in four."
Pavlov looked up slowly and stared at Sherlock, who stared back. Pavlov smiled. "Ah. You know this? Please, show me. I learn from you." Sherlock obliged. Around them, the young men's conversations died.
Knocking over Ivan's king with a neat backhanded flick, Sherlock returned the pieces to their original places. "Now it's mate in six for him-" pointing at Ivan "-if he's clever enough to see it." He stood and walked slowly away. Behind him, he could hear the young men pushing chairs back and gathering themselves together. Good.
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At the warehouse, the double doors were open and police were everywhere. Molly and John stood with Detective Inspector Lestrade as Muriel and Elaina were led out in handcuffs. Lestrade shook his head, "So he's back. Should have known he wouldn't stay dead long. Where is he now?"
John answered, "He's running an errand. We've been assured he safe as houses." Molly nodded.
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Followed by four henchmen, Sherlock was entering an indeterminate part of town. Three buildings were of particular interest: A squat eight story office block built eighty years ago, currently undergoing renovations; next to that, a newly built but already crumbling residential tower block that, as Sherlock had discovered, contained a precious secret; and, across the street from the office block, Victorian block of mansion flats which he entered. Going to a specific flat on the third story, he opened the window and leaned out, attracting the attention of the henchmen standing obtrusively on the street, all of whom began speaking on their mobiles. Smiling, Sherlock pulled in and drew the blind.
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In a comfortable pub, serving warm, simple food, John and Molly were laughing. In front of them were empty plates and half empty pints; John was making quite a hit: "-so there I was, toast in hand. I opened the butter dish and-Oh, God!"
"What?" Molly grinned in anticipation.
"Two cut off fingers like this-" He demonstrated the sign for 'up yours' "-on the dish!"
"Oh, no!" Molly leaned over weakly, giggling, "Not just fingers, but rude fingers in your butter!" After a few seconds, she wiped her eyes. "Did he ever leave footprints on the counters?"
"Yes-"
"-and on the wall?"
"Yes!"
"What was he doing?"
John shook his head. "No idea. I never caught him at it. Once they showed up on the ceiling, and I asked him. I said, 'Sherlock. What is this? Are you trying to be spider man?' He said, 'Of course not.' And went on his way."
"Yes! The way he says those things: 'Of course.' 'Obviously.' 'Simplicity itself.'" Molly started giggling again.
"Or just looks at you." John did his best imitation, causing Molly to dissolve completely.
When they had both recovered a bit, Molly shook her head. "He's the most interesting flat mate I've ever had."
"Yes."
"So he'll be moving out soon, will you be back in with him right away?" John was silent. After a moment, Molly glanced at him. "Oh, I didn't mean to pry-"
"How sad will you be when he goes?"
John watched as she considered her response. Twice, she seemed poised to say something, but held her tongue. Finally, with a tight smile, "He'll be happy to go. Quite happy."
John returned her smile. He understood. "As for my plans, to be honest, I'm not certain. I'll have to think about it." Molly tried to hide her surprise, and John took a sip of beer. "Now," leaning forward, "how is it he ended up with you?"
"Well," she recollected, "it was either out of the country, in a safe house with an agent-that was Mycroft's favorite-or me and my sofa guest bed."
John's eyes lit. "He sleeps on the sofa?"
"Of course." She drank, not meeting his eye.
Smiling disarmingly, "Ah. Hard to imagine little Lord Fauntleroy roughing it on a sofa."
Molly appeared about to laugh but was suddenly somber. She took a deep breath- "Well, he scarcely touched it the first two weeks."
"Why?"
"According to Mycroft, he was following you, obsessively. I think that's why he didn't leave the country. I wouldn't be surprised if he had broken into your flat and watched you sleep." She glanced away and said in a low voice, "He has…personal interest."
"He followed me?" John sat back, contemplating. "Me? He was watching me?"
"He stopped about a month ago. He probably has continued a bit, but not nearly as obsessively. You must have been doing better."
John reflected. "I never…never saw…"
"You wouldn't-" Suddenly both mobiles gave a text alarm: 213 Swanson quickly–SH.
John sighed. She was a decent sort; this had been good. He smiled at her. "Glad we got a meal in."
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Gustav was on the street, waiting. He was familiar with this area; had done a job not far from here. The site was selected and an entryway prepared; it was merely a matter of locating the target.
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The sun had set thirty minutes before and the glow was leaving the sky. As Molly and John approached the office block, John's text alarm rang, and he glanced down. "He's asking if we're here." He texted back, and another alarm rang immediately. "We are to watch the third floor of the Victorian, eighth window from the right." Both looked up intently.
Molly spotted Sherlock's head first. As they watched, he peered down then pulled in, his silhouette loosely defined behind the blind. He bent out of sight for a second; when his shadow reappeared, he was holding what appeared to be a television remote, which he pointed forward.
"And he's watching telly." John sighed for the second time that night. "Shall we go up?" His text alarm rang again. "We are to stay here, he will join us."
In the entryway of the Victorian, a stooped old man in black wool emerged and, leaning heavily on a cane, slowly made his way across the street. When he reached them, he bumped into John, startling him. "Pardon?" The man caught his eye and grinned-Sherlock.
"Follow me." Sherlock led them to the tower block. Around the back, he picked a service door and all ducked inside to the basement laundry room. Sherlock made short work of his disguise: Wig, hat, gloves and false nose; then led them down a dark passageway.
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The tower block and the office block next door had extensive basements: Corridors stretching in all directions. While it was never intended that the buildings would be connected, Sherlock had discovered, through Mycroft's blueprints, that the warrens came within centimeters of each other: The thin wall between the closest tunnels had actually been breached by natural settling or an enthusiastic rat. Mycroft was unaware of this breach; Sherlock had chosen not to enlighten him.
Taking a torch from his coat, Sherlock led John and Molly through one labyrinth and into another, ending in the abandoned basement mailroom of the office block. Mycroft's webcams were placed in the entryways, stairwells and the top three stories of the office block; the other stories were patrolled every fifteen minutes: The stairwells were out as a means to reach the higher stories. But the dumbwaiter, which had fallen into disuse, was not. The shaft openings into each floor's utility rooms were hidden by vent covers fastened by screws that easily pulled from the rotten plaster. Earlier that afternoon, Sherlock had located the mailroom, and ascertained that the dumbwaiter car was operational; it was simplicity itself to lead Molly and John in and pull them up. In fact, the biggest challenge was getting everyone off the lift and returning it down without drawing the attention of the patrol guard: The brake had been disabled years ago.
They exited on the fifth floor and walked silently past the tarp covered tools and materials in the dark corridor to a carefully selected office with one window, the only source of light, facing the Victorian; specifically, facing the silhouette of Sherlock watching television, changing the channels, crossing his legs, etc. John turned to Sherlock and whispered, "If you are here, who is that?"
"It isn't real; a high tech manikin, designed-" Suddenly, there was a thump at the door and the sound of the doorknob turning. Molly, John and Sherlock scurried to one side and stood in the shadow against the wall. The door opened, and, carrying his equipment bag, Gustav Moran entered, strode to the window and gazed out. Nodding, he knelt and unzipped his bag, taking out his rifle, tripod, and scope.
There was nothing on Sherlock's earpiece; Mycroft was unaware. How had Moran gotten here undetected? Frantically, Sherlock went over the path they had taken underground: No other footprints, no bricks out of place at the breach; so not that way. He peered through the darkness: Moran had dust, plaster dust, on his legs and upper arms. On his shoes, light brown patches: Dried mud. Everything around here was paved: Sewage pipe? The ones feeding from here would be disused due to the renovation. Okay, so that was most likely how he had entered; how did he get here? Plaster dust. Ventilation system? They had been retro fitting one as part of the renovation. But Moran was not a climber; he could not have come that way. The dumbwaiter. He must have used it to reach the top story, then the ventilation openings to make his way down until he came here-no webcams-using the renovation debris as cover. Okay. So Moran was working his way down while they were coming up: He didn't know they were there; as long as they made no noise, they had the advantage of surprise.
A tremor at his side caused Sherlock to glance over: Molly was rigid, not breathing. Oh. Must- He slowly reached for her elbow. When he made contact, Molly startled and inhaled silently. Good. Sherlock ran his fingers down her arm to her hand. It was clenched, but relaxed when he covered it with his. He glanced at Moran, now fitting his scope into his rifle. Slowly, Sherlock lifted Molly's hand to his mouth, and kissed her first knuckle silently, his eyes on her all the while.
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What? Oh. Distracting again-good. Need it. Breathe-quietly!-breathe. Must be calm, think. Please, don't let go. Not-
Pfft! Moran was firing out the window. Pfft! Molly flinched, despite the lack of rifle reports. Releasing her hand, Sherlock drew a pistol and signaled for John to walk with him. They crossed silently behind Moran, scanning the flat with his scope, and Sherlock lifted the pistol to Moran's head. As he cocked it, Moran froze; Sherlock ordered, "Put your hands behind your head."
Through the dim light, Molly could see Moran's hand as it moved ever so slowly-What did he have? Between his thumb and forefinger-! Oh, God-"Knife!"
John flew into Moran, knocking him towards Molly. Throwing John into Sherlock, Moran rolled into a crouch, drawing back his knife hand. Instinctively, Molly struck it with a snap kick, sending the knife flying. Moran leapt to his feet and pounded out of the room.
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Get him! Go! Go! Sherlock bounded up and ran after Moran, down the corridor, around the corner: The utility room door- Closing-! Sherlock dashed-
"Halt! On your knees! Hands up!" The officer had come running around the corner, his torch and pistol trained on them. "Drop it! Drop it now!"
"He's getting away!" Releasing his pistol, Sherlock sank to his knees.
"Unit five: Request for backup, three intruders-"
"Tell them Sherlock Holmes wants help!" The officer trained his torch directly on Sherlock's face. "That's right! Sherlock Holmes! You may know my brother!"
"Sorry, sir." The officer holstered his pistol. Sherlock jumped and tried the door. Locked!
"The key!"
"Yes sir." When the door was opened, Sherlock rushed in, turning on his torch. Moran was not there. The vent was off the dumbwaiter shaft opening; there was a shelving unit with tools and renovation materials; a doorless, shallow closet holding a few overalls and workmen's shoes and boots; and, under an Emergency Exit sign, a window, wide open.
The four ran to the window. It overlooked the fire escape; five feet away was the fire escape of the tower block next door. No one was in sight.
The officer spoke into his radio. "Unit five requesting assistance. Suspect escaped down the fire escape. Currently believed to be in the alley or in the tower block adjacent." The sound of running footsteps and the flashes of torches came from the corridor behind them as officers responded to the earlier request for backup. Someone lit a floodlight, illuminating the room.
"No." said Sherlock, staring out the window.
"It's all right Sherlock." John lay his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sometimes they get away."
"John, he didn't. He didn't go that way."
"Down the dumbwaiter?"
"The brake was broken, he would have had to pull it up. He didn't have time."
"Then he went out the window. Sherlock-"
"No! I-"Sherlock broke off. Molly was staring at the floor of the closet, specifically at one dark pair of shoes tucked behind the others. She was pale.
Sherlock stepped to her, took her hand and stood with her, watching the closet. "You're right John. He must have gone out window." It was faint; a tiny sigh from a diaphragm that moved the overalls so very slightly. With a slow turn of his head, Sherlock peered in: Yes, the closet extended beyond its opening. Bending, he could just see- "John? Did you know it occurred to me that we could have gone onto the fire escape next door and jumped over here?"
"Did it?"
"Yes. Do you know why I didn't choose that method of entrance?"
"Because jumping around in high places is reckless and idiotic?"
What-? "No. Because it would have made far too much noise. When we were in the corridor just now, did you hear the sound of a large man running down a steel fire escape, or jumping onto one?" Sherlock signaled for the officers to train their weapons on the closet.
"I did not."
"Do you know what is reckless and idiotic?" Sherlock met Molly's eye and nodded for her to join John, then stepped to the floodlight.
"What?" John and Molly withdrew to the corridor.
"Leaving your legs in a closet." He directed the flood to the far side of the closet: Four inches of Moran's dark clad legs revealed above a pair of boots.
"Right!" screamed the officer. "Out! With your hands up!"
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Ten minutes later, they were back in the office, now blissfully lit with floodlights and filled with police. Molly and John were watching: Molly had a blanket and was drinking something hot; John was savoring the scene. He had missed this part. When Sherlock joined them, John asked, "So, did he actually shoot anyone?"
"No. It was a manikin with special heat emitters designed to fool the thermal scope. After Moran had been spotted in the area, I looked out the window to establish my location to him and you, sat in the chair and bent down, supposedly to get the remote. When I did that, I actually slipped out of the chair and behind a heat blocking blanket held by an agent in a heat blocking suit, and I was replaced by the manikin. I left the flat, put on the old man disguise and came across the street to you."
"So it was a dummy. But it moved! I saw it move." John glanced at Molly, who nodded.
"Of course it was moving, no one sits perfectly still, even watching the most inane television. The figure was basically a marionette with men controlling the arms and legs, from a distance of course." Sherlock looked out the window. "Here, they are taking it out."
On the ground, Mycroft was supervising the removal of the manikin: A crash-test dummy covered in dull black material with two large holes in its head. Mycroft glared up at their office window.
"Perhaps we should take our leave now; I had been asked to stay in the Victorian." Sherlock started to guide them both to the door. "John, have you considered taking Turbo Kick Boxing?"