Chapter 2.
6 pm, Beijing
Deep in the bowels of Google's shining Beijing headquarters, a young computer coder tipped back his seventh Red Bull of the day. Despite the massive influx of caffeine to his system, his hands were steady as he shoved objects aside on his desk to make room for his personal laptop. As its operating system launched, Wang Dong, known as Jack to his friends, eyed a New York Times article on his office monitor:
"American officials are concerned that the Chinese government could use the stolen records of millions of federal workers and contractors to piece together the identities of intelligence officers secretly posted in China over the years.
The potential exposure of the intelligence officers could prevent a large cadre of American spies from ever being posted abroad again, current and former intelligence officials said. It would be a significant setback for intelligence agencies already concerned that a recent data breach at the Office of Personnel Management is a major windfall for Chinese espionage efforts."
Jack smiled as he turned to his laptop and began to type.
10 am, London
Thousands of miles away, Sherlock rolled fitfully in his bed, twisting the sheets around himself. In his brain, disturbing visions flashed by in disjointed bits and pieces. Voices floated through his thoughts.
"I'm going to have a talk with your mother, young man." He turned in the dream to see Mrs. Hudson standing behind him, a disapproving look on her face.
"She doesn't understand—" he began in response.
"No, Sherlock, love. It's you who doesn't understand. You can't treat me or others like dirt under your feet." She looked sad and glanced behind him as another voice joined the fray.
"It's true, Sherl," Janine Donlevy, neé Hawkins said. "You lied and lied to me. All for a case, like I wasn't worth the effort of being honest or nice."
Sherlock whirled around. "You don't think pretending to be a boyfriend didn't take effort?" he snapped. Janine pulled back.
"We could have been friends. Didn't that matter? Didn't I? I know I'm worth it—I'm married now and know how a man should treat me. Nothing like you did, that's for certain."
"I said I was sorry," Sherlock responded.
Janine shook her head. "No, you didn't. You never do…", she added as her image faded from view.
"Well, you do say you're sorry, sometimes." Molly Hooper picked up where Janine left off. "I don't know if you ever mean it, but you say it, and that's something." She stepped up to him. "But are you ever sorry for what you do to yourself? For risking your mind with poison? Don't you care about the love of your friends?" With that, she slapped him and Sherlock jerked awake with a shouted "Yes!".
Before he could fully recover from the nightmare, John poked his head around the door. "You okay, Sherlock? I heard you yelling."
"Fine, I'm fine," Sherlock said, pulling the sheets from around him. He looked at John just in time to see his lips purse at Sherlock's automatic response to concern.
"I really am fine, John. It was," Sherlock took a deep breath to force the words out. "Just a nightmare." Sherlock's eyes slid away again, as if the tiny admission of weakness was more than he could bear.
John's stepped into the room. "Mary's packing, but we can stay longer if you need us to. It's not a problem."
"Yes, it is," said Sherlock firmly. "Mary is ready to deliver at any moment and there's no purpose to you staying here with me. I hate repeating myself, but I really am fine." He glanced at John for his reaction. "And, um, I do appreciate what you've done, helping me the past few days." The last was said quickly, as if Sherlock was tearing off a bandage. John's eyebrows raised.
"Our pleasure," he responded.
"No, it wasn't." Sherlock smiled.
"Yeah, you're right. You're a lousy patient, you know that?" John smiled back.
"Well, fortunately you're a good doctor," Sherlock said, then changed the subject. "When are you leaving?" He pushed the bedclothes away. "I am going to see Mycroft, much as the idea pains me. I'd like you to join me…if you can." The last three words sounded almost unforced. "He says he has information to share about Moriarty's plans, and I could use your help if the information proves to be at all useful."
"Well, I have to get Mary home, but I can come after."
"Bring Mary. She'll be interested to hear this as well, so long as she can hold the baby in a bit longer." Sherlock rummaged through his wardrobe for clothes.
"Sherlock, this is my child we're talking about, not a sack of potatoes. She'll come when she sees fit, not when it suits you." John said, exasperated.
"Yes, yes…" Sherlock waved him off.
John sighed. "I'll check with Mary. Maybe a nice bit of espionage will be a good break for her. She's getting so tired of sitting around."
"That's the spirit," answered Sherlock cheerfully.
11:00 am, London.
Mary began giggling as soon as she, John and Sherlock reached the check-in desk at The Diogenes Club. The combination of the ancient steward (and guests), the formal surroundings and the insistence on absolute silence tickled her to no end. John tried to shush her, but the old men gathered in the front room were still scandalized. Whether it was because of Mary's mirth, her gender or both was hard to say.
Reaching Mycroft's office didn't sober her at all. It was equally formal, if not more so, with a massive knight's armor holding up one corner and tea service for 20 gracing another. Mycroft rolled his eyes at her reaction.
"Must you travel with an entourage these days, Sherlock? At one time, you preferred to be alone."
"Just because no one can stand your company, Mycroft, doesn't mean that people aren't willing to be with me. It's called "friendship", brother mine. You should try it sometime." Sherlock replied, his cheerfulness increasing at the prospect not only of a new mystery, but also of getting one up on Mycroft.
"Yes, well. We can't all be so…lucky," Mycroft responded with a baleful glance at John and Mary. He continued, turning his computer monitor toward Sherlock.
"We just got information which appears to relate to the transmission of Moriarty's image around the country." He pointed to the screen, on which a series of dots were flashing in red.
"You know how he did it?", John asked.
"No, at least not yet. We will determine that, of course. But in the meantime, there are signs that the incursion into our electronic networks is continuing." Mycroft said.
"These are satellites," Sherlock mused, leaning into the screen.
"Television satellites, to be precise. Unfortunately, they are non-functional, as the majority of them stopped working this morning. For the most part, the incident has only affected the breakfast viewing habits of the British public. However, we expect a rather larger hue and cry to erupt once a sizable number of people find themselves deprived of EastEnders and the like."
"That's why your set wasn't working!", exclaimed Mary. "I thought it was because Sherlock shot the TV or something, but it's this." John grinned at her while Sherlock ignored the comment.
"Can you get the satellite network back online?", asked Sherlock.
"Yes, although it will take some time. However Moriarty gained control over it, it will be pointless to reactivate the satellite transmissions if they aren't secure. In all likelihood, the network would go down again, this time with potentially greater consequences than a reduction in sitcom viewing."
"Consequences?", asked John. "Like what?"
Sherlock answered. "If the outage spreads beyond television satellites, it could affect any number of systems based on our space infrastructure. Military organizations would no longer be able to rely on them for secure communication or navigation. International calling would fail as well, so that outlet for sharing data would be lost."
Mycroft nodded. "Non-military systems could be affected as well. Air traffic control, GPS, social networks—all could be at risk."
"And you think Moriarty could have planned this?" John asked, with a tone of incredulity.
"He—or someone acting on his behalf—already got into the satellite system to share that video of him, didn't they? A broader attack would be a relatively incremental step at this point."
"A virus in the data," Mycroft interjected. Sherlock spun toward him, flinching.
"What?", asked Mary.
"Sherlock?", added John.
Sherlock just stared at Mycroft. "What did you say?"
"That's Moriarty, isn't it? A bug in our systems. A very pathogenic virus." Mycroft replied, eyes sharply monitoring Sherlock's reaction. "And a very persistent visitor in your mind, I must say, Sherlock. May I remind you that Moriarty is dead? He is hardly in a position to expand on anything, much less take over our communication systems. This obsession of yours with him is simply unhealthy. We've seen an image of him, nothing more. He is hardly going to turn up at the Space Agency."
"I didn't say he was alive. I'm quite aware that Moriarty is dead, Mycroft. But his plans aren't—and I think this is just the beginning gambit in what may be a very long game." Sherlock shot back.
"A great game, Sherlock," asked Mycroft mockingly. "Isn't that what you called it on your blog, Dr. Watson, a chess match between Sherlock and his real "arch-enemy"?"
Sherlock huffed. John frowned. "Mycroft has a point, Sherlock. Moriarty killed himself, you saw it yourself. He thought he had you up there on the roof, that there was no escape. Why would he go to the trouble of putting all this in motion too?" John gestured at the computer screen, where red dots continued to merrily flicker.
"Why indeed, John." Sherlock refocused on Mycroft. "Was there a point to bringing me here, or were you just looking to humiliate me?"
"Well, that is always a bonus," Mycroft conceded. "But yes, there is a point. I have a theory about what is happening, but I need you to do some legwork for me to confirm it." Mycroft made a face to show his distaste for hand-on effort.
"Why not just tell us your theory, Mycroft? Why all the drama?" asked Mary.
"Where would be the fun in that?" answered Mycroft. Just as Sherlock began to stalk away, he continued. "I need you to investigate, Sherlock. Find out if whoever did this left any kind of trail behind. If they did, we may be able to anticipate their next move."
"Why me?" asked Sherlock. "You have lackeys to do that work, whole organizations of them."
"If it is Moriarty behind this, and I'm not saying it is, but if he is, who else better to determine what he was thinking than you?" Mycroft asked.
Sherlock was silent for several long moments. John and Mary looked apprehensively at him, then at Mycroft. The two brothers seemed caught in a staring match.
"Yes, of course. I'll take your case, Mycroft, and I'll do you one better. I'll prove to you that this is all Moriarty's doing." Sherlock turned on his heel and walked to the door. Just as he pulled it open, Mycroft responded.
"I just hope you've acquired a measure of immunity," Mycroft paused importantly. "To this virus of yours."
Sherlock stomped through the door, slamming it behind him. John and Mary followed quickly. Just as John was going through the door behind Mary, Mycroft spoke again.
"Dr. Watson," he said.
"Yes?" asked John.
"Watch him for me, will you?" Mycroft said, a small note of worry creeping into his voice.
John nodded, then followed in Sherlock's wake.
5 pm, Edinburgh
A hiker settled on a rock just off a path in a remote area of the Highlands. It had been two hours since he'd seen another person, but the solitude was like a soft breeze to him. His point of view became a bit less peaceful, however, when he noticed that his mobile phone was no longer connected to a calling signal.
"Bugger," he thought, standing to see if he could pick up a bar or two by holding the phone above his head. Nothing happened. It was getting late, so might be a good time to turn back for his car in any event.
Moving forward and switching through applications, the hiker noticed something more disturbing. The GPS signal which had guided him off the beaten path was absent. He restarted the app, then his phone, but to no avail. The signal was gone, and he was lost.
Storm clouds began to gather on the horizon.