Chapter 31: The Puzzle Around The Puzzle
It was already beginning to get dark, when John and Sherlock finally arrived at 221B Baker Street. The detective took his coat and threw it on the sofa. John, always the tidy one, took it and hung it on Sherlock's bedroom door. When he walked back in the living room, the detective was slumped in his chair, cough after cough torturing his aching body.
"Jesus Sherlock, that doesn't sound good to me. You should go back to the hospital."
The detective tried to suppress the cough and raised a hand, "I'm okay. Just getting rid of the dust from Old Castle Street."
"You didn't cough in front of Moriarty," the blogger said.
"Well of course I didn't. Imagine if he would have found out that I'm not healthy at the moment. We need to be very careful."
"So, you just suppressed the coughs? I mean, I was in that state, too but I never would have been able to stop myself from coughing."
"It's just training John," the detective replied with an innocent look on his face.
"Like your eating disorder?" John couldn't suppress this comment.
"I don't have an eating disorder, my friend. All I do is control my needs."
The blogger looked at Sherlock, shrugging his shoulders.
"I will take a shower now and change my clothes," John said. Didn't realize how dirty I got myself at Moriarty's flat."
"You vomited on the carpet. I told you not to do it," the detective replied dryly.
"Next time I will rub peppermint oil under my nose," John said and went to the bathroom.
Sherlock could hear the shower and for the first time he was glad to have a few minutes alone. He needed to think. There were two Moriartys. One of them was already buried, but no one knew where. There was another question haunting his mind though. Which of the two Moriartys was the one meeting his sister as a child? And was the one Moriarty really called Tim? He doubted it. Grabbing his violin, he started to play while structuring all the information he had gotten so far.
Meanwhile John Watson was standing under the shower thinking, too. He always thought, that nothing could surpass the Culverton Smith case but with the return of Moriarty, things had changed. What Sherlock said was indeed true. It didn't matter which step he took, his archenemy was always one step ahead of him. This was something which bothered John the most. He was worried that he couldn't protect the detective enough. When he first met Mycroft Holmes, he had to promise that he would look after Sherlock. He always did but now he was afraid he might not be able to keep it. The warm water was still running down his body, when he felt the panic rising. What would he do if Moriarty succeeded with his plan and his best friend got killed? How would Mycroft react and worst of all, how would he be able to cope with that loss? When Mary died, he started to drink on a regular basis but when Sherlock jumped from St. Barth's he didn't, because deep in his heart he still believed that the great detective was still alive. He turned off the hot water and sighed. Most of their cases were dangerous. It was a risk he was willing to take. But with Moriarty, they had an enemy which was unpredictable and of course brilliant in mind. The doctor stepped out of the shower, put the towel around his waist and walked back into the living room. He was surprised to find the detective asleep. He's far away from being fine, the doctor recognized. Sherlock must have been able to read his mind.
"You don't have to worry about me. I am just exhausted, that's all," he mumbled.
"That's what worries me the most."
Sherlock opened his eyes and grinned, "Do you have plans for tonight or why are you standing there wrapped up in a towel?"
"It's not what it looks like to you, you cock. I am standing here because I am worried. If you need sex then go outside and find a woman."
The detective grinned even more now.
"Or a man," John added.
Still smiling.
"Or whatever you prefer," the blogger replied defeated.
"I was just teasing you, that's all. I know that you are worried about me, but you don't have to be. Moriarty might be a genius but let's face the truth, he is just human like you and me."
"Let's hope you are right," John whispered and let himself sink into his armchair.
"The finger is something that bothers me more at the moment," Sherlock broke the silence.
"Why is that?"
"Just think. Why would a man like Moriarty hide a finger in a drainpipe? It's not his style. Look at this man and his clothes. And also remember the smell. Why would he live with a rotten finger in his flat?"
John felt his bile rising again, "Please, don't remind me of the smell. I am getting sick again."
"You are a doctor. I thought you were used to it," the detective said dryly.
"I am. Well, most of the time. Sometimes it happens that I get sick."
"Saw that. You ruined his carpet."
"Last time you were sick, you splattered not only your bed but the wall, too. So, stop teasing me, please."
Both men remained silent for a few minutes. Sherlock was the first to speak, "We are running in circles, John."
The blogger looked up, "What do you mean?"
The detective was trembling with his fingers on the armrest. "Now that we solved one puzzle, another one appears. Is this really just a coincidence?"
"Good question. I guess it's not."
"Moriarty and the finger are connected. But how? That's what I need to find out," Sherlock whispered and crossed his arms. A few minutes passed, when the two men heard footsteps outside.
"I guess you are going to have a visitor now, John. If you don't mind, I would prefer to stay in my bedroom. I need to think some things over," the detective said and left.
While he was sitting on his bed, Sherlock could hear Sheila and Rosie talking to his best friend. He smiled and grabbed his laptop. Molly had given him the hint, that the finger was amputated six months ago. He decided to take a shower first and then search the internet for missing persons.
Fifteen minutes later the detective sat with his blue morning dress on the bed again, his laptop on his legs. He hacked himself into the database of Scotland Yard and started his search for missing males. Scrolling down the hundreds of names, Sherlock assumed that Moriarty would never keep a finger of a normal person. Only five people caught the detective's eye:
Marco Rodriguez, 45, one of the most dangerous drug dealers around London
Vitali Popow, 51, best known for hacking into international security systems
Ismael Kirsch, 37, develops computer software for people like Moriarty
Mustafa Yildirim, 42, seems to have connections to Al Qaida
Johannes Horn, 28, developed a very deadly neurotoxin
Five people and all of them disappeared around six months ago. Sherlock doubted that it was a coincidence, so he concentrated on their names. Scotland Yard had not much information for him, so he took his mobile and dialed Mycroft's number.
"Calling me this late Sherlock? Are you in trouble again? I was told you discharged yourself today."
"Don't worry. I know what I'm doing. Listen, I need your help."
"As long as it helps to catch Moriarty, I am on your side," Mycroft replied yawning.
"If now is not the right time, I can call you tomorrow in the morning," Sherlock offered.
"No, it's just fine. It was kind of a busy week."
"Is there any trouble with the government?"
"As always. But I am getting older, Sherlock. Can't ignore it."
"Stop smoking and you feel better in a week," the younger Holmes said with a grin on his face.
"Now back to the topic little brother. Why are you calling me?"
"I need information."
"That's a good one Sherlock. Be more precise please. Otherwise, I can't help you."
"I will send you five names in a minute. I need everything you have and I really mean it."
"You can give me those names right on the phone here, brother mine. Let's save time," the older Holmes offered and Sherlock could hear paper and pen placed on a desk. "Shoot, I'm ready."
"Marco Rodriguez, Vitali Popow, Ismael Kirsch, Mustafa Yildirim and Johannes Horn."
There was a pause at the end of the line. The detective could hear his brother thinking. If Mycroft stayed quiet, it was always the sign that the older Holmes knew something.
"Vitali Popow? I know that name."
"You do?"
"Sure. He was the one hacking in our computer system. A very talented man, unfortunately working for the wrong side," Mycroft informed.
"When was the last time you heard of that man?"
"Must have been six months ago. He tried to hack the hospital security system but we were able to prevent it."
Sherlock held his breath.
"You still there?" a worried Mycroft Holmes asked.
"Why would someone try to hack the security system of a hospital?"
"Oh, we are not talking of one. He tried to hack them all at once," the older Holmes corrected.
"It doesn't make any sense to me right now. I need all the information as possible. There has to be something, I'm sure of it."
"I will do my very best to help you. Give me some time, I have to call a few people to get this information," Mycroft begged.
"Sure, just send the files as soon as you get them."
Sherlock ended the call, sat upright in his bed, arms crossed, the laptop still on his legs. He was thinking. While not knowing the real name of Tim Moriarty, he doubted he would find any clue as who the man really has been. All that was left of Tim was burned to ashes after the autopsy. Another round of coughs followed, taking the last bit of strength from him. He lost the battle to stay awake and when he slowly dripped to unconsciousness, the laptop loosened from his grip and fell to the ground.
John and Sheila were still sitting in the living room, sitting on the sofa and smiling at each other. Although the doctor was always busy and had not much time for the young paramedic, she still loved him. The rare moments both shared were always full of love and trust for each other.
"You know what? When this case you're working on with Sherlock is over, we'll go on vacation. I think Rosie would love to visit Italy or Spain or whatever place you would like to go," Sheila whispered in his ear. John smiled at her, "Sounds like a plan to me. Just we three as a family."
The coughs from Sherlock silenced both at the same time.
"Do you think we can leave him alone?" she asked worried.
"You know Sherlock. He's a grown-up man. I'm sure he will survive," John giggled.
There was a loud thump from the bedroom and John immediately jumped up.
"What was that?" Sheila asked worried.
"It's coming from Sherlock's room. I should have checked on him before he left," John said alarmed and ran to the bedroom. He knocked a few times, before slowly opening the door. "Sherlock?" There was no response, so the doctor stepped inside and slowly made his way to the detective's bed. Sherlock looked awful. He was pale, sweating and his breathing didn't sound good either. When John touched his friend's forehead, it was warm to the touch. Sighing, he looked to the ground, where the laptop had fallen. He grabbed it and looked at the notes, which Sherlock had written down. The blogger decided to take a closer look at them later and returned to the living room. When he put the laptop on his writing desk, Sheila instantly saw the worried look on her lover's face.
"What's wrong?" she asked alarmed.
"His pneumonia is getting worse again. Everyone told him to stay in the hospital but he was so obsessed with Moriarty, that he didn't care as always."
"So, what is your plan? Call an ambulance?" Sheila wanted to know.
"No chance I will do this. Sherlock would feel betrayed and he has gone through too much the last months," John replied calm.
The young paramedic looked at John and instantly knew, what he was up to. "Oh, now I know what you have in mind. You want to take care of him here."
The doctor tried to avoid her gaze. Sheila saw it and just smiled. She stood up and touched his shoulder, "Listen John, I'm not angry at you. I know how much you two need each other. If you need help, just let me know. We can look after Sherlock together."
John looked at her, "You are busy enough at work. I don't want you to spend your free time here with a stubborn and ill detective."
"Hey, you know I saw how vulnerable he is. I treated him after his fall and to me it's still a miracle, how he survived. If you think, Sherlock needs his own bed to recover then let it be. I am here to help you as well as I can and Rosie can spend some time with her father, too."
John looked to the ground and sighed, "Sometimes I'm asking myself why I'm doing this."
"Because you know that he isn't as strong as he pretends to be," she said with a smile.
The doctor grabbed his mobile phone and dialed Mycroft's number.
Mycroft Holmes was sitting in his office, when his phone rang. When he looked at the caller, he tried to press the speaker button, his hands still in a cast.
"First Sherlock and now you Dr. Watson. How can I help you?"
"I need your help. Can you supply me with some medical equipment?" There was something alarming in John's voice.
"What's wrong with my brother?" the older Holmes asked alarmed.
"His pneumonia is getting worse again. I thought it was under control, but turns out it isn't."
"I will call an ambulance and make sure he's getting treatment," Mycroft immediately offered.
"No hospital. He would escape again and I think it's safer to keep him at home. Therefore, I need antibiotics, infusions, oxygen, a heart monitor and oximeter. I can't get these things without your help," John informed.
The older Holmes was staring at the mobile.
"You still there?" the voice of John disturbing his thoughts.
"What? Oh, yes. Sorry I was just thinking. I can't believe what I'm hearing right now. My brother and I were speaking only fifteen minutes ago and I had the feeling he was just fine."
"Well, now you know he's not. He should have stayed in hospital but you know Sherlock."
The older Holmes sighed, "Of course, I do. I will make sure you get everything you need. If there is something else just call me."
"Thanks for your help. I will update you as soon as there is a change," John promised and ended the call.
When John looked at Sheila, she was curious. "What did he say?" she asked.
"He's helping us. Didn't expect anything else."
"Thank god. I really hope Sherlock stays in bed this time," the paramedic sighed.
Another wave of coughs was breaking the silence and both looked at each other worried.
Thirty minutes later John heard a soft knocking at the door and opened. Mycroft Holmes greeted them with a silent nod, stepped aside and three people followed with the medical equipment John had ordered. The older Holmes looked into the doctor's eyes and John knew, what those eyes were asking.
"Don't worry. I will take good care of him. Sheila will be here, too. He's in good hands."
"I know I can trust you. I'm more worried about another myocarditis," Mycroft admitted.
"We will keep a close watch on Sherlock. All he needs is rest and his bed," the blogger assured.
"Can I see him?"
Something is wrong with Mycroft, John thought while looking into the tall man's face.
"Sure. He's sleeping right now, so try not to disturb him."
Mycroft slowly entered his brother's room and his expression changed immediately.
"Jesus, Sherlock, you are not going to learn, are you?" he whispered and stared at the still figure in front of him. The detective was sweating and his breaths were short, fast and sometimes uneven. The wheezing sound was back again and Mycroft already knew, that the detective would at least be out of order for a week. He left his brother's room, his gaze full of worry. When he was about to leave, John stepped closer. "Listen, I know you are worried to the core but I can assure you I will be there for him every minute. Sherlock isn't the kind of man to give up that easy."
"I know Dr. Watson and I am sure you will take good care of him. I am more worried that Moriarty uses his weakness against him."
"He won't," John let out.
Now he had Mycroft's attention. "How would you know?"
"Because Moriarty is playing a game with your brother. It's all about two genius minds, figuring out who is the smartest of all times."
The expression of the older Holmes' face changed into serious, "This is a game, Sherlock can't win. He should know that by now. Moriarty is someone you don't want to challenge, believe me Dr. Watson."
And with these words Mycroft left the flat leaving John and Sheila standing in the middle of the living room, staring at each other.
"Is he right?" Sheila asked nervous.
John looked away.
His partner wasn't amused and forced him to look at her. "Is it true, what he said?"
"Mycroft Holmes is never wrong. Not that I know of."
When Sherlock awoke in the early morning hours, he felt miserable. His lungs were burning, he was sweating a lot and his whole body ached. When did he get worse? He tried to sit up in his bed but found out he couldn't. There was a weakness in his bones and he wasn't sure if he was able to call for John's help.
Suddenly someone gently lifted his body and brought him into a half-sitting position. When the detective opened his feverish eyes, he recognized his friend standing next to him.
"John…," his voice not more than a whisper.
"Try not to speak," the doctor tried to calm him.
"Chest hurts… Not feeling good."
"I know Sherlock. That's why I'm here. We need to talk and I need you to listen to me."
The detective just nodded.
"You left too early from the hospital and to make things worse, you didn't stay in bed either."
No response. John sighed, "Listen, I know how much you hate hospitals and I won't call for an ambulance but I am asking for one thing."
"Shoot… I'm listening."
"You are seriously ill, Sherlock and you know that. You need to rest now and stay in bed, otherwise there will not be a good ending. I called your brother and he has brought me nearly the complete equipment of an ICU, so I can treat you at home. All I need to hear from you is that you promise to stay in bed and let me help you."
"Promise," the detective replied weakly.
John patted his shoulder, "Alright. I am going to prepare everything and after that I will do a full check up to find out how to help you."
Sherlock just nodded and drifted back into a half awake, half sleeping state.
When John left the room, his face was grim. Sheila, who was playing with little Rosie on the ground, stood up and asked, "How is he?"
The doctor looked defeated. "He's not good. He's not fully aware of his surroundings, the fever is radiating from his body like some infrared light and his breathing is also not really good."
"He needs a hospital, John."
"I promised Sherlock to take care of him here. I can't lie to him honey."
Sheila put on her medical gloves and started to wheel the equipment into Sherlock's room. When she saw the tall man lying motionless in his bed, she gasped. Their friend was really looking awful. John didn't lie. Carefully she stroked away some of the detective's wet hair and began to gently wipe his forehead with a cold wash cloth. Sherlock didn't flinch and that was something very untypical for the man in the bed. John followed her into his friend's room and began to insert an IV, connected the heart monitor and placed the oximeter on Sherlock's right index finger. An oxygen mask followed as well. When all was in place, John took his friend's temperature.
"It's 40.9° Celsius. He's never had such a high fever before," the doctor whispered.
"His O2 stats are stable right now. Let's hold on to this," Sheila tried to calm the panicking doctor.
The detective started to twist around. "No! Not him! We need to stop him John…"
Sheila and John looked at each other. "Guess he's having some kind of nightmare," she whispered. But John shook his head, "This is not a dream, Sweetie. I think he's having a flashback right now."
John and Sherlock were running down the streets, the person of interest still trying to escape the two men. He knew this person, that he was sure of. But where and how he couldn't tell. All that mattered to him was catching this man to question him. He could hear John panting heavily but this man was too important to look after the blogger. His footsteps were reverberating through the dark streets of London. From the sound of it, only two people were left. So, his friend must have given up, he assumed.
The dark figure in front of him turned around to face the detective and when realizing he was getting closer, the person accelerated in the hope to escape. Sherlock's chest was hurting from the run, but he wasn't ready to give up yet. He knew the person from somewhere and that he needed to check. They were running around the streets of London like they were playing cat and mouse. While running, Sherlock was calculating where the person in front of him would go next. He came up with an idea and took the next left corner.
The person of his interest was still running like a maniac, when all of a sudden, the detective threw him on the ground. "Now this came as a surprise to you, didn't it?" Sherlock asked, trying to catch his breath. The person behind the black mask started to laugh, "Not at all."
Before Sherlock could react, he felt a sharp pain in his back and when he turned around, he saw Moriarty standing there with a knife. Shocked, the detective stared at the laughing figure in front of him and when he pulled the mask off, another Moriarty appeared. "What the?" Sherlock asked puzzled.
The second Moriarty stopped laughing and his face grew serious," You will never get it, Sherlock, will you? You can't win. There are two of us now, so what are you going to do? If one gets overwhelmed by you, then the other comes to the rescue. See, my brother here already stabbed you, so what are you going to do about it?"
"I am confused. Who is who? And why is there a second Moriarty still alive? I thought there was only one left…," Sherlock whispered.
"Maybe it's the other way round," the second Moriarty replied.
"What do you mean?"
"Maybe you are the dead one and we are still out there." Both Moriarty's were laughing simultaneously and when Sherlock tried to face the other Moriarty behind him once more, the knife came down again and he knew no more…
The thrashing stopped abruptly and the body stilled. Sheila started to panic, "Is he dead?"
John stepped to the bed and checked the pulse while looking at the monitor. "I can confirm what the monitor says. No need to worry. He's still with us."
The young paramedic sighed, "This is going to be a tough week."
"As long as he is unconscious, we are lucky. After he wakes up, we will be in trouble. I know what I am talking about, believe me."
The thrashing started again.
"Another flashback?" Sheila wondered.
"That's never happened before. I really would like to know what he's doing in his 'dreams' right now," John whispered.
"Sherlock? Oh Sherlock Holmes…"
Someone was calling him, softly guiding him back to consciousness. "What happened? Where am I?"
"You are, where I wanted you to be," the voice answered him. Slowly the detective opened his eyes and stared at the brown eyes of Moriarty. "No! Nooooo!" he screamed while trying to sit up, but his archenemy was holding him down. What was he lying on? A gurney? Sherlock tried to look around, but everything was still a blur.
"Don't try to move yet. The narcotics are still wearing of."
Narcotics? Which narcotics? And then he remembered. He was stabbed in the back. Slowly the pain entered his dazed mind and he started to whimper. Why does it have to burn that much?
"Must be some kind of new experience for you. This is a place, where you never used drugs or anything else before. For the first time you feel the pain, how normal people would feel it."
"Why is that? What did you do to me?" Sherlock asked confused.
"It's not me, who did this. It was you, Sherlock. Only you," Moriarty whispered into his ear.
"I did nothing wrong. Not that I am aware of," the detective replied.
"Oh, come on Sherl. You know exactly what's happening to you. Aspirating murky water and ignoring pneumonia? You really don't know what's happening right now? I'll tell you. You are dying! Just as simple as it is."
Sherlock pushed himself upright and stared at his enemy, "I'm not dead, yet."
"Not yet, but there is the possibility you will be," another voice filled the room.
The detective looked in the other direction and found Mycroft standing in the corner of the room.
"Surprised to see me here?" the older Holmes asked calmly.
"Why are you two in one room? It doesn't make any sense," Sherlock said.
"Nothing makes sense here. It all happens because you can't stop yourself from thinking," Moriarty laughed and walked over to Mycroft, leaning on his shoulder.
"Stop it! Just stop it right now!" Sherlock screamed agitated.
"It's not you, who can stop this," Mycroft grinned.
The detective looked at them confused, "So who is responsible?"
"Look at the poor Doctor friend of yours. How he tries everything to bring down your fever and watches over you the whole time," the older Holmes said with a worried tone in his voice.
"John…O my god John. I totally forgot about him."
"Just shows me how much you care about him," Moriarty replied bored.
"Just shut up for God's sake! You don't know anything about John and me, so stop teasing me!" Sherlock was getting angry now.
"Come on Sherlock! We all know that you think John Watson is the grown-up Victor Travor," Jim tried again.
"That's not true. I know that Victor is dead and that he won't come back," the detective replied.
"You jumped after John Watson, when he was in the well that once took Victor's life," Mycroft reminded him.
"Because he's my friend. I couldn't lose him!" Sherlock defended himself.
"Friends are the reason for your continuous failing, brother mine."
"I never failed anyone!"
"You failed Victor and of course you failed Mary. Don't you remember?" Mycroft continued to torture him.
"No! No, that's not true! It's not my fault! It's not!"
"What's wrong?" Sheila asked worried.
Sherlock was twisting around in his bed, sweating and screaming. John tried to calm down his friend, but failed. Something must have triggered the detective that much, that he was now showing signs of massive stress. The heart monitor was starting its alarm, showing an increasing heart rate.
"He's going into V-fib, if he doesn't stop what he's doing right now," John said, his voice full of fear.
"What can I do to help?" Sheila asked.
"Try to calm him down. Maybe he can hear you. High tones are heard better," the doctor informed.
Sheila positioned herself next to Sherlock and tried to soothe him. It didn't work. The heart was beating faster and faster and before the two friends could react, the heart monitor signalled, what John Watson tried to avoid.
"He's in V-fib! Give me the paddles, Sheila! Quick!"
"What's happening to me?" the detective asked scared.
"Can't you feel it? They're trying to bring you back," Moriarty replied yawning.
"Back? It doesn't feel that way. I just feel cold."
"That's because your heart is failing," Mycroft said with a sad voice.
"So, this is how dying feels?" Sherlock asked astounded.
"Charge to 180!" John screamed.
"180 and charging," Sheila confirmed.
"Step back. Clear."
"What was that? It felt like someone was trying to crash my ribcage."
"Guess, they are trying to restart your heart. Sounds like it's beating way too fast. Can't you hear the sound?" Mycroft asked alarmed.
"I can't hear anything. All I feel is a massive pressure on my chest right now."
All of a sudden, the room changed and Sherlock was lying in the grass. Another shock hit him.
"Now the sun is shining, Sherlock is resigning. Birds flying and crying, Sherlock is dying." The all-familiar voice of Moriarty could be heard in the distance.
The detective's eyes shot open and he tried to get up, but again found out he couldn't.
"You are dead right now, Sherlock. You can't move, until it's decided whether your heart starts beating again or stops forever," Moriarty informed.
"Come on, Sherlock! Don't do this to me. Mycroft will kill me for not getting you to a hospital earlier," John pleaded.
"Look how he's fighting for you, this poor man. I really feel sorry for him." Moriarty was walking around in the garden.
"You will never win, not as long as my mind is still functioning."
"It is working right now, indeed. But for how long? You are already suffering from a lack of oxygen."
"Do the names Marco Rodriguez, Vitali Popow, Ismael Kirsch, Mustafa Yildirim and Johannes Horn ring a bell?" Sherlock wanted to know.
"Come on! I thought you already remembered. There is at least one person, who already crossed your way," Moriarty replied with a sad face.
"Then tell me, for god's sake! My time is running out and I don't remember those names," Sherlock screamed.
"Johannes Horn from Germany. An expert in developing neurotoxins. His name came up with 'the underground fog'."
"I remember this case. Someone tried to manipulate the ventilation system, so a neurotoxin could be spread around the underground stations. I stopped the system seven seconds before the timer ended."
"Well, how do you think someone like Horn would be able to use a criminal?"
"You paid him."
"I never pay my people Sherlock. Time is money. Oh no. No, no, no. You're so wrong. I threaten them! You saw this man on TV, when he was finally arrested. What was the thing that caught your eye?" Moriarty was now walking around Sherlock's still paralysed body.
The detective's eyes grew wide," The finger! He was missing an index finger!" And that was the moment when everything went black again…