Chapter 4.
10:20 am, London
Molly clamped her hand over her mouth as she read the newspaper clipping which was in the envelope she received:
"May 17, 2006. A drug bust in Brixton snagged an unusual target on Sunday evening. One of the several men and women arrested on charges of drug possession in an abandoned house on Buckner Road is allegedly a relative of an employee of MI6.
This member of MI6, who wasn't identified at the time of this report, is said to be very influential within the agency as well as in the British Government at large. The identity of the government employee is not known, but the person arrested is William Holmes of Montague Street in the Marylebone district, age 31.
Mr. Holmes was said to be under the influence, and in possession, of a significant quantity of heroin. He is alleged to have been selling it to others in the flop house as well as to the public. Since the offense involves alleged possession and sale of Class A drugs, Mr. Holmes faces a potential sentence of life in prison.
'A bunch of low-lifes, that's what we found in that house. Junkies, all of them. But if this one guy has connections at the highest levels of the government, he's more dangerous than the average druggie. Who knows what secrets he might have access to—and whether he's sold them along with the drugs?', said Constable Sally Donovan of Scotland Yard, who participated in the raid.
MI6 had no comment when contacted about this story."
Molly stared in horror at the paper. The William Holmes referred to must be Sherlock, she'd seen his given first name on the nursing roster when he'd been shot. His prior drug use was horrible, of course, but she'd never heard even a whisper about him selling the things. The man she knew, or thought she knew, wouldn't do that. Or would he?
Molly laid the clipping down and brought up Google on her desktop computer. Her fingers hovered indecisively over the keyboard for a few moments. Was she really going to cyberstalk Sherlock's past? This wasn't like searching for any mention of an old girlfriend. It was a serious matter, one she doubted he'd shared with anyone, even John.
Almost against her will, she quickly typed in "William Holmes", "drug bust" and "Brixton". Nothing. Trying "Class A drugs", "possession" and "sale" in various combinations similarly failed.
She looked back at the article on her desk. It was from the Guardian and appeared authentic, but surely it would be a simple matter to knock up a fake clipping? In for a penny, in for a pound—she searched the Guardian's archives for the story. It wasn't found.
If the article wasn't real, why on earth would someone go to the trouble of creating it? And why send it to her? If it had happened, the bust had occurred long before she ever met Sherlock Holmes. He'd certainly not been involved in anything like it since, so should she really care what something which might have happened 8 years before?
"He hasn't been involved in drug dens while I've known him, not like that…" Molly reassured herself. Then a caveat followed. "So far as I know." She started guiltily. This speculation about Sherlock, a friend if no longer the man she loved (she hoped), was awful.
Molly folded the clipping into half and slipped it back inside the envelope, the better to keep it from prying eyes. The buzzer which heralded a new arrival in the morgue sounded, and she rushed from her office.
"Sherlock!" He was the last person she expected to see and, at the moment, the last she'd hoped to.
"Molly, I-", Sherlock broke off, his eyes locked onto the manila envelope still in Molly's hand. Several long seconds went by, during which neither spoke and Sherlock didn't blink. Finally, he ended the silence.
"When?", he asked flatly.
"Wha—what?", Molly responded.
"When. Did. That. Arrive?", he bit off.
"What?", Molly repeated.
Sherlock marched toward her. For a moment, she shrank away from him then stopped, horrified at herself.
As thoughtless and even nasty as Sherlock had been toward her from time to time in their acquaintance, she had never once felt physically threatened by him. Was she so influenced by one horrid story from long ago that she was afraid of him now? If he was truly her friend, surely her perspective on him shouldn't be so easily changed.
Molly took a deep breath to settle down and extended the envelope to Sherlock. He didn't take it at first, peering hard at her instead. She had the terrible feeling that he knew exactly what she'd been thinking, and felt ashamed. If she didn't know him better, she'd say that Sherlock looked hurt.
Breaking off eye contact, Sherlock grabbed the envelope and shook out its contents almost violently. He appeared to stop breathing as he gazed at the clipping.
Finally, he spoke. "Mycroft," he said quietly.
"What?", asked Molly, painfully aware that it was the only word she'd used since Sherlock arrived.
Sherlock continued to look at the paper in his hand. "That's why you couldn't find this when you searched for it online."
Molly began to shake her head in denial, then realized it was hopeless. Of course Sherlock would be able to tell that she'd Googled the story. He could probably tell her entire search history by her shoes.
"When this happened," he began. Molly inhaled sharply despite herself. It was true?
"No, I wasn't selling drugs, Molly. But I was using them and," he shook the paper, "I was there during the bust. Mycroft made it all go away—I don't think it even took him more than a couple of hours before every trace of the story vanished for good." He smiled sardonically. "Sally Donovan has hated me ever since—she thought she'd stumbled on something that could fast track her to Sergeant."
"But how? And why?" Molly was uncomfortably aware that she was being inarticulate, but Sherlock's explanation was bizarre, even for him.
"How is simple. Mycroft can make people disappear in hours, making a sordid story about his little brother go away was child's play. Which is why—I'm his brother, and something so harmful to his career as an addict in the family couldn't be tolerated." Sherlock's tone was cold.
"He even erased me, to some extent. I started going by Sherlock rather than William that same day. Couldn't have anyone connecting me to a major drug bust, although why he couldn't have picked my other Christian name for me to use is a mystery even I can't solve."
With that, Sherlock seemed to lose all interest in the conversation. He dropped the envelope on nearest lab table and installed himself in a seat before a wide-field microscope. Molly looked on in amazement as he pulled an envelope from his pocket which was the twin of the one she'd received. He began examining it from corner to corner.
"Did someone send that to you?" she asked.
"Lestrade got it," Sherlock said distractedly.
"Was…was there a copy of the article in it too?" she added.
Sherlock didn't respond. Instead, he pulled out his phone as it began to ring. With a brief look at the screen, he swiped to reject the call and returned to the microscope. The phone rang again, and the call rejection was repeated twice before Sherlock turned it off.
"I'll just, um," Molly stammered.
"Go autopsy someone, Molly," Sherlock commanded without looking at her.
"Yes," she replied, and retreated to a body laid out on another table. The two worked in silence until the door to the morgue suddenly banged open.
"Sherlock!" Mycroft barked. "Why aren't you answering your…" He stopped, looking at the envelopes. "Oh, I see." Sherlock spared him a quick glance before returning his attention to the microscope. "Well, that is no reason to ignore my calls. If you'd forgotten, brother mine, there is a bit of a crisis unfolding, one which you are supposed to be attending to."
"Busy," answered Sherlock.
Mycroft ground his teeth. "No. What you are is on thin ice, with the government and me."
"You are the government, Mycroft. Now go away," Sherlock said dismissively. "I am working on your communications issue, but I have to settle this matter first." He waved toward the envelope on the microscope stage, but didn't remove his gaze from it.
"Sherlock, you will stop this nonsense and pay attention to the rather important matter of Britain's traffic signals no longer working. Not to mention the collapse of weather forecasting around the world." Mycroft snapped.
"What?" Molly asked, no longer caring if she was repeating herself.
Mycroft glanced her way but didn't reply. Sherlock sighed and turned toward his brother.
"Why does our inability to predict, usually wrongly, if it's going to rain make any real difference? And, god knows, traffic in London can't get much worse than it already is," he said.
"Because, dear brother, as we speak, airplanes are making their way with no idea whether they are flying into bad weather, turbulence, or clear skies. Without accurate forecasting, airlines are canceling flights right and left." Mycroft stepped closer. "The passengers who are still in the air may have rough journeys, but they are the lucky ones. Everyone else is stranded—whether they intended to fly, drive or sail an ocean."
"Surely making certain that the entire United Kingdom doesn't grind to a halt is worth a bit of your precious time?", Mycroft huffed, voice dripping with condescension.
Sherlock stood. "Moriarty isn't just hacking into satellite systems, he's breaking into my life. There is a connection, Mycroft, I just have to find it." Sherlock gestured to the envelopes.
"He's disseminating information which goes well beyond the few tidbits you fed him before the trial. These are things no one should be able to find easily or at all, yet here they are. Harrow, Brixton…"
At the latter name, Mycroft's eyebrows shot up.
"He's sending pieces of me to people I know to damage their perception of who I am. Every time something new happens up there," Sherlock waved toward the ceiling, "Another piece of the puzzle gets snapped into place."
Sherlock began to pace, words spilling out. "He's trying to destroy me, but this time by exposing my deepest personal secrets in a way he hopes will isolate me from…" He stopped and glanced at Molly. The word 'friends' caught in his throat. "People I know."
"It's a race to the finish—what will happen first? Make everyone I know hate me, or completely crash our communication networks? When I take a step closer to stopping one of those things, he—or the people working for him-picks up speed on the other. He's trying to distract me. So if I can find a way to stop them from tearing me apart, I'll find the way to resolve the other problems as well."
"I could never hate you," Molly interjected. "Never."
"Oh?", answered Sherlock. "But you thought I'd strike you for a moment, didn't you? Once an idea takes hold here," Sherlock said, tapping his forehead. "You can't kill it. Even you, Molly Hooper, wouldn't choose to spend time with someone you're afraid of. Ipso facto, Moriarty wins."
Mycroft ignored the exchange, returning to the topic of most interest to him. "That is all well and good, Sherlock, but the fact remains that this is no time for distractions. Not only is the health of the UK and US at risk, not to mention that of the world, but your freedom is too. Start producing results, or even I won't be able to keep you off that plane."
"Thought you were getting me a pardon. Rubbish big brother," Sherlock muttered as he sat down again. Both Holmes ignored Molly's squeak of "Plane?". Instead, Sherlock focused the microscope as Mycroft walked to the door with a sigh.
"Tick, tock, little brother," he said. "Tick, tock."
5 pm, Beijing
Jack Dong pointed impatiently at a pile of papers. His companion, a young Chinese woman, shook her head.
"Ràng zìjǐ lěngjìng xiàlái. Àn jìhuà tā shì yīqiè huì" [Calm yourself. It is all going according to plan.]
Dong frowned and turned to his laptop computer screen. He pointed at it and the woman smiled.
"Tā huì āi nǐ gūgū, Shān Jiāngjūn de sǐ. Wǒ bǎozhèng." [He will suffer for the death of your aunt, General Shan. I promise it.]
A photo of Sherlock flickered as Dong closed the laptop.