A/N Another chapter so soon after the last! We're closing in on the end of the ride, folks. I have to roll my eyes a bit at having pulled the Blind Banker episode into this. It's not a favorite of mine but, as always, even on paper Sherlock does whatever he pleases!
Chapter 7
London, 6 am
To say that the citizens of London were becoming testy would be a massive understatement. People who had gone their whole lives without raising their voices were suddenly slamming doors and snapping at other pedestrians on the street. People whose fuses were already short were shouting from nearly the moment they rose from bed in the morning. Without television, functioning transportation systems, any GPS use and only sporadic access to the internet, modern life was grinding to a halt.
Daily life was positively Victorian in nature. Had horses been readily available, carriages would have been making a sweeping return. The metropolis was only days away from papers announcing the news of the day from street corners again. On the upside, people no longer instantly knew every detail of each other's lives, which made more than a few quietly happier.
In the midst of such chaos, any distraction was a welcome one so long as it didn't involve loss of more treasured amenities. So it was that the appearance of identical yellow blobs of paint around London caught the public's imagination. Speculation as to the meaning and origin of the marks was rife. Most people put it down to bored vandals, while the less rational among the citizenry thought a conspiracy of sorts was afoot (though to what end, they couldn't say).
Only the residents of Chinatown recognized the symbols for what they were—ancient Chinese numerals of the sort rarely used outside of trinket shops in the neighborhood. But only a handful recognized the numerals as being part of a code, and fewer still knew that they were keyed to the first word on pages of the London A to Z guidebook. Properly deciphered, the coded phrase was simple: "Come to 221B Baker Street."
London, 7:30 am
Steps from his front door, John Watson stared in dismay at the cable box across the street. A yellow slash of paint crossed its surface. It was the same as the Black Lotus code he'd seen during his Blind Banker case with Sherlock, an image he'd hoped to never see again. He snatched his mobile phone from his pocket and dialed.
"Sherlock," he began.
"I know. Don't worry about it," his friend answered.
"How in the hell…never mind, I don't want to know. They're back, the Black Lotus. You've seen the code? There's one right outside my house," John said urgently.
Sherlock swore, which made John startle. For all his atrocious habits, Sherlock rarely used profanity. He seemed to think it beneath him.
"I'm sorry. It wasn't supposed to be anywhere near you," Sherlock groused.
"What…you mean…this is you? You put this symbol up? Why in God's name would you do that? And what do you mean 'anywhere near me'? They're somewhere else too?" John sputtered.
"Yes, of course. There's little point to posting a message if your intended recipient isn't likely to see it. But I'm afraid Raz got a little carried away, it sounds as though he distributed the code more widely than I'd intended," Sherlock said.
"Sherlock," said John, sounding pained. "Do I understand correctly that you had that paint-splattered delinquent spread Black Lotus code around London? Are you even more mad than I thought you were?"
"It was the quickest, surest way to reach them—and what do you mean, more mad than you thought I am?"
"You're communicating with a murderous band of smugglers. How exactly is that not insane?" John asked. "And what are you saying to them anyway?"
"Well, I can hardly have a serious conversation with them through splotches of code, John. So I've asked them to come see me. I find that it's far more simple to cut to the chase in person." Sherlock sounded remarkably unperturbed for someone contemplating a meeting with people who once tried to kill him on several occasions.
John didn't respond. The silence from his end of the phone connection was deafening.
"John?" asked Sherlock. He could see that the call was still connected, so couldn't imagine why John was no longer speaking. "Are you there?"
After a few additional moments, John finally broke his silence.
"You bloody bastard," he growled.
"Sorry?" asked Sherlock.
"You heard me. At what point do you think it'll be enough? When you take one dose of poison too many? Or do you need to be strangled in your living room to feel alive? Unless you'd forgotten, there is a major crisis in this city. Your very freedom turns on helping to resolve it. Yet here you are, gearing up to play footsie with an Asian gang who'd love nothing more than to finish the job of killing you." John's tone became more clipped with every word.
"There is a connection to China—" started Sherlock.
"I. Don't. Care." snapped John. "There has to be another way, there always is. But every time—every damn time—you pick the way most likely to get you killed. Cabbie handing out poison? You line up to take some. A crazed psychopath is stalking you? You go meet him on a rooftop. A megalomaniac is playing God with people's secrets? You risk treason to force a showdown." John was breathing hard. "You know what, Sherlock? One day, maybe one day soon, you won't dodge the bullet."
"I seem to remember that being the case at least once," Sherlock said, with a tinge of condescension.
"No," John cut him off. "We're not playing this game. I sat not two days ago and watched you climb out of hell. And here you are, dancing on the edge again. You didn't even ask for help—and don't lie to me, I know Mycroft didn't know you planned to do this. You certainly didn't tell me about it." John sighed deeply.
"John," Sherlock said again, at last sounding worried.
"You're my best friend, Sherlock, but I can't do this anymore. I have a child coming and I can't spend every minute afraid for you. I'll help this time—if you'll bother to include me—but I can't trust you not to put your neck on the line again if you don't trust me enough to help prevent it from happening."
"I do trust you, John." Sherlock said quickly. "Come to Baker Street." He paused. "Please."
"It's not really a magic word, you know that, right? Saying please doesn't make everything better."
"Will you come?" Sherlock said quietly.
"Yes," answered John. "But if there are a bunch of Chinese criminals with swords there when I arrive, you're on your own."
As it happened, Baker Street was not beset with hordes of sword-wielding villains or anyone other than Sherlock when John arrived. There were a few people of apparent Chinese descent gathered outside, but they seemed to just be tourists responding to a curious invitation. Sherlock was not pleased at the lack of response to his artistic messages.
"What is wrong with the criminal classes these days, John?" he asked crankily.
John ignored the question. "Walk me through it, Sherlock. Are the Black Lotus behind the cyberattacks?"
"No," Sherlock said. "At least I don't think so. But someone close to them is, and they are our best shot at reaching him."
"Him?"
"Yes. The attack on the GPS satellites was traced to a Chinese hacker, possibly a group of them. One of them contacted us-"
"Us? You and…?"
"Mycroft."
"Not the governments?" asked John.
"No. This was…personal," said Sherlock reluctantly.
"Personal? You mean like one of the letters?" John probed. Sherlock ignored the question.
"I'm convinced that finding the person who contacted us is the key to the entire scheme. He was likely given the tools to accomplish the satellite attacks and is following a roadmap laid out by Moriarty."
"But he's-" John interrupted.
"Yes, Moriarty is dead. But his plans are very much alive. And his predecessor is very motivated to thwart me in stopping the attacks."
"Which could put you back on a plane to certain death," said John flatly.
"Just so," Sherlock admitted. "Or worse."
John's eyebrows shot to his hairline. "Worse? What on earth-".
The doorbell rang.
Both men turned as Mrs. Hudson could be heard making her way to the front door. It opened and closed, then she climbed the stairs to 221B.
"Sherlock?" she called. "Oh, hello, John," she said on seeing him. "How is Mary?"
"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said imperiously. "I believe that is for me?" he gestured to a manila envelope in her hand, clearly labeled "Sherlock Holmes."
"The envelope?" he demanded. John sighed.
"She's quite well, Mrs. Hudson. Due any day now, thanks for asking."
"Are we quite finished with the inanities?" Sherlock growled.
"Mind your manners, young man," she said warningly, but handed over the envelope. She waited for him to open it. He glared at her then looked meaningfully at the open door. Mrs. Hudson huffed and rolled her eyes, but departed without further comment.
Sherlock ripped the envelope open and scanned the contents. A grin spread across his face.
"Well, is it from him?" asked John impatiently.
"Yes, and it's good news. He wants to meet. I'll be able to end this at last." Sherlock spun toward his coat.
"You will be able to end it?" snapped John. Sherlock swung his coat on then turned, looking into John's eyes. He slowly drew his mobile phone from his pocket.
"Brother mine, I need some goons of yours. We have a hacker to meet." Sherlock raised his eyebrows, as if asking if John approved. John nodded.
"The Museum of London at noon. Don't be late," Sherlock ended the call.
"Care to visit a museum?" he asked, smiling.
"Love to," John responded. He grabbed his coat and they both headed for the street.
London, 8:05 am.
A couple dressed in typical tourist gear, including cameras and tote bags marked "London Eye", entered the Museum of London from its London Wall entrance. They picked up maps of the exhibitions from the elderly woman at the information desk, then seated themselves in the café at the front of the building. After lingering over a cream tea for a half hour, they leisurely wandered into the gift shop, purchased several tacky souvenirs, then set off for the exit.
As they left, they glanced back. A tote bag leaned against the wall behind a café chair. The word "Eye" was just visible, but the bag was ignored by the café staff, who were more absorbed in their conversation than their environment.
The tourists disappeared around the corner and into rush hour pedestrian traffic.