CAM Global News' skyscraper ascended into the night sky` like a mountain of glass and steel. John walked through the revolving doors and into the foyer, glancing over to a TV screen where CAM was broadcasting the latest news. 'JUDGE DIES OF HEART ATTACK AMIDST TRIAL.' He continued walking, stopping as he noticed the security barriers. He looked around before checking his watch.
"Magnussen's office is on the top floor, just below his private flat," Sherlock began as he appeared behind him.
John's eyes widened, he turned around coolly, not wanting to show he had been startled.
Sherlock glanced towards a set of lifts, focusing on the key card readers beside them. "But there are fourteen levels of security between us and him," he continued. "Two of which aren't even legal in this country. Want to know how we're breaking in?"
"Is that what we're doing?"
"Of course it's what we're doing."
He pulled a card from his pocket and got them through the barriers. They ordered coffees at the canteen and carried the cups as they walked through the building.
"Magnussen's private lift," Sherlock said as they stepped onto an escalator. "Goes straight to his penthouse and office. Only he uses it and only his card calls the lift. Anyone else even tries, security is automatically informed."
They stepped off the escalator. Sherlock held up the card. "Standard key card for the building. Nicked it yesterday. Only gets us as far as the canteen. If I was to use this card on that lift now, what happens?"
"Er, the alarms would go off and you'd be dragged away by security."
"Exactly."
"Get taken to a small room somewhere and your head kicked in."
"Do we really need so much colour?"
"It passes the time."
Sherlock stared at John, handing him his coffee. He took his phone from his pocket and pressed the key card against it.
"But if I do this… If you press a key card against your mobile phone for long enough, it corrupts the magnetic strip. The card stops working. It's a common problem; never put your key card with your phone. What happens if I use the card now?"
"It still doesn't work."
"But it doesn't read as the wrong card now. It registers as corrupted. But if it's corrupted, how do they know it's not Magnussen?"
John glanced around them. "Huh."
"Would they risk dragging him off?"
"Probably not."
"So what do they do? What do they have to do?"
"Check if it's him or not."
"There's a camera at eye-height to the right of the door. A live picture of the card user is relayed directly to Magnussen's personal staff in his office – the only people trusted to make a positive ID. At this hour, almost certainly his PA."
"S-so how does that help us?"
Sherlock allowed a slight grin. "Human error." He patted the breast pocket of his coat. "I've been shopping."
He approached the lift, John followed curiously behind.
"Here we go, then," said Sherlock as he pressed the card against the reader, causing the system to beep.
"You realise you don't exactly look like Magnussen…" said John.
"Which, in this case, is a considerable advantage," he replied, staring into the camera.
"Sherlock, you complete loon! What are you doing?!" Janine's voice whispered through the speaker.
Sherlock's face warmed suddenly into a smile.
"Hang on– was that? That..." John stammered.
Sherlock held his hand up at John. "Hi, Janine. Go on, let me in."
"I can't! You know I can't. Don't be silly."
"Don't make me do it out here. Not..." he paused to look around. "In front of everyone." "Do what in front of everyone?"
Sherlock looked down for a moment, exhaling loudly. He took a small, dark red box from his pocket and opened it, holding the large diamond engagement ring up to the camera. Janine gasped through the speaker while John stared at the ring in shock. Sherlock ignored both, continuing to hold his position. His eyes glittered, creasing slightly at the corners. Suddenly, the light on the card reader turned blue and the doors of the lift slid open. He clicked the box shut and turned to John, out of view of the camera. His smile dropped.
"You see?" he began, emotionless. "As long as there's people, there's always a weak spot."
"That was Janine," said John, still in shock.
"Yes, of course it was Janine. She's Magnussen's PA. That's the whole point."
"Did you just get engaged to break into an office?"
"Yeah." He stepped into the lift. "Stroke of luck, meeting her at your wedding. You can take some of the credit."
"Je-Jesus!" John looked down at the coffee cups in his hands. He dropped them into the bin next to him before following Sherlock into the lift. "Sherlock, she loves you."
"Yes. Like I said – human error."
The doors closed and the lift began to ascend.
"What are you going to do?"
"Well, not actually marry her, obviously. There's only so far you can go."
"So what will you tell her?"
"Well, I'll tell her that our entire relationship was a ruse to break into her boss' office. I imagine she'll want to stop seeing me at that point. But you're the expert on women."
The lift stopped and the doors opened. Sherlock switched on his smile and stepped out, expecting to be met by a bouncing, excited Janine. Nothing.
"So where did she go?" asked John as they looked around.
"It's a bit rude. I just proposed to her."
"Sherlock…" John called out.
Sherlock walked over to see John crouched over Janine as she lay unconscious on the floor.
"Did she faint? Do they really do that?" he asked.
John touched the back of her head, feeling her warm, wet blood on his fingers. "It's a blow to the head. She's breathing. Janine?"
Janine groaned quietly. Sherlock made his way to another room where another unconscious man lay. "Another in here. Security."
"Does he need help?"
He examined the suited man on the floor, noticing the tattoos on his hands. "Ex-con. White supremacist by the tattoo, so who cares? Stick with Janine." He continued to look around, bending down and bringing himself eye-level with Magnussen's desk chair. The leather was 35°C, he was still in the building. "Upstairs," he whispered.
"We should call the police."
"During our own burglary?! You're really not a natural at this, are you?"
John signed and returned his phone to his pocket.
"No, wait, shh!" He could smell something… familiar. "Perfume – not Janine's." He continued to sniff around the room, filtering through different brands quickly before finally settling on the scent. "claire-de-la-lune. Why do I know it?"
"Mary wears it."
"No, not Mary. Somebody else."
A noise from upstairs interrupted them. Sherlock darted across the room and up the stairwell to the private penthouse. He walked softly along the carpeted hall, following the sound of voices. He approached the door quietly, listening to Magnussen as he cowered on the floor. A figure dressed in black holding a gun to his head.
"You're-you're doing this to protect him from the truth ... but is this protection he would want?" said Magnussen.
Sherlock stepped into the room slowly. "Additionally," he began confidently. "If you're going to commit murder, you might consider changing your perfume… Lady Smallwood."
Magnussen stiffened. Glancing past the person to Sherlock. "Sorry, who? That's… not… Lady Smallwood, Mr Holmes."
Sherlock frowned in confusion before the person turned to face him, aiming the gun at his chest.
Mary Watson.
He drew a short breath, struggling to comprehend the sight of his best friend's wife dressed as an assassin. Her face was cold and harsh. She was Mary, but not the one he knew. She was… a liar.
"Is John with you?" She asked calmly.
"He's, um…"
"Is John here?"
"He-he's downstairs."
She nodded.
"So, what do you do now? Kill us both?" asked Magnussen.
"Mary, whatever he's got on you, let me help," said Sherlock as began stepping towards her.
"Oh, Sherlock, if you take one more step I swear I will kill you."
"No, Mrs Watson. You won't." He began to take another step and, without hesitation, Mary pulled the trigger.
He felt the bullet pierce through his torso, taking his breath away, blurring his vision.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. Truly am."
"Mary?"
III
He awoke in a hospital bed. Mary stood in the room, talking quietly and firmly. Willing him not to tell John. He tried to focus on her, to talk back, but the pain kept him paralysed. He tried to keep his eyes open as she spoke, but it became impossible. Unconsciousness won; he drifted off again, and Mary evaporated from the room, as if she'd never been there at all.
III
'EXCLUSIVE – SHERLOCK HOLMES KISS AND TELL: 7 TIMES A NIGHT IN BAKER STREET'
Sherlock squinted to read the headline of the newspaper which was being held up in front of him by red varnished fingers. The headline disappeared, revealing another paper; a picture of Janine, smiling as she posed in a deerstalker hat. 'HE MADE ME WEAR THE HAT' printed above it.
"I'm buying a cottage," said Janine, slamming the papers down.
She was sitting on the edge of his hospital bed with a tense smile. Her lips pressed tightly together, concealing her rage.
"I made a lot of money out of you, mister."
He picked up one of the papers and looked at it.
"Nothing hits the spot like revenge for profits," she said.
"You didn't give these stories to Magnussen, did you?"
"God no, one of his rivals. He was spitting."
Sherlock let out a grunt, his best attempt at a laugh restricted by pain.
"Sherlock Holmes, you are a back-stabbing, heartless, manipulative bastard."
He raised his bed to a sitting position, speaking as it rose slowly. "And you, as it turns out, are a grasping, opportunistic, publicity-hungry tabloid whore."
"So we're good then."
"Yeah, of course." He smiled. "Where's the cottage?"
"Sussex Downs."
"Hm, nice."
"It's gorgeous. There's beehives, but I'm getting rid of those."
Sherlock placed his hands by his sides, trying to push himself up. But instead, pain shot through his chest, causing him to gasp.
"Aw, hurts, does it?" asked Janine sarcastically. "Probably want to restart your morphine. I might have fiddled with the taps."
"How much more revenge are you going to need?" He said as he increased his dose.
"Just the occasional top up." She looked around the hospital room. "Dream come true for you, this place. They actually attach the drugs to you."
"Not good for working."
"You won't be working for a while, Sherl. You lied to me. You lied and lied."
"I exploited the fact of our connection."
"When?" She laughed.
"Hm?"
"Just once would have been nice."
"Oh. I was waiting until we got married," he said plainly.
"That was never going to happen." She stood up. "Got to go." She kissed his forehead, wiping her lipstick from his forehead with her thumb. "I'm not supposed to keep you talking... And also I have an interview with The One Show and I haven't made it up yet."
Sherlock sighed as she walked to the door.
"Just one thing," she said.
He looked across to her.
"You shouldn't have lied to me. I know what kind of man you are. But we could have been friends." She didn't give him time to respond, instead she slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her.
He leaned over and tried to increase his dosage again.
III
Janine walked down the hospital corridor, stopping for a moment to zip up her handbag. She glanced ahead, letting out a huff as she noticed the person walking towards her.
"Great," Margaux muttered under her breath as she got closer, suddenly recognising Janine.
It was too late to turn around, the hallway too empty to pretend she hadn't noticed her. Instead, she took a breath and smiled.
"Oh, hi," she said, as nonchalantly as she was capable of.
"I suppose you knew," said Janine, resting her weight on one leg, chewing the inside of her mouth – unamused.
"Knew what?" she replied blandly.
A smirk crept across Janine's face, she let out a laugh and shook her head. "I feel sorry for you, y'know," she said. "You're a good girl. Smart, pretty… And you're wasting yourself."
"On what?"
"On him." She gestured to the card and small bunch of flowers in Margaux's hand. "It's like bringing those flowers to someone with no sense of smell. They can see that they're lovely. They know they're supposed to inhale and smile. But no matter how hard they try, they just smell… nothing."
Margaux nodded gently. The words travelled straight to the place where she was most insecure. But she couldn't let her see that.
She tilted her head and smiled. "Good job I'm not a flower then isn't it. No, I'm more like a bee sting. Really hurts and could potentially kill you." She said sarcastically.
Janine let out a muted laugh before shaking her head and continuing her walk down the corridor.
"I saw the paper, by the way. You look good in the deerstalker," Margaux called out behind her. "It's funny, he never asks me to wear anything in bed. Says he likes to be able to… see… all of me."
He had never said that. Margaux knew he hadn't. He was Sherlock Holmes, of course he hadn't. But seeing the tension in Janine's face made it worth the fib. She pivoted on her feet and headed for Sherlock's room.
III
She placed the bunch of flowers on the table next to his bed and handed him the card.
"It's all from Vaughan." She smiled, sitting on the chair and pulling it near the bed.
Sherlock opened the card filled with colourful scribbles and drawings of disproportionate people. "He's been practicing," he remarked.
"Yes, he's captured you wonderfully," she replied, pointing at the tallest, thinnest stick figure.
Sherlock laughed, immediately wincing in pain.
"It's funny," she began "I fell asleep last night in bed with this guy… Woke up this morning and he was in hospital with a hole in his chest…"
"That is… rather peculiar."
"What happened, Sherlock?"
"It appears I've been shot."
"Oh really? I had no idea," she replied, leaning forward and resting her folded arms on the edge of the bed.
He sighed. "It appears I'm not the only one who's after Magnussen."
"Magnussen?"
"Yes, Magnussen. Keep up, Margaux."
"How can I keep up? I've barely seen you in over a month."
"There's been a reason for that."
"Ah, let me guess… For. The. Case," she joked softly.
He glanced down at her and smiled. "Yes, actually... He knows people's pressure points – uses them against them. You are one of mine." He said frankly.
Margaux's brows raised. She sat back in her chair. "Oh."
He clicked the button for more morphine, but it was already on maximum.
"Do you want me to call a nurse?" asked Margaux.
"No."
"Okay. Well I just nipped in to see how you were. I'm going to go and let you get some sleep." She placed her hand gently over his.
"You don't have to go."
"It's fine, having a pressure point in the room probably isn't doing you too much good." She gestured to the heart monitor next to the bed, pointing at the increasing line. "I'll come and visit you again when you're rested." She squeezed his hand and stood up. "I'll get you a nurse for that heart rate." She winked at him kindly before leaving the room.
Sherlock rested his head back against the pillow, glaring up at the clinical, white ceiling. He grabbed the button, grunting in pain as he turned down the morphine to almost nothing.
III
Mrs Mary Elizabeth Watson stared up at a picture of her face as it lit up an abandoned building. She expected nothing less from a man like Sherlock Holmes.
The door was ajar, she stepped inside to a narrow, concrete corridor that grew darker the further down she looked. At the bottom, she could just make out the silhouette of a man sitting in a wheelchair, a medical drip at his side.
She kept her phone to her ear. "What do you want, Sherlock?"
"Mary Morstan was stillborn in October 1972," said Sherlock's through the phone as Mary began walking slowly towards the figure. "Her gravestone is in Chiswick Cemetery where, five years ago, you acquired her name and date of birth and thereafter, her identity. That's why you don't have friends from before that date. It's an old enough technique known to the kinds of people who can recognise a skip-code on sight, have extraordinarily retentive memories…"
"You were very slow," said Mary before stopping halfway down the corridor.
"How good a shot are you?"
She reached inside her coat and pulled out a gun, cocking it and holding it at her side. "How badly do you want to find out?"
"If I die here, my body will be found in a building with your face projected on the front of it. Even Scotland Yard could get somewhere with that."
She nodded.
"I want to know how good you are," he continued. "Go on, show me. The doctor's wife must be a little bit bored by now."
She reached into her bag and pulled out a 50 pence coin, flicked it high into the air and fired her gun at it. She stepped aside slightly, letting it fall to the floor, before looking back towards the figure. The air behind her shifted, the shadow of a stiff collar and curly hair appearing on the wall. Sherlock hung up the phone.
"May I see?" he asked.
Mary looked down at the figure again before turning to Sherlock with a laugh.
"It's a dummy," she said. "I suppose it was a fairly obvious trick." She placed her foot on the coin and slid it to Sherlock who caught it under his shoe.
"And yet, over a distance of six feet, you failed to make a kill shot," he said between winces of pain. He held the coin up, examining the bullet hole through it. Sweating and shaking as he continued. "Enough to hospitalise me, not enough to kill me. That wasn't a miss. That was surgery."
They glared at each other for a moment.
"I'll take the case," he said.
"What case?"
"Yours. Why didn't you come to me in the first place?"
"Because John can't ever know that I lied to him. It would break him and I would lose him forever. And Sherlock, I will never let that happen. Please… Understand. There is nothing in this world that I would not do to stop that happening."
"Sorry." He walked to the fuse box, placing his hand on a switch. "Not that obvious a trick." He flicked the switch.
Mary sighed, turning around slowly to see John sitting at the end of the corridor. She gasped. He stood up from the wheelchair.
"Now talk, and sort it out. Do it quickly," said Sherlock.
John began to walk down the corridor towards his wife. She sighed again.