A few days had passed since the investigation at Shad Sanderson Bank, and Max was reading in her bed when her phone beeped. Groaning, she reached over to the nightstand and checked her phone.
Come to Baker St immediately.
SH
Max glanced at the time- 9:45 in the morning. She had no clue what Sherlock wanted at 9:45 in the morning, or for that matter how he had even gotten her number, but if he was texting her it was probably important. Sighing, she got out of bed and headed to the bathroom.
000
"There's been a second murder."
Max paused in the doorway of Sherlock and John's flat. "There was a first one?" she asked.
Sherlock hadn't looked up at her arrival; he was sitting in the same armchair that he had been in the other day, and his eyes were closed in thought. "Of course," he said. "Van Coon, and then Lukis."
She walked into the flat and sat in John's seat. "Van Coon, as in the bank guy?" she replied. "Since when did he die?"
Still not looking opening his eyes, Sherlock pushed a laptop in her direction. Two articles were open: one dated from the day at the bank described Edward Van Coon's suicide in his locked bedroom, and another article written yesterday spoke about how freelance journalist Brian Lukis had been found murdered in his apartment with no apparent entryway into his flat.
Max turned away from the laptop and looked up at Sherlock. "You lost me," she said.
This finally caused him to open his eyes, and he turned to her. "Detective Inspector Dimmock claims that Van Coon committed suicide, but he didn't," he told her. "The evidence was all over the flat- the fatal bullet wound was on the right side of Van Coon's head, but he was clearly left-handed. Therefore, not a suicide. Of course, Dimmock realized that I was right far too late to save himself from embarrassment, but that's beside the point. Days later, Lukis died in a locked room up high, much like Van Coon. Both men were found with a black origami flower next to them.
"There was no way to get into either flat... besides the window. Our killer must have climbed into Lukis's flat through the window. That was also how he got to Van Coon; personally, I swung in through the balcony."
Max gave him a look. "You broke into Van Coon's flat?" she asked.
Sherlock gave her a look. "How else was I supposed to get in?" he replied.
She shrugged. "Fair enough," she admitted. "I'm assuming the killer climbed into the bank to paint the yellow stuff?"
He nodded. "Exactly," he agreed. "John and I traced Lukis's footsteps back to the West Kensington Library, and we found the same message from the bank sprayed on the shelves right where he would have seen it." He leaned forward, eyes glinting dangerously. "Both men saw this message and both of them died within hours of seeing it, with a black origami flower next to them. Something connects the two of them, but I don't know what. The answer is in the message, the cipher."
Without warning, Sherlock held up a piece of paper; it took Max a second to recognize it as a picture of the graffiti in the bank. "You're an artist," he stated. "Can you recognize the painter's style?"
Max shook her head. "If I knew, I would have told you on Tuesday," she told him. It seemed like Sherlock was about to say something, but Max held up a finger to silence him. "But... I might know a guy. He's a painter... of a sort. I'd rather not have to go to him, but if there's no other way I can probably get him to talk to you."
"Good mor- Max?! What are you doing here?!"
Both Max and Sherlock turned around to see John walking into the room, wearing a robe and still rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Hey, Johnny!" Max greeted. "Sherlock called me over."
It seemed like John was extremely confused, but Sherlock was already standing up and heading towards the door. "Come on, John," he said. "We're going to meet a friend of Max's."
000
In a few minutes, the trio was walking through the large square in front of the National Gallery. Max was in the lead, making her way through the large crowd as they neared the Gallery.
"The world's run on codes and ciphers, John," Sherlock was telling John as they walked behind Max. "From the million-pound security system at the bank, to that PIN machine you took exception to, cryptography inhabits our every waking moment."
John gave him a look. "Yes, okay," he agreed. "But...?"
Sherlock huffed irritably. "But it's all computer generated," he finished. "Electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods. This is different. It's an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods won't unravel it."
John glanced around them. "Where are we headed?" he asked.
Sherlock grimaced. "Max knows somebody: a painter," he answered. "I need to ask some advice."
It took a second for John to realize what Sherlock had just said, but when he did he almost burst out laughing. "What?!" he exclaimed. "Sorry?!"
Sherlock shot him a dark look. "You heard me perfectly," he said. "I'm not saying it again."
But John just continued to stare at him in disbelief. "You need advice?" he repeated.
Sherlock sighed. "On painting, yes," he said. "I need to talk to an expert."
John nodded. "Right," he replied. He pointed to the looming building of the National Gallery. "We're going in there, then?"
Max turned around and grinned. "Johnny boy, if you want an expert on spray paint, you don't go to a museum," she told him. She nodded towards a dark alley to the side of the building. "We're going there."
John nodded. "Ah," he stated.
000
It didn't take them long to reach the back of the building. A young man was standing in front of a solid grey door with a can of spray paint in each of his hands and a bag of more cans by his feet; on the door was an almost- finished image of a policeman holding a rifle, but instead of a nose there was a pig's snout. As they approached, he was in the process of adding the finishing touches.
"Part of a new exhibition," he commented as they walked up next to him.
Sherlock grimaced. "... Interesting," he stated. His tone said the exact opposite.
Max elbowed him and approached the painter. "What are you calling it?" she asked.
He shook his paint can for a moment before returning to his art. "Urban Bloodlust Frenzy," he answered.
"Catchy," John commented.
But everyone ignored him. Max nodded to the artist, a grudging respect on her face. "Raz," she greeted.
He nodded back. "Max," he replied.
John looked from Max to Raz. "How do you... er... know each other?" he asked suspiciously.
Max sighed. "Art contest back in high school," she said. "He was first, I was second."
Raz shrugged. "What can I say?" he replied. "I outshone the competition."
Max looked at him indignantly. "It was a one point difference!" she protested.
He smirked. "I still won," he pointed out.
She huffed, and for a second it seemed like she was going to protest, but then she sighed. "Alright, you won," she admitted. "But that's not why I came here. My friend needs to ask you something."
Raz was quiet as he considered, but then he sighed. "I've got two minutes before a Community Support Officer comes round that corner," he said. He glanced at Sherlock. "Can we do this while I'm workin'?"
Sherlock held out his phone, displaying the picture of the paint from the bank. Raz tossed one of his cans to John, who caught it even though he seemed a bit confused about what was going on. Now with a free hand, Raz took the phone and looked at the picture. "Know the author?" Sherlock asked.
Raz shrugged. "Recognize the paint," he answered. "It's like Michigan; hard-core propellant. I'd say zinc."
Sherlock frowned. "What about the symbols?" he insisted. "D'you recognize them?"
Raz squinted at the cipher suspiciously. "Not even sure it's a proper language," he said flippantly.
Sherlock glared at him. "Two men have been murdered, Raz," he told him. "Deciphering this is the key to finding out who killed them."
Raz looked speculative. "What, and this is all you've got to go on?" he asked. "It's hardly much now, is it?"
A look of annoyance flickered over Sherlock's face. "Are you gonna help us or not?" he demanded.
Raz shrugged. "I'll ask around," he told them.
Sherlock nodded. "Somebody must know something about it," he said, even though it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself of the fact.
"Oi!"
The four of them whirled around to see that two Community Support Officers were hurrying towards them. There was no question that they had seen the Urban Bloodlust Frenzy and Raz's bag of paint cans. "I thought you said we had two minutes!" Max protested.
"Well, I was wrong!" Raz retorted.
Sherlock grabbed his phone from Raz and took off, followed closely by Max. Raz dropped his spray can and kicked his bag of spares towards John, who was still holding the other can; then, without a word, the painter took off after Max and Sherlock. John stayed where he was, absolutely confused about what was going on.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" one of the officers demanded as they reached him. "This gallery is a listed public building!"
John blinked as he turned to face the officers. "No, no, wait, wait," he said. "It's not me who painted that. I was just holding this for..."
He turned around and saw that the others had run off.
The officer kicked open the bag, and Raz's spare paint cans were revealed. He raised an eyebrow at John, not amused. "Bit of an enthusiast, are we?" he asked.
There was no way he was going to be able to talk himself out of this.
000
"That was a close one," Max said.
She, Sherlock, and Raz were a few blocks away from the National Gallery, all of them slightly flushed from running. Max pushed her disheveled hair out of her face and looked around. "Where's John?" she asked.
Sherlock shrugged, not concerned by the sudden disappearance of his flatmate. "He probably went the long way around," he answered. "We'll meet up with him at the flat." He turned to Raz. "You'll ask around?"
Raz nodded. "Sure thing," he agreed. "I'll text Max if I find something."
Sherlock glanced at his watch. "I need to go," he declared suddenly. Without another word, he turned and walked towards the curb, his hand raised for a cab.
Max sighed. "I'd better go with him," she told Raz. She nodded to him. "It was... nice... to see you again, Raz."
Raz smirked. "Nice to see you too, Max," he replied. He turned and walked away, his hands in his pockets and whistling casually.
000
Some time later, Max was curled up in John's armchair in Baker St as Sherlock stood in front of the fireplace. The wall above it was almost completely covered with pictures of various ciphers and pictograms that all pretty much looked like squiggles. Both of them were silent as Sherlock read a book on old ciphers and Max looked it up online.
Suddenly, the door slammed, and Max looked up to see John storming in, looking extremely angry. Max's eyes widened in surprise, but Sherlock didn't even look up from his book. "You've been a while," he said.
John glared at Sherlock, looking full well like he wanted to punch him. "Yeah, well, you know how it is," he snapped. "Custody sergeants don't really like to be hurried, do they?"
Max blinked. "Custody sergeants?" she repeated incredulously.
But John just laughed dryly, continuing on as if he hadn't heard her. "Just formalities: fingerprints, charge sheet..." he continued. "And I've gotta be in Magistrates Court on Tuesday."
Max looked at him in disbelief. "Why?" she demanded.
John turned his angry gaze to her. "The officers found me with Raz's spray paint!" he exclaimed.
Max groaned. "Oh God," she muttered.
"What?" Sherlock asked, looking up from his book for the first time. The expression on his face told them that he hadn't heard a word that either of them had just said.
John's gaze darkened. "Me, Sherlock," he snapped. "In court on Tuesday. They're giving me an ASBO!"
But Sherlock had already turned back to his book. "Good, fine," he muttered absentmindedly.
John turned to Max. "You wanna tell your little pal he's welcome to go and own up any time?" he demanded.
Max scoffed. "He's not my pal," she said. "He won't listen to me, anyway... Don't you have some police friends who can get you out of this?"
Suddenly, before John could retort, Sherlock slammed his book shut and turned to them. "This symbol, I still can't place it," he told them. John started to take off his jacket, but suddenly Sherlock was there, pushing it back on him. "No, I need you to go to the police station-"
"Oi, oi, oi!" John protested.
"- and ask about the journalist, Lukis," Sherlock finished.
John groaned. "Oh, Jesus!" he exclaimed.
Sherlock turned to Max and pulled her off of the armchair, pushing her out the door with John. "Go with him," he ordered. "His personal effects will have been impounded. Get hold of his diary, or something that will tell us his movements."
Max raised an eyebrow as Sherlock grabbed his coat. "We're trying a new angle?" she asked.
The three of them left the flat and headed downstairs, still mostly being pushed by Sherlock. "Until Raz gets back to us there's nothing we can do about the paint," Sherlock said simply. "Gonna see Van Coon's PA. If we retrace their steps, somewhere they'll collide."
By that point they had were out on the street, and Sherlock turned and walked away, towards Shad Sanderson Bank. Max and John shared a look. "He never stops, does he?" Max asked.
John scoffed. "Never," he agreed. He turned to the street just as a cab turned the corner, and he flagged it down.
On instinct, Max glanced across the street and saw that an Asian woman was looking at them, wearing dark sunglasses and taking a picture of something in their direction. Max's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "John..." she warned.
He nodded. "I see her too," he agreed.
She gave him a look. "Does this stuff usually happen when you work with Sherlock?" she asked.
John was silent as he considered that, but then he shrugged. "Yeah," he admitted.
The cab pulled up to them, and John opened the door. "Scotland Yard," he requested.
"Right," the cabbie agreed.
Max and John clambered into the cab, and once the door was shut Max turned her gaze back to where the woman had been standing...
... but she was nowhere to be seen.
"I don't have a good feeling about that," Max commented.
John grimaced as the cab pulled away from Baker St. "Me neither, Max," he said. "Me neither."