The Calling Card

In which Lana takes a fall, John makes an interesting discovery, and the group is summoned.

He was ready.

Picking the lock had been child's play. He had been trained by the best of the best in their business, and the lock was old anyway. He had entered almost silently. It was nearly two in the morning, and the streets were empty; no had seen him enter. No one within had heard the door snap shut.

But whether they had heard him was irrelevant.

No one was going to stop him. He would see to that.

His employer had told him what to do; break in, leave a message and kill any who got in his way. There was only one within who had to survive; the great Sherlock Holmes.

But the others were his to murder.

He couldn't wait.

So far, all had gone as planned. His only mistake had been the board. The low groaning creak had echoed through the flat as he entered, and the sound had drowned out his swearing as he advanced further. As an assassin for Viper, he had been trained to avoid all detection; a mistake such as that could have cost him greatly. He had paused, silent, but when no one had come to stop him, he moved farther into the flat. Looking in front of him, he saw he had two options; two sets of stairs were before him, one going up, and one heading down into the basement apartments.

Turning down farther into the hall, the Viper's most powerful assassin slipped down the stairs into the darkness.

The lower flat was dank, echoing his footsteps off the walls as he began to comb through the rooms. 221 C was silent, dark and empty, and he cursed again, tightening his hold on his weapon, a Sig Sauer p226. He had earned this weapon; after all, he had killed his master for it. The pistol was now clenched in his fist as he turned and left the flat. It had been a miscalculation; he had chosen wrong and searched the abandoned apartment. He hated that he had made this error; it had cost him valuable time.

An assassin must have the gift of ultimate patience, so, with a deep breath, he calmed himself and smiled coolly. There was no hurry; he still had hours before daylight, and plenty of time to kill the landlady and the detective's partner. The pistol left ridges in his palm as he relaxed his grip and started toward the stairs, the thought of his victims buoying his steps all the way down the hall.

It was then he heard movement.

He was on the stairs, one foot still on the floor, the p226 hanging from his fingers. The sound had been subtle, a faint creak high above him, but it was enough to make his eyes alight with excitement. A twisted grin stretched across his face.

They were trapped above him.

He began to climb higher, focusing on the ceiling above him, listening intently. Now he could hear footsteps, whispers, and hurried silence. He laughed. They were all together. It would be a pleasure to let Holmes watch as Viper shot his companions.

He was on the landing.

It was time.

The assassin almost ran to the stairs, looking upward at the door above. It was nothing out of the ordinary, just a plain black door. How odd it was that his employer's greatest enemy lived in a place so normal. But he stopped his musings; now was not the time to question, it was time to kill.

He took one more step, and the door above was thrown open.

The momentary flash surprised him. He froze, halfway up the stairs, staring up at the light and huge shadow spilling out of the doorway, onto the stairs, onto him…

He took a moment to blink and tried to refocus, sure he was imagining it.

It was his second and biggest mistake of the night.

In that moment that he closed his eyes, he was hit with 109 pounds of flesh, muscles and bone. They collided and slid down the steps, a mass of hair, fabric and curse words.

Meanwhile, John and Sherlock stood on the landing, looking in shock at the chaos below. Then they cocked the pistol and jumped down to help.

It was 2 in the morning, when most sensible people would be asleep, dreaming about the next day, the next pay check, the next bill. But this was Sherlock's house, and nothing was ever completely normal.

Welcome to Baker Street.

….

Three minutes earlier

"Is it?"

"Yes," said Sherlock, rubbing his hand together in anticipation. "We've got a burglar. Now, where's my pistol?"

As Sherlock left the room, Lana almost laughed. He was so bizarre, it amazed her. As she followed Sherlock from the kitchen, she wondered if this was what his life was like all the time.

Suddenly, her life of chasing criminals seemed unbelievably dull.

Lana reached into the side table and pulled out her Colt. It was her pride and joy, a custom black Colt Defender, a gift from her mother. She held it tight and felt the rush she got every time she was near it; in control and ready for anything.

"It really is lovely," said Sherlock, as he looked under the couch for his missing pistol, "but do you think you could go get John? He sleeps like the dead and I need him to tell me where he's hidden my gun."

Lana smiled in spite of herself and carefully picked her way across the floor, being careful not to make any sound. She reached the landing and flew up the stairs to John's room, but just as she went to open the door, John stepped out, wearing a long-sleeved shirt and sweats. In his hand he held a Glock 19, and his eyes were wild. Slept like the dead, yeah right, thought Lana

"What's going on?"

"Keep your voice down!" she hissed. "There's a burglar in the basement." She looked intently into his eyes, which were slowly draining of their panic and confusion and returning to their firm and focused brown. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, fine." He said. "Come on, let's go. I'm guessing Sherlock lost his gun in the flat somewhere?"

Lana nodded, but she didn't think John saw her as they silently picked their way down the stairs into the flat.

When they got back, Sherlock was in the kitchen, looking through the cabinets. He looked like he was ready to destroy something. "I can't find it anywhere!" he swore. "And he's going to get away."

As Lana and John watched, Sherlock threw himself onto the ground and looked under the sink. He rummaged around for a moment, before his face lit up like the kitchen lights above them. "Ah! Here it is!"

Lana's jaw dropped as Sherlock sat up and held up his prize; a Browning L9A1. She looked over at John, expecting an explanation, but to her surprise, John's mouth was just as open as hers.

"Um, Sherlock?" John asked, trying to keep his voice level.

"Yes?" said Sherlock as he cocked the pistol.

"Why- how long has there been a gun under the sink?" John wasn't surprised there was a gun in the kitchen- or even that the gun in question was under the sink. What surprised him the most was that he had gotten things out from under the sink countless times, and never once had there been any evidence it was there.

"Since…three days ago I believe, when I lost it," Sherlock replied, adjusting his grip and getting to his feet. "Waiting on you two. We've got a housebreaker to catch."

Lana looked at John, who was shaking his head, almost in defeat.

"Is he always like this?"
John smiled. "You get used to it."

"Have you?"

"Not even close."

She laughed and went to catch up with Sherlock. He was crouching by the door, listening carefully. "He's on the stairs. On his way up, and I'm guessing he knows we know he's here."
"So what do we do?" she asked, reaching into her suitcase and pulling out a handful of ammo.

He stared at her. "Where did you get that?"

She pulled away the suitcase cover to reveal the Ming vase, stuffed with ammunition. Sherlock nodded appreciatively. John stared, appalled.

"You're as bad as he is,"

Sherlock hushed them all with a quick gesture, and they all crouched by the stairs, waiting for the house breaker to move. Then Sherlock threw the door open.

The light spilled onto the stairs, revealing the small landing beyond and the dark figure crouched catlike on the stairs.

He was compact, but well-built, with skin a purple black that shone like oil in the light from kitchen, he looked like a moving shadow. His eyes were black as a starless night, and in his large hand, he clutched a small, powerful-looking pistol. His agile form was coiled like a spring and looking up at them in surprise. For a moment he hesitated, and then Lana struck. Jumping forward, she threw herself at the assassin, knocking both of them down the stairs onto the lower landing.

The stairs were steep and sharp on her sides as they wrestled and grappled against each other down the flight of steps. Lana felt the deep gash in her hip tear open again and winced in pain, knowing there was already blood soaking her pants as they fell to the floor below with a bang. Spitting hair out of her mouth, Lana threw her weight back down on her attacker's chest, trying to pry the pistol from his steel grip. He twisted and spat in her face, but she clung on, scratching at him and kicking him with every ounce of strength she had left in her.

Sherlock and John stared, lost for words, as Lana's victim wriggled free of her grip and found himself pressed against the stair way. A shot from Sherlock's Browning was enough to convince him that he was trapped. As the two men trampled down the steps, the Viper made his final, desperate move; he ducked beneath Lana's Colt and ran down the steps into the basement.

John reacted first. He fired off three shots, but none found their mark, and the threesome was forced to duck back onto the stairs as the assassin fired two returning shots before hurling the Sig into the hallway and throwing himself down into the abandoned 221C.

"No!" cried Sherlock, rushing past Lana and pushing her back onto the steps; John caught her before she hit the sharp edges. "He'll get away!"
"What do you mean?" asked John, rushing to catch up. Sherlock had paused momentarily to retrieve the fallen Sig, but now was pelting down the stairs.

"There's a window he can use to escape!" Sherlock yelled back. Lana could hear him throwing open doors and hitting walls in his haste to find the fleeing Viper. Suddenly, he swore, very loudly.

"Damn him!" there was another loud bang.

Lana, thinking they had been shot, ran down the stairs to find Sherlock on his feet staring down at something on the floor. She could see the Browning barrel was smoking, and there was a round, dark hole in the wall across the room. The window above the wall was wide open, and the Viper was nowhere to be seen.

Careful to stay away from the far wall, Lana stepped into the center of the room, coming to stand beside Sherlock, who was looking down at what appeared to be a piece of paper left on the ground. John was also examining it, staring at it as though it might explode. Lana bent to look closer, and saw it was a business card, with a crystal ball painted on the center in black ink. Inside of it was a picture of a top hat adorned with needles. Curly black script read 'Madame Finches' House of Acupuncture' beneath the misty orb. Lana reached down and made to pick it up, the better to examine it.

"DON'T!" Sherlock suddenly came to life and threw his whole weight against her, throwing her off guard onto the floor. Lana found herself beneath him as he covered himself with his whole body as though shielding her from a bomb. Confusion was burnt away by anger.

"What was that for?" she protested. Sherlock silenced her with a hand over her mouth as he rolled off of her and slowly drew closer to the harmless little white card lying on the basement floor. With one fluid motion, he pulled off his suit coat and swept it across the ground, using it to turn over the card for Madame Finches. For a moment, there was a total ringing silence, in which John and Sherlock stood poised, as though they were ready to rush forward- or throw themselves backward. But when nothing happened, they allowed themselves to relax, at least for the moment.

Lana, thoroughly confused, sat up, rubbing her head, which was throbbing terribly. She stared at the two men, who were looking at each other with a look of grim understanding. She glanced from one to the other several times, but stopped because clearly nothing was happening and the twisting back and forth was making her head hurt. In fact, everything hurt. Her whole body throbbed in time to her pulse, and as she pulled herself to her feet, the world swam a little. As she stood, she heard Sherlock say, in a deadly calm voice, "I should have known; we're being summoned. Ah, she's clever, so very clever…"

"Summoned by who?" Lana asked, steadying herself against the wall as she reached out for the card that Sherlock had picked up and was spinning between his long, thin fingers.

Sherlock sighed, then handed over the paper. He looked exhausted, drained of all his strength.

Because not for the first time, she had tricked him, and he hated it. "By Irene."

Lana snatched away the card and examined it closer, looking across the insignia before turning the card over. Her eyes widened.

Across the once blank surface of the back, someone had written, in curly black letters, was a message. Lana squinted to make out the loopy cursive.

Hope to see you soon, sweetheart.

It was signed with an intricately drawn I.

Lana looked up at the two men, her eyes shining with curiosity and confusion, but the two revealed nothing. Instead, they each took one of her arms and helped her up the steps. Each was armed, exhausted and confused. Lana was bleeding, Sherlock was holding a new gun, and John was praying Missus Hudson hadn't heard the noise.

It was two thirty in the morning, and it occurred to Lana, as she lay on the couch, that the whole thing had come off as normal.

But then, it was Baker street, and anything was possible.

Up next- Not Really His Area

In which the wall is murdered, there are photographs and Lana learns Sherlock's secret.