A short cab ride later found Max, Sherlock, and John at New Scotland Yard, speaking with Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade outside of his office.
The Detective Inspector was a proud-looking man with greying hair, about the same height as Max. He seemed to be a fairly easygoing guy, and she could already tell that they were going to get along.
"So you're Max," Lestrade commented. He held out his hand, and Max shook it. "I've heard a lot about you from Dimmock."
Max smiled. "Well, I'm glad I made a good impression," she replied. "Sherlock and John mentioned you a few times. I'm glad to finally meet you."
Before Lestrade had a chance to reply, Sherlock cleared his throat loudly. John and Lestrade looked at him in annoyance, but the detective ignored both of them. "I hope you didn't just call us here for idle chitchat, Lestrade," he said. "You mentioned a case?"
The annoyed expression on Lestrade's face deepened, but Max could tell that it wasn't Sherlock that he was annoyed with now. "I did," he agreed. "You like the funny cases, don't you? The surprising ones."
Sherlock nodded. "Obviously," he answered.
Max rolled her eyes. "Only the funniest and most surprising will do," she remarked dryly. Sherlock shot her a look, and she just grinned at him.
Lestrade grimaced. "You'll love this, then," he told Sherlock. "That explosion-"
"Gas leak, yes?" Sherlock interrupted. He frowned as a female detective walked past, with notable brown curly hair. The detective scowled back and kept walking.
Max raised an eyebrow at John, who shrugged. Sally Donovan, he mouthed. Max nodded in understanding; both John and Sherlock had mentioned the sergeant many times, mostly speaking about her unexplainable dislike of Sherlock.
"No," Lestrade said, answering Sherlock's question.
Max blinked in surprise, and both Sherlock and John seemed just as confused. "No?" Sherlock repeated.
Lestrade nodded. "No," he echoed. "Made to look like one."
"What?" John asked.
"Why?" Max added.
Lestrade walked into his office, and the rest of them followed. Max glanced around at the sleek room, definitely a step up from Braddock's desk; for the most part the entire office seemed to be neat and modern, and there was a white envelope on the middle of the desk.
"Hardly anything left of the place except a strong box- a very strong box," Lestrade told them. "Inside it was this." He gestured to the envelope, and Max saw the elegant handwriting on the front: Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You haven't opened it?" he asked.
Lestrade shrugged. "It's addressed to you, isn't it?" he replied. "We've X-rayed it. It's not booby trapped."
Sherlock took the envelope and eyed it carefully. Then he walked towards an anglepoise lamp across the room, examining the envelope under the light. "Nice stationary," he commented. "Bohemian."
Max raised an eyebrow. "That's what you're worried about?" she asked.
He gave her a look. "It's from the Czech Republic," he explained. Before she could reply, he had returned his attention to the envelope in his hands. "No fingerprints?"
Lestrade shook his head. "No," he answered.
Sherlock frowned and brought the envelope closer to his face. "She used a fountain pen," he stated. "A Parker Duofold- iridium nib."
John blinked. "She?" he repeated.
"Obviously," Sherlock stated.
The other three glanced at each other to make sure that none of them had made the connection. When it was clear that they hadn't, John sighed wearily. "Obviously," he echoed.
Apparently Sherlock had found all that he could from the envelope, because he started towards the desk for a letter opener. But Max had already beaten him to it, and she held it out to him with a smug look on her face. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he took the letter opener from her, but there was an amused look on his face as he carefully slit the envelope open...
... an amused look that quickly turned to one of surprise as he took out a pink phone.
All four of them were silent for a few seconds as they stared at the phone, but then Max burst out laughing. "A pink phone?" she asked. "All that trouble for a pink phone? What type of twisted sense of humor does this person have?" But then she realized that Sherlock and John were staring at the phone in horror, like they had seen a ghost, and the laughter slid from her face. "Uh... guys? What's wrong?"
John's expression didn't change. "That's... that's the phone," he said. "The pink phone."
Lestrade looked at them doubtfully. "What, from the Study in Pink?" he asked.
Sherlock scowled as he examined the phone. "Well, obviously it's not the same phone, but it's supposed to look like-" he started, but he stopped when he realized what Lestrade had just said. "The Study in Pink? You read his blog?"
Lestrade looked at Sherlock in exasperation. "Of course I read his blog!" he exclaimed. "We all do!" Max could practically feel John's ego growing by the moment as his earlier argument was validated. "Do you really not know that the Earth goes around the sun?"
Someone sniggered by the door, and they all turned to see Sally Donovan there, in the process of dropping off some files. Sherlock tensed up, and for a second it seemed like he was about to say something; but Max put a hand on his arm. He glanced at her, considering, then turned back to Sally and fixed her with a murderous glare instead. The sergeant rolled her eyes and left the office.
John at least had the good grace to be embarrassed.
"It isn't the same phone," Sherlock declared, bringing the conversation back to the mystery at hand. Max saw that he was looking at the connection sockets, none of which seemed to have been used. "This one's brand new. Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone... which means your blog has a far wider readership." He shot John an irritated look, and John did his best to ignore it.
Max reached out and took the phone from Sherlock, glancing it over. Lestrade looked at Sherlock, clearly waiting for him to snap at Max for interrupting his thought process, but Sherlock didn't say anything. Clearly confused, Lestrade shared a look with John, who just shrugged.
"Any thoughts?" Sherlock asked.
She shrugged. "Nothing," she said. She passed it back to Sherlock, who proceeded to switch it on.
As soon as it was on, the phone beeped. "You have one new message," a voice alert said.
There was a beep that signaled that the message was playing, but there was no sound after that. Max and Sherlock shared a look, but before either of them could comment, there was the sound of five short pips and a longer tone afterwards: the Greenwich Time Signal.
"Is that it?" John wanted to know.
Sherlock scowled at the phone. "No, that's not it," he answered. Max leaned closer so that she could see the screen: a picture of a dark, unfurnished room. The dreary wallpaper was peeling, and there was a tall mirror in one of the corners. A smaller mirror was on the wall above a fireplace.
"What the hell are we supposed to make of that?!" Lestrade exclaimed. "An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!"
Max jumped in surprise, startled by how close Lestrade was; she hadn't noticed him walk around his desk to look at the picture. The thought made her realize how close she was standing to Sherlock too, and she scooted away to give him space.
"It's a warning," Sherlock told them.
John raised an eyebrow. "A warning?" he repeated.
Sherlock scowled. "Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that," he explained. "Five pips. They're warning us it's going to happen again." He waved the phone at them with the picture still on the screen, then turned and headed out of the office. "And I've seen this place before."
Max and John shared a look, then sighed and headed after Sherlock. "Hang on," John stated. "What's gonna happen again?"
Sherlock turned around to face them and raised his hands, splaying his fingers dramatically. "Boom!" he declared.
He walked off, followed by Max and Sherlock. Lestrade sighed, then hurried after them.
000
Within a few minutes they had returned to Baker St, of all places. Walking past the rubble from the explosion, Sherlock led them into the building.
Max picked up her pace so that she and Sherlock were walking side by side. "What does this have to do with the picture?" she asked quietly.
Instead of going up to the flat like Max thought they would, Sherlock walked past the stairs and towards the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat. "You'll see," he replied. He smirked at her annoyed expression, then turned to the door in front of them. "Mrs. Hudson!"
000
It turned out that Mrs. Hudson didn't appreciate being rudely dragged out of her flat- Max didn't blame her- but she still cooperated in showing them an empty flat, of all places.
"You had a look, didn't you, Sherlock?" the landlady asked. "When you first came to see about your flat?"
She, Max, Sherlock, John, and Lestrade were currently standing outside the unused flat below their own, labeled 221A. Max eyed the grimy door doubtfully as Mrs. Hudson unlocked the padlock on the door under Sherlock's orders. "What are we doing here?" Max whispered to John.
He just shrugged.
Sherlock stooped so that he could examine the door's keyhole, and he scowled. "The door's been opened recently," he said.
Mrs. Hudson blinked in confusion. "No, can't be," she replied. "That's the only key." Sherlock pulled off the padlock and flipped through the key ring to unlock the keyhole. "I can't get anyone interested in this flat. It's the damp, I expect. That's the curse of basements."
Sherlock opened the door to the flat and walked inside. John and Lestrade followed him, leaving Max and Mrs. Hudson standing there. "I had a place once when I was first married," Mrs. Hudson commented. "Black mold all up the walls..."
She trailed off when she saw that the other three had headed into the flat, and she sighed in exasperation. "Oh, men!" she exclaimed. She sighed and patted Max on the shoulder. "Have fun, dearie." With that, the landlady turned and headed back up to her own flat.
Sighing, Max followed the others into 221A.
000
As usual, it turned out that Sherlock was right; 221A matched the picture from the phone exactly. The room was just as dingy as it had seemed in the picture, and Max grimaced as a dank smell reached her. There was no doubt that this was where they were supposed to go.
But more importantly, she noted that there was something in the middle of the room. The others seemed to have seen it too.
"Shoes," John stated.
Max nodded. "Shoes," she echoed.
There was indeed a pair of sneakers there, looking strangely out of place in the middle of the dirty room. They were placed an equal distance from the walls, their toes pointing towards the door as if they were waiting for someone.
Now that she thought about it, they probably were.
Sherlock took a step towards the shoes, but John held out a hand to stop him. "He's a bomber, remember," he cautioned.
That caused Sherlock to pause for a moment, but he continued on anyway. Max and John shared a worried look, reading the other's expression perfectly; then Max sighed and headed after Sherlock.
"Max, get back here right now!" John shouted.
She turned around to glare at him. "I'm fine!" she snapped.
John looked at her in exasperation. "You could be walking into a minefield!" he retorted.
Max crossed her arms. "You're being ridiculous," she stated.
He scoffed. "So are you!" he exclaimed.
"John, stop," Sherlock interrupted. "Max, only step where I step. Understood?"
Max nodded. "Yeah," she agreed.
"Sherlock-" John started, but he sighed when he accepted that he wouldn't be able to change either of their minds.
The two of them walked slowly across to the middle of the room, miraculously not setting off any bombs. Sherlock leaned forward so that he could examine the sneakers, gesturing Max next to him. "A pair of trainers," Sherlock grumbled, quiet enough that only she could hear. "Good condition but well-worn, British-made, twenty years old-"
"Don't forget the skin," Max commented. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "There's traces of skin all around the laces and stuff." Sherlock followed her gaze and nodded, even though the information didn't seem to improve his mood.
And then something rang.
Max flinched, and Sherlock pushed her behind him even as she was trying to pull him away from the shoes; the end result was both of them falling to the floor with a loud thud, Sherlock over Max. "OOF!" Max exclaimed. "Sherlock, what the-"
Then she realized that the ringing was coming from the phone.
Sherlock got to his feet and pulled the pink phone out of his jacket pocket to see who was calling. Max stood too and looked over his shoulder at the screen.
NUMBER BLOCKED.
The two of them shared a look, then Sherlock shrugged and answered the phone, putting it on speaker. "Hello?" he asked.
"H-hello... sexy," a female voice sobbed.
Max raised an eyebrow, and a glance at John and Lestrade told her that they were just as confused as she was. "Who's this?" Sherlock asked.
The woman on the other side of the phone took a deep breath before speaking. "I've... sent you... a little puzzle... just to say hi," she continued shakily.
"Who's talking?" Sherlock demanded. "Why are you crying?"
It sounded like the woman was crying now, and her words came out choppy. "I-I'm not crying," she answered. "I'm typing... and this... stupid... bitch... is reading it out."
Max's eyes widened in horror. "Oh my God," she whispered. "She's being forced to do this- she's a captive."
But Sherlock didn't seem to have heard what she just said; rather, he was staring out at nothing, his expression miles away. "The curtain rises," he breathed.
John frowned. "What?" he asked.
Sherlock blinked, suddenly brought back to the present. "Nothing," he answered.
John scowled. "No, what did you mean?" he said.
Sherlock frowned. "I've been expecting this for some time," he replied.
"That really doesn't explain anything," Max told him flatly.
The woman on the phone spoke before they could continue the conversation. "Twelve hours to solve... my puzzle, Sherlock," she said. "Or I'm going... to be... so naughty." She sobbed again in despair, and without warning the line went dead.
They were silent for a second as they tried to make sense of what had just happened, and then...
"Bloody hell," Lestrade declared, accurately summarizing the situation.