"1989, a young kid- champion swimmer- came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament, drowned in the pool. Tragic accident."
Sherlock held out his phone to Max and John, showing them a newspaper report on the topic. The three of them were currently squished in the back of a cab, with Max in the middle and the shoes on Sherlock's lap. She could feel Sherlock's leg against hers, his warmth that was so close, but she did her best to ignore it. "You wouldn't remember it," Sherlock continued. "Why would you?"
John raised an eyebrow. "But you remember," he stated.
Sherlock nodded. "Yes," he agreed.
Max took Sherlock's phone and skimmed the article. "What made it special?" she asked.
That was apparently a sore subject, because Sherlock grimaced. "Nobody thought it was remarkable, nobody except me," he answered. "I was only a kid myself. I read about it in the papers."
"Started young, didn't you?" John remarked dryly.
The thought of a child Sherlock attempting to solve crimes was so hilarious that Max had to stop herself from laughing out loud.
But Sherlock simply ignored both of them and kept on talking. "The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out it was too late," he explained. "But there was something wrong, something I couldn't get out of my head."
John frowned. "What?" he asked.
Sherlock scowled. "His shoes," he stated.
Max and John shared a look, both of them equally confused, then turned back to Sherlock. "What do you mean, his shoes?" Max wanted to know.
Sherlock leaned down and picked up the bag that they had put the sneakers in, placing it on his lap. "They weren't there," he answered. "I made a fuss; I tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important."
"I wonder why," Max muttered.
But Sherlock continued on as if he hadn't heard her. "He'd left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes... until now," he told them.
They all looked down at the shoes on his lap.
"Oh God," Max said.
000
When they left the lab, there had been six hours left.
Now there was five.
Max frowned as she glanced at the clock, watching the second hand ticking down the time. She was currently curled up in John's armchair in Baker St, and John himself was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. Sherlock himself had locked himself up into the kitchen and closed the doors behind him; Max didn't exactly know what was going on in there, but at least nothing had exploded yet.
The tension in the air was palpable.
John sighed and slid open the kitchen door, and Max saw that Sherlock was bent over the table, pouring over photographs and newspaper articles about Carl Powers' death. He made no sign that he noticed that John had opened the door.
"Can I help?" John asked.
Sherlock didn't reply, and John huffed irritably. "I want to help," he stated. "There's only five hours left."
Max's phone suddenly beeped, and she pulled it out of her pocket.
Any developments?
Mycroft Holmes
She glanced up at Sherlock and John; even though Sherlock still hadn't looked up from his work, John was looking at her expectantly. "Mycroft just texted me," she declared.
Nobody needed to ask what he wanted.
John frowned. "How does he know your number?" he asked.
She shrugged. "No clue," she answered.
"Must be a root canal," Sherlock mused.
Max looked at the detective, raising an eyebrow. Both she and John chose not to comment on the dental appointment theory. "Are you going to do anything about it?" she wanted to know, getting back on topic.
John nodded. "He did say national importance," he pointed out.
But Sherlock just rolled his eyes, clearly not amused. "How quaint," he commented.
John blinked. "What is?" he asked.
That seemed to finally be enough to draw Sherlock away from his work, because he looked up at the two of them. "You are," he told John. "Queen and country."
John gave him a look. "You can't just ignore it," he stated.
Sherlock scoffed. "I'm not ignoring it," he replied. "Putting my best man onto it right now."
Max and John shared a look. "Right," John said, sounding pleased with himself. "Good."
Then he blinked in confusion. "Uh... Who's that?"
000
Four hours left.
John cleared his throat awkwardly as he sat in Mycroft's office, dressed in a suit and tie. The large room around him was extravagant, filled with ornate furniture and organized to the smallest detail, and everything about it screamed of wealth. Mycroft was nowhere to be seen.
Putting my best man onto it right now... John scoffed.
He glanced at his watch to see how long he had been here- half an hour- when the door opened. John turned around to see Mycroft walking into the office, reading a report. "John," Mycroft greeted. "How nice. I was hoping you wouldn't be long."
Deciding to be polite, John stood as Mycroft walked towards his desk, and Mycroft glanced up briefly. "No Max?" he asked.
John cleared his throat awkwardly. "Uh, Sherlock wanted her to stay with him," he explained. "To help him... err... investigate."
An expression of surprise flitted across Mycroft's face for a second: the most emotion John had ever seen him show. But then he had it under control, so quickly that John began to doubt that it had ever been there. "Hmm," Mycroft mused. "Interesting."
Before John could ask what was interesting- even though he had a feeling that he knew the answer- Mycroft sat down behind his desk. "How can I help you?" he asked, putting the report down.
John sat too, trying not to feel self-conscious. "Um, well, I was wanting to... uh..." he trailed off, then shook his head to clear it. "Your brother sent me to collect more facts about the stolen plans, the missile plans."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Did he?" he asked.
John smiled nervously. "Yes," he answered. "He's... er... investigating away."
The lie fell flat even to his ears.
"Um, I just wonder what else you can tell me about the dead man," John said.
Mycroft looked at him curiously, then leaned back in his seat. "Twenty-seven, a clerk at Vauxhall Station- err, M16," he told him. "He was involved in the Bruce- Partington Program in a minor capacity. Security checks A-OK, no known terrorist affiliations or sympathies... Last seen by his fiancee at 10:30 yesterday evening."
John nodded. "Right," he said. "He was found at Battersea, yes? So he got on the train."
Mycroft grimaced. "No," he answered.
John blinked. "What?" he asked.
Mycroft sighed. "He had an Oyster card, but it hadn't been used," he explained. As he spoke, he rubbed his jaw, clearly uncomfortable.
Suddenly, John remembered Sherlock's words earlier, when speculating on Mycroft having a dental appointment. Must be a root canal. He scowled when he realized that Sherlock had been right... as usual.
He grimaced and turned his mind back to the on the case at hand. "Must have bought a ticket," he guessed.
Mycroft shook his head. "There was no ticket on the body," he replied.
John blinked. "Then..." he trailed off.
"Then how did he end up with a bashed-in brain on the tracks at Battersea?" Mycroft finished. "That is the question- one that I was rather hoping Sherlock would provide an answer to. How's he getting on?"
John cleared his throat awkwardly. "He- he's fine, yes," he answered. "Oh, and- and it's going very well. It's... um... y'know... he's completely focused on it."
He gave Mycroft a very unconvincing smile.
000
Meanwhile, Max sat across the table from Sherlock, who was still in the same spot that he had been in when John left. The detective had long since given up on studying the old newspapers; now he had returned to examining the sneakers, trying to find any clues that he had missed the first time.
She kept quiet as she watched him work, knowing better than to disrupt his thought process. Besides, he seemed so engrossed in his work that she doubted he would even hear her if she said anything.
Sighing, she glanced at the clock. They were rapidly approaching the three hour mark, and it didn't seem like they had made any progress since they had returned from the lab.
Max turned to look at Sherlock, who was scowling at something under his microscope. He had been working for the past nine hours, and he hadn't taken a break yet. Even though she knew that he was under the impression that he could continue on like this- and she had no doubt that he could- it wasn't good for him. He would be no help to the hostage if he worked himself to exhaustion.
Hmm...
Sherlock looked up in surprise as someone placed a cup of tea on the table next to him. Max was standing there, her arms crossed as she looked down at him. "I know you think digestion slows you down, but you need to at least drink something," she stated. With that, she turned and headed towards the living room.
"... Thank you," Sherlock said.
Max glanced back into the kitchen and saw Sherlock looking at her. She blinked in surprise, then gave him a small smile. "No problem," she replied. Sherlock nodded, and she continued on her way to the living room.
000
A few minutes later, the door to the flat swung open, and Max saw Mrs. Hudson walking in with a tray holding two mugs. The landlady seemed rather surprised to see that Sherlock already had tea, and she glanced at Max, who was currently laying down on the couch with a book. Max smiled at Mrs. Hudson, and the landlady looked back and forth from Max to Sherlock to the cup of tea, her eyes bright as she made the obvious connection.
"Poison," Sherlock declared.
Mrs. Hudson blinked in confusion, and Max looked up at him when she realized what he was saying. "What are you going on about?" Mrs. Hudson asked.
Sherlock slammed his hand down on the table. "Clostridium botulinum!" he exclaimed. Mrs. Hudson gave him a look, then turned and walked out of the flat, obviously not wanting to get involved.
Max stood up and walked over so that she was standing by Sherlock, looking over his shoulder. He was studying something through the microscope; even though it didn't look like anything to Max, it clearly had some importance to Sherlock.
The door to the flat opened again, and Max looked up to see John walking in, returning from his meeting with Mycroft. "It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet!" Sherlock continued, not paying any mind to John's arrival.
John blinked. "Sorry, what?" he asked.
Sherlock shot him a look. "Carl Powers!" he reminded him.
John's eyes widened. "Oh, wait, are you saying he was murdered?" he realized.
His eyes bright with excitement, Sherlock walked over to where he had hung up the laces from the sneakers. "Remember the shoelaces?" he said, examining the laces a second time. "The boy suffered from eczema. It'd be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyzes the muscles, and he drowns."
Max frowned. "Why didn't anybody hear about this before?" she asked.
John nodded. "The autopsy would have picked it up," he agreed.
Sherlock shook his head. "It's virtually undetectable," he explained. "Nobody would have been looking for it... But there were still tiny traces of it left inside the trainers from where he put the cream on his feet. That's why they had to go."
He headed back to the other side of the table, where his laptop was open. Max glanced over his shoulder to see that the screen displayed the forum of his website, The Science of Deduction. He typed into the message box, his fingers flying across the keyboard.
FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978- 1989). Botulinum toxin still present. Apply to 221b Baker St.
John frowned. "So how do we let the bomber know?" he asked.
Sherlock straightened and looked at the two of them. "Get his attention, stop the clock," he answered.
Max glanced at the sneakers, which were on the table next to them. "But how did our bomber get the shoes in the first place?" she wanted to know.
Sherlock grimaced. "He must be out killer," he told her.
Suddenly the pink phone rang, and Sherlock hurried to answer the call. He put the phone on speaker, and all three of them could hear the woman breathing shakily, trying to control her sobs.
"Well done, you," she stuttered, reading another message. "Come and get me."
Sherlock and Max shared a look of relief, and then he turned back to the phone. "Where are you?" he demanded. "Tell us where you are."
A few minutes later, Lestrade had been called, and a bomb disposal team had been dispatched to pick up the woman. But nobody at Baker St cared; they were all fast asleep after a long day of work.
000
"She lives in Cornwall. Two men broke in wearing masks, forced her to drive to the car park and decked her out in enough explosives to take down a house."
It was next morning, and Max, Sherlock, and John were currently in Lestrade's office, discussing the case from yesterday. Lestrade was sitting behind his desk, and Max and John were seated across from him, but Sherlock was currently standing at the window which looked into the main office, staring out at the distance and obviously deep in thought.
Lestrade cleared his throat awkwardly. "Told her to phone you," he continued. He reached out and put a pager on the desk in front of him. "She had to read it out from this pager-"
"- and if she deviated by one word, the sniper would set her off," Sherlock finished.
John frowned as he picked up the pager. "Or if you hadn't solved the case," he added.
Sherlock sighed wistfully. "Oh, elegant," he muttered.
Max glared at him in a silent warning. Sherlock just rolled his eyes.
"But what was the point?" Lestrade asked, bringing them back to the matter at hand. "Why would anyone do this?"
Even though Max thought that it was a legitimate question, Sherlock looked at Lestrade as if the answer was obvious. "Oh, I can't be the only person in the world that gets bored," he said, sounding genuinely confused.
Max was about to protest that blowing up a street wasn't what normal people did when they were bored- or shooting the wall, for that matter- but before she could say anything, the pink phone rang again.
Everyone looked sharply at Sherlock, who answered it nonchalantly.
"You have one new message," the voice alert said.
Max scowled. "Just what we need," she grumbled.
There was a beep that signalled the beginning of the message, then the Greenwich pips again. Unlike the previous time, there were three beeps, followed by one long one.
"Four pips," John stated.
Max frowned. "Last time it was five," she pointed out.
Sherlock nodded. "First test passed, it would seem," he mused. "Here's the second."
He held out the phone to them, and Max leaned forward to see a picture of a car, with its driver side door open and the license plate clearly visible. "It's abandoned, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock remarked.
Lestrade nodded. "I'll see if it's been reported," he told them. He picked up his desk phone, and in a matter of seconds he was completely engrossed in his conversation with whoever was on the other end of the line.
"Freak, it's for you."
The other three turned to see Sergeant Donovan sticking her head into the office, a phone in her hand. Max frowned at her and was about to say something in Sherlock's defense, but before she could say anything, Sherlock reached out and took the phone. Donovan sneered at Sherlock, then turned and left the room.
Max frowned at Sherlock. "You really shouldn't let her keep talking to you like that," she said.
Instead of replying, Sherlock stepped out of the room to answer the call. He closed the door behind him, but he could still see Max and John through the glass wall of the office. "Hello?" he asked into the phone.
"It's okay if you've gone to the police," a young man said. His voice shook, and he was obviously terrified of something.
The tone in his voice reminded Sherlock of the hostage from yesterday.
Sherlock scowled. "Who is this?" he demanded. "Is this you again?"
But the young man acted as if Sherlock hadn't spoken. "But don't rely on them," he continued. "Clever you, guessing about Carl Powers. I never liked him." Sherlock tensed, knowing for sure now that this was the bomber.
From where she was sitting inside the office, Max could see Sherlock frown in alarm, obviously worried by whatever he had just learned from the phone call. She watched him in concern, and he glanced into the office; their gazes met for one electric moment, but then he turned away.
"Carl laughed at me," the man continued on the phone. "So I stopped him laughing."
Max nudged John; he looked up in confusion, but then she gestured towards Sherlock. John frowned and headed out of the office to see what was wrong, and Max followed.
Sherlock was too focused on the phone call to notice the two of them there, and he didn't say anything when they joined him. "And you've stolen another voice, I presume," Sherlock said.
"This is about you and me," the man replied.
Sherlock scowled. "Who are you?" he demanded. He was suddenly aware of some buzzing noise coming from the other side of the line. "What's that noise?"
The man sniffled, clearly trying to keep himself under control. "The sounds of life, Sherlock," he answered. "But don't worry... I can soon fix that."
Max's eyes widened. "He has to be in London," she realized. "They're going to set off a bomb in the middle of London."
"You solved my last puzzle in nine hours," the man continued. "This time you have eight."
Suddenly someone cleared their throat from behind them. John flinched in surprise, and Max yelped; but then they realized that it was just Lestrade, and they relaxed. "We've found it," he told them.
By the time they turned back to the phone, the line had already gone dead.