Chapter Ten

In the end it could have been anyone. It could have been a hallucination, considering the state he was in. He tried to think rationally, but his heart was screaming at him that it had indeed been Sherlock and that he was okay and that they were in the same building and that everything would be fine.

Opening his eyes, he found the staff member looking at him worriedly. "Are you sure you're alright?"

John exhaled audibly and then walked over to a bench and sat down. Automatically he checked if his gun was still there. He managed to calm himself down. Whether it had been Sherlock or somebody else; something was about to happen. So whatever had happened until now, it all had been leading up to this place and this point in time. Sherlock had managed to bring him here and he would not fail him.

Finally, after all of these long hours of insecurity, confusion and physical discomfort, he felt his mind settle on the task at hand. His knees had stopped twitching and his left hand was entirely still. He looked back up and then followed each level from one side to the other, searching for something unusual. Everything seemed quiet – as far as quiet goes in a building full of people.

The door behind the showcase opened and a middle-aged woman stepped out behind the staff member. She wore an expensive black suit, her hair in a ponytail, no jewellery to speak of. She was rather beautiful.

"I'm Natalia Romanov, the curator, how can I help you?" John had the distinct feeling of having seen her before, but he couldn't place her at all.

"Yes, actually you might be able to help. See, I've been wondering if there are any security holes in your system. I was sent here to ensure that everything in the exhibition is safe." He was completely calm, looking her directly in the eye, silently praying she would not read the lie. The woman relaxed visibly and even regarded him with a smile. "Yes, we've been informed that someone would come for a back up check. Come along."

It took everything he had to not show his surprise. It was too big of a coincidence, and his senses sharpened as he realised that this might be a trap in which they were trying to lure him. At the same time, the woman seemed genuinely relieved and he wondered whether they had indeed received a warning. She did not bring him in through the hidden door but through the staff entrance next to the humanities reading room. Miss Romanov used her staff ID to open the door and before it closed behind him, he turned once, catching the two staff members looking at them slightly bewildered. He noticed that she hadn't even asked for his name.

After walking through several corridors, passing by bookshelves and rooms filled with computers, scanners and other machines, they ended up in an office. Her name was merely taped to the door and appeared to have been written on with a sharpie. She noticed him frowning.

"You're right to wonder. I've been transferred here from Oxford just two days ago. The original curator fell ill and is in no state to finish the exhibition on time. Poor guy, he had been working on this for such a long time."

John watched her closely as she pulled out a folder from under her desk. He was still prepared for someone to walk in and attack him or for her to pull a gun out of a drawer. Instead, she pushed the folder over to his side of the desk. "It's all I got. Apparently there's been a new alarm installed and tested a month ago. Five teams of security personnel will be present at all time, half of them plain clothed."

"Why so many?" he inquired. "Do you expect for something to happen?"

She smiled and shook her head. "No, I hope not, but we will showcase an as yet unpublished and unseen page of Species. There are always people out there who want to steal these things before the public has had the chance to see them."

"Just like the constitution in DC?" He asked, making her gasp in surprise.

"How do you know about that?"

"Urban legends. And I have a friend that told me his view on the story and it sounded pretty convincing."

She shook her head at him. "Have you spotted anything?"

"What?" He was surprised by her question, not quite knowing what she was referring to.

"Have you spotted a security hole?"

"The door." He said automatically. "What will be in front of the door?"

"The birds." Miss Romanov said. "Darwin's finches. Why?"

John stared at her. Good luck with the birds. The man last night, in front of the museum, he had used the plural. He hadn't even noticed then, but now he remembered it clearly. He had not been speaking of women, he had been speaking of birds. His heart leaped. He had been praying for signs from Sherlock, feeling left alone and desperate for guidance, and he had been too blind and distracted to see that Sherlock had provided what he had asked for.

His sudden realisation must have been visible on his face as the woman looked a little bewildered, but not uninterested. "Is there anything I should know?"

John smiled, suddenly comfortable in his position. "Do you know what illness your predecessor has that makes it impossible for him to work?"

"No." She said, "I've just been called in after the office received a document from his doctor."

John stood up and closed the door, turning around to her. "Okay, listen carefully." For one second he knew how Sherlock must have felt whenever a case suddenly unravelled itself and everything made sense. "You need to seal off that door behind the bird case. Whoever wants to steal that manuscript will try to come through that door. And don't tell anyone, just do it. No one must know that the door is closed. And exchange the showcases, label them wrongly, confuse the thieves. Make it generally hard for anyone to make sense of the order."

She looked at him with big eyes. "How do you know that? About the door, I mean."

"Sherlock Holmes." He said, watching her face carefully. He still expected her to suddenly break out of her innocent behaviour and turn into a villain, but she just stared blankly at him and then shook her head.

"My colleague." He clarified. "He knows these things." By admitting that the clue had come from Sherlock, his triumphant feeling of having solved the riddle by himself dissolved, leaving a strange longing behind. If things were really going the way they seemed to, Sherlock was around, but unable to act on his own account, so he had to do it for him. Why couldn't he just show up, unexpected, just a short reassurance that he was doing the right thing, that he was on the right track, and, most importantly, that Sherlock was okay.

"Could you do me a favour?"

She nodded, unsure now what to make of his proposal. He took a blank sheet of paper and started writing. "What's the name of the original curator?" he asked while he wrote.

"Mr Chamberlain."

John finished scribbling on the paper and turned it towards her, so she could read it. Then he pulled the phone towards him and dialled Lestrade's number. "Read this out to this man, please."

She was confused and her eyes grew impossibly wide when Lestrade introduced himself on the other end of the line just as she realised what John had written. However, she sounded calm as she read out his message.

"Hello, it's not important who I am, but I am fairly sure that Mr Chamberlain, curator of the British Library Darwin exhibition, is dead."

He motioned her to hang up and took her hand as it started shaking. "How do you know that?" she whispered, clearly understanding that she might be in danger as well. "What happened to him? Why did they do that?"

John frowned as he looked at her. "You need to trust me." He caught her eye and held it. "Do you trust me?"

She suddenly seemed younger than she had just minutes ago. "They didn't say a word about this job being dangerous. I was perfectly fine in Oxford and then they invited me here and now I'm in the middle of …" He squeezed her hand and she caught herself. "I do trust you, Mr…"

"Watson, John Watson."

"Okay, Mr Watson. What else do I need to know?"

He smiled at her courage. "Well, you've clearly been aware of the fact that someone might try to steal some documents. What made you think that?"

"The telly." She smiled through tears, shrugging. "I've watched too many documentaries on art theft, my mum always said it would make me paranoid, but I think it's better to be safe than sorry."

"Okay, I believe that what we are dealing with here is something large scale. It's not just one person, but organised crime. Nobody would steal a document that has no worth to the public because it has not been pronounced to be special, do you understand? You didn't advertise it, it's not the main focus of the exhibit, but it is part of it. So the worth is not materialistic, but it lies in owning it. Whoever wants it, wants it for the sake of owning it. It's a game to them, but sadly, a dangerous game for everyone who tries to come in between the hunter and its prey." He had just become a commentator of a bad art theft documentary, he noticed. Clearly, he needed to stop watching late night programs, and possibly he also needed to listen better to Sherlock. He always sounded much more logical and structured, even when he didn't make sense. John was relieved to find that his hope was restored. He didn't think of Sherlock as dead or injured anymore. There was no other possibility for him to come home after this and everything would be normal again.

"I need for you to act normal. Don't say anything to anyone. Don't act suspiciously, and don't try to find out if any of the staff is involved. But seal off that door, and do it just before the exhibit opens. When is the opening?"

"At five."

"Good, I'll be there. And in case anything happens, don't try to stop them, just run, okay? And don't come here. Whoever is behind this must have access, so you are not safe down here."

She nodded, her lips a tight line.

"I have one more question, though," John said it to distract her from the visions of horror that probably ran through her mind right now. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

She laughed, tears spilling. It had worked, he noticed relieved. "I have no idea." She said, shaking her head. "I'm barely ever out of Oxford."

Then it hit him. "Anthea!" He exclaimed, and at her thoroughly confused look he added. "Do you have a sister who works for the government?"

"I do have a sister, but she's not working for the government. She's the secretary in a security firm."

"Of course she is," John said, and shaking his head: "I apologise." Miss Romanov looked at him sharply, but did not ask further.

"Don't worry", he said, feeling the need to steer clear of the topic he had introduced in order to avert from the original problem. "I'm sure everything will be fine."

She didn't look quite convinced, but lead him outside again. This time, she brought him out through the secret door. As soon as they stepped outside he started talking about the importance of fire extinguishers and that he would bring experts in to make sure that they had enough. She managed a smile and shook his hand.

"Thank you."

"Anytime."

Then he turned and walked towards the staircase. He needed to go upstairs, he needed to stand where Sherlock - or whoever it had been - had stood.