Chapter summary: Sherlock is bored. Moriarty helps.
Week 30
Key words: Dummy downtime, Influx stall
Description: Persistent daily downtime. Seasonal fluctuation of crime rate and intensity. (Correlation with socioeconomic parameters? Not our division)
Comments: NEED DATA
"The Integrated Record has been exhausted, Sir, without a match in prototype. However, distant relatives have been found, some of them also with the name Watson, suggesting that the prototype in question was a natural pureblood as opposed to an industrial fabricant, but rather ancient."
Holmes the senior's eyes sharpen as citizen profiles of a handful of Watson families light up around them. His fingers are tapping the handle of his umbrella. "Keep searching. Extend the Record forward as much as possible."
"Sir, the data prior to 2276 is not readily available in the Civil Service domain. To engage with bio-political archaeology is a time-consuming and complicated - "
"Can. We. Do. It?" Holmes the senior stresses.
Anthea bows slightly. "Yes, Sir, potentially all the way to 1869."
"Good. That should be enough to track down a Balrog of Morgoth."
In perhaps the only other place with working hours comparable to Mycroft's, Moran is engaged in the agitating routine of null reading deletion, especially so as their occurrence is not entirely regular. "Bad news, boss: we are still suffering through semi-regular downtimes on a daily basis. Better news: so far it only happens when Sherlock is absent."
"I suppose you have some good news to follow?"
"Nope. Worse of all news: the criminal world of London has hit a low-activity phase following the holiday season, and our database is becoming almost dormant." Having plunged through existing observations during break, the workaholic in Moran is upset with the present shortage of fresh incomes.
"The semi-regularity of the blackouts alarms me." Turning down Sherlock's bickering at John over nothing, Moriarty taps his fingers on the bench in an impatient fashion. "Regular unsupervised intervals, however brief, may breed undesirable habits. What does our dummy use this time for, wank?" Moran rolls his eyes at the uninitiated lewd suggestion. "Nevertheless, the lack of meaningful new observations is a cause of greater concern." Moriarty directs the conversation to Moran's interest. "What would a good engineer do, Sebbie, when you need something you don't already have?"
Moran gives a puzzled look. "I would…make thing. Build them myself."
"Exactly!" Moriarty snaps his fingers. "Would you be so kind, to construct some intriguing, exciting, fun cases for dear Sherlock?"
Moran hesitates for a moment to work out the implications of such a proposal. "Sure. I know people."
"Mind you, they don't have to involve people. Think of the wonderful resources at our disposal, and make them good."
The outburst of several vicious crimes in the course of one week, dubbed Nightmare before Valentine's by the local headline, has outraged the public and shook the Yard. For Sherlock, that means several happily sleepless nights. For John, it means more demands from the M-Lab and less time for log-keeping. But that's fine. Seeing Sherlock at his best is always fine.
The new day brings them to yet another crime scene. In a funny but unfit layout for the occasion, the Yarders are lined up more or less ceremoniously on both sides of the tape that Sherlock lifts for John.
"Can't ever say I'm happy to see you, but here we are." DI Lestrade wipes a hand down his face, the lines around his eyes deep. "This way. It's as bad as the last two, but different."
As Sherlock darts around inspecting, John receives yet another novel specification out of Moran's fancy. "Fix your eyes on him. Now, face him and trace the eye movements. These are important clues to his brainwork."
John reluctantly follows the command, which entails lowering his face over the corpse right opposite of Sherlock to stare into his eyes, despite an incomprehensive frown from the latter. Donovan snickers, and whispers something into Anderson's ear, who nods knowingly.
"What?" Sherlock asks, more of a genuine inquiry than a complaint.
"Erm, nothing, just getting a better look." John is not aware of his own slightly flushed cheeks. Despite the pretense to be cool, he redirects his eyes down to the actual dead body a little awkwardly.
"What?" That's from Moran, more of a statement of disdain than a real question.
Some Yarder thinks I'm hitting on my flatmate, that's what. Not that you care about how I feel, John answers angrily in his mind. For the remainder of their stay at the scene, John's eyes wander here and there, like his thoughts.
"The last case closed, right on the 14th. Take something off people's minds." John comments with glee, as he closes the door of 221B behind them.
"Closed, thought the Yard. But look at the three culprits as a collective." Still untangling his scarf, Sherlock is babbling out new formulations with each step he takes. "Von Herder, well-to-do middle-aged male citizen, firearm, family feud. Baldwin, misadjusted juvenile male citizen, baseball bat, personal conflict at school. Sarah~074, impoverished female clone, poison, financial and relationship woes." He abruptly turns around, causing John to almost fall over. "Do you see a pattern, John?"
John shakes his head. "Umm, other than that somebody got killed, no."
"Oh, brilliant. Brilliant representation of the layperson." John knows that was coming. Sherlock settles himself on the sofa and begins to make wild hand gestures. "The makeup is so diverse, smeared across the criminal spectrum in every dimension. In fact, too diverse, and so perfectly in line with the up-to-date offender statistics and recognised stereotypes that are most likely to be filed away as normal murderers if such a category exists, which ironically makes an outstanding series."
It takes John a minute to respond. "Wait, you think the murders are serial? But the three cases have absolutely nothing in common."
"Precisely. It's like getting exactly all six numbers when you roll a die six times – a perfect conformation to the common perception of randomness and fairness, but the actual probability of that occurrence is less than 2%."
John quietly ponders at the mathematics. 6!/6^6 - the chance is indeed 0.015. Oh.
"On a similar ground, I would like to reject the hypothesis that the events are truly random and independent, and propose that the mastermind behind, with a certain degree of statistician's obsessive-compulsive disorder, has taken the time to get themselves well-versed in the latest report on homicidal analysis. This might well be what I would do to deter the suspicion of interconnection if I were to plan three murders in such a short span of time, except that I would have done it better, by allowing some degree of random variation which might introduce overlapping traits in some aspects of the crimes, but not enough for them to be linked." Finally finished with the long sentences, Sherlock leans back with considerable satisfaction to watch a flustered John.
"Well, OK, that's a bit above me." Dismissing Sherlock's look of Obviously, John ponders on. "But what for? And how? None of the three culprits has any known tie to criminal organisations. You can't just control people's - "
John cuts out his own naive assumption. Some people can, he knows damn too well. Can I fight the urge to pull a trigger, if the M-Lab makes me? Wait -
"How, and why, these are the big questions. But I'm running on my last few hours of consciousness." Sherlock huffs. The sheer physical limit that restrains his fiery mind is always a cause for resentment. In this regard, his sturdy flatmate who comes closest to understanding his work is very highly appreciated. "John, I am going to need the comprehensive personal histories of the suspects from the Control System."
"Of the one clone? The other two are citizens, in case you forgot."
"Then go to the Citizen Control System – gosh, do I have to spell out everything?"
With a puff, John stomachs the impatience as fatigue though Sherlock is acting no more pushy than usual, and tries to explain the obvious. "Umm, privacy? You're talking about the utmost confidential database on Earth that's not even supposed to exist, I don't think they'll just hand me the profiles if I ask nicely."
In return, Sherlock casts John a don't be so daft kind of a glance, and tosses him a bracelet.
"A mastermind who does his research, with a certain degree of statistician's obsessive-compulsive disorder – you heard the man, Sebbie." Moriarty laughs heartily. "I never thought of putting it that way before."
"I am so sorry, James." Eyes distraught, Moran's pale lips are quivering, thick hair messier than ever. "I thought I could throw off Sherlock but I was wrong, and now he's after us. What can our dummy do to deter the investigation?"
"To deter the investigation – no, no, what are you thinking?" Moriarty stretches out a hand to pat his engineer in distress, who looks up full of questions. "This is brilliant – to see truth by reasoning in the absence of patterns, that is the essence of genius. Oh, I'm giving myself a massive boner in awe." The light-heartedness always serves to pacify Moran's doubts. "There is nothing to be sorry for." As he assures Moran of that, Moriarty's eyes are positively sparkling.
"Bring it, Sherlock, the game is on."
Mycroft's Identity makes everything speedy, and John is able to get back before Sherlock has finished his usually brief napping. Before heading to the kitchen, John sets down the memory stick on the coffee table. When he gets out with tea and sandwiches, Sherlock is already busy going through the holographic profiles that have filled up every corner of the living room.
"Turns out, Baldwin the juvenile is of public clone origin before adoption. Von Herder, the natural male, had a forebrain implant five years ago to alleviate his anxiety issues. And Sarah, the corporate clone who lost her job, features a notorious embedment which drove many mad in its initial stage of development. So now we have a connection: they all have chips in their brains."
John feels a lump in his throat. As frightening and dismal as the suggestion is, somehow he senses that the unfortunate events are pointing somewhere. He sets down the mugs and plates to avoid a potentially disastrous display of shock, and wipes his slightly sweaty palms on his trousers. "Whoa, all right. Where does that lead us?"
"I cannot be absolutely certain without further analysis, but the new information converges to the Galaxy Academy, more specifically the works of Professor Moriar- "
John's fingers snap on the S-field. By the time he realises what his subconscious has done for him, it's too late. He is, at the moment without a doubt, right under the most intense observation of the M-Lab. So it is done. He has exposed his deliberate tempering with the data feed. A crime, as defined by the M-lab, punishable by any measure.
Flee.
But if Sherlock is right, as always, what would the M-Lab venture to do next?
If I switch it off soon enough, maybe it will count as just another blackout?
"Sherlock, please, could you stop talking for a moment?"
"What?"
"Nothing, I'm… I'm tired, too, you know, there's only so much that my brain could take." John pleads. Anything to block off Sherlock's discovery. But does it make any difference at this point?
Oblivious to John's internal struggle, Sherlock is visibly dismayed by the lack of an audience. "Should have known. Go to bed then, don't ask me to tuck you in."
I don't even know what that means, John says to himself bitterly.
"All right, that does it. The likelihood of that blackout occurring randomly in the middle of a sentence is less than 5%," says Moran angrily, "clearly there was some form of intentional interference. That will not do."
"Interesting." The look on Moriarty's face is grave, not matching the statement. "Right as Sherlock was getting to the point. Was the cut-off administered by an interested third party, or was our dummy trying to be protective?" His gaze alternates between the three less-watched monitors, before fixing on one.
"So we have been trapped by evolution, so attentive to what could be seen and heard, but reluctant to interpret the more informative charts and graphs. Seb, zoom in on the somatosensor; behold, an anomaly – contact with a non-household foreign object." Moriarty sighs. "Plug me in."
A variety of cords are attached to Moriarty's skull, and Moran watches on with uncertainty, as Moriarty reports verbally what he's feeling. "Starts in the kitchen. Handling metal, bread, and porcelain. Burned a finger – ouch. Carrying porcelain. Putting down porcelain. Hands slightly damp – nervous? Hands wiping on denim. Hah. Philistine. Left hand wandering into pocket – here, wind back 3 seconds. There was something in his pocket." Suddenly, Moriarty rips off the cords, in half-enlightenment, half-rage. "A petty S-field generator? Well played, Mr. Holmes, but in the wrong hands, at the wrong time." Moriarty turns to Moran, who is busy checking the damage state of the cords. "So it's been at least since the first blackout, and our very own John Watson has the balls to act like all is well. I'm impressed by our clone, Sebbie, I really am, but he's so worried over the wrong thing at the moment."
Putting away the cords, Moran smirks. "Abundantly brave as we have built him, but like someone has said before, bravery is just a kind word for stupidity. Mama's gonna teach him a lesson."
Amused by Moran's stern resolution, Moriarty's calm re-emerges. As if suddenly remembering the date, he warmly calls out, "Chill, Sebbie, do you not know what day it is? Let's put the science of intellect to the back of our minds for one night, and indulge in our primal impulses, if you know what I mean."
Moran's concern dissolves at the suggestion. "Oh, I thought you forgot, per usual." He retorts, pinching Moriarty's arm. "But our dear Watson shall not be deprived of a celebration either. You know, I've never put any dream conditioning techniques into practice, and tonight seems like a good time. How about the condensed experience of the average soldier in classical warfare?" Seeing that Moriarty is non-objective, Moran whistles, and types in some commands into the interface.
"Sending nightmares on Valentine's."
Dinner is awkward back at 221B. For more than once, John thinks of saying something, but he dares not excite more input from Sherlock, who just seems to be absorbed in thoughts. In addition, the lack of reaction from the M-Lab is far from reassuring. In the end, he heads for bed with his mind full of scenarios and skips an account of today's gloomy events, not risking another activation of the S-field.
Falling asleep is easy enough, but sleep itself is not. As John drifts in unconsciousness, the air becomes suddenly heavy with anticipation and sulphur. Before he could figure out what it's about, deafening noises come from afar, and his companions are cut down like weeds. Then the ground crumbles, and there is pain, of crushed bones, and general helplessness. Finally, as the agony gradually dies down, the taste of maggots creeps onto his tongue.
John thrashes in the darkness. So this is the response. Neither the lingo or the concept of suicide is installed in him, but he wonders if there is an exit to this miserable existence. That is, until a familiar hand clasps his shoulder, and an unfamiliar warmth engulfs him, dispelling the anguish. And John is awaken, in Sherlock's arms.
Indulge me, if just for a second.
Still sobbing, John buries his face in Sherlock's silky T-shirt. Cotton. Comfort. Laundry detergent that John has picked up last week. Home. Fancy soap. Brat. And the ever-present faint tinge of antiseptic - suddenly realising that Moriarty or Moran could also be smelling this, smelling Sherlock, John startles, falling back into the sweat-drained sheets, pained and sick in the stomach. He collects himself to meet Sherlock's concerned gaze.
"Thank you. Sorry. It was – it was the battlefield."
Lying to Sherlock's face is of course very unnerving, even in the dark. But the explanation was truthful, except that there is no battling against a one-sided brutal onslaught. Either way, Sherlock seems to be in no mood for deductions. "Would you like me to stay, John?"
Yes, please, do – no. John coils away, subconsciously clutching at his chest where the presence of the metal slab is prominent as ever. What will Sherlock think, should his dexterous long fingers stumble upon the unnatural coldness?
"No, I'm fine. Please, go and get rested. There's work tomorrow, right?" John attempts at a smile, weakly.
Sherlock has doubt in his eyes, but with another light pat on John's shoulder, he gets up to leave. As Sherlock quietly closes the door, John murmurs, "Good night."
Reaching into his drawer with a trembling hand, John flips on the S-field. He is too tired to care. But even then, he could not close his eyes again. Instead, he sits by the window until the Sun is up and Sherlock is heard shuffling around downstairs, before exhaustion overcomes him.
Inside the innermost office of the Terra Museum, the superintendent is less than friendly as Holmes the senior states his intention. Nevertheless, he notions for several bulky containers to be pulled from the 21st century storage unit. "Holographic digitisation is still in progress, Sir, and I'm afraid you may need to make use of the unconventional physical indexes."
Mycroft sends him out with words of gratitude, and Anthea proceeds to look up Western Europe – the United Kingdom – Afghanistan War. Soon enough, her gloved fingers pick out a single file case from the W stack. Mycroft opens it up, and exhales deeply.
"No commercial enterprise would delve this far back for prototypes. It could only be a feat of the over-zealous and over-educated, with proper access – the Academia. But why Sherlock?" he shoots the question, not really towards Anthea.
"The Academia." Anthea gives a simple nod. "Searches commencing now. - Sir, the contents of this journal article seem relevant."
An abstract lights up in front of them, along with figures. The look on Mycroft's face turns, from bewildered to ghastly.
Notes:
Concerning this universe: The isolation of DNA by a Swiss guy marks 1869 as the starting year of human genetics sample records. (The name is Friedrich Miescher, who happened to pass away in 1895. Not that this has anything to do with the story.)
Friendly reminder: Do not try to clone a Balrog of Morgoth at home. However, if you succeed please let me know.