Chapter 16: Jaegerbomb.

Charlie Milverton – alias 'Quark' – was a lowly barman who'd never done a dishonest thing in his life … well, there was that one time when he'd helped himself to a hefty sum from the Bank of Scotland's vaults. But the police couldn't prove a thing given that he'd never set foot in the place and his finances were squeaky-clean. 'Quark' was a pro.

But it didn't matter how squeaky-clean and lowly and honest 'Quark' was, he and thirty-three of his customers still 'went with a bang' at 11:34 pm on the night that every news programme in the country, along with a few overseas, apologised for defaming the late consulting detective Sherlock Holmes.

At 11:40 pm, John's phone vibrated in the pocket of his combats as he put the kettle on for a cup of tea.

'Is Sherlock with you? GL' it read.

'Yes' he replied.

'Get him to Bart's. Now. GL'

"Sherlock." John called through the flat, ignoring Violet's growing frown as Oliver muttered something about 'Quark' and '505', "You're on."

"Finally!" Sherlock whooped with glee, ramming on his coat, gloves and scarf and hurtling out of the door and down the stairs.

"Sherlock," John sighed with a small smile, "aren't you forgetting something?"

"What am I forgetting, John, hmm?" the tall, vibrant man demanded impatiently. John pushed past him into the sitting room and picked up a pair of black loafers that had been flung at the wall in frustration. "Shoes?"

"Ugh – shoes! – Shoes are –"

"Boring. Yes, they are. Put the bloody things on –"

And with that, the pair of them were out of the door and hailing a cab, just like old times.

Lestrade, meanwhile, had been in the unenviable position of looking forward to seeing Sherlock again whilst dreading what the mad bastard had to say for himself and everyone else in the room (along with anyone they'd ever met). When the black cab drew up to the old white building, the DI stiffened and took his hands out of his pockets, concentrating on how his breath misted in the cold night air.

He watched the silhouettes inside the cab gather themselves together and pay their fare. The door opened and Lestrade's throat clogged with anger and guilt and joy. It couldn't be healthy to be feeling this many emotions at the same time.

"Lestrade." The word was uttered by a cool voice that he hadn't heard in far too long.

"Sherlock." He replied, extending his hand. Hell, even if Sherlock didn't take it, he owed it to him: a respectful apology. Luckily, he did, though John maintained a cool distance.

"You were always a great man. I never doubted that. And now I know you're a good man too."

"Yes –" Sherlock began dismissively,

"No – I'm glad you're not dead. But you're still a pain in the arse, Sherlock Holmes." Couldn't be too sentimental with the man, after all.

"Who is it?"

"His name's Charlie Milverton. Officially, he was a barman – what he actually was, was a world class fraudster –"

"Hardly. But he was reasonably adept at siphoning other people's money into other people's bank accounts and tapping into those sources whenever the fancy took him."

"Yeah, well, he was a suspect in a case involving the Bank of Scotland, but we had nothing on him so we couldn't touch him."

"And now he turns up dead. Well, bankers can sleep safely in their beds tonight, can't they Lestrade?"

"Sherlock –" John warned.

"Not when thirty-three innocent people get blown up with him." Lestrade growled, suddenly remembering why he hated dealing with this man.

"Nobody's innocent, Detective Inspector." Sherlock murmured, his flinty eyes scanning the file that he was suddenly being handed. Ugh, boring.

…

Down in the morgue, Molly was busying herself with one of the more interesting specimens that she'd ever seen on her slab. John and Lestrade were having a hard time trying not to be sick to their stomachs while Sherlock happily sniffed, prodded, pinched and scraped at the blackened corpse that was melted to a chair.

"You know what it reminds me of?" Molly asked the room at large, not really expecting an answer, "it reminds me of an episode of this programme about a forensic anthropologist and an FBI agent. This woman with a politically dubious past had been blown up and her remains were melted to the inside of her car. Her husband had wired the bomb into a watch because he thought that she was cheating on him."

"Be quiet, please Molly." Sherlock muttered before licking the blackened end of the spatula that he'd been scraping across the victim's wrists.

"Oi, is that necessary?" Lestrade demanded, scandalised.

"Yes, actually. Gaffer tape."

"Gaffer tape?" John asked, "you're saying that he was gaffer-taped to a chair and then blown up?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying."

"But why?" asked Lestrade.

"It's a message. It's no coincidence that Charlie Milverton – or 'Quark' as he is less commonly known – is the victim. He was a Hacker. That has significance. And so does the tape across his mouth – scalpel, please, Molly." He held his hand out expectantly and received the implement within seconds.

"There you go."

"Thank you." He sliced across the mouth of the charred corpse and pried open the jaws a few millimetres. Fishing a pair of tweezers out of his trouser pocket, he slipped them past Milverton's lips and caught at a foreign object lodged in his throat.

"Molly, get me a Petri dish." He carefully unfurled the piece of paper and read the message. His lips tightened and he blinked.

"What does it say?" John asked, edging closer to see.

"It says: 'Did you like my little Jaegerbomb?' and it has some sort of emoticon – a smiley face with the tongue sticking out."

"Christ." Lestrade hissed, dragging out his phone and stalking outside to make a call to his superiors.

"No." John whitened, "it's not. It can't be him."

"It's not." Sherlock said shortly, slamming the tweezers onto the counter and ripping off his latex gloves – the sound of rubber against flesh stark against the usual silence of Molly's domain. He pulled out his phone and sent two texts:

One to Oliver: 'Keep VS close. Do not let her out of the flat. – SH'

And another to Mycroft: '221b. Now. – SH'

Author's Note: Apologies, this is a long one.

Soundtrack: 'Breath of Life' by Florence + the Machine.

I am so sorry that I haven't updated in so long – I hope you lovely readers will find it in your hearts to forgive me. On another note, thank you so much to everyone who's reviewed, favourited, alerted this etc. I bet this was bloody difficult to find, just scrolling down the list, so I am insanely happy.

To Omega, I am deliriously happy that you think that I've presented the whole hacking thing well. If what you imply is true, I can only say…WOW – I am genuinely honoured. I couldn't have given away any secrets if I'd tried, to be honest, but thank you; this was actually inspired by the work of hacking organisations like Anonymous, and their protests against ACTA and SOPA etc (didn't they hack into the FBI or something?) and I thought that they'd be a force for Mycroft to reckon with. Thank you so much for reading this.

I would also like to thank all of the people who've put this on Story Alert:

Dragon's Ghost, minimumstitch, Pilikia18, DarqueQueen7, CheyanneChika, ForeverDancer, hpgryffy, Magesa, I am Theta Sigma, Kazziiex, moonlightshade, vedi, IzzyDelta, Sessysbaby666, Lady Okori, alexandra101 and ThatOnePersonWithEars.

I would also like to thank everyone who's favourited:

Smally, Kazziiex, I am Theta Sigma, Alaris24, DarqueQueen7, CheyanneChika, Not Defined By Boundries, Stella Sebarron and IzzyDelta

In short, just thank you so much for sticking with me. X