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Chapter 3.
7 pm, London
Greg Lestrade knocked at the door of 221B Baker Street a third time. He knew Sherlock was inside, he'd been told as much by Mrs. Hudson. But in typical stroppy fashion, the resident of the flat was refusing to give him the courtesy of a response. Annoyed, Greg pushed the door open.
Sherlock was reclining on his couch, hands in prayer-like repose under his chin.
"Go away, Lestrade," Sherlock said, without opening his eyes. "I'm busy and don't have time to rescue Scotland Yard from its incompetence tonight."
"How'd you know it was me?" asked Greg.
"Your step. Heavier than Donovan's, lighter than John's." Sherlock still hadn't opened his eyes. "And why are you still here? I said, go away."
"Sherlock," Greg began.
Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he sat up. "Unless you're going to tell me about a multitude of murders in a house full of locked rooms, Lestrade, I don't want to hear it."
"It's not about murder, Sherlock. It's about you. I got this delivered to me today." Greg held out a manila envelope. "Didn't know what it was, it wasn't marked. As soon as I realized what it was about, I stopped reading, I promise."
Sherlock rose and snatched the envelope from Greg's hand. After a brief glance at its blank exterior, he shook out its contents, then froze.
A photograph fell onto the floor. It showed Sherlock at a young age, battered and bruised. An open wound ran across his temple and blood had flowed from his nose, drying just above his lip.
"That's you, yeah?" asked Lestrade.
Sherlock didn't reply. Instead, he slowly drew out a sheet of paper from the envelope.
"Dear Sherlock," it began. "If you're reading this, then I'm dead. Isn't that how the saying goes? Oh, well, I won't let a little thing like death get in the way of a good time. Not when there is still so much I can do to make your life miserable. Because if you're reading this, then I assume you're still alive.
Can't let you get away with that.
Don't you just love this photo? I was so pleased to find it in the archives of a police station in Middlesex. Made for some entertaining reading, not something you expect in Middlesex.
Beaten up as a child, oh my. Poor little Sherlock. They stuck your head in the toilet too. And poured booze down your throat—that's what really caught the attention of the local constabulary.
Popular, were you? Seeing how heavily defended you are now, with your snappy suits and superior attitude, I can imagine that you were the life of the party as a kid. At least for the bullies. Bet they had a field day with you, over and over again.
Oh, and Lestrade? All your defenses won't work so well with him after he knows a little more about baby Sherlock and the big boys of Harrow. He knows now just how easy it is to huff and puff and blow your house down.
But keep your eye on the ball, if you can. All those shiny satellites in the sky are just the beginning…what will be more important to you, I wonder? Your defenses or the world's?
I once said I owed you a fairy tale, Sherlock. Here comes the big, bad wolf.
Love,
Jim Moriarty"
Without looking up, Sherlock said, "Get out."
"Sherlock, no one cares about this stuff. I certainly don't, I just thought you should know-"
"OUT!", roared Sherlock.
Greg took a couple of steps backward then spoke again. "This changes nothing, Sherlock. Nothing."
Having the distinct impression that Sherlock was about to strike him, Greg wisely retreated. Sherlock listened to his steps fade away but didn't move until he heard the front door to 221B close. As soon as it snapped shut, Sherlock swiftly grabbed the photo, walked to the flat's fireplace and threw it in. The fire consumed it as he dropped into his armchair, staring emptily at John's chair across from him. If his hands shook slightly, he didn't notice.
8 am, San Diego
In a bunker at Miramar Naval Air Station, tensions were high.
"We've lost contact, sir," said a young airman. "It appears that our satellite communication system is down."
"That's unacceptable. Re-establish communication immediately or at least get a position on the drones. Where were they last?" A harried-looking Colonel ran a hand through his hair as he glared at his unfortunate pilot squadron. Every one of the 10 men and women on duty wished devoutly that they'd come down sick that morning.
Another squadron member spoke up. "We had them over Kunduz in Afghanistan, sir. They were on a reconnaissance mission, collecting data regarding the Taliban threat to the city."
"Yes, Lieutenant, I'm quite aware of their mission. What I don't know is where they are now. Doesn't anyone have an idea?"
Deafening silence answered him. Sighing, he picked up a phone.
"The President will need to hear about this," he said to the person who picked up. "He'll want to warn the base at Khandahar." The Colonel's eyes opened wide as he listened to the response.
"What do you mean, all communications to outside of the country are down?"
9:30 am, Washington DC/ 5:30 pm, London
The President of the United States and the Prime Minister of England were busy. Their respective crisis teams gathered as the news of the satellite communication failures in both countries and around the world became eclipsed by other news: the loss of the Global Positioning System.
Most people think of GPS as a convenient way to figure out how to get from point A to B without getting hopelessly lost along the way. But its utility had wider implications: delivery services relied on it, emergency responders reached their destinations more quickly, planes were able to land on isolated runways and other vehicles could be readily tracked and traced. Without GPS, all of those systems were rapidly grinding to a halt.
"Where is he, Mycroft?" demanded the deputy Prime Minister. Ordinarily, the man wouldn't risk attracting Mycroft's ire, but his nerves were frayed.
"My brother will be here in due course," Mycroft said icily. "He's only just been asked to join us."
"I, for one, am still concerned about having Sherlock Holmes participate in this endeavor. He is, after all, a criminal. Whether he should have been allowed to return to freedom in England is still a very open question in my mind." A pompous gentlemen with apparently few concerns about annoying Mycroft spoke. "Besides, I'm not sure why we need him. This isn't a murder, so is well outside of his expertise."
Mycroft leveled a look on the speaker which could freeze boiling water. "I assure you, there is little which is outside of my brother's realm of competence. And there is much which is outside the realm of theirs." Mycroft gestured toward a hive of workers scurrying between computer screens. "However, if this team would prefer to do without his assistance, that can be arranged."
Lady Smallwood, the head of the investigation group, intervened. "That is enough, Horace, Mycroft. The decision to pardon Sherlock Holmes and seek his input in this matter has been made. It is not open to debate. We have more important things to focus on, don't you agree?"
As those in the room who had been distracted by the scuffle turned back to their work, Sherlock arrived. He was neatly dressed, as usual, and appeared quite normal to everyone except Mycroft. The latter could see just a bit of dishevelment about Sherlock's collar and cuffs, and a tightness around his eyes.
"Tell me what you have," barked Sherlock to the room at large. "And hurry up, I haven't got all day."
Mycroft's eyebrows raised. Sherlock's natural tendency toward rudeness was being put on full display. He must be unsettled about something.
"Mr. Holmes," answered Lady Smallwood. "Won't you have a seat?"
"Unnecessary," Sherlock snapped. "I'm sure you appreciate the urgency here, Lady Smallwood. If we lose GPS entirely, we're looking at a widespread infrastructure collapse. Email and internet will be the tip of the iceburg. Industries which depend on electronic data will begin to crumble. I predict that the investment markets will be first to go." Sherlock smiled, which made more than a few people around the table shudder.
Mycroft stepped forward before a battle could break out with his brother at its center. "As you may know, Sherlock, there are dozens of satellites orbiting earth which are devoted to the global positioning system. At least 30 were launched and are operated by the United States. It is that set which is being impacted by this current attack."
"Attack?", echoed Sherlock.
"Yes, that is the most appropriate word, I'm afraid. The satellites aren't simply having their function subverted, as with the television transmissions. Instead, they are no longer working at all. As of last count provided by the US, 15 were offline. It is a developing disaster of epic proportions, as you have so kindly pointed out."
Sherlock smirked.
"We need you, brother dear, to provide some insight as to where the attack may have begun. If we can find the initiation point, it may be possible to stop further losses to the system."
Sherlock nodded. "Florida," he said.
"What?" Lady Smallwood said. Mycroft's adversary Horace huffed, "Oh, come now. How on earth could you know that?"
Sherlock didn't spare the man a glance. He turned instead to Lady Smallwood.
"This isn't just an attack on space assets. I know who's behind it and it's personal, it's a message intended for me."
"Sherlock," said Mycroft warningly.
"Yes, Mycroft, it is. But if it makes you happier, it hardly matters who is behind it. Only that the effort does have some connection to me." Sherlock directed his attention back to Lady Smallwood.
"The only place I've ever lived in the United States is Florida, right near Cape Canaveral. I think you'll find that the US often launches GPS satellites from there, hence it is where our story here began. Don't take my word for it, I'm sure a few phone calls will confirm my theory."
Lady Smallwood sat for some moments, then nodded. She began giving orders to others around her to contact NASA at Cape Canaveral to launch an investigation.
Sherlock made to leave, but Mycroft snagged his arm.
"What is wrong? And what message could this possibly be sending to you, Sherlock?"
Sherlock didn't respond for so long that Mycroft became sure he wouldn't answer. Then he spoke softly, addressing only Mycroft's latter question.
"That my past makes me vulnerable." Sherlock pulled his arm away and left the room.
10:00 am, London
In St. Bartholomew's Hospital across London, pathologist Molly Hooper received a delivery. She placed the plain manila envelope on her desk and reached for a letter opener.
At first, the envelope appeared to be empty. Then a newspaper clipping fluttered out. Molly skimmed through it and gasped.