Watching Brief Part Four
Author's Note: You are encouraged to read the last chapter of Magpie: Two for Joy to refresh your memories about what Sherlock was planning to do when he left the wedding. A brief summary here (God, I sound like American television series with the "Previously on …." before each show):
While planning the Watson–Morstan wedding, Sherlock became increasingly obsessed with what Mycroft was refusing to tell him about "the Georgian connection". A series of cases covered in that story—including the Elephant in the Room—brought Sherlock closer to the truth. What Sherlock doesn't know (and Mycroft is determined to keep from him) is that he has an elder half-brother, Fitzroy S. Ford, who was once Mycroft's boss in the Security & Intelligence Liaison Service, and who committed treason in 2001. Mycroft "outed" him and he was extradited to be incarcerated in Tbilisi, Georgia. The arrangement of his solitary confinement there is confirmed every month by a blood sample being sent for testing back in London to confirm his identity. During the course of Magpie: Two for Joy, it becomes apparent that Ford has escaped—and did so quite some time ago—and is now intent on wreaking havoc and revenge. Mycroft hides this from Sherlock, who is increasingly suspicious and beginning to put the pieces together. The third sibling—an evil one to boot—was part of my writing a full three years before Series Four was broadcast.
When Sherlock disappears after the wedding, he goes to a new bolt hole, determined to concentrate on solving this Georgian mystery. He uses cocaine to speed his thought processes with a heroin chaser to come down slowly enough to sleep. After a week of such roller coaster bingeing, things start to fall apart.
Greg is on his fourth cup of coffee, even though it's only eleven o'clock in the morning. Spending the last seven nights looking for Sherlock, trying to gee up Billy, and generally worrying about the missing Consulting Detective, Greg is running on nerves and caffeine. And now, standing outside in the area behind the New Scotland Yard 's succumbed to another stimulant. Content that he should be protected from any public scrutiny in his current spot, he inhales deeply the dregs of his second cigarette in five minutes. Ever since the Chief Superintendent had insisted that all officers stay on premises rather than go to the Embankment for their nicotine fixes, Greg has used the occasion to keep up with the gossip amongst other officers.
Better than a watercooler any day.
Except not today, as DI Sobie is regaling the smokers with the story of how the Waters Gang had finally ended up in custody, despite the abrupt departure of the officer in charge. Lestrade knows he is about to be ribbed for his impromptu detour to Baker Street. There are more than a few sniggers of laughter, and Greg knows she is not the sort to spare his blushes.
Sandra Sobie is a big Yorkshire woman who's been working on the county lines up from London into the northern market towns. As soon as she finishes the story, she calls out to him, "Hey, Greg, 'ave you seen the latest post on the Watson blog? Na' then—looks like your daft bugger Holmes has hacked it and left a little love letter. It's a hoot!"
As soon as he stubs out his cigarette, Greg bolts upstairs and opens his laptop. He scans the latest entry, entitled The Sign of Three:
Wow! What a day! That was the best wedding ever! Sherlock was amazing! Love is amazing! Fluffy clouds and little birds are amazing! It was all just like so amazing! I'm going to write up all about it here! Because you all love reading my blog because I'm such a good writer!
In the post, Sherlock then admits that he's writing it and mentions the "sex holiday". Greg has to start laughing when he realises that Sherlock has deduced their destination is not Paris but "somewhere hot and sunny with beaches and cocktails or something".
His smile fades as the tone of the text further down the page becomes even odder; references are made to "phasing" John out, criticising both John and Mary as "both perfectly acceptable friends in their own way but then they start talking and I wish I really had died." He then makes the point that it is "very nice to have the place to myself without their meaningless chatter distracting me from more important things".
The exchange of comments below the post include ones from John and Mary, as well as Sherlock himself. On the surface, it all seems perfectly innocent: teasing, light-hearted banter.
Given that Greg knows a) Sherlock does not really understand teasing, b) he has been nowhere near Baker Street since the wedding, and c) that he had probably been high as a kite when he'd hacked into the site, puts a whole different meaning on the text. The only comfort he can take is that it is proof of life; Sherlock is not dead somewhere from an overdose.
He grabs his phone and makes a call.
oOoOoOoOo
An hour later Greg is sitting at a table in the Marquis of Granby on Romney Street. It's half way between the Yard and the National Crime Agency at Citadel Place, south of the river, so a convenient pub to meet someone he knows from the Cybercrime team who may be able to help him find Sherlock.
"So, what's the favour?" Jeremy Coates is an IT specialist Greg had run across three years earlier. His specialty is tracking internet hackers. Bespectacled and looking far removed from the usual police officer, the young man is currently munching on a piece of battered cod.
"I need you to find out where a hacker was located when he broke into a site and posted something."
"What's the crime?"
Greg winces a bit. "That's the favour. It's not really criminal activity. The guy who did it is a friend of mine, a friend of the person who owns the site, and he even told him who he was. It was seen as a bit of joke."
Jeremy picks up a chip and dabs it into the ketchup. "So, if you know who he is and his prank is all out there in the public domain, then why do you need to know where he did the deed?"
"Because he's gone AWOL, and I think he's holed up somewhere drowning his sorrows in illegal substances. I'm reading between the lines here, and I want to find him before it gets too serious Because he's a mate, I need you to keep quiet about who's involved, what state he is in and where he is."
"Ah, I get it. This has to be off the books, then."
Greg shows him the site, and Jeremy laughs at first. "Holmes? Wow—didn't realise that the stuff in the Sun about drugs was true." He writes down the URL. "I'll get back to you this afternoon. Shouldn't take me long. What's your mobile number?"
oOoOoOoOo
It's almost midnight, but Jeremy hasn't called back yet. Greg has just finished a face-to-face with Billy who says that Shezza hasn't been seen anywhere north of the river. They'd met up near Waterloo station, where Billy has been working the dealers to see if anyone fitting the description has been buying recently. Greg had been disappointed to learn that there was no sign of Shezza in the neighbourhood. After pocketing his day rate, Billy said he was off to investigate around Elephant and Castle. Perronet House had garages where people were known to be doing hard drugs.
Greg is about to call it a night and head for home when his phone rings.
"Hi. Jeremy here…at last. Your man may be sozzled, but wow, he sure knows how to hide a hack."
"Have you found him?" He stops on the stairs leading out of the station to where he's parked.
"Yeah; 'course I did. Just took me a lot longer because he routes through so many damned IPs that it took me a while to unravel. He knows stuff about Russian and Chinese dark web stuff that I barely know. But yeah, got him in the end; he's using the King's College academic portal. That added on an extra couple of hours; Kings has got five different campuses, scattered all over London. It took me a while to pin down the exact location, but I'd narrowed it down to somewhere in the Guy's Campus when I got a lucky break. Holmes posted a comment on the blog while I was actually online, so it made narrowing it down easier."
"Where is he?"
"The library at New Hunt's House. It's open twenty-four hours, so an ideal place to access any time without arousing suspicion."
"You're a star, Jeremy. Thanks so much for this."
"I'm beat and heading for bed. I hope you find him; he sounds kind of lonely."
"What? What did he say?"
"Take a look yourself."
"Ta, thanks…." He hangs up and swipes open the internet.
Sherlock Holmes 13 August
Did nobody notice the attempted murder I mentioned? What's wrong with you all?
Sherlock Holmes 13 August
Does anyone want to ask me how I worked it all out? And who the potential victim was?
Sherlock Holmes 13 August
Anyone?
Sherlock Holmes 13 August
John would ask me if he was here. He always asks me what's going on and how i worked it out.
Sherlock Holmes 13 August
ANYONE?
Greg slips into his car, grabs the Police notice off the dashboard and shoves it back into the glove compartment. Putting his car into gear, he accelerates away from Waterloo Station.
Anyone? That's a call for help, if he's ever heard one.
oOoOoOoOo
"I'm sorry, sir, but that area is not open yet."
Greg had tried to open the door, but entry is swipe card activated, which must be the key. He's searched high and low to no avail; there have been no sightings of a slightly scruffy post-graduate chemist seeking to hide in plain sight. In theory, Sherlock is a bit too old to sustain that disguise, but Greg knows he's capable of looking ten years younger at a moment's notice. Slap on a hoodie, change his posture, carry a backpack full of textbooks and he'd look just the part.
The DI had not realised just how big a university library could be. New Hunt's House is all glass and chrome, soaring atrium, two-storey windows and open spaces. It is about as far removed from the fusty book-shelved image that Greg has always imagined a university library to be. Not that he'd known one; a direct entry into Hendon College as a police cadet had been the height of his ambitions back when he left school.
"Sir? Can I help you?" The security guard is being polite, probably in deference to Lestrade's grey hair. Maybe the guard thinks he's an absent-minded professor.
Greg flashes his warrant card and points through the window into the stairwell. "Tell me, what's down there?"
The security guard follows Greg's finger to see the stairs heading down into what must presumably be a basement. It had not been shown on the floor-plan at the entrance; nor was it possible to gain access through the lift. Pressing the button marked B1, B2 or B3 had not moved the lift an inch.
The guard looks startled. "Um… the basements are off limits to most everyone except librarians. Those stacks up the stairs are open to academic staff but not students, but you can only get in if your card is authorised. Downstairs, there's B1 which is restricted stacks, B2 is workrooms, and B3 is mostly storage—for materials moved from the St Bartholomew's Hospital collection."
Until he had mentioned Bart's, Greg had begun to think that Sherlock must be a casual visitor, perhaps dropping into the study areas simply to use the Wi-fi and hide behind the university's academic portal. "What's the connection to Bart's?"
"King's bought the collection when they agreed to demolish the old pathology department block. It's down there on B3 waiting for re-cataloguing."
"So, do people go down there much?"
"No. It's pretty much off limits. Just occasionally the chief librarian who wants to check something. There's a guard who goes down there once a day to check that no one's been mucking about. All the doors are locked and can't be opened without the right swipe card, but you never know. We'll have a record of his last trip; sensors record his passage. Do you want me to check the last visit?"
Greg smiles. "Nope; not needed, you can let me in."
"Um…" the guard looks uncomfortable, "…I'd have to get my supervisor to okay that."
Greg decides to pull rank. "I'm a Detective Inspector on the Metropolitan Police's Major Investigation Team. I am looking for a suspect who has been traced to this building. Are you really going to waste police time and obstruct me from doing my duty?" He puts into his tone of voice all the incredulity he could muster at this hour.
It works. Without further protest, the guard swipes his card and opens the door. When Lestrade goes through, he starts to follow, but Greg raises a hand. "No, I need you to stay here and guard the door. If the lifts won't work down there, this may be his only way out." He reaches over and grabs the swipe card out of the guard's hand. "I'll give this back when I return."
As he descends the flights of stairs automatic lights come on and then turn off, once he has passed. He starts at B3, working on the premise that Sherlock would want his bolt-hole to be as far away from the presence of anyone else. The appeal of Barts would also draw him.
Storage rooms turn out to be rather boring. The first one Lestrade lets himself into is full of floor-to-ceiling shelves, filled with cardboard boxes. He wanders down one row, then the other and then the last one without being able to decipher what the labels on the boxes actually mean.
The next four rooms are exactly the same. He swipes to gain entry, crosses the threshold and some sensor or another picks up his presence and turns the overhead fluorescent lights on. When he leaves, the lights go out.
Down the corridor there are eight more doors, making him wonder if there is any way to speed things up. Walking down to the end without seeing anything that would mark any one door more likely than another to be hiding a consulting detective, Greg sighs. When he inhales again, his nose picks up the faintest scent of coffee. It triggers both a caffeine craving and a realisation; he's not the only one who is keeping unsocial hours.
He tracks the scent down to the second door from the end, on the left. Swiping the entry card, he walks in and the lights flicker into life with the usual buzz and metallic pings, revealing yet another wall of shelves with boxes.
Undeterred, he goes to the end and turns the corner, only to realise that this room has only the single row of shelves. He stops in his tracks, startled by what else is in the room.
Shielded from anyone who just casually looked in to see the usual row of shelves, the wide space behind opens out to a long wall, with a single metal desk and chair in front of it, currently occupied by Sherlock. His head is cradled in his arms, down on the desk and he appears to be sound asleep.
"Sherlock…"
There is no reply, no indication that he has been heard. That in itself worries Greg. He knows that Sherlock is a light sleeper; normally, just the sound of the lights going on would have woken him up. There is a vending-machine coffee cup on the desk, and there is still a trace of steam rising from it, no doubt the source of the clue that had led him to this room.
He goes over to the desk and squats down to see if he can get a look at Sherlock's face, but all he can see is the dark curls, which look in some need of a wash. Getting close also makes him aware that Sherlock needs a shower, too. The clothes would help him blend in with the student population—dark trousers, a King's hoodie in navy and a pair of scuffed trainers. The lack of personal hygiene wouldn't have raised many eyebrows either.
That's when he spots the slim box that Sherlock has cradled in his arms, serving as a sort of pillow. As reluctant as he is to touch someone with the sensory issues that Sherlock has, Greg decides he has to see if a nudge will wake up this particular sleeping beauty.
When there is no reaction to the gentle push, Greg lifts an arm and wiggles the box free. Worry turns to outright alarm when Sherlock does not wake up.
Flipping open the lid of the box, Greg discovers the reason: several used syringes and a small bottle of morphine sit beside a plastic bag of white powder and another of a slightly creamier coloured crystals, plus a third bag of different shaped tablets in a rather lurid range of candy colours.
He drops the box onto the metal desk with a crash, and is relieved to see a slow twitch of shoulders in response. Leaning over, Greg puts his mouth closer to Sherlock's ear and shouts, "You are so busted."
Startle reflexes kick in, and Sherlock sits up, confused and bleary-eyed. "What?!"
"I said, you're busted, Sherlock. What the fuck do you think you are doing? Just because John Watson has gotten married, that's no reason to fall off the wagon." He points to the open box.
Consciousness starts to creep back into those startlingly blue eyes, even if the pupils are still quite constricted. It doesn't matter; Greg has seen Sherlock under the influence of drugs before; it's just so disappointing to find him relapsed like this after Hartswood.
"Lestrade…"
Greg hears the slight lisp on the S of his name, and registers it as yet another symptom of drug use. "Yeah, it's me, Sunshine. Care to explain yourself? Is this your idea of celebrating the wedding?"
"It's for a case…" Sherlock flaps his hand rather disjointedly at the wall.
Greg turns to look, for the first time taking in something other than Sherlock. The entire length of the wall is strewn with a dense carpet of blue-tacked odds and sods. Greg struggles to make out specific items; there are dozens of photos, maps, pieces of paper with Sherlock's characteristic scrawl, newspaper cuttings. Festooning the lot are coloured strings connecting disparate parts to a silhouette image of a man's head and shoulders with a big question mark in the middle.
It is without a doubt the largest and most complicated evidence board that he has ever seen. "What the hell is this?"
"That is the question…" This is said with a little more clarity and focus in tone; Sherlock is waking up a bit from his morphine-induced fog. "Not one crime, more like a lot of crimes, all linked together."
After days of worrying and looking for him, fearing the worst, Greg's patience with Sherlock comes to an end. "Explain…"
"That's not easy." Sherlock gets to his feet, a tad unsteady, but shuffles over to the left side of the wall. He points at a photo. "Don't blame me; it's his fault."
Greg follows the finger and recognises a photograph of Mycroft. Peering more closely, he realises this is a younger man. His chestnut hair is only starting to recede, and the image makes him recall the first time he'd seen Mycroft, in the police station when he turned up to reclaim an eighteen-year-old Sherlock.
Glancing up, he sees a black marker pen has been used to write a time-line on the white plaster. The date over the photo is 1997. To the left at the end, he can see 1989 scrawled at the top.
"Something happened back then? You were just a kid."
There is a hum of agreement. "I am pretty sure that whatever is going on now started back then. Maybe after my mother died, but more likely when my father died. I was still at school."
Greg makes a gesture of confusion, "What?!"
"My brother is being blackmailed. I am almost certain of it. I don't know what it is about, or who the blackmailer is, but deduction has led to that conclusion with ninety percent validation." Sherlock points to a load of mathematical symbols drawn on the bare wall below the area where the materials are pasted up. "This is a flow proof; these are the definitions, theorems, postulates and properties used. I concluded that it's blackmail using an indirect proof; the statement is true because the assumption that it's negation is true leads to a contradiction."
"If you say so…" He tries to keep the incredulity from his tone of voice. The mathematics go in one ear and out the other for Greg. Sometimes Sherlock spouts such utter nonsense that if he didn't have the irrefutable proof of how often he turns out to be right, Greg would be sorely tempted to call him crazy.
Greg's still trying to make sense of what he is seeing as he walks further along to the right and then stops in his tracks, at the sight of a photo of a very familiar Irishman "You think Moriarty is somehow involved in this?"
"It took me most of the day after the wedding to work that out, but yes; I am convinced that he was set upon us—Mycroft and me—by the blackmailer. It's the only thing that makes sense."
"Explain it to me."
Sherlock gives an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "Think it through. Moriarty wanted to recruit Mycroft as one of his Fallen Angels. WHY? What did all of them have in common? As I discovered over the next two years' worth of winkling them out of their various holes, each Fallen Angel had a secret that Moriarty used against them. Moriarty wasn't told what Mycroft's secret was; if he had known, then it would have been more than my reputation he'd have decided to trash. But somehow, he knew that Mycroft was vulnerable. Which is also why my brother was so determined to keep me out of it."
"Well, you showed him."
"Yes…well, to a point."
In the middle of the wall, there is a two-year gap, with no materials pasted on; this is where the mystery man's image sits, like some weird spider. Greg turns to Sherlock. "Is this when you were away?"
A nod, and then more explanation. "I don't know what happened to my brother while I was busy. But I do know that the blackmailer is the reason why I was called back to London."
While he is digesting this revelation, Greg's eye is caught by evidence about more recent events. Blue-tacked to the wall is a photo of the Houses of Parliament at night, accompanied by a cutting from a newspaper that details the underground tube carriage bomb plot. Sherlock taps the photo. "It was a plot that even Mycroft couldn't work out. Nice and juicy, tailor-made just for me. The fact that no one was supposed to know I was still alive makes the next deduction simple. If the black-mailer knew that I was alive and what I was doing, ergo, there is a mole working in Mycroft's service or MI6 who is passing secrets onto the blackmailer."
Greg moves two steps to the right and stops at another photo of Mycroft, realising that this one is more contemporary, under this year's date. Alongside of it are the photos which Sherlock must have recently taken with his phone: the agent killed in the Hackney Wick carpark, another one that Greg recognises as the Georgian, Iuri Malkhaz Chkehetidze, who was attacked when he and Sherlock were at the Arnsworth Castle, and lastly, one of the bloody bag opened at Ryder Lane to reveal the remains of one of Mycroft's agents. There is a map of Georgia, which Greg peers at closely to see that it is shaded with different colours denoting different linguistic groups. "What's all this, then?"
When there is no answer, Greg turns to see that Sherlock has returned to the desk, and is sitting on it with his legs splayed for balance. His eyes are drooping shut and his back is starting to sag.
"Oi; stay awake. I'm not done with you. Put all this into words. And while you're at it, explain to me what the hell you are doing in the basement of a library doing all this stuff."
The eyes slowly open wider. "My brother is an arsehole. He's been lying to me for years. I've been getting closer to the truth, but needed a bit of privacy to try to put the last bits into place."
"He's away."
"I know. Probably in Tbilisi. But his minions are spying on Baker Street, so this needs to be done here." Sherlock's glance falls on the open box. He starts to reach for it, but Greg gets there first and slams the lid down, almost catching Sherlock's fingers.
"No way. These are not in play. Why did you even think of using again?"
"We've had this conversation before."
Greg rolls his eyes. "We're really going to do this? Okay, how about your favourite line—That was then, this is now. What's making you fall off the wagon now?"
"I need to focus, really focus. This problem is more challenging, more difficult to think through than anything I've ever handled; it puts even Moriarty to shame. Cocaine helps me focus. The meth and MDMA kept me awake working for the past three days and nights. I know I can't keep doing this, so I used the morphine to take a break."
"When was the last time you had anything to eat?"
Sherlock points to the coffee cup.
Greg snorts, "Eat, not drink. That's just mainline caffeine."
"Eating slows me down. I can't waste time."
"Crash and burn, Sherlock. This binge is stopping here and now. You are coming home with me, and I'll bloody force-feed you something and handcuff you to my sofa tonight."
Sherlock groans. "No. I'm fine. I'll wake up in a couple of hours and get back to work. I need to sort this out."
"Why is this so important? And why do you think that drugs are ever going to help you? You know they won't."
Sherlock shoves himself to his feet and starts shouting, "Because my brother is an idiot. He's going to get himself killed, all because he won't tell me what the hell is happening in Georgia. He's probably gone off there now, without telling me why. He's got to stop lying."
The rage is something that Greg has come to expect. Drugs loosen Sherlock's inhibitions. They also lead to paranoia and delusions, and not eating anything is going to addle him even more. Greg turns to look back at the wall. Is this the product of a drug-crazed mind? Or is it legitimate? He has no way of telling.
"Here's the deal. You come home with me tonight. Tomorrow, this is off limits until I get food into you and you come down from all this shit. Then, and only then, will I come back with you here and you will take me through this slowly, explaining it so that even I, a dumb copper, can understand it. If it holds up, then I will work with you."
"I can't waste time doing that." Shaking his head, Sherlock sinks back down to perch on the edge of the desk.
"If you don't, then you leave me little choice but to deal with the fact that you are guilty of breaking and entering, criminal damage to property, and possession of not one but three different types of Class A drugs. This time I don't see your brother being willing to press for the charges to be dropped."
"You're bluffing."
Greg knows that Sherlock is probably right. All the times in the past when he has turned a bling eye or provided a couch to come down are coming home to haunt him now. For some reason, deep in his gut, Greg knows that this time is different. Not just because John's marriage changes the dynamic, but because of what is up on the evidence wall. He dares not risk having his bluff called, so he ups the ante. "If you don't come with me, then the next call is to your brother's PA to come get you. If I don't arrest you, the alternative is going to be you wasting a whole lot more time in a secure re-hab facility."
"You'd sell me out?" Sherlock is properly outraged at the threat.
"Work with me, and it won't come to that. I'm on your side, Sherlock. But the drugs have got to stop."
Sherlock gets to his feet and spins away from Greg, hands tugging at his hair. Almost shouting, he wails, "I don't have time for this. I need to get this sorted before John gets back from honeymoon in Malta."
"Why?"
"Because he needs to be far enough away from me that whoever is doing the blackmailing won't take it out on him as a way of getting me to stop."
"Is that why you wrote on the website about how you were phasing him out of your life? You think he's in danger?"
Sherlock sags against the evidence wall. Wearily, he says, "Yes. So is Mycroft; that's why I have to solve this quickly."
"Then let me help."
"Not a good idea, Lestrade. My brother has already told you that working with me is a career-limiting move. Adding a blackmailer to that mix could be toxic for you. I have to do this on my own." Sherlock stands up straighter and turns to face Greg, determination showing in his eyes.
Greg's not buying it. "Tough shit. I'm here; I'm already involved. Get clean, work with me and it will be the two of us against the rest of them."
A flicker of pain moves across Sherlock's face.
Greg is so unused to seeing him show any emotion that this display makes him worry even more, so he asks, "What's wrong with that?"
"I said something similar to John when I got back. I was wrong to ever have involved him in all this. It's too risky now."
"I know you're missing him, but you'll have to make do with me until after the honeymoon. When he gets back, you can tell him all this."
Sherlock shakes his head. "No. He's got even more reason now to keep his distance; Mary's pregnant."
Conflicting emotions buffet Greg. On the one hand, he's delighted for John. On the other, he feels Sherlock's pain. He thinks he's all alone now.
"Right. Then even more reason to let me help." Greg nods and picks up the wooden box. "Let's go, before that idiot guard upstairs gets antsy about wanting his pass back."
After a moment, Sherlock shrugs, and the two men leave the room. Behind them, the lights flicker once and then the room is plunged into darkness.
