Chapter 25

John frowned at the small, black USB drive in Sherlock's hand. Miller had run off, and it hadn't been worth it to run after him, not when there was a chance he would bring the former lieutenant in danger by doing so. But the message he had left was far from clear.

"CAM?" John read the white letters on the drive, giving Sherlock a questioning look.

"An acronym," Sherlock said, examining it. "We need to get this home so I can find out what is on it."

John nodded, thinking. "Why would Moriarty want to give you information?"

"To get me into trouble," Sherlock said, hailing a cab for them. "To get me to come out and play."

John studied Sherlock's face for a moment. It was like he was trying to stay neutral, but there was a glimmer in his eyes that told John enough. "You're actually glad he's back," he said flatly.

Sherlock looked at him, frowning. "No," he said. "I mean... I'm not displeased that we finally have something to do. Something that just might prove to be a worthwhile challenge."

"Hm," John said shortly. "As much as I like to help you with your work, I do hope that this will be over soon and without any more people getting hurt."

"I doubt that our involvement will get more people hurt than if we just backed off," Sherlock said, twirling the USB between his fingers.

"Probably," John said with a tilt of his head. "I had just hoped that we had saved Bellinger. And now he got hurt and someone else went down with him, someone with a family. You'd think Moriarty gets bored of causing other people pain, but..." He shook his head.

"I think that a bored Moriarty is the last thing we want," Sherlock said, smiling a little.

...

Back in Baker Street, they didn't waste any time. John snatched his laptop from the table and handed it to Sherlock, who inserted the drive.

There was only one folder on the USB. Sherlock opened it at once and gasped as he saw his brother's name in the title of at least half the documents. He skimmed through the first ten, growing increasingly tense.

"What's all that? John asked, quickly despairing of catching anything but a fleeting glimpse before Sherlock moved on to the next page.

"Seems like Moriarty has not given up yet," he said. "Apparently Jenny Smith wasn't the only one who could tie my brother to the failed assassination of Bellinger."

He got to his feet and began pacing.

John seized the chance to have a closer look at some of the documents Sherlock had left open on the laptop. It was a jumble of police reports, email exchanges and articles from different news sites.

Yet he didn't quite see the connection to Mycroft, other than the fact that his name was on the names of the documents. His eyes fell on one named 'Let's Play', that Sherlock hadn't opened yet. He clicked on it and got a blank place with a single link at the top.

"Sherlock..." he called. "I think you better come have a look at this."

Sherlock hesitated but then clicked it. The browser opened onto a page that was completely black except for the red numbers in the middle, counting down.

"It seems…" Sherlock said hesitantly, "that we are working within a deadline of some kind…"

…

While John had something to eat, Sherlock got to work. Getting out all the extra laptops plus 'borrowing' Mrs Hudson's while she was out, he studied and cross-referenced the many documents. After almost an hour of silence, he jumped to his feet.

"What is it?" John asked, rushing over. "Have you found out what he's got on Mycroft now?"

"Not exactly," Sherlock said, his eyes glistening as they moved from screen to screen. "But I know who does."

John waited, but when it became obvious Sherlock wasn't going to continue he sighed and asked: "Who?"

"Magnussen," Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose in apparent disgust.

"Who?" John repeated, torn between feeling stupid and annoyed.

"Charles Augustus Magnussen," Sherlock said, pointing to the corner on one of the articles. "Owner of every single one of the news sites these articles were published on."

"C.A.M. Of course," John said, glancing at the letters on the drive, expecting a rude interruption at any time. "So… Magnussen is the one who knows something about Mycroft's involvement in the death of the Forrestals." He glanced back at the articles. "But… This has got nothing to do with any of that. It's just some… dirt… about people who are either working for or with the government."

"As are most of the other stories," Sherlock said. "That is how Magnussen works. Find out what people don't want others to know and then either print it or use it to pressure them into giving him new information that is either worse or about someone more influential. He's got his fingers in everyone and everything that is worth influencing in most of the Western world and probably beyond."

"So how can we stop him from publishing the story about Mycroft?" John asked.

"I'm not sure that's Magnussen's plan," Sherlock said. "Getting a hold on Mycroft will be worth much more to him than the sales a scandal would produce. My brother is, after all, more powerful than known. To the tabloid buying public, at least." He closed his eyes for a moment. "As much as the thought repels me, Magnussen would probably not use such information for any real malice. At least not at this point in time. But if Moriarty gets his hands on concrete proof, we could be in very grave trouble. All of us."

John nodded slowly. "What do you think he's got planned when that timer reaches zero?"

Sherlock shook his head. "We cannot know yet," he said. "Not before we know what he hopes to achieve by giving us all this information."

He skimmed the documents again, then got up from his chair and threw himself on his back on the sofa. For a moment, John kept looking at the familiar frame of the incredibly long, perfect fingers steepled under Sherlock's chin. The detective always made quite a sight when he was lying with his head thrown back like that. But then John quickly shook his head and went to find an occupation more useful than staring at his flatmate.

Hours later, Sherlock opened his eyes. "Tea…" he snapped, jumping to his feet, before adding a belated: "Please," as he rushed to the computer.

John rolled his eyes and got up from his chair with a groan.

"Please be there…" Sherlock muttered as he began typing. "Please be there." Then he cried out in triumph and leaned back in the chair. "Yes! Thank you, James…" he exclaimed.

John looked back from the kitchen, while still holding the two empty cups. He had thought that Sherlock had adapted to calling the criminal Moriarty, but now another 'James' had slipped through while Sherlock was caught up in his thought process. It both worried and bothered John. And Sherlock was actually thanking Moriarty, while Mycroft's career and probably all of their lives were at stake. Even Sherlock had to realise that this wasn't the moment to admire the man who had abused and humiliated him. That, however clever he was being, that was never appropriate. And certainly not while John was listening, knowing that he was the one who had to come to the rescue in the end. Who actually cared.

"What are you doing?" John asked, frowning.

"Mycroft's files. The ones James got for me," Sherlock said. "I need to check something."

"Yeah, I got that much," John said, rolling his eyes as he put down the cups. "What?"

"The names. In the articles," Sherlock explained. "I knew I'd seen them somewhere before. Together." He pointed. "Here. Most of the record from this meeting has been scrambled, but look at the list of who was attending. Every single person Magnussen humiliated in those articles was there. And my brother. And… Oh…"

John gave him a questioning look.

"This one," Sherlock said, pointing at a name. "She's not in any of the articles." He frowned. "Lady Smallwood... What do we know about her...?" He leaned back and closed his eyes.

John shrugged. "The name vaguely rings a bell, but..."

"She's an mp. And heading some kind of inquiry at the moment. Mycroft worked with her last year," Sherlock said. "But why would Magnussen leave her alone? Surely there must have been dirt to dig up on her too."

"So Moriarty has something worse," John nodded.

Sherlock frowned. "Or... Magnussen has something on her, but is using it to get... something on Mycroft!" He jumped to his feet. "And Moriarty wants in on it..."

"But he doesn't seem the type to work together with someone," John said. "He must have planned something. Maybe that's what the timer is about..."

"Who says they're working together...?" Sherlock opened the tab with the timer again. "This..." he said, clenching his hand into a fist, "must be the time Magnussen has given Lady Smallwood before he makes her secret public. Which means, that it is probably also the time Mycroft has left before Magnussen gets his hand on some kind of proof that he was behind the attempted assassination of Bellinger."

"So what do we do?" John asked. "If it's big enough to be a pressure point, Lady Smallwood won't let us convince her to just not tell Moriarty."

"We go to Magnussen," Sherlock said. "I don't think it will be in his interest to let Moriarty get his hands on the proof, whatever it is. They can't both pressure Mycroft with the same thing." He glanced at the timer. "We shouldn't waste any time. Let's go."

"But... What are we going to do?" John said, grabbing his jacket.

"Drop by Magnussen's office," Sherlock said. "I'm sure I can get us in. Somehow."

…

"Wow… Sherlock Holmes? I've heard about you. You're that super-detective, right?"

John had to focus very hard on not rolling his eyes. The attractive, dark-haired girl in Magnussen's front office could as well have thrown herself right at Sherlock without being any more obvious, but of course Sherlock didn't even seem to notice that she was mentally taking off his clothes.

"Is Magnussen in?" the detective asked, flashing her one of his brilliant, but insincere, smiles.

She blinked for a moment before answering, apparently having arrived at his underwear just before he launched the question.

"Uhm… Yes…" she said, glancing at the screen. "He is, after all, expecting you, Mr Holmes."

"Oh…" Sherlock frowned and then walked around her desk to look at the screen. His smile stiffened. "Yes. Of course."

John gave Sherlock a confused look, but then smiled at the girl. "Can we just go right in?" he asked.

She nodded, not taking her eyes off Sherlock. "Sure… Go right ahead."

John followed his friend, trying to shake the annoyance at the girl. She reminded him a little of James, with the Irish lilt in her speech and the way she hardly acknowledged him while Sherlock was around.

But as soon as Sherlock opened the door, all thoughts of that were gone.

Charles Augustus Magnussen was kneeling in the middle of his office, his hands folded behind his head. And before him, near the window, stood Sebastian Moran with a gun aimed at Magnussen's head.