Sophia Holmes and the Blind Banker Chapter 11, a sherlock fanfic

The circus had always been a place of mystery to me, for I had never stepped foot inside one. I'd expected a large big top with that cliché music, but then again, this is the centre of London. I wouldn't expect anything else.

We follow John and his girlfriend (Sarah, from work, as it turns out) up a slope towards a building, (probably a hall of sorts) keeping to the shadows to avoid detection.

"It's years since anyone took me to the circus," Sarah says to John and he chuckles nervously in reply.

"Right, yes! Well, it's ... a friend recommended it to me," I raise an eyebrow, remembering our previous conversation on this topic. "He phoned up."

"Ah. What are they, a touring company or something?"

"I don't know much about it," he admits, pausing to look up at the numerous red Chinese lanterns that are strung up outside the hall, showing the first sign that this is anything but the cliché circus' from the movies.

"I think they're probably from China!" Sarah jokes, looking up.

"Yes, I think ... I think so, yes," John says lamely. "There's a coincidence!" I hear him mutter as they head inside to the Box Office. Dad and I slip in behind them, hiding ourselves against the wall for 'dramatic effect' as dad likes to call it. I peer round the corner casually as the customer in front of John and Sarah receives her ticket, then turns and heads up the stairs to the side.

"The place looks practically empty," I notice, looking around.

"They've taken the precaution of small amounts of advertising. Enough for the show to be a plausible excuse or an alibi, but not busy enough to warrant any media attention which would mean their stay in this country is prolonged." Dad pauses to listen into John's conversation with the manager.

"And what's the name?" the manager questions as John slips his wallet from his jacket.

"Er, Holmes," John replies, and I spot the look of confusion pass over Sarah's face, but she stays quiet.

"Actually, I have four in that name," the manager announces after a moment of checking. John frowns.

"No, I don't think so," he argues calmly. "We only booked two."

"And then I phoned back and got a couple for myself and for Sophie as well." John looks up in disbelief as dad turns into his line of sight, offering his hand out to Sarah. "I'm Sherlock and this is my daughter Sophia." I give her a small, fake smile as she glances back at John for a moment, obviously nervous about our sudden arrival and shake our hands as John turns away in what I take to be exasperation.

"Er, hi," Sarah manages to get out.

"Hello," dad replies, also sending her his fake smile before instantly turning and walking away again to wait on the stairs for John.

"Erm," Sarah begins, looking at me nervously, as if I'm about to pounce upon her with a gun. No doubt John has told her about our problem. "I just need to pop to the loos; I'll only be a minute." John curses as she disappears behind the corner and heads on a war path to the stairs.

"You couldn't let me have just one night off?" he hisses, keeping his voice low.

"Yellow Dragon Circus, in London for one day," dad argues. "It fits. The Tong sent an assassin to England ..."

"... dressed as a tightrope walker," John interrupts. "Come on, Sherlock, behave!"

"We're looking for a killer who can climb, who can shin up a rope," dad persists, voicing our theory. "Where else would you find that level of dexterity? Exit visas are scarce in China. They need a pretty good reason to get out of that country. Now, all I need to do is have a quick look round the place ..."

"Fine. You can do that with Sophie; I'm gonna take Sarah for a pint."

"I need your help," dad says sternly. Most normal people would feel offended by this, but there's something in the makeup of the Holmes' DNA that numbs us from criticism such as this.

"I do have a couple of other things on my mind this evening!"

"Like what?" John blinks, staring at dad in disbelief at his ignorance.

"You are kidding."

"What's so important?" dad persists.

"Sherlock, I'm right in the middle of a date. D'you want me to chase some killer while I'm trying to ..." he breaks off, pondering on whether or not to continue.

"What?" dad persists.

"... While I'm trying to get off with Sarah!" John finalises, losing his temper and inevitably speaking much loader in his anger. Almost as if to complete the imminent, Sarah comes around the corner just as John finishes, and it's clear that she's heard at least the last bit. "Heyyy," John draws the word out as he turns to his date, smiling awkwardly. Rolling my eyes, I follow dad up the stairs, leaving a suddenly eager Sarah behind with a bashful John. She's been fussing with her hair whilst she was in the toilets, and has obviously touched up on her makeup as well, which shows that she's very keen about her relationship with John, even though it won't last long. John is used to a certain lifestyle of danger, which is why he signed up to the army, and the reason why he is continuing to live with us. A woman such as Sarah won't last long with John because her previous relationships have all been straightforward enough, as I can tell by the texture of her hand as we shook.

We're shown into a large hall as we reach the top of the stairs which includes a full sized stage, although it's obvious that it's not being used for this event because the heavy curtains are closed. There are no seats laid out for us, so we gather around a circle of candles that is about nine metres in diameter, and it seems that barely anyone has decided to turn up, as everyone can see with a clear view. I take in the size of the hall with my back to the centre as John and Sarah arrange themselves beside each other, and dad joins my side behind them, looking at the ceiling for any wires of something similar that could show us if they were going to do any stunts which involved climbing, and if they did, whether there was any tricks to it.

"You said circus," John mutters, talking over his shoulder and turning his head away from his date so that she can't hear his conversation with dad. "This is not a circus. Look at the size of this crowd. Sherlock, this is ..." he fades off, grimacing with distaste as he looks for a word to describe the setup, "... art."

"This is not their day job," dad replies bluntly over his shoulder as I pace, as naturally as I can, around to take in any exit routes such as a fire escape or something similar, but if there is, then they've hidden in the shadows in the back.

"No, sorry, I forgot," John whispers maliciously. "They're not a circus; they're a gang of international smugglers." Dad ignores him as the performance begins. I stop pacing and join dads side again, watching as a male in traditional Chinese costume beats out a tapping rhythm on a small hand drum. John looks over his shoulder at us with a look of incredulity at this unusual and traditional greeting and dad and I return his look with our eyebrows raised.

A woman dressed ornately in a classic red silk gown and heavily painted face walks towards the centre of the circle and stops, looking imperiously out at us before raising her hand in the air for the drummer to stop.

"Traditionally named 'the Opera Singer,'" dad mutters to me, and I nod in acknowledgment. The Opera Singer begins to walk across the circle to a large, covered object, and she pulls back to reveal an antique crossbow positioned on a stand. Picking up a long, thick, wooden arrow decorated with white feathers from one end of the crossbow, and the sharpened point glistens in the candlelight, she shows it to us before fitting it into the crossbow. Beside me, dad looks on at the performance with bored eyes and I wonder when he's had the chance to see this before, as I can't see his parents taking him and Mycroft to any sort of circus, although I've never met them.

Straightening up, the Opera singer pulls a single white feather from her headdress and shows us that there is nothing considerably special about this small item. On the back of the crossbow is a small, metal cup, and she drops the feathers so that it falls into it. Immediately, the arrow is released and whizzes across the room, and I whirl my head around as I follow its progress over the circle until it hits a large, painted board, whilst John and Sarah are still gasping at the sound of the arrow's release. In front of me, Sarah turns to John, laughing and dramatically clutching at her heart. I roll my eyes at this behaviour whilst around me; people begin to applaud as another character enters the ring, dressed in chainmail and an ornate head mask. He holds his arms out to the sides as two darkly clothed men come over and begin to attach heavy chains around him so that he's almost unable to move. I recognise the act immediately as an escapology act, one which I haven't seen in a while, and one I specifically didn't want to watch. Not after the last time. The two men strap the character so that his hands are folded in front of him, and they begin to back him up against the board.

"Classic Chinese escapology act," dad announces to John and Sarah as the warrior is strapped to the board. The couple in front turn to him.

"Hmm?" John mutters questioningly.

"The crossbow's on a delicate string," dad explains as the men continue to tie the chains. "The warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires." We watch silently as the Opera Singer slips another arrow into the crossbow whilst the men attach more padlocks and chains to the warrior. One of the men pulls a chain tight, wrenching the warrior's head back against the board. The warrior cries out in false pain as the men maintain to loop the chains through steel rings attached to the board and begin to secure the warrior, who cries out again. A moment later, they seem to be satisfied with their prisoners bonds, so they step away. The music builds up the intensity in the room, and some cymbals clap together unexpectedly, causing people around us to jump comically.

"Oh, Gawd! I'm sorry!" Sarah laughs, awkwardly, taking his arm with her other hand.

I take my eyes away from the 'happy couple' and put them back on the performance in front. The Opera Singer picks up a small knife and displays it to us, like she's done with the rest of the instruments.

"She splits the sandbag; the sand pours out; gradually the weight lowers into the bowl," dad explains softly so that just our small group can hear. The Opera Singer does what dad had predicted and reaches up to a small sandbag from where it hangs quite low from a long cable. The cable seems to be looped around some sort of a pulley, and as she slits the bottom of the sack, I spot the metal weight which is attached to the other end. Sand begins to trickle out, unbalancing the two weights so that the sandbag lowers into the bowl. The warrior cries out with effort and dad rolls his eyes at the acting and taps my arm pointedly, gesturing to the stage. I nod silently and we slip back into the shadows, heading towards the side door the stage just as the sandbag reaches level with the weight.

The stage seems to be being used as the dressing room for the Chinese performers, as the area is equipped with everything from a dressing table with mirrors to free standing clothes rails. I follow behind dad, twirling around to take in a full 360 of the space. In front of me, dad stops and I look over his shoulder to see what's made him tense up. It almost looks like another warrior is standing in the shadows, although I can see when I look down that the chainmail and mask are being hanging on a stand. Through the curtains, I hear the announcement of the next act as it breaks through the audience's applause.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the Opera Singer begins in the newly found silence, "from the distant moonlight shores of the Yangtze River, we present for your pleasure the deadly Chinese bird-spider." I allow my eyebrows to rise slightly as I abandon my lookover of the room to peer through the curtains. As the Opera Singer walks off stage, a masked acrobat falls controllably from the ceiling, rolling as a thick red band around his waist unravels.

"Over here," I call softly to dad, not taking my eyes off of the acrobat as he removes the band form his waist and takes the two strips of material apart, wrapping them around his arms. Dad joins my side and looks out with interest as the acrobat lifts into the air, flying around in a circle a few feet off of the ground.

"Well, well," dad murmurs softly.

"Our murderer," I state, just as quietly. The stage door that we entered from opens and I sprint over to a clothes rail to take cover as dad joins, spreading the clothes hiding us so we can watch the Opera Singer. She seems distressed and checks her mobile from one of the dressing tables. I shift a hanger out of my line of sight, but it falls to the floor with a clatter. I bite my lip, cursing my clumsiness silently, and duck down as the Opera Singer looks up sharply. We crouch down lower as she comes towards us, but I let out a steady stream of air as she continues on out. As I shift into a more comfortable position, my foot collides with a bag, and several tins hit together. Dad looks down and flips the bag open, revealing the cans. He picks two up and I see the Michigan label as he tosses one over towards me. I catch it easily.

"Found you," dad sings softly. "Take this to Raz, ask him whether it's the same as the one we saw, then take it to Bart's. I don't think we'll need to be here much longer." I nod and fall back into the shadows, making my way back towards the stage door to the side, stuffing the newly acclaimed spray paint into my black bag.

As I leave the hall, keeping to the shadows to avoid detection from anyone who happens to be watching, I allow my mind to wander. Perhaps dad didn't want me there because of my clumsy previous actions. I nearly got us caught.

I follow the path down onto the main road and stand to the side, waiting for the next cab to come along. Mycroft once told me to avoid taking to first cab that comes your way, as it could be a trap. I've never really thought about it much, and put it down to paranoia, but it seems that our whole family suffers. Maybe we're trying to be too cautious. Even so, I let the first couple of cabs pass, then signal the third, ensuring I follow through the paranoia with a check of the cabbie.

"St Bart's, please," I say, and sit back in my seat.

"Visiting someone?" he questions and I frown in annoyance; I don't like cabbies who pry.

"Er, yeah, something like that," I pull out my phone, signalling the end of our conversation. He gets the hint and leaves me alone as I begin to hack into the local Wi-Fi networks to allow me online. Once I break through the password walls, I bring my webpage up and tap the keys on my phone idly. John seems to have taken it upon himself to write up our cases, which draws the attention from our page and onto his without explanation, as his writing skills leave much to be desired. I bring up the statistics for the views the website has and I see the figures. Only forty-seven people have brought up this page within the last week, and none of them have viewed the cases.

"We're here, love," says the cabbie, drawing up outside the hospital and I realise I must have been online for around ten minutes.

"Right, thanks," I reply, stepping out and handing him a lump of cash. I wait outside for a moment, waiting for the taxi to disappear before I cross the road, over towards a group of garages for the ambulances. A figure steps out from the shadows and comes up behind me. "Raz," I say, spinning around. "Sherlock texted you?" He nods and looks at my bag.

"Where is it then?" I hand him the can and he holds it up to the light. "Same brand, definitely." He turns around, taking the lid off and spraying a long, yellow line across the wall. "Yep, identical to the pictures you guys showed me." He tosses me the can and I catch it easily.

"Thanks. See you around," I say, heading back towards the hospital.

"Wait," he calls, and I spin around. "Good luck." I frown, spinning around as he sends me a cocky grin. The constant eye contact and the way he's always there when I need to meet up is enough to tell me his feelings for me, and it's not like I haven't experienced something like this before. I don't want a relationship, especially with someone like Raz.

I walk through the winding passages of the hospital to the labs upstairs, trying to remove the feeling Raz has for me from my mind. I'm on a case, and I can't let trivial matters get in my way. Molly is inside when I reach my preferred lab and smiles warmly.

"Oh hi, wasn't expecting you here," Molly says, shifting some of her things to the side. "How's that case going, that graffiti one?" I show her the can and move over to one of the microscopes.

"Er, yeah, we're getting closer," I admit, spraying some of the paint into a petri dish and sliding it under the lens. "There's this code we need to crack, a message, but we can't find the book which goes with it." Molly freezes, turning to look at me with amusement.

"You can't crack the code?" she laughs, and I frown, lifting my head from the lens.

"Yes, I need the book. It could be anything," I sigh, annoyed. Molly tries to make conversation, but after a few minutes of silence on my part, leaves me to my work. I identify a high amount of Hydrofluorocarbons, and pull out a couple of the images taken by the train tracks. It all seems to match. An idea crosses my mind and I flick the switch off on the wall. Molly looks up, concerned, probably, for my sanity, but I flick it up again to the UV setting. I lie the pictures beneath the microscope and inspect the pictures once more. As I thought, the words are being painted over with a type of invisible ink, most likely lemon juice, going by the strength in colour. Even now, I can see it's going to be pointless trying to get the message from the printouts. The only way I can be sure to translate it right is to go to the place where the graffiti is, but the only pattern I'm certain has the ink is the train rails one, and that has been painted over. I need to find some more.

Picking up my stuff and slipping in a small, portable, UV torch, I leave the room, swinging my coat back on and being thoughtful enough to switch the lights back on. Where else is there likely to be any more graffiti than before? A place where the Tong are meant to be meeting? I smile to myself and hail a cab, ordering it to take me back to the hall. The Tong which were brought over would have all been smuggled out as part of the circus, so for a while, they would be able to spread out across London. On the night of their act, they would need a way of knowing where they were to be performing, so a message would most likely be posted around the back of the hall, somewhere dark enough so that people would just walk past it and not even realise it was there. It would be hidden in the shadows. I hop out of the cab, stuffing a handful of coins into the drivers hand as I sprint around the back of the building. The music inside has stopped, allowing me to assume that the show has finished. All I have to hope now is that they didn't remove this message as well. I wouldn't have thought so, as they clearly want us to find out this message. If they didn't, someone could have easily destroyed all copies of the photos, even the ones on our phones, which is why I'm surprised when I find nothing around the back of the hall, apart from a collage of posters, wet with the recent rain and slightly ripped apart from neglect. I freeze for a moment, allowing myself to find another, more logical, thought process, and then look back up at the posters. The performances advertised are all dated as this week, which suggests the posters would have been put up around the beginning of the week, however the condition of the papers are a lot worse than they should be. I look closer at the ripped parts, and pull back the bits which are sticking on the wall from the rain. To my success, I find another message written across the wall, as fresh as these posters, yet preserved from any weather damage. I slide the torch from my pocket and shine the light upon the message. Whether it was their intention or not, they've left it in almost complete darkness, a perfect situation for UV usage.

"Gotcha," I mutter softly, taking a picture of the wall without the flash, the UV light illuminating the photo. Just in case, I open up a new page on my notebook and write down the phrase revealed. "Wzyozy L K." It makes no sense to me now, but with some work, I'm sure I'll be able to find out what this means.

No more than five minute after I leave the darkened alleyway behind the hall, I recieve a text message.

Meet us at Scotland Yard

I tuck my phone back into my bag and pull my coat tighter as the winter wind bites at my exposed skin. However those girls from school survive when they go out for the night in skimpy dresses and fifty inch heels, I'll never understand. Looking back through the message in my mind, I try to look for clues at what sort of mood dad's in. The length of the message would suggest he's rushed or annoyed, and the fact he wants me to meet him at the Yard is making me think it's closer to annoyance. The police haven't been able to pin down the Tong. I hail a cab as I reach the main road and step in, feeding the driver the address as I buckle myself in. He raises a brow at my destination, but drives off anyway. We pass several police cars heading the opposite way, towards the hall, most likely going to look it over to find evidence of there ever being any smuggling group, but I know the attempt will be futile; they're too strong and will be cunning enough to be several steps ahead of us. They could be halfway back to China by now, although I doubt it.

I step out of the cab; handing over some money, then walk quickly inside. The receptionist recognises me immediately and waves me on up, and I work my way through the maze of passages up to Dimmocks office. As I turn one of the corners, I spot dad, John and that Sally woman scuttling quickly after Dimmock as he leads them towards his office, looking, from his body language, rather angry. It seems the squad sent out have found nothing they can use to pin down the smuggling group, as I suspected. I catch up with the group, giving Susan a small smile as I push through to the men at the front. I look them both over and notice some small areas on both of their jackets which seem fairly rumpled, as if they've been in some sort of physical fight, but the way they're holding themselves and talking quietly, it would be suggested that it wasn't between them. A thick coat of dusty sand granules layer the back of dads jacket, and coupled with his shallow breathing, I would say he was pushed backwards and fell, from a reasonable height, most likely the stage back at the hall, down onto a sandy ground. Taking this into account, I can estimate that this fight happened around about the same time as I left, but went on for several minutes, drawing the attention of the audience from the performance, seeing as John got involved, but obviously later in the fight, towards the end.

Dimmock storms into his office and we follow him towards his desk.

"I sent a couple of cars. The old hall is totally deserted," Dimmock bites.

"They were barely going to hang around to be caught, were they?" I retort, with equal poison.

"Look, I saw the mark at the circus – that tattoo that we saw on the two bodies: the mark of the Tong," dad explains, intervening on the argument as Dimmock reaches his desk, turning around to face us.

"Lukis and Van Coon were part of a-a smuggling operation," John begins, reciting what we all already know. "Now, one of them stole something when they were in China; something valuable."

"These circus performers were gang members sent here to get it back," dad continues.

"Get what back?" Dimmock quizzes, and dad looks away, biting his lip angrily.

"We don't know," John admits, hesitantly.

"You don't know," Dimmock repeats in obvious annoyance and dad is still avoiding eye contact.

"Mr. Holmes ..." Dimmock begins. "I've done everything you two have asked. Lestrade, he seems to think your advice is worth something." Beside me, dad raises his head and I notice a small, proud smile creeping onto his face. "I gave the order for a raid. Please tell me I'll have something to show for it – other than a massive bill for overtime."

"We've learnt a lot," I say, pulling out the new pictures I've taken. "I went looking for more evidence after it was confirmed that the paint in this tin-" I show him the can from my bag, "is the same as the ones on the walls around London." Dad and John are looking at me curiously now, both unsure on why I'm retracing my footsteps. "On a whim, I tested one of the photographs under a UV light source at Bart's and I found traces if a message, written over the Hangzhou numerals in lemon juice." I take out a picture I took of this discovery and hand it around. "I then headed back to the hall. Now your police cars, Dimmock, failed to pick up on the graffiti on the back of the hall, stating, theoretically, a rendezvous for the Tong to meet up at if they receive any information on this 'valuable item'. To test out my previous theory, I brought along a UV torch and found these letters traced over the numerals in another mixture of lemon juice. I found these results." I show them a final picture, the one I took of the letters.

"Wzyozy L K?" Dimmock reads, before passing it on. "What's that meant to mean?"

"Probably a code, most likely a code telling the minor Tong members which book to use to find the message," I state, piecing together a theory which has been hanging in loose threads in my mind.

"What code is it though?" John questions, looking past dad at me.

"Could be lots of different things," I admit.

"Narrow it down," dad whispers in my ear.

"We can rule out book code and pig-pen ciphers for a start, along with the hangman's dance and Morse because we wouldn't be using letters."

"Do you have any it's likely to be?" Dimmock questions. "Could it be, I dunno, an anagram?"

"No, the longest word you can make from this is five letters long, and you'd need to use all of the letters for it to work. I think I could narrow it down to around three types." Dad nods thoughtfully, catching on. Code has never been his forte, but mine, which is why he's taking a backseat now.

"Well, you better get to it now, then. Good luck." He walks across the floor and opens the door up for us, then watches as we leave.