A few minutes later, Max and the others found themselves standing in front of the rediscovered Vermeer painting. Faint sounds from the party echoed through the halls, but besides that the room was silent. The painting was the only piece on display in the entire room, making it seem larger than it actually was. Sherlock stood in front of the painting, glaring at it as if he could convince it to give him the answer, and Lestrade stood slightly behind him, watching him work. Ms. Wenceslas watched the two men warily, and Max stood across from her, in the perfect position to watch her. Raz hovered next to Max, clearly confused as to what was going on, and John stood next to him, glaring at him when he thought that nobody was looking. Nobody said a word.
"So... uh... what's going on here, exactly?" Raz asked.
Max sighed. "It's a long story," she answered.
Sherlock sighed and turned away from the painting, clearly frustrated. "Max," he said. "Do you see anything?"
She stepped forward and took Sherlock's place by the painting, examining the blend of colors and brush strokes that came together to make a night sky. "No," she replied. "It looks authentic. Vermeer uses pigments in a very specific way, and I recognize it here. If it's a fake, I can't tell."
Raz frowned. "Why do we think it's a fake?" he wanted to know.
Lestrade sighed. "Welcome to the club, mate," he grumbled.
John scowled at him. "I don't even know why you're here, Raz," he said.
Raz looked at him incredulously. "Why I'm here?" he repeated. "Max and I are on a date! What are you doing here?"
Sherlock shot both of them a murderous glare. "Can I have silence, please?" he demanded.
"Seconded," Max added.
John huffed. "Fine," he grumbled.
"Fine," Raz added.
Nobody spoke for a few seconds as Sherlock went back to examining the painting. "If it were authentic then the canvas would have degraded," Max offered.
Sherlock shook his head. "I thought about that already," he replied. He scowled. "It's a fake. It has to be."
Ms. Wenceslas crossed her arms in irritation. "That painting has been subjected to every test known to science," she insisted.
Sherlock scoffed. "Then it's a very good fake," he retorted. Without warning, he whirled around and glared at her. "You know about this, don't you? This is you, isn't it?"
Max gave him a look. "Don't jump to conclusions, Sherlock-" she started.
"But what else could explain-" he attempted.
Ms. Wenceslas sighed in irritation. "Inspector, my time is being wasted," she interrupted. "Would you mind showing yourself and your friends out?"
Raz raised his hand hesitantly, as if he were in school. "Oh, we're not with them," he said. "Max and I, I mean."
Ms. Wenceslas glared at him. "I don't care, young man," she snapped.
He blinked in surprise. "... Okay then," he agreed.
"Can we calm down for a second?" Max requested.
John glared at her. "I'm calm," he replied. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm perfectly calm. See this face? I'm calm."
Max gave him a look. "No you're not," she said.
He sighed. "Alright, fine, I'm not calm," he admitted. "Why are you going on a date with him?!"
Raz blinked in surprise. "Me?" he asked.
John crossed his arms in irritation. "Yes!" he exclaimed.
Max groaned. "John, it's none of your business!" she protested.
"If anyone wants to know what I think, my opinion is that Max could do better," Sherlock interjected.
She looked at him in disbelief. "Sherlock!" she exclaimed.
Raz sighed. "Gee, thanks," he muttered.
"EVERYONE, SHUT IT!" Lestrade shouted.
They all fell silent, and Lestrade blinked in surprise, as if he hadn't expected that to work. "... Thank you," he said.
"Hmpf," Max grumbled.
Suddenly the pink phone rang, and Sherlock snatched it from his pocket. "The painting is a fake," he declared.
Silence.
Sherlock scowled. "It's a fake," he repeated. "That's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed."
Still, no response.
He sighed impatiently. "Oh, c'mon," he complained. "Proving it's just the detail. The painting is a fake. I've solved it, I've figured it out. It's a fake! That's the answer. That's why they were killed!"
The phone remained silent.
Max placed a hand on his shoulder. "Take a deep breath, Sherlock," she told him.
He closed his eyes and did as he said, then turned back to the phone, notably calmer than he had been before. "Okay, I'll prove it," he said. "Give me time. Will you give me time?"
This time there was a response, but when Max heard it she almost wished that the phone had remained silent.
"Ten," the voice of a little boy said.
It was almost as if a switch had been flicked as everyone suddenly became more alert. Sherlock's eyes widened in horror, and he whirled back around to study the painting again, more frantic than before. "It's a kid!" Lestrade exclaimed. "Oh God, it's a kid!"
"Nine," the boy continued.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "It's a countdown," he said. "He's giving me time." He groaned. "The painting is a fake, but how can I prove it? How? How?!"
"Eight."
The boy's voice broke, and Max shared a look with John. "I know you can't speak to us, little guy, but we're going to get you out of there, alright?" she said to the boy. "Just be brave."
Raz frowned. "We have to do something!" he exclaimed.
Sherlock whirled back around to glare at Ms. Wenceslas. "This kid will die," he snapped. "Tell me why the painting is a fake. Tell me!"
It seemed like she was about to reply, but then Sherlock held up a hand to stop her. "No, shut up," he interrupted. "Don't say anything. It only works if I figure it out."
"Seven."
John started pacing irritably, and Lestrade looked as if he would like nothing more than to do the same.
Sherlock frowned. "Must be possible, must be staring me in the face," he muttered.
"Six."
Raz looked at Lestrade desperately. "You can't do anything about this?" he demanded.
Lestrade gestured to Sherlock. "What do you think we're doing?" he retorted.
Sherlock growled. "Woodbridge knew, but how?!" he shouted.
"Five."
Lestrade frowned. "It's speeding up!" he warned.
Max glanced at Sherlock. "Sherlock..." she trailed off. She didn't have to finish her sentence; she knew that he was fully aware of what would happen if he didn't solve this case.
Sherlock scowled in concentration as he studied the painting, but then his eyes widened in realization. "Oh!" he exclaimed.
"Four."
Sherlock laughed happily and shoved the pink phone into Max's hands. Raz looked at him like he was insane, but Max knew what this meant; it meant that he was onto something. "In the planetarium!" he exclaimed. "Oh, that is brilliant! That is gorgeous!"
"Three."
He pulled out his own phone and started typing something into it. Everyone watched him in confusion, not sure what he was onto. "What's brilliant?" John demanded. "What is?!"
Sherlock grinned. "This is beautiful!" he declared. "I love this!"
Max glared at him. "Sherlock, focus please-" she attempted.
"Two."
Sherlock turned around and snatched the phone from Max. "The Van Buren Supernova!" he shouted.
Everyone held their breath for one tense moment, but then the boy's voice came over the phone again. "Please," he said. "Is someone there?"
They all breathed a sigh of relief, and Sherlock passed the phone to Lestrade. "There you go," he said. "Go find out where he is and pick him up."
Lestrade nodded and headed off with the phone, leaving the rest of them standing by the painting. "How did you figure it out?" Max asked.
Sherlock gestured to one of the dots in the sky of the painting. "The Van Buren Supernova, so called," he explained. He showed her his phone, which was still open to the search engine. "Exploding star, only appeared in the sky in 1858."
John nodded in understanding. "So how could it have been painted in the 1640s?" he agreed.
Ms. Wenceslas looked down at her feet.
His point proven, Sherlock turned and headed out of the exhibit. John glanced at Max and Raz, then seemed to decide that he was too tired to deal with them and headed out after Sherlock instead.
Lestrade returned a moment later, the pink phone in hand. "I have my people picking him up," he told Max quietly. "He'll be fine."
Max nodded. "Good," she replied.
He turned to Ms. Wenceslas, who was still standing there. "I'm going to have to ask you to come with me, Ms. Wenceslas," he said. She hesitated, then nodded and headed out of the room with Lestrade's hand on her back, just in case she decided to run.
"Greg," Max called. The detective turned around, looking at her questioningly. "Do you think that Sherlock cares about the people he saves?"
The detective was silent for a moment as he considered that, but then he shrugged. "I've known him for years and I've only ever seen him think about the case," he replied. "But I think he can change. He's doing it already, in his own odd way." With that, he turned and continued out the door.
Max watched him go, his words echoing through her mind. I think he can change. He's doing it already, in his odd way.
Maybe a few days ago she wouldn't have believed that, but after what she had seen before, she did: because she was convinced that Sherlock had been genuinely concerned for the boy on the phone. She had seen the look in his eyes when he realized that a little boy would die, and something about the way that he had doubled his efforts to solve the case because of it... He really did care, even though he made it seem like he didn't. She suddenly felt a rush of warmth towards Sherlock, that bloody detective who refused to let anyone- not even himself- see who he really was: someone who cared.
But she saw. She knew. And something about that- about that hidden part of him, the person who he really was- was... attractive.
Wait... what? Attractive?
"Hey."
She turned around to see Raz standing behind her, a small smile on his face. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Raz! I completely forgot you were here! I'm so sorry!"
He shook his head. "No, it's fine," he said. "I don't mind."
Max frowned. "No, I feel bad," she told him. "You got us these tickets and we were only at the event for like ten minutes... I'll make it up to you. We'll go out another time, or-"
"No, really, Max, it's fine," Raz interrupted.
She blinked in surprise. "What do you mean?" she asked.
He shrugged. "You don't fancy me, Max," he told her. Max opened her mouth to protest, but he shook his head. "No, you don't need to deny it. I can tell. It's fine, really. This was just a date." He smiled at her. "Friends?
Max was silent for a moment as she thought over everything that he had just said, but then she smiled at him. "Friends," she agreed.
Raz grinned and pulled her into a tight hug; she hesitated for a moment, then hugged him back. "For the record, you're the one who doesn't appreciate fine art," he told her.
She burst out laughing and pulled away form the hug, slapping him playfully on the arm. "Oh, shut up," she teased. He chuckled too, and Max smiled at him. "Thanks, Raz. I had a fun time."
He smiled back. "Yeah, me too," he replied. "I'll see you around, Max." He gave her a mock salute, then turned around and headed out of the room.
"See you around, Raz," Max muttered.
000
As soon as Max woke up the next morning she knew that she wasn't up to going to work, so she took the day off and met up with Sherlock at Scotland Yard.
"You know, it's interesting," Sherlock commented. "Bohemian stationery, an assassin named after a Prague legend, and you, Ms. Wenceslas. This whole case has a distinctly Czech feeling about it. Is that where this leads?"
Ms. Wenceslas looked down at her feet, not answering the question.
They were currently in Lestrade's office. Ms. Wenceslas was seated in a chair in front of Lestrade's desk, and Max was sitting on the desk. The inspector himself was seated at his desk with Sherlock standing next to him, almost hovering over his shoulder.
"What are we looking at, Inspector?" Sherlock asked.
Lestrade looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully. "Well, um, criminal conspiracy, fraud, accessory after the fact at the very least," he answered. "The murder of the old woman, all the people in the flats-"
Ms. Wenceslas's eyes widened in horror. "I didn't know anything about that!" she protested. "All those things! Please believe me!"
It seemed like Lestrade wasn't completely convinced, but Sherlock gave him a tiny nod, confirming that she was telling the truth. Lestrade nodded back.
Max frowned. "Then what exactly were you trying to do?" she asked.
Ms. Wenceslas grimaced. "I just wanted my share- the thirty million," she answered. She glanced across the desk to Sherlock, then sighed and looked back down at her feet. "I found a little old man in Argentina. Genius. I mean, really: brushwork immaculate, could fool anyone."
"Hmph!" Sherlock muttered.
Ms. Wenceslas looked at him briefly, then turned away. "Well, nearly anyone," she amended. She took a deep breath, then continued with her narrative. "But I didn't know how to go about convincing the world the picture was genuine. It was just an idea, a spark which he blew into a flame."
Sherlock looked at her sharply, his eyes starting at her intensely. "Who?" he demanded.
Ms. Wenceslas shook her head. "I don't know," she answered. Lestrade scoffed, and she looked at him pleadingly. "It's true!" she exclaimed. "I mean, it took a long time, but eventually I was put in touch with people... his people. There was never any real contact, just messages... whispers..."
Max glanced at Sherlock, who was watching Ms. Wenceslas with unbroken concentration, his entire body angled toward her as he hung onto her every word. He was onto something, she could tell, and suddenly she was drawn into his eyes, as bright and fierce as a supernova. She felt that feeling of warmth again as she looked at him, the same one that she had felt last night when he saved that boy.
...Was she seriously beginning to fancy Sherlock?
She shook her head to clear it. Focus, she scolded herself. It wasn't the time to be thinking about that, not in the middle of the case. She could figure this out later... whatever this was.
"And did those whispers have a name?" Sherlock asked, his voice low.
Ms. Wenceslas hesitated, seeming scared for a moment; then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened her eyes again, she was calm. "Moriarty," she answered.
Moriarty...
Sherlock leaned back against the wall, his brow furrowed in thought. Max knew what was going through his head now; he finally had the proof that he needed, the proof that the elusive Moriarty was the one behind all of these bombings. Now all he had to do was find him.
But that would be the hard part.
"Max," Sherlock suddenly said, breaking the silence in the room.
She looked up at him, their eyes meeting in pure understanding. "What do you need me to do?" she asked.
Sherlock pushed himself off of the wall. "Are you free for the day?" he wanted to know.
Max nodded. "Yeah," she answered.
He walked around the desk, heading to the doors. "I have another case to solve, and I would appreciate it if you could come with me," he told her. "Lestrade, I'm done here." Without another word, he turned and walked out of the office.
Max shared a look with Lestrade, then shrugged and headed out after him.
The door to Lestrade's office swung closed behind her, and she speedwalked to catch up to Sherlock. "What's the case?" she asked.
Sherlock glanced at her, slowing his stride so that they were walking side by side. "John is off solving my brother's case- the stolen missile plans," he explained. "He needs help. Are you in?"
Max nodded. "Of course," she said. "Let's go."
A few moments later, Max and Sherlock were in a cab, heading towards the train tracks where Andrew West had died.