Prompt #272. Hidden in plain text. Whether it's a cypher, a cryptogram, a code, or subtext, let a secret message factor into your work today.
"Are you going to give me a hint?"
I raised an eyebrow at him over my newspaper. "Why would I do that? Can the great detective not solve a simple code?"
Mutters answered me, but he said nothing else as I resumed reading. If I had done it correctly, that would occupy him long enough to let me finish reading and work on my manuscript. Even if it did not, however, my challenge had provided nearly ten minutes of peace so far, and I saw no reason to speed up his process. He would find the answer soon enough.
Advertisements. Personal ads. Local news stories. I read some and skipped others, but he still had not stopped scowling by the time I folded the newspaper and set it aside. His gaze darted toward me when I stood.
"Does it have a solution?"
"It should." I turned away to hide an escaping grin. "Mycroft did not seem to have a problem with it."
Irritation deepened at the idea that Mycroft had solved my puzzle while he could not, and only concentrated effort prevented me from laughing. While I did not have a talent for cracking codes myself, I did know how to confuse things. I had only taken my invented puzzle to Mycroft to ensure even a Holmes could not unravel it immediately. The diverse mixture of three rare cyphers could not be considered "simple" by any definition.
He resumed working as I laid out my manuscript, and minutes passed in a wonderful silence. I wrote nearly three pages before a barked laugh broke my train of thought.
"Figure it out?"
"Mycroft would not have a problem with his own code," he said by way of response. "You have gotten better at dissembling."
His own code? My pen landed on the desk as I turned. "What do you mean?"
The paper fluttered to a nearby table, though he ignored the question. "When did you go to Whitehall?"
"Yesterday," I replied somewhat tersely, "to ask him to check my cypher. Do you seriously believe I would claim his code as my own?"
He made no answer, obviously deciding not to argue, but that only irritated me further. He had spent all of yesterday and most of this morning boasting about his last case, complaining of boredom with its ending, and insulting me when I tried to either help or do anything I wanted to accomplish. If my lesser intelligence could not deliver a challenge without him accusing me of stealing it, he could find a way to pass the time alone. "Genius detective," indeed.
"You do not need to go upstairs," he voiced when I stood. "Updating my indices should be quiet enough for you to write."
Probably, but that did not mean I wanted to share the sitting room with him for a while. I gathered my papers and turned for the door. Perhaps the solitude would deflate his head a few sizes.
"What is the point of writing your request in code when you leave as soon as I agree?"
Wait a minute. What request?
A glance back found him looking between me and the slip of paper, evidently failing to understand what had angered me. My own question formed at the clear bewilderment in his.
"What makes you think I appreciate being accused of theft and falsehood?"
Confusion deepened. "Elaborate."
"On what?" I nearly snapped. "You just accused me of stealing Mycroft's idea then lying about it. Is your ego truly so large that you think I cannot possibly stump you for an hour?"
"No." He studied me for a long moment. "Since when can you copy Mycroft's handwriting?"
Anger drained in an instant. "What do you mean 'his handwriting'? Did he write the solution on the back or something?"
I could not imagine him doing such a thing, but I also had not checked the paper after he finished scanning my code. Holmes' frown certainly suggested that we carried two different conversations.
"You did not ask him to encode an order to be quiet?"
"No." Faint amusement at the message did not reach my expression, but I set my manuscript down to take the slip of paper he offered. There, in Mycroft's strong script, was a short line of symbols with Holmes' decryption attempts below it. "I did not even know he had."
"Then why did you go to Whitehall?"
"To make sure he could not solve this in a minute or less." Flipping the paper revealed my own code. "You must have turned the page over shortly after I handed it to you."
Muted surprise twitched one eyebrow as he skimmed the long line of text, but just as Mycroft had expected, Holmes did not immediately read off the solution. I managed a small smile.
"Think you can solve that?"
"Easily." His tone did not match the word. "I still do not get any hints?"
"My invention," I replied shortly, "not Mycroft's. I think that's hint enough."
Hint enough to confuse him for a while, I hoped. I settled back with my manuscript as silence fell again, arguments forgotten.
Mostly. A rather smug grin refused to stifle when he did not stop grumbling and growling over that sentence until less than thirty minutes before supper. Maybe that would prevent him from boasting his aptitude with codes for a while.
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