A/N: Hallo, friends! I do apologize for the delay in sending out this new chapter to you. I've taken on more hours at work, have decided to transfer to a different uni, and I'm an exhausted little mess! BUT! I haven't forgotten this story, and I am still working on it and giving it my very best effort. Never fear! But, I will say that from now on there might be longer time gaps in between chapters. Just so I don't ruin anyone's expectations of *when* I'll be posting. I'm not giving up, friends. This story is almost done, and I'm so excited! Hang in there with me, and we'll see this to the end. I love you all, and thank you for your undying fidelity ;)
Sherlock and John tried to keep the blankets over Rosie's buggy as they raced against a storm down a rural street in central London. Passing a red telephone box on the corner, the trio could see their destination only a few feet ahead.
"It's this one up here, John!" Sherlock screamed, holding the blanket down over the front of the buggy as he ran. John was pushing it through puddles, splashing Sherlock as he did so. The detective was sopping wet, and so was the doctor.
"Could you at least try avoiding the puddles, John?" he asked as a ginormous splash soaked his trousers, shoes, and socks. John grumbled, increasing speed. The flat was in sight.
"You try pushing a buggy in a bloody deluge and tell me how avoiding puddles works for you! God, it hasn't rained this hard in weeks, Sherlock!"
"I know," Sherlock said, as Rosie complained from within. "Almost there, dear Watson. Just a little longer," he said, hushing the child. John could feel her impatiently shaking around inside. He laughed. "Just like Mary," he thought to himself.
"Here we are," Sherlock said, coming to the front door and pounding upon it.
Craig had been Sherlock's ticket out of Mycroft's exasperation. He feared Mycroft's threat to have Irene sent to the Ukrainians. The man could, and he most likely would if he only had confirmation of where she was. However, contrary to his brother's opinion, Sherlock was determined to believe that he could crack this case. He could foil Moriarty's plans just as he had done last time, and he was willing to play dead again for two years if that's what it came to.
As for Eurus, he wasn't sure what to think of his sister…he couldn't be sure why he wasn't doubting her loyalty in the slightest. He felt convinced that she was on his side, even if Mycroft had different opinions.
Only a mere forty-five minutes after he had left the hospital the day before, the British Government had ordered the consulting detective back into his presence, but this time it was without John or Lady Smallwood present.
Naturally, Sherlock played the active participant in the lecture.
"Now, you understand, Sherlock—"
"Oh, for God's sakes, Mycroft, I don't have to understand anything! Let me solve this thing and be done with it. You damn well know I can," he haughtily trumpeted, without the smallest attempt at being modest. He aggressively bit off a chunk of the jammie dodger he was nibbling on.
"I wonder why I feel so inclined to deny you the pleasure? How I'd love to see you brought down a peg or two," he said, his salty words bringing an oddly malicious smile to his lips.
"Mycroft, I know where this ends. Miss Adler is not to blame, and I don't think you realize that."
Mycroft's chapped lips made a clapping sound as they parted, and he announced, "I don't think I ever said she was to blame, did I, Sherlock?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Well, you have a certain way of implying things, whether you mean them or not. Care to enlighten me on your opinion of the matter?"
Mycroft paused for a moment, apparently deciding whether or not to give his brother the opinion he so desperately craved.
"No, I don't think I will. But I will say that after our last meeting, and given the manner of her departure, it has become quite clear in my mind that Miss Adler is not our concern right now. She is the least of my worries. I know that's not true for the both of us, but…"
He eyed Sherlock with a teasing expression whilst the younger huffed.
"Do get on with it, Mycroft. I don't have all day."
The elder brother's mouth bent itself into a forced smile, and he proceeded.
"There was information, Sherlock—"
"Yes…" the detective loudly interrupted, his eyes getting lost in the rooves of their lids. He already knew this. He already knew it so very well.
Mycroft cleared his throat, perturbed at the untimely interruption.
"There was information," he repeated, "on the Wellington brothers' computers. All of it has been erased, as have their personal emails, social media accounts…any and all methods of technological communication and the data that came with them have vanished. Therefore, I would like to kindly make the request that you—"
"—secure the information from a data bank employing the means of a hacker, retrieve a common bit of information from both men's data files, and thereby understand the means through which Moriarty intends to attack London. Jammie dodger?" he asked, handing his brother one of the little pastries.
Mycroft's smile was practically falling apart.
"No, I don't think so," he calmly replied. "Trying to stay off the sweets."
"Hospital food's ruined your diet, hasn't it?"
"That does not concern you, little brother," he said, swallowing uncomfortably and narrowing his funny little eyes. "What does concern you," he hastily continued, "is the fact that you need a hacker. And you need one now. Get one, for God's sake, and don't waste my time."
"I have a hacker. And, to be fair, this was my plan before it was yours."
Mycroft looked unimpressed.
"You amaze me, Sherlock," he anticlimactically droned. "As to whether or not it was my plan first, I will leave unsaid, but as to you already having a hacker…I congratulate you," he said, sighing and lying back down onto the pillows. He seemed to be enjoying his hospital bed. "Lovely how things have turned around. Maybe getting shot wasn't such a bad idea. Gives one time to rest. I ought to do it more often."
"Clearly; next week ought to be fine," Sherlock said, perfectly sincere in his suggestion.
"Make us proud, brother mine," Mycroft chirped with closed eyelids as his younger brother turned on his heel and glided out of the hospital room, his cloak flying as though he were some kind of enormous bat.
"You don't have to beg, Mycroft," he replied, letting a smirk worm its way across his face. He heard his brother's laugh split the sterile air.
"I know I don't. Here there be dragons!" he called, letting a few cold laughs pepper the end of his words. Sherlock almost scowled, but found himself agreeing with his brother. Here there were dragons…and they were practically begging to be slain.
And the dragon slayer's first decision was to consult the right weaponry.
The following morning, through thick sheets of rain and impossible winds, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and little miss Rosie Watson scurried through the streets of London in search of the hacker's dwelling…and a refuge from the storm.
Banging on the man's door, the trio (perhaps excluding the well-shielded child) sighed in relief as it opened hastily.
"Cold out there, eh, Sherlock? Afternoon, John," the hacker greeted, smiling from behind his awfully large spectacles. His hair was as erratic and scraggly as usual.
"Indeed, Craig. How are you?"
"Fine, just fine, thanks; come in, quick! Don't want the little one to catch cold!"
Hoisting the buggy into the house, John ordered Sherlock to hold the door open while Craig took the front end of the buggy. Once inside, John threw off the blankets and rescued his baby daughter from the confining insides of her bassinet.
"How's Toby?" Sherlock asked, looking around for the dog.
Two loud barks echoed from down the hall that led to the kitchen, and Toby bounded into the living room, nearly knocking Sherlock over. John still laughed over seeing his sociopathic companion coddling and playing with a dog.
"Who's a good boy, Toby? Eh? Who's a good boy?" the detective asked, scrunching the dog's ears and face in his hands. Craig laughed and shoved his pudgy hands in his pockets.
"Toby's always ready to help his favorite people," Craig quipped, patting the dog on its large forehead. "But I hear you're here to see me today, eh, Sherlock? Something about lost records was what Doctor Watson said when he was here a few days ago…"
Sherlock jumped up instantly and replied, "Yes, lost records. Right. Two men were killed—brothers, unfortunately. Their computer records, emails, messages, social media accounts: any and all internet connections were deleted. We cannot seem to find anything on them anywhere. They never existed."
Craig grinned, his crooked teeth shining childishly through his chubby cheeks.
"Ah…" he said, his eyes shining with anticipation. "I see where this is going. You should've come sooner, Sherlock. I'll get this sorted straight away."
John now had Rosie out of the buggy and was lying on Toby, who was peacefully (if a bit cautiously) relaxing and eyeing her suspiciously. John made sure she kept her hands off of the beast's bulbous nose.
"And another thing, Craig," Sherlock said, interrupting the man on his way to his computer screens. "There's a common bit of information that was most likely received by both men. If you can find a common message received through both of their emails or messages from a common sender, you must take note of it."
Craig looked intrigued.
"Well what kind of common message is this? Espionage stuff, eh? Then I'm your man!" he asserted, pulling his arm up into a sloppy salute that Sherlock merely laughed at. The tech geek's glasses rested on his thick dimples as he smiled, and he sauntered toward his computer screens jovially.
"Let's see…" he said, powering up his hard drives. "Did these gents have names?" he asked, pulling out a pen and paper.
"Indeed they did," Sherlock replied. "Arthur and John Wellington. I can write down their contact information if that's handy," he said, jotting down social media profiles and email addresses on Craig's pad of notepaper.
"Excellent, Sherlock…excellent," the hacker said, entering passwords on the monitors and waiting for the system to boot itself up. "I can start searching through all the old databases and stuff. There's gotta be something somewhere. Pull up a chair for yourself and Doctor Watson; we can get this sorted in no time. Doctor Watson, I've some bananas in the kitchen for the little one, if you'd like," he added, trying to be helpful.
"Oh, she's good now, thanks," John said. He was watching Rosie fall asleep on Toby, who by now was used to her curiously small infantine presence and warm, odd smelling drool…they were both quite the same in theory.
"Let's see here…" Craig began, jamming code after code into monitors and searching for any kind of material that might lead to the Wellington brothers or their personal accounts.
The three men, the infant, and the dog, were all preoccupied in their own ways for the remainder of the next five hours at the hacker's flat. Rosie fell asleep on Toby's stomach, and Toby himself fell asleep with the little child lying peacefully against him.
John checked his emails most of the time, answered a call from Mycroft (who was asking yet again about the status of the case), and went back and forth between internet tabs and his Twitter.
Sherlock studied Craig's every action, watching as he punched the keyboard and entered codes into the systems he was using. Although a genius of deduction, Sherlock was quite dumb when it came to the subject of hacking and computer science. He considered it a science that made one mentally fat. The computer did all the work for you, and your mind was left to take the backseat. But, then again…computers really did come in handy for certain things. Their situation seemed to be the exact "certain thing" inferred.
Night fell, and as the darkness enveloped the little room, they had to switch the lamps on. Rosie grew fussy after waking up on a sleeping Toby, and John insisted on taking her home. Sherlock urged him to do so, but was quite decided on the fact that he would stay on with Craig until this entire business was solved. The poor hacker's blubbery fingers were growing tired every minute, but he was determined to assist Sherlock and earn the five thousand quid he'd been promised by the British Government.
Midnight came and went. Sherlock fell asleep on Craig's sofa while the screens still lit up the madman's face. His eyes were red, and his glasses had slid down to stand on the edge of his nose. Toby had long since gone to sleep by the fireplace.
…
"Sherlock? Sherlock…?"
Craig was standing over the detective, apparently having poked him on the cheek a few times to see if he were living or dead. Sherlock stood up as the sun streamed into his eyes and spilled lazily onto the living room floor.
"Did you—did you get something? Did something come up? Have you got a lead, Craig?" he asked, almost drunkenly as he floundered from the sofa over to the computer screens. He could hear the techie sigh as his own excitement mounted.
His heart dropped.
"Nothing…yet, Sherlock," he said, straightening his glasses and trying to smooth down his wild, fuzzy hair.
"Nothing?" Sherlock asked, looking at the screens in disbelief. "I don't understand. I…I was so certain…"
"There's no giving up, Sherlock!" Craig asserted, squeezing himself between the detective and his desk in a successful attempt to settle himself into his chair.
"I'm going…to keep looking, and you'll be the first to hear if anything comes up. I promise, Sherlock. Deleted data always goes somewhere. I can find it, I know I can. I just need some time, is all."
Sherlock was still too sleepy to respond or rebuttal properly, so he promptly decided that the best thing to do was to retreat to Baker Street, catch a long nap, and call Craig again as soon as he woke up.
