Part 4: The Warning
221B Baker Street. The living room. Later on the same day. Sherlock and John are both still there, but the roles seem to have been reversed since the morning, because now it is John who is sitting still, at his computer at the dining table, while Sherlock is keeping himself busy around the room, folding up the newspapers on the coffee table, putting all the chess pieces back in their proper places on the board and the board back onto a shelf, out of the way. John's doctor's bag has already disappeared, as has the Big Issue. Sherlock now picks up the three used tea mugs and takes them into the kitchen. He is about to soak all three of them in the sink, then changes his mind, leaves two of them standing on the kitchen table - next to a small heap of empty takeaway boxes - and only washes, dries and puts away the third. As he walks back into the living room, John very quickly and slightly guiltily clicks a couple of tabs closed on his computer.
SHERLOCK (not even looking John's way): It's alright, you know. Just don't be too specific in your research.
JOHN (testily): Yes, I figured as much.
He clicks the tabs open again and goes back to his reading, his elbows propped on the table. Over his shoulder, we can see that he has pulled up some news articles with pictures of men in Guy Fawkes masks. Sherlock walks over to the shelf behind his armchair and stands there for a moment with his back turned to the room. Then, unnoticed by John, he opens the lid of his violin case - which was placed on the top shelf - and looks down thoughtfully at his instrument.
JOHN (off-screen): How could that happen? How could anything like that possibly happen?
Sherlock turns his head. At the dining table, John is running his hands through his hair and tugging at it in exasperation, his eyes still on the computer screen.
JOHN: I mean, how could anyone who played chess so well that he beat you at it every single time not see where he was heading?
He raises his eyes from the computer screen to look across at Sherlock, slightly surprised to see his friend looking straight back him in silence. Then John's gaze travels to the open violin case on the shelf. Sherlock turns back towards it and carefully closes the lid again, but lets his hands rest on it for a moment.
JOHN (quietly): Don't tell me you aren't wondering, too.
Sherlock shrugs.
JOHN: Doesn't it drive you mad?
SHERLOCK: I had my warning twenty-four hours ahead of you, you know.
John takes his hands out of his hair and straightens up.
JOHN: Twenty-four hours? You mean you recognised him straight away? When we first saw that video?
SHERLOCK: Yes.
JOHN: Good God. (He pauses, apparently thinking back to the meeting with the secret service men, and shakes his head.) Good God. You knew it all along, with all of them there, looking on? Mycroft and –
He breaks off, struck by a new and obviously very worrying thought.
SHERLOCK: Mycroft never met him, John. Not even once.
John looks relieved. Sherlock weaves out of his corner and sits down in his armchair.
JOHN: But how did you know? By his voice alone? In Russian?
SHERLOCK: Not as big a surprise as you might imagine. I knew he was born in Russia, and only came here as a child when his mother married Mr Trevor and he adopted the boy.
JOHN: You didn't tell me that.
SHERLOCK: He never told me either. But in any case, here's your answer why they didn't make that video in English. His lack of an accent would have been a dead giveaway. Together with the fact that he loves playing havoc with IT security firms, which meant he had to be a bad apple from their own ranks, Mycroft's people would have taken no more than two or three hours to identify him positively.
JOHN (deeply disquieted again): They may yet. And then?
SHERLOCK (with a sudden note of impatience in his voice): John, as you said yourself, at some point in my life, he happened to be my friend. It's very kind of you to take an interest in the matter, but there's no need to get worked up about it.
JOHN: It's just that – it's like it isn't even the same person any more, is it?
SHERLOCK: Are you still the same person that you were fifteen years ago?
JOHN (after a moment's pause): I'm not that screwed up, I think.
SHERLOCK (with brutal honesty): Sheer damn luck.
In the ensuing silence, the noise of a car approaching in the street outside can be heard clearly. It stops right outside the house, the engine running. John gets up and glances out of the window.
JOHN (alarmed): Sherlock -
SHERLOCK (calmly): Don't worry, John. It was bound to happen. (With a nod at John's computer) But you might want to click all that away again now.
John sighs, but obediently returns to his place at the table and quickly clicks his way back until only his own blog fills the screen. For the second time today, there is a ring at the bell, the opening of the front door, the sound of footsteps on the stairs, of a single visitor this time, and Mycroft Holmes stands in the open doorway of the living room.
SHERLOCK (in an off-hand tone): And what brings you here today?
MYCROFT (raising his eyebrows): Brotherly concern.
Sherlock pulls a face. Mycroft, by way of greeting, nods to John, enters the room and approaches Sherlock in his chair, coming to a halt only when there are no more than one or two paces between them, so close that Sherlock has to tilt back his head to look Mycroft in the eyes. The two brothers regard each other in silence for a moment, each searching the other's face.
MYCROFT: I hear you got hurt. In the line of duty. (He emphasises the last word ever so slightly.) Though I'm not sure who commissioned you to place yourself in the front-line like that.
He puts his head to one side and reaches out with his hand as if to gently brush aside the curl of Sherlock's hair that half-covers the patch of plaster on his temple. Sherlock jerks his head aside at the last moment, looking daggers at his brother. Mycroft lets the matter rest, turns away and sits down uninvited in John's chair.
MYCROFT: And I came to tell you that our city is safe again now from any threat.
SHERLOCK: I'm pleased to hear it.
MYCROFT: I'm glad you are.
A pause.
SHERLOCK: So Yevgeny's decided to cooperate after all?
MYCROFT: Oh, not he. But his phone has proved a treasure trove. By tonight, we'll have them all.
SHERLOCK: You mean the actual bombers?
MYCROFT: All, I said. (He crosses his legs.) And I'm glad you mentioned cooperation just now.
SHERLOCK: Why?
MYCROFT: Because I'm used to unwilling cooperation on your part, and you gave us a particularly fine example of that yesterday morning.
SHERLOCK: Oh, come on. You can't make me spend an hour in the company of people like that and then grudge me a little bit of fun.
MYCROFT (unsmiling): I'm not talking about the fun. I'm talking about the silences.
SHERLOCK: What silences?
MYCROFT: Yours. Your remarkably selective silences.
SHERLOCK (frowning): You asked me to find them for you, and I did.
MYCROFT: Oh, yes. You were forthcoming enough on most points, but when silences accumulate, over a very short period of time and on one particular issue, I believe they require an explanation. (He gives a short, humourless laugh.) "Lack of incentive", indeed.
SHERLOCK: And what exactly do you expect me to say to that?
MYCROFT: Nothing at all. My questions are already answered, I believe. All but one.
Rather abruptly, Sherlock gets up from his chair.
SHERLOCK: I never told you a single lie, if that's what you're accusing me of.
MYCROFT (with unshakable calm): Oh, on the contrary. I acknowledge that you picked your way between truths, half-truths and untruths with masterly caution that morning.
SHERLOCK (sarcastically): I had an excellent teacher.
Mycroft smiles sourly, then folds his hands, putting the tips of his fingers together.
MYCROFT: But there is a very fine line, Sherlock, between being uncooperative and actively sabotaging my work.
SHERLOCK: I know that.
MYCROFT: Then you also know that you overstepped it this time, and that is something I will not tolerate.
They hold each other's gaze for a moment, silent and unblinking. Then Mycroft exhales audibly, rises from his chair, too, and starts pacing up and down the room. Sherlock, motionless himself, follows him with his eyes.
MYCROFT (conversationally): This morning, I had a little chat with our mutual friend, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Your name didn't appear in the official report, of course, but when I questioned him specifically about your role in the Kentish Town operation, he was only too happy to share his frustration at that most unfortunate streak of bad luck on your part. So unfortunate, in fact, that even he finally began to wonder whether there might not have been a human agency at work to gently push the fortunes in a particular direction. (He stops pacing and turns back towards his brother.) From that point onwards, we were on the home straight. You will forgive me for saying so, but there aren't many people in the world for whom you would literally slice your head open. (With a sidelong glance at John) One of them you had very ingeniously put out of action yourself, so it didn't take a very difficult deduction to arrive at the identity of the other one.
SHERLOCK (glancing at his watch, unperturbed): It's almost three now. What have you been doing all day?
MYCROFT: I had some research done before I came here. I wanted to be reasonably certain that it really was him. And once you start looking, there is quite a lot of interesting material to get caught up in.
Sherlock smiles disdainfully. Mycroft rolls his eyes.
MYCROFT: Alright, you get to gloat for exactly five seconds over how long it took my people to establish a definite link between the former Cambridge undergraduate and Russia's Kareem of questionable online fame. It is somewhat tenuous even now, but I'm finding it serviceable enough for my purposes.
SHERLOCK (drily): It's a bother, isn't it, how many of our best IT people are Russian born. Quite a large database to comb through, I assume.
MYCROFT: And quite a lot of vegetarian asthmatics, too.
SHERLOCK: Not all of them short-sighted, though.
MYCROFT: And that was five seconds. (He folds his arms.) So. I'm going to ask you this but once. Where is he?
SHERLOCK: How should I know? Probably out of the country by now.
MYCROFT: We know that he isn't.
SHERLOCK: And he wouldn't be wise to try, would he?
MYCROFT: You tell him so from me.
SHERLOCK: Not going to do you that favour.
MYCROFT: Fine. I don't mind telling you that someone is getting a little impatient by now. I just hope you won't find yourself wishing that you'd answered that question when it was still me asking it.
John, who has been listening intently, glances at Sherlock, looking extremely uncomfortable, but Sherlock doesn't seem particularly impressed. Mycroft uncrosses his arms and takes another step towards his brother, speaking quietly but very intently now.
MYCROFT: I'm not sure whether you're aware of it, Sherlock, but you're playing with fire. There are powers involved in this that even I have no control over. Ultimately, they will do what they please and they will take what they want. And it would give me no great pleasure to watch you burn yourself in the process. (He squares his shoulders and raises his chin.) As your brother, I feel it is my duty to warn you not to stand in their way.
SHERLOCK (scathingly): How very touching. In that case, as a loyal subject of Her Majesty the Queen, I feel it is my duty to remind you whom you serve.
A shadow passes across Mycroft's face, but it is gone again in the blink of an eye.
SHERLOCK: And by the way, as a taxpayer, I would like to register my astonishment at the shocking waste of public funds currently taking place in Newcastle upon Tyne. Tell your people to leave Violet Westbury and her family alone. There is no point in squandering valuable resources on a twenty-four hour surveillance of honest law-abiding citizens. They have nothing whatsoever to do with this.
Mycroft smiles a very thin-lipped smile.
MYCROFT: I'm taking no chances, little brother. Not with you.
SHERLOCK: You recruited me to this in the first place. Don't blame me for taking an interest in how it's going to end.
MYCROFT (smoothly, still smiling): And don't I know just how much you hate leaving a case unsolved.
He turns on his heel and stalks out of the room, leaving Sherlock looking pensive, and John looking extremely nervous. Neither of them moves or speaks until they have heard Mycroft leave the house. Then -
JOHN (in a very tense voice): He knows. He bloody knows.
SHERLOCK: Nonsense. He doesn't, and it's driving him up the wall.
He steps over to the window to watch Mycroft being driven away in his car.
JOHN: But it's only a matter of time until he finds out. And he's going to spare no tricks in getting there.
Sherlock turns back to his friend, his eyes suddenly very bright, his whole face alight with a gleeful smile. He looks as if he can barely keep himself from rubbing his hands in happy anticipation.
SHERLOCK: I know. It's brilliant.
John looks at his friend as if the latter has taken leave of his senses.
JOHN (after a moment): I need some fresh air.
And he gets up and exits the room in a hurry.
The interior of a small, cosy, unsophisticated Indian restaurant. It is early evening, just getting dark. Sherlock is sitting alone at one of the tables with a glass of water in front of him, typing on his phone. The door opens, and in walks John. He glances around, spots Sherlock and joins him at the table. Sherlock looks up and smiles. John nods in response, takes off his jacket, puts it over the back of an empty chair and sits down. Sherlock pockets his phone.
JOHN: Why are we meeting here?
Sherlock opens his mouth to reply.
JOHN (still unsmiling): And no, not because the chicken tikka is excellent.
SHERLOCK (a little disappointed): It is, you know. Alright. Because I wanted to give Mycroft's lackeys the chance to bug Baker Street.
JOHN (appalled): D'you really think he'd do that?
SHERLOCK: He probably would, if he thought there was a point. That's exactly why I'm making it so insultingly easy for them. Once they realise that, they'll know that there is no point, and they'll just leave it be.
John shakes his head. Sherlock takes a sip of his water and flips open the menu.
SHERLOCK: Right. What are you having?
JOHN: I'm not sure I'm having anything.
SHERLOCK: Why not?
JOHN: Because you've just as good as openly declared war on the most dangerous man I'll ever meet. Are you surprised that it's spoiled my appetite?
SHERLOCK (with a shrug): Doesn't spoil mine.
His eyes return to the menu.
JOHN (leaning forward in his chair, quietly): Sherlock, are you sure this is a battle you can win?
SHERLOCK (without looking up): The first few skirmishes didn't go too badly, did they?
JOHN (unconvinced): Seriously?
Sherlock raises his head and meets John's eyes.
JOHN: And I'm not asking because I'd need to see a street named after you.
SHERLOCK: Oh, Holmes Road? No point. Already exists.
JOHN (momentarily distracted): Really?
SHERLOCK: Holmes Road, yeah. We actually passed it on our way to the recycling centre last night. Wasn't named after me though. Nor after Mycroft, for that matter.
JOHN: Are you sure you can win against him?
SHERLOCK: Depends on how you define winning.
John shifts uncomfortably in his chair.
JOHN: It's just that I didn't know he could make me feel so – (He runs a finger along the inside of his collar as if it is too tight.) D'you know what I mean?
SHERLOCK: Yes. He has that effect on most people. You're usually an exception.
JOHN: Doesn't it worry you that I'm not, right now?
SHERLOCK: No. Your current degree of unease is a very good indicator of his own discomfort. He always overdoes it when he's nervous.
JOHN: Nervous? Him?
SHERLOCK: Oh yes. (Darkly) And he'll regret it yet that he let me see that.
A little later, they – including John, obviously - have ordered and eaten their dinner, and the waiter has just taken away their empty plates. John leans back in his chair.
JOHN (his mind apparently still on the confrontation with Mycroft, but sounding a bit more relaxed now): Do you really ever think of yourself as a taxpayer?
SHERLOCK (in a dignified tone, eyebrows raised): Of course! (Back to normal) Well, once a year anyway.
JOHN: I somehow can't see you filling in hundreds of forms for the inland revenue, even just once a year.
SHERLOCK: Doesn't mean I cheat. (With genuine irritation) What were you thinking?
John shrugs.
SHERLOCK: Alright, want to hear a funny story? Way back when I climbed over the tax allowance threshold for the first time - a memorable moment in my career, I assure you - I thought I'd cut a bit of red tape, so I calculated my income tax myself, as a mental exercise, and just sent them a cheque.
JOHN: And they let you get away with that?
SHERLOCK: Not at first. They threw a tantrum and gave me a fine and almost sent the police over to bully me into submitting all the forms and receipts and what have you. But when the result turned out to be, to the penny, what I'd already paid them anyway, they were content with the cheque, and have been ever since. Except for the two years when I was dead. I got fined again then.
JOHN (grinning): What for?
He takes a sip of his water.
SHERLOCK: Moonlighting.
John almost snorts his water all over the table. Sherlock wordlessly hands him a paper napkin.
JOHN (dabbing himself dry): Thanks. You know, talking of which, I've just wondered where I come into it all. We've never bothered to work it out properly, have we, all those months when I didn't have a regular job of my own.
SHERLOCK: Oh, it's fine. I think you just ranked as my housewife.
They both crack up this time, giggling like schoolboys. Then John wipes his eyes and shakes his head.
JOHN: Alright. So, what's the plan now?
SHERLOCK: Now, or rather tomorrow, we go and ruin one or two more marriages, get a senior partner of a well-known accounting firm sacked and present an angry father with a reason to disinherit his daughter. In short, we'll behave just like any other respectable citizen. I also have a dentist's appointment that I've put off far too long, and you could do with a haircut.
JOHN (self-consciously running his hand through his hair): What?
SHERLOCK: OK, maybe next week.
JOHN (in a low voice): You promised someone to work something out.
SHERLOCK: Yes, but there's only so much pro bono work you can do in a week if you don't want to get into the red. (Seeing John's face, in a more serious tone) What's it to you, by the way?
John takes his time to reply. Then -
JOHN (with a shrug): It's a case. An interesting case. A still unsolved case. That's always been enough to make it seem worthwhile, hasn't it?
Sherlock smiles.