The Almighty Disclaimer
Oh Moffat, Gatiss, and Thompson
Oh Henson and Doyle,
And Pika-la Cynique the generous,
To you belongs all the characters
And none so for me!
A/N: This story was inspired by "The Thin White Sleuth..." by Pika-la-Cynique of Girls Next Door fame.
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"Why do I keep ending up with either no bodies or too-dead bodies?" Jareth said with a sigh as he stood beside the body by the Thames. "I think the bomber is being purposefully annoying me and ignoring my gifts."
"Oh yes, because the first thing I think when I see a dead body is 'someone is trying to annoy me' or something of the sort," Sarah said.
Sherlock nearly stumbled in eagerness as he came by the body. "What have we got?"
John was already by the body. "He's dead about 24 hours. Maybe a bit longer. Did he drown?"
"Apparently not. Not enough of the Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated," Lestrade said.
At this point, the two consulting detectives and their medical friends were examining the corpse. "Yes, I'd agree. There's quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth. More bruises, here and there," John said.
"Fingertips," Sarah said, "He is in his late thirties, maybe. I would say that he was not in the best of health."
"He's been in the river a long while. The water has destroyed most of the clues. I will tell you one thing and that is the lost Vermeer painting is a fake," Jareth said.
"What?" Lestrade said.
Jareth continued. "We need to identify the corpse find out about his friends and..."
"Wait, Wait, Wait, What painting? What are you on about?" Lestrade asked.
"It's all over the place, haven't you seen the posters? Dutch old master. It was supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago. Now it's turned up, worth 30 million. I cannot quite remember if I visited that painting..."
"How old are you Jareth?" Sarah asked.
"He won't say," Sherlock said, "My guess is post English Civil War but pre-American Revolution. He sometimes refers to the United States as the colonies. He has a particular hatred of Cromwell that I have not seen in anyone living."
"That's because you've only just met me," Sarah said with a smirk.
Lestrade rolled his eyes at the side conversation. "Okay. So what has that got to do with the stiff?
"Everything. Have you ever heard of the Golem?" Jareth asked.
"Golem?" Lestrade asked.
"It's a horror story, isn't it? What are you saying? Is this a magical death?" John asked.
Sarah began to answer. "It is a Jewish folk story. A gigantic man made of clay that protects the Jewish people in their time of need. There are many variations of this story."
"It's also the name of an assassin. Real name, Oskar Dzundza. One of the deadliest assassins in the world. That is his trademark style," Sherlock said.
"I have had run-ins with him before," Jareth said, "He is not magical but he is... persistence."
"So this is a hit?" Lestrade said.
"Definitely. The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands," Jareth said.
"But what has this got to do with that painting? I don't see it," Lestrade said.
"You do see, you just don't observe," Sherlock and Jareth said at the same time.
Lestrade looked ready to punch the two consulting detectives. John stood between them.
"Yes, all right, all right, girls. Calm down. Jareth, do you want to take us mere mortals through it?" John said.
Jareth looked towards the heavens in exasperation. "All right children, what do we know about this corpse? The killer has not left us with much, just the shirt and the trousers. They are fairly formal. Maybe he was going out for the night. The trousers are heavy duty, polyester. This is same as the shirt. Both are cheap. They are both too big for him. So they are some kind of standard-issue uniform. He is dressed for work. What kind of work? There is a hook on his belt for a walkie-talkie."
"Tube driver?" Sarah said.
"Security guard?" John said.
"That one is more likely. That'll be borne out by his backside," Sherlock said.
"Backside?" Lestrade said.
"Flabby, you'd think he led a sedentary life. Yet, the soles of his feet and the nascent varicose veins in his legs show otherwise. So, a lot of walking and a lot of sitting around. Security guard is looking good. The watch helps too. The alarm shows he did regular night shifts," Sherlock said.
"Why regular? Maybe he set his alarm like that the night before he died?" Sarah said.
"No, no, no. The buttons are stiff, hardly touched. He set his alarm like that a long time ago. His routine never varied. But there's something else. The killer must have been interrupted otherwise he would have stripped the corpse completely. There was some kind of badge or insignia on the shirt front that he tore off. Suggesting the dead man works somewhere recognizable, some kind of institution. I found this inside his trouser pockets. Sodden by the river, but still recognizable," Sherlock said.
"Tickets?" John said.
"Ticket stubs. He worked in a museum or gallery," Jareth clarified.
"Did a quick check. The Hickman Gallery has reported one of its attendants as missing. Alex Woodbridge," Sherlock said.
"Tonight, the gallery will unveil the rediscovered masterpiece. Now, why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? Inference, the dead man knew something about it. Something that would stop the owner getting paid 30 million. The picture is a fake," Jareth said.
"Fantastic," Sarah said with glee.
"Meretricious," Sherlock said.
"And a Happy New Year," Lestrade said.
"Poor sod," John said.
"I'd better get my feelers out for this Golem character," Lestrade said.
"It is pointless. You will never find him. But I know a man who can," Jareth said.
"Who?" Lestrade said.
"Me," Jareth said.
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"You know, pride goes before the fall," John said. The four were sitting by the Thames river and Jareth was unable to make contact with the Underground.
"This is odd. This entire case is odd and not in the way I like," Jareth said, "There are only three possibilities why they are not answering. First, there is a Runner. Second, Rossetti is annoyed with me. Third, something is very wrong."
"And because of the goblin deaths this past month..." Sarah said.
"I will not worry about it until I have some confirmation," Jareth said, "Sherlock, I am going to need you to reach out to your homeless network."
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As they drove to Waterloo Bridge, Jareth said half to himself, "Why has he not phoned? He has broken his pattern. Why?"
"He knows that you were the Goblin King. It is entirely possible that he is causing the interference with the Labyrinth," Sarah said.
"'Never ignore a coincidence. Unless you're busy, in which case always ignore a coincidence,'" Jareth said.
"You are not the Doctor, Jareth," Sarah said.
"But it made you smile," Jareth said.
"Just because I am amused by the comment, Jareth, does not mean I am going to silent about the fact that you are ignoring the danger you are putting yourself in," Sarah said, "The bomber either wants to be caught (which makes him suicidal/insane) or he is playing a game (which we know he is doing, but how far the game goes is the problem)."
Jareth shrugged. "I think he wants to be distracted."
"I hope you'll be very happy together," Sarah said.
"Excuse me, what?" Jareth said.
"There are lives at stake, Jareth. Actual human lives. Just so I know, do you care about that at all?" Sarah said.
"Will caring about them help save them?" Jareth asked, his voice taking a sharp edge.
"No," Sarah said.
"Then I will continue to not make that mistake," Jareth said.
Sarah sighed. "We are just something pretty to look at for a few hours to creatures like you, aren't we? A little game to play, a simple puzzle to solve during the course of eternity."
Jareth said coolly, "Yes. Is that news to you?"
Sarah said, "No." She looked out the window.
"I have disappointed you," Jareth said quietly.
"Brilliant deduction there, Dupin," Sarah said.
"Do not make people into heroes, Sarah. Heroes do not exist, and if they did, I would not be one of them," Jareth said.
The car was silent for a few moments.
"Can the two of you just shag and end this tension? It is dull and annoying," Sherlock said.
"What?" the two said.
"Good. That got your attention," Sherlock said.
"Your bees are dead, Sherlock," Jareth said.
"Did you two remember we were here?" John asked.
Sarah covered her face. "No. Sorry."
John coughed. "So, different, less awkward topic. The Hickman's contemporary art, isn't it? Why have they got hold of an old master?"
"I do not know, yet. It is dangerous to jump to conclusions. We need more data," Jareth said.
Sherlock tapped the dividing glass. "Stop. Can you wait here? I won't be a moment."
"Sherlock?" John said. The three followed the retired consulting detective as he made his way to a homeless woman.
"Change? Any change?" the woman asked.
"What for?" Sherlock asked.
"Cup of tea, of course," the woman said.
Sherlock handed some money and a piece of paper. "Here you go, 50."
"Thanks," the woman said.
Sherlock casually walked back to the three.
"What are you doing?" Sarah asked.
"Investing. Now we go to the gallery. Have you got any cash?" Sherlock asked.
"I have it. Is there an ego level that one crosses when people stop carrying cash?" Sarah asked, handing a twenty to Sherlock.
Jareth stopped John and Sarah from entering the car. "No, I need you to find out all you can about the gallery attendant. Lestrade will give you the address."
"Okay," John said.
"What are you doing, Jareth?" Sarah said, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"Solving a murder," Jareth said.
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"The bomber knows you," Sherlock said as they took a cab from the gallery.
"Yes," Jareth said.
"He probably knows your weaknesses," Sherlock said.
"I did have a rather public fall from tolerance," Jareth said.
"You have more than one weakness, Jareth," Sherlock said.
Jareth raised an eyebrow, "And what is it, besides Sarah?"
"If you do not know, then the bomber may not know either," Sherlock said, "The Labyrinth is in trouble though."
"I still have a small amount of hope that the other two theories are true," Jareth said.
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"John and Sarah are coming the opposite direction," Sherlock said.
"John has his gun?" Jareth asked.
"Of course," Sherlock said. He looked up for a moment. "The stars are visible tonight."
Jareth refused to look up. "I am sure they are lovely."
"Do you still think it was worth it?" Sherlock asked.
"Every time she takes a breath," Jareth said.
Jareth saw the shadow of the massive man known as the Golem stand up and begin to run. Sherlock saw it too and both men ran. As they turned the corner, the two detectives saw the Golem about to reach a black car. Suddenly, they saw the blur of an oversized green coat and a red and white striped hat run straight for the assassin. Sarah tried to tackle the Golem, but she was quickly thrown off and to the ground.
In the second that it took Sarah to fall to the ground, Jareth's thoughts went a hundred different directions. Some of the thoughts went to trying to stop Sarah from falling, but those thoughts quickly died as reality smashed that possibility. A few thoughts went to how badly Sarah would be injured. The rest of his thoughts went to how best to kill Oskar Dzundza.
Sarah hit the ground hard but her head had avoided hitting the pavement. The assassin jumped into the car and it sped off before Jareth could reach it.
"Damn it," Sherlock said, "It will take us weeks to find him again."
Jareth was by Sarah's side. "What's hurt?"
"Ow. That was stupid, wasn't it?" Sarah said, sitting up stiffly, "I think I'm just bruised though. I didn't hit my head this time, which is nice."
"Do you often jump on giant assassins?" Jareth said dryly.
"Only on vacations," Sarah said, "Sorry. I thought I could slow him down for you."
"It's all right," Jareth said, his hands holding her upper arms tightly, "John should check on you."
"I'm fine, but John and I found out something when we were at Alex's apartment," Sarah said.
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"You broke his neck," Sarah said quietly as she checked the Golem's non-existent pulse in the planetarium.
"Self-defense," Jareth said, adjusting his gloves.
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A/N: On the choice of chapter name, I turn to our good old friend, Captain Jack Sparrow, "Couldn't resist mate."
Glitter pills to anyone who got the Dupin reference.
I really do loathe Oliver Cromwell. I have been to many cathedrals in the U.K. and it just makes me want to cry over all the history and lives we lost.