Chapter 8

Nosce Te Ipsum

He badly needed to find John. He required someone sane to keep him stable and composed, to be a wing-man who backed his play and shared honest thoughts without being afraid to do so. Someone to tell him it wasn't all right to rip Moriarty's throat out for hurting John while Sherlock was away. Most of all, he desired someone who would not hesitate to knock Moriarty out for acting like an attention-seeking child, refusing to leave Sherlock alone for more than a few days before showing up again. Every time there was a homicide and Sherlock was called by Lestrade, the criminal appeared at the scene, looking chipper than the last time he'd come.

Lestrade called whenever there was a suspected hit performed by John. The silver-haired detective knew Sherlock had one case and one case only he would bother to investigate. The first was a false alarm, a jealous wife spurred on to commit the deed when she discovered a long-time mistress. Sherlock had taken one quick scan of the crime scene and deduced as much, walking out as fast as he walked in. The second was a week after John went missing and was without a doubt the doctor's work. A single professional shot to the forehead marked his kill like before. This time, however, there was another mark left behind at the scene, and the next two scenes that followed.

Messages in red paint remained the solitary evidence left behind. The crime scenes prior to John's arrest had no evidence left and the location of death was spotless aside from the bleeding corpse, of course. The spray paint was new. An identical phrase was written on the wall of each scene where a body was discovered. Fortes fortuna adiuvat. Latin words translating to "fortune favors the brave". The reason these words were scrawled on walls he could not deduce.

He was uncovering similarities concerning the victims. One, a military captain, the second, a receptionist who worked in a military hospital, and the third, a scientist who turned out to be a weapons specialist assigned to a private contract listed as classified. So classified, when Sherlock grudgingly went to his brother for help, not even the deeply involved government employee could gain access to the file. By the time two and a half weeks passed since John disappeared from his locked cell, a fourth murder was committed.

The fourth crime scene had a different message painted on the wall which Sherlock immediately spotted upon striding into the bedroom. The latest victim lay sprawled across the white carpet. Nosce te ipsum. The Latin phrase was scrawled on the carpet above the head of the victim this time, phrase translating to "know thy self". His brain scrambled to try and formulate what the two phrases had in common or what they could possibly mean to him. Was this John's employer leaving a message for the police? Was this something from John? Could Sherlock be the one meant to find these messages and decipher them?

"Sheeerrrlock."

"Quiet."

"Sherlock," the irritating voice persisted.

"Not now!" he snapped.

Audible sounds of pouting ensued and he groaned. He couldn't think in these conditions. He couldn't do his proper deductions with John going around killing people and James Moriarty constantly by his side, being..well..himself.

"Oh you'll want to know what I have to say."

Moriarty was at his ear. Uh uh. He pushed the consulting criminal away and stepped closer to the painted message, leaning down to squint and frown at it sideways. "Fortune favors the brave", and now this, "know thy self". He straightened and stared ahead as he addressed Lestrade, Donovan, and Dimmock.

"Well, outright he's telling us we will be rewarded by our bravery for investigating these crimes. He wants us to keep looking into the victims. This new message, 'know thy self', means... Well, I'm not quite sure. It does remind me of something he said in the interview."

"We're not who we are. Right, I remember," Lestrade mentioned, perplexed even as his brain obviously worked on overdrive to figure it out. "'We're not who we are' and 'know thy self', both referring to a sort of..identity crisis? You're not saying he has a sort of multiple personality disorder, are you?"

"What? No."

Sherlock dismissed the ridiculous notion. He scanned the crime scene again before retreating into his mind to mull over the Latin phrases. There was something else he was missing. There had to be more.

"He's being made to do this..somehow... The answer is here. I know it's here. He's been trying to tell me something. I can feel it!"

"You know, avoiding use of his name won't change that he committed murder. Think, heart of gold John, out murdering. Really, it warms my heart."

"No it doesn't. Stop talking."

"You're right, it doesn't."

Moriarty tutted and shrugged his shoulders. Placing his hands casually in his very expensive trouser pockets, he strolled toward the doorway. The police were looking a tad confused and perpetually annoyed. Having a master criminal constantly about tended to do that to them. They should be arresting him and they couldn't touch him. The man was especially frustrating when his cocky and pompous nature showed through at every opportunity.

"Wait."

Although the other man's back was to him, Sherlock could picture the self-satisfied smile pasted on his face at getting to him. Moriarty always seemed to get to him. Reluctantly, he admitted the criminal was knowledgeable, in some ways more so than himself.

"What do you know? Tell me and don't dance around it."

"I know what you're missing. What your brain is frantically trying to grasp at. You're too clooose."

His voice got high-pitched on the last word. Sherlock took a deep breath, released it, and turned fully around to face his enemy. He nearly let Moriarty walk out, but a tiny twinge of doubt that he couldn't do this alone stopped him from allowing it.

"Where Johnny boy is going to be. The Latin."

The hint led to brainwaves. He knew. Damn it. So obvious. How he ever missed it was beyond him. Frankly, it was rather embarrassing. He turned to Lestrade to tell him what he knew.. sort of.

Twenty minutes to make it across town to the Latin church. A historical place at one point in time, now another old building to many in London. Despite the police's attempts to reach the place first, Sherlock's taxi pulled up to an empty curb. He didn't expect the police would arrive for twenty minutes since he'd given them a false location. They were unintelligent, but the vital clue had been provided, so they'd be to the church eventually. He wasn't letting the police get their misguided and misinformed hands on his friend.

Moriarty stepped out behind the hurried detective. He scored a ride in the same taxi by managing to slip into the back as it began its initial drive onward to the destination. It didn't surprise him that Moriarty was at his speed on the location, but surprisingly, a sleek black car pulled up behind the taxi. Mycroft was here.

Decidedly, he ignored the car and his brother getting out of it, opting to rush inside the church. He wasn't sure what to anticipate when he entered the church. The three men and a woman inside certainly weren't anticipating three well-dressed men arriving. A glance behind him prompted a correction. Mycroft came into the church with a pair of women.

One woman he recognized as his brother's assistant, going by the name Anthea, though it probably wasn't her true name. The other was younger, mid-twenties at most, a natural beauty wearing tight jeans, a fitted black top, and a dark blue leather jacket. Her hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail and from the stance she took upon stopping a few yards inside the church alongside Mycroft and Anthea, she knew how to handle herself in dangerous situations.

"Who is she?" Sherlock asked while he processed the three men they stumbled upon, perhaps hiding out or having some kind of meeting.

John was one of them, appearing a tad worse for wear with deep bags under his eyes and a pale hue to his skin and coloring of his eyes. Aside from that he looked okay, so he forced himself to move on to scan the men with him. One of the men had close-shaven hair, a receding hairline, and a tough exterior. The other man with them had short blond hair, blue eyes, a sharp jaw-line, and he looked as unfriendly as the first. The woman had auburn hair cascading over her shoulders and dark eyes. All four of them were dressed near identical. Black combat clothing that included heavy boots and jackets. The woman wore a black baseball cap, however, and John had a tight zipped up combat vest over a t-shirt, but no jacket.

"Her name's Audrey Fenn. She's my friend and these men work with her. Used to. Audrey's decided not to follow her employer's orders any longer."

That explained the black outfit of this Audrey and the four standing toward the center of the room.

"Yes, and John's my friend and I'm here to help get him out," confirmed the previously unknown friend of Anthea, solemn as ever.

"Ladies." Mycroft gave them a look. "That's quite enough. No need to divulge..unnecessary details."

Sherlock sort of frowned and glared at his brother simultaneously. Who was he to say such a thing when he clearly knew more than he was telling just by showing up there? Mycroft drove him insane with omniscient government crap.

"Scatter," the man with the shaven head said, and they did.

They were vanishing into the rafters or through back pathways. Sherlock didn't consider chasing the others when John remained where he stood. He removed his holstered sidearm, making them all very much aware they were unarmed. The woman tried to reach him by appealing to his humanity.

"John. John, come on. This isn't you. You're my friend. You were never like the rest of them. A good man through and through. John, please. See reason."

"I see fact, Audrey. You have betrayed us."

"No. John. They've been lying to us this whole time."

"You betrayed us. You are retired, soldier."

"Joh-"

The first gunshot went through her heart, the second through her forehead. She dropped, dead before hitting the floor. Anthea screamed, piercing and loud. He'd never seen her appear anything but bored. Enough observing.

Sherlock wasted no more time and rushed him. John didn't fight him and was taken to the floor. Moriarty came up beside him and yanked the gun from John's outstretched hand. Mycroft strode to them and snatched the weapon from the criminal.

"I'll hold on to this, seeing as how it is damning evidence against John here."

"John."

His friend stared blankly up at Sherlock. A gaze unfamiliar, glazed, devoid of any thought or emotion that he could see.

"Please, John, say something."

The eyes moved past Sherlock to stare at Mycroft. "You're a tough cookie to track down."

He forced himself not to look startled. Sherlock glared over his shoulder at his withholding brother, mind set on the man under him all the while. He turned back to John but wasn't certain who he was talking to anymore.

"What are you getting at?"

Standing, he tugged John up with him. He pushed past Moriarty in order to seat him insistently in one of the pews. His attention strayed over to Mycroft.

"Spill."

"This is my fault." Anthea was kneeling beside her dead friend, withholding the sobs so her speech was comprehensible.

Sherlock moved closer to where the woman knelt but didn't move too far from John. "What do you mean?"

"I've known Audrey Fenn since she was a little girl. She was in the army and always meant to be. A fighter searching to make the world a more peaceful place. It was all she ever wanted. I met her at the funeral of her officer father. A great man, killed in the line of duty."

His impatience got the best of him. "And?"

Anthea was unaffected by his coldness toward her obvious grief. She did get to the point though. She was in a bad way, but clear-minded enough to understand how deeply personal this was for him too.

"I introduced John to a man named Joshua Donovan. Joshua got Audrey in on a special project that started up a year ago. I thought he'd be able to get John a job."

"Why?" Sherlock demanded. "Why would John be interested in working for the government? He's a doctor. He had a job at the hospital."

"Purpose," breathed Moriarty, looking fascinated. "A desperate attempt to regain some semblance of the life he maintained with Sherlock Holmes. Aww... Poor puppy."

It grabbed Sherlock's attention momentarily and he frowned at the sight in front of him. John continued to sit ramrod straight, eyes staring ahead. The difference now was Moriarty had taken to kneeling on the seat of the pew just before him so he could stare into those oddly cold eyes. That he couldn't distinguish who had the more eerie gaze at the moment was not comforting.

Sherlock went over and flipped out his phone. He zoomed in on John's face for a full minute and stepped back again. Moving about the hard floor of the church as he messed with his device, his mind was whirring all the while.

"Whatever Dr. Watson has gotten himself involved with is extremely confidential," Mycroft shared. "Not even my admittedly extensive reach could garner anything more than this is a project involving those with military experience."

"Don't be obvious. Of course it's something military. The past hits were government employees, primarily military. Give me something of use. Something that can make John stop..acting like..well, not John!"

Mycroft approached John without fear, but there was a tenseness displayed on his forehead. Uncertainty. There was a big-time government project ongoing he hadn't been aware of. If anything, this was at least unfamiliar to him and it made him disagreeable about the whole situation. Sherlock could read him like a book. Right now, he couldn't read John at all.

"You waited here for a reason, didn't you? Your friends ran, but you stayed. Are you following orders, Dr. Watson?"

"I was to find a difficult man to find," John told his interrogator, breaking his stare with Moriarty in favor of turning slightly to look up at the man coming to stand in front of him.

Balancing on his umbrella, he calmly regarded the man seated. "Well, you've found me. What now? Hm? What possible reason would your employer have for me?"

"It's not you we want. Your assistant is never far from you and we required her to flush the traitor out."

"Impressive. Mission accomplished. But you left clues my brother surely could figure out himself, which means you wanted him here. Why?"

John said nothing.

"There are ways to get him to tell us what we need." Moriarty hummed. He was intrigued to be certain, invested as well. Curious.

"Torture will do no good," announced Sherlock.

He was reading a text on his phone when it rang. The consultant answered and switched it to speaker.

"Speak what you texted me, Dr. Calman."

"Calman?"

Moriarty sounded surprised at the name popping up again, that the two were continuing to communicate. He was interested. Sherlock did rarely rely on others to help him out as he rarely required such a thing. Distraction. He listened.

"I've reviewed the video you sent several times. The lack of emotion and thought is a trick..rather..a drug. He's been dosed. The vacant stare is unmistakable."

"So you see," Sherlock explained, "Torture would be useless. He can't tell us what we want to know. The drug blocks him from answering freely."

"A kind of control drug?" Mycroft pondered out loud. "I'd heard rumors of a project attempting to create superior soldiers with the use of a drug. The desired effect of the drug was to make soldiers who were controlled in strength, agility, and composure in dangerous circumstances. Downright controlling the actions themselves to the point where the soldiers are not under their own control is..impossible."

"Unethical. Those poor people. John..." Anthea looked close to tears.

"There's something else. For the briefest of moments, I did spot an emotion in the video you sent. A thing that could be a temporary breakthrough. It's potential to mean your Dr. Watson has been leaving you a trail to follow as you hoped."

"It's possible he's fighting this drug when he can?" Lestrade was at the door. "Because he wasn't drugged when we had him in jail but he was too intimidated to say much. The drug must wear off so it makes sense it could be overcome."

Lestrade had his respect as one of the least incompetent officers on the force.

"Fighting the effects of any drug is awfully difficult, but yes, it's a possibility. What I saw for that single moment was the glimpse of a feeling. Agony. I thought you should know because it's what leads me to believe your friend is in there, screaming to be heard."

"Thank you, doctor."

He ended the call. It was all he needed to know. Crouching in front of John, he met his friend's dull gaze.

"John. John, you in there? Can you hear me?"

"I can hear."

Moriarty snickered. Sherlock shook his head and went on. "John, come on. It's me. Sherlock."

"My employer would like me to warn the lot of you. Back off or he'll do what he always does when someone gets too close to learning the truth."

"What? Are you saying he'll kill us?"

"I'll kill you."

Sherlock disagreed. "No. You'd never be able to hurt me or kill me. Not Lestrade, Mycroft..not even Moriarty. You're not a killer."

"On the contrary, that's precisely what I am. You saw for yourself. My employer points and I shoot. I follow orders and complete the mission. I never fail."

"Who is your employer? Tell us," Mycroft insisted, standing too close to Sherlock for his liking.

John remained silent. He looked straight ahead at Moriarty like he was going to be sick. "Simon Walker."

He jolted to his feet so sudden it had Sherlock and Mycroft back-peddling before they realized what they were doing. The added shock as he threw himself backward, airborne to vault over several pews to land neatly on one a few feet farther was stunning. This drug evidently provided successful physical enhancement.

Racing for the stain-glass windows at a side of the church, he darted off last second and vanished into the darkened exterior. Presumably headed for a back exit. Sounds of sirens growing nearer reached their ears. Sherlock suspected John must have heard the sound before any of them. It was what he had been waiting for.

Orders to kill the traitor made sense. Orders to stay until the police arrived, less so. Maybe John lingered behind still technically following orders to choke out the name. Sherlock did know for certain the name was not intended to be provided. He would find Simon Walker and get answers. He'd bring John home and it was going to happen soon.