Three Hours Later
A very groggy Sherlock Holmes shuffled into the kitchen and grabbed the cup of hot coffee offered to him. He gulped it down, ignoring the pain in his mouth and throat, trying to bombard his system with as much caffeine as quickly as possible. Once his cup was empty he sat down hard on a kitchen chair and looked at John with heavy-lidded eyes. The crust of drool still hung to the right hand corner of his mouth and his curls were even wilder than usual. He looked absolutely miserable and John had to keep himself from laughing at his friend.
He cleared his throat and snapped his paper to straighten out the fold. "Sleep well?" He tried to sound innocent but at the very last moment his voice had risen in pitch and his throat had tightened up ever-so-slightly as he forced his laughter back down. He could almost feel the heat of Sherlock's glare.
Sherlock spoke in the same nearly slurred speech as last time, his words however held the same disdain and condescension as always. "John, do refrain from making jokes. You know very well I was unconscious, not asleep. There is a marked difference between the two." He huffed a deep breath out and reached for John's plate of food. A half eaten turkey sandwich and some crisps were left over from his late lunch. Sherlock made quick work of the left-overs and gulped down two more cups of coffee and three glasses of water.
John put his paper down and looked Sherlock over, he seemed to be more awake, ready to go. John licked his lips in anticipation of the coming conversation. He would never truly admit to finding this whole life of crime and intrigue interesting. It was hard to deny though, he was clearly an adrenaline junkie and being friends with Sherlock was the ultimate fix.
"So, do you want to tell me what happened last night?" He waited for Sherlock to shoot him down or begin his tirade, hands waving about, violin clutched in one hand, bow in the other.
Sherlock, however, disappointed John by simply responding, "I will once you have retrieved Mrs. Hudson. I have a few questions for her. "
John nodded mutely and made his way down to Mrs. Hudson's flat. He knocked on the door and after there wasn't an answer he let himself in. The sharp pain that ripped across his chest at what sight greeted him was almost as acute as the day he saw Sherlock jump to his death.
Sherlock rushed down to his landladies apartment when he heard the cry for help from John. He had already dialed 999 and an ambulance was on the way, Lestrade had also been notified and was, presumably, driving over as well. Sherlock burst through the door and stopped dead in his tracks. This was not the sight he had expected to see. Mrs. Hudson injured, yes. John injured, yes. An intruder injured, yes. Some combination of the three, yes. What greeted him was beyond his expectations and the fight between horror and intrigued waged within him. He assumed he should feel shame or embarrassment at being excited at what he saw but he didn't. The Woman's words to him last night finally made sense.
The paramedics finally arrived and rushed in only to be told that their services were not needed. Lestrade burst through the door and his jaw nearly dropped to the floor. The metallic smell that hung in the air caused his stomach to turn and the words smeared on the wall facing him caused his heart to constrict and twist about in pain. He immediately sprung into action, his training kicking in. He began barking orders to the officers present.
"I want a sample of the blood collected and sent to St. Bart's immediately, put a rush on it. Let Dr. Hooper know who it's for. I want the whole place dusted for prints and photographs need to be taken of the writing on the wall and sent to the Yard. No one touches anything without gloves on, I want a full crime scene tech unit here. Nothing should be left unchecked." As the orders flowed from his mouth Sherlock took in every detail of the room.
Lestrade turned to him and waited until Sherlock's eyes finally settled on the words written in blood. He asked the one question he always seemed to be asking, "What do you see?"
Sherlock turned to him, concern lightly dusted upon his features. He turned back to the wall and spoke rapidly in a steady voice, no trace of anxiety or concern present. "No sign of struggle present, Mrs. Hudson would have fought back at least so perhaps she was incapacitated or knew the attacker or had her back turned and didn't see him coming. The assailant was clearly male, 185 Cm, approximately 107 Kg, military training." Anticipating the question of how he knew that he barrelled on. "From the footprints left in the blood I can tell shoe size and approximate weight, the highest point of the writing is still thick showing that the writer wasn't stretching on their toes to reach the highest point. As for military training, the words are cleanly and precisely written, the language also indicates someone with basic military hierarchical understanding. I would say whoever did this was in his mid-thirties and is now working as a hired gun."
Lestrade was, as usual, amazed and frazzled by Sherlock's observations. "Well what about what he wrote. What does it mean?" He looked back at the message on the couldn't even begin to imagine what it said but he knew that if anyone did, it would be Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock was staring intently at the writing, his head at an angle. He didn't immediately answer Lestrade but that didn't cause the Detective Inspector to reiterate his question. Sherlock was busy but he had heard him and would answer when he was ready.
Sherlock was mumbling to himself, his focus entirely on his mind palace, the rest of the world but an annoying hum at the back of his mind. He finally opened his eyes and began speaking in his rapid fire speech once again. "It appears to be Old Norse rune markings. I am unfamiliar with the language and will need to consult an expert." That was it, it came out in such a rush John and Lestrade weren't entirely sure that they had actually understood. Sherlock had just admitted to not knowing something, he needed expert help. John thought seeing Sherlock drugged once again would be the most surprising thing to happen to his best friend for the day but he was wrong. Seeing Sherlock completely uncomfortable with his little admission of ignorance took the cake.
Sherlock shuffled from foot to foot, unsure where to settle his eyes. Eventually a commotion in the hall drew everyone's attention. The person who walked through the door and gasped in surprise was the last person they expected to see.
Four Hours Later
Dr. Molly Hooper was many things but stupid was not one of them. Not even Sherlock Holmes, the most observant man in the world, had ever attempted to question Molly's intelligence. In fact, it was her intelligence and skill that led to Sherlock asking for her help to fake his death. It was her intelligence and skill that provided her with a remarkable job in a field dominated by men at a surprisingly young age. It was her intelligence and skill that kept her alive, and it was that same intelligence and skill that was failing her.
She looked through her microscope once more to confirm what she already knew. The printout of the DNA test was at her side, 99.5% match confirmed who the DNA belonged to, and her own microscopic comparison wasn't offering up any contrasting evidence. There was no denying that what lay before her in the test tubes and what was smeared on Mrs. Hudson's freshly papered wall was the blood of the world's only consulting detective.
It was as she resigned herself to accepting the impossible truth that the man in question burst through the door to the lab. Ever dramatic with the sweep of his Belstaff coat and the flick of his scarf, Sherlock approached Molly. Things were different now that he was back from the dead, well and from exile, but she wasn't sure what that meant. Her engagement had been over for almost a year and he had been back with the living for half-again longer, but what did that change? He was nicer to her, that was certain. He asked for her help more readily, sure. He often held back biting comments and observations, which was nice, truly nice. He even, on the rare and much treasured occasion, would genuinely compliment her. It wasn't the type of compliment he usually gave her, designed simply to get him what he wanted, no. It was sweeter, truer, and he never, well not never but rarely, wanted anything in return.
Sherlock knew that he needed only ask Molly and she would do what she could for him, anything for him. He didn't need to manipulate her or break her heart to get her to help him. In fact, he found rather surprisingly, if he was just honest and considerate she put up less of a fight. She was drawn from her microscope and her musing on what could only be a great mystery by the sound of her name being spoken.
"Molly." She looked up, the deep baritone of his voice immediately drawing her eyes to him, not that she'd look elsewhere if she could help it. He gave her a small smile and stepped close to her. It was closer than totally necessary but Molly wasn't complaining. "I trust you have the test results."
She nodded her head and picked up the sheet of paper from the table top. She handed it to him, relaying the results to John and Lestrade as she watched Sherlock's eyebrows raise. "It's confirmed almost 100%. The blood is yours, Sherlock. I just can't understand it though. The last time you would have even been available in a hospital to have your blood drawn was after you were shot." John looked down uncomfortably at this and Lestrade shot him a sympathetic look. Sherlock dismissed it and Molly just ignored his discomfort.
"Well?" She asked finally after he just stared at the paper for several moments. Normally Sherlock didn't take this much time to formulate an hypothesis. She raised a brow at him. The Molly Hooper from before The Fall was never this brave or outspoken in his presence. She was strong and confident around all other people but turned into a stammering school girl around him. Not anymore though, now she was nearly as confident around him as she was around everyone else. She still felt nervous around him but it was a more comfortable nervousness.
He looked up at her and met her brow with one of his own. "I didn't have blood drawn whilst in the hospital. They needed to give me blood, not take it away. Doctors can be surprisingly ignorant and stupid but even they wouldn't make such a mistake as take blood from a gunshot victim." When he realized that he had indeed insulted Molly's entire profession he amended his statement to exclude her. "That is Molly, most doctors, you of course, are exempted from such stupidity."
He heard John grunt behind him. He had forgotten that John was even there and had, at some point, chosen to ignore that fact that John was also a doctor. "Yes John you as well. Are we done complaining? Good." He turned his attention back to Molly. "That means that you are the last person to have access to my blood. Was the blood from Mrs. Hudson's flat coagulated?" Molly scrunched her face trying to draw up as much information as possible.
"It wasn't coagulated but appeared to have been treated with an anticoagulant. We automatically add anticoagulants to all blood drawn here. It's in the vials used to store blood and the blood bags also have a small amount within them. When I drew your blood a few years ago the blood would have been treated. The problem is, donor blood only lasts for 42 days. Frozen blood can last up to 10 years after donation." Sherlock seemed to perk up at this but Molly held up a hand to stop him. "No Sherlock, that can't be it either. I only drew enough blood for the suicide play. I didn't store any extra and I certainly didn't freeze any of it. There has to have been a time within the last 10 years you could have had your blood drawn and frozen." She spoke quieter. "Before the Fall or…. or, maybe after?" She leaned forward on her stool ever so slightly. Just near enough to Sherlock to feel the warmth radiating off of his body. She spoke gently, broaching a difficult subject that everyone seemed to avoid. "You were away for two years Sherlock, did anything… happen during that time?"
He closed his eyes, shutting out the look of sympathy already taking up the majority of Molly's face. He had been adamant that his actions whilst away were not to be discussed. He didn't need to revisit the reasons for his most unsettling nightmares. He sighed and moved closer to Molly. He grabbed her small, delicate hand and held it in his larger one. She looked up into his blue-green eyes and smiled softly.
With one last swallow to settle his nerves he answered her question. It wasn't easy for him. He wasn't a man of sentiment or emotion but his two years away had changed him. He was softer somehow, more aware of his emotions and the emotions of others. His voice was quiet, as if speaking any louder would scare the monsters out of the shadows. "Many things happened while I was away Molly, you know that. I have never spoken of what occurred during my time away, not to anyone." She was about to protest or accept defeat, he didn't know which. He squeezed her hand to silence her and she obeyed.
"There were many times when I was away that I was close to death. Injured, hiding, chased, hunted. There are, however, only two instances in which my blood could have been taken from me without my knowledge and only one in which medical supplies were involved." He looked back into his memory. Unlocking the door in his mind palace where he had exiled all of the memories and emotions from that time, save the useful ones of course. He pulled forth the memory of his time spent in Germany.
Two Years, Three Months, and Twelve Days Ago
He was running as fast as he could through the corridor….
The newest hospital in the Büdingenarea had already been erected so the older Mathilden-Hospital was nearly abandoned. Only a skeleton staff in the emergency response area was active. He had hoped to discretely access the personnel files of the part-time staff. After successfully sneaking his way into the Human Resources office he discovered, just as he expected, that the paper files were packed up and waiting to be sent over to the new hospital location.
The first eight boxes, and nearly as many hours later, had proven useless. It was when he was halfway through the ninth that he picked up the file of Dr. Johannes Faust. Dr. Faust was a part-time orthopaedic surgeon and pathologist. Sherlock's mind briefly flitted to another pathologist but he shook away that line of thought and focused on the task at hand. Dr. Faust, 45, balding black hair, grey eyes, average height and weight. Sherlock thought nothing of him until he noticed that Dr. Faust asked for holiday often, and had received his medical degree through the military. A quick internet search showed that the good doctor was also married, clearly had a mistress, no children, and more liquid capital than should be possible, even for a doctor.
Just as he was putting the doctor's file in a pile reserved for the interesting cases, which consisted of Dr. Faust and a nurse named Kunigunda Mohn. He was just reaching for the next file when he heard someone come into the office. From the sound of the voices it was a man and a woman. They were whispering to each other.
She whispered to him, apparently trying to dissuade their current course of action. "Nein, was ist, wenn uns jemand findet?" No, what if someone finds us?
The man with her wasn't too worried. He replied as seductively as the German language would allow. "Keine Sorge, wir sind ganz allein. Wir können tun, was wir wollen." Do not worry, we're all alone. We can do what we want.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. How romantic. Yes lets sneak back to one of the offices and disrobe each other. Oh yes, lets risk our jobs and the sanitation of the hospital just to sate our physical desires. Idiots. Sherlock was above the desires of the flesh. Despite this he couldn't help but imagine himself pushing his pathologist into the nearest office back at Bart's. He knew she had imagined it herself. Molly was quite obvious in that regard. He slammed that door closed in his mind palace and formulated a plan of escape.
He had just prepared himself to sneak out when the woman spoke out again. Her voice breathy, no doubt from the copious amounts of kissing she and the man had been partaking in. "Johannes, Ich kann nicht" Johannes, I can not. Johannes? What luck, the game is afoot and the prey has brought himself to Sherlock. When Johannes responded in a disgruntled tone and berated Kunigunda for being so prudish Sherlock felt as though the universe was giving him a gift. His two suspects were connected and now they were both present, ready for his questioning.
He hadn't truly thought through his next course of action before he implemented it. In all honesty he really should have known better but he was Sherlock Holmes and knowing when to keep his mouth shut was not something he was great at. So he, of course, stood from his crouched position behind a desk and spoke the six words that would soon cause him a world of hurt.
"Ah, I've been waiting for you." The two separated from their embrace and turned to him with startled expressions on their faces. Johannes was through the door faster than Sherlock would have expected and Kunigunda just stood there stunned. Sherlock gave her a stern look before running after Johannes. The corridor was dimly lit and eerily silent. It wasn't difficult to make out the thwacking sound of running feet around the corner. Sherlock bolted in that direction, feet adding to the silence. He was running as fast as he could through the corridor, intent on catching Johannes. He noticed the absence of an accompanying set of foot falls and slowed his pace.
His prey was hiding in a darkened doorway and surprised Sherlock. The metal pipe crashed into his face with enough force to knock him onto the linoleum floor. Just as the pain began to blur his vision he heard Johannes speaking to Kunigunda, instructing her to grab the equipment. It was in the following hours at the hospital that Sherlock learned about Johannes' other specialty. Using medical equipment to implement torture was not a particularly new idea, nor was it particularly inventive, but it was definitely affective.
Two Years, Three Months, and Twelve Days Later.
"When I finally regained consciousness and managed to escape it was four days later. I had several needle marks and had clearly had blood drawn. I assumed at the time that he took the blood to weaken me or to frame me for a crime later. It was almost four months before I found Johannes Faust again. He had killed Kunigunda when she tried to leave him and was hiding out in Romania. I questioned him before I turned him over to more official justice seekers. He let me know that the blood was taken as a request by his employer. Again I assumed, apparently incorrectly, that it was a standing order from Moriarty and not a new order from a new employer."
Molly squeezed his hand comfortingly. "It's okay Sherlock, we'll figure this all out." She gave him a small smile and decided to distract him from the past by focusing on the case at hand. "What about what was written on the wall? What did it say?" Sherlock stepped back and removed his hands from Molly's, taking his warmth with him.
Sherlock pulled a folded photo out of his pocket and handed it to her. She looked down at it in surprise. "I don't know what it says." He admitted to her. Somehow telling it to Molly was easier than when he had admitted it to John and Lestrade. Perhaps because Molly truly saw him for who he was and not just the pompous genius everyone else saw. "Once we leave Bart's we'll head to the British Museum to consult an expert."
Molly smiled up at him, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Or you could just ask me." He frowned at this and she elaborated. "My gran on my dad's side is from Reykjavik, she spent one summer teaching me all about Vikings. We even learned the runic alphabet so we could write to each other in code." Molly chuckled at the memory. "Give me a few minutes and I'll have this translated for you." Once again Sherlock was amazed by Molly's intelligence.
"Thank you Molly, that would be most helpful." Sherlock turned to speak to John only to notice that both he and Lestrade had left. He frowned at this, he hadn't noticed them leaving. Molly was already engrossed in the puzzle of the runes and hadn't taken notice either.
Just as promised Molly finished translating the text in a matter of minutes. She frowned at the words on the paper. "It doesn't make sense, I don't recognize a lot of these words. Most sound like English."
Sherlock leaned in closer to her from his own stool and gazed at her translation and understood what she meant. "Win thu kuen bosts, thu belovid kild sal sufer. Met our kaling or thu kingdom of thu angels sal be ravagd." Molly couldn't help but think of this as a form of Mad Gab. "Maybe it's a transliteration and not an actual translation." Molly leaned over the photo once again and Sherlock could hear her muttering to herself, presumably sounding out each word. Moments later she exclaimed excitedly. "I've got it! 'When the Queen boasts, the beloved child shall suffer. Meet our challenge or the Kingdom of the Angels shall be ravaged.'"
Sherlock looked down at her with absolute awe on his face. "Molly that was brilliant."
Molly blushed and shrugged. "It was quite simple once I knew what to do."
"That doesn't make it any less brilliant Molly." He pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head and grabbed her transliteration. "I'll text you later if I need anything." With those last few words he was out of the lab and on his way to find John and Lestrade. He needed to get back to Baker Street to continue his research.