Pax IX

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa when John came out of the bedroom, prepared to show off his new black sweater to the detective.

"Good. You're dressed," Sherlock said, scarcely glancing up from his phone. "There's been a bomb scare. The police are interrogating a suspect who may have tried to plant a car bomb outside of the U.N. this morning."

John stared at him. "Where are we going?"

"To meet with Mycroft," Sherlock said. "Are you coming?"

John knew it was pointless to protest; despite the recent revelations in their personal lives, he didn't expect Sherlock to stay in hiding while Mycroft investigated a case.

"Yes, I'm coming. But you have to tell me more about this case. I'm tired of being kept in the dark, Sherlock."

"I'll fill you in during the cab ride," Sherlock said.

"Where are we meeting Mycroft? At the U.N.?"

"The place will be crawling with police and fire trucks and the press. We're going to the Frick."

"What's the Frick? A hotel?"

"A museum," Sherlock clarified. "Mycroft told us to meet him in the inner courtyard, next to the fountain." He put his phone in his pocket and stood, straightening his shirt as he did so. John was pleased to see that, while Sherlock had kept the suit jacket, he was wearing a pair of tight, dark jeans, as he had promised.

"Well, then, let's be off," John said.

They climbed into a cab and Sherlock was about to open his phone when John put a hand over his and said, "Time for you to let me know what's going on. I don't like this. Is there a Moriarty connection?"

"Perhaps." Sherlock looked out of the window.

"That's not good enough, Sherlock."

"I'll tell you what I know but there's still a lot to work out."

"Go on."

"We successfully tracked down the arms shipment that went lost in Colombia several years ago."

"Are these terrorists using guns?" John asked, surprised.

"No, but by tracing some guns that ended up in Pakistan, we learned who bought the rest of the shipment. It went missing ten years ago. What happened ten years ago, John?"

"Uh, 9/11?"

"Right. 2001: beginning of the so-called 'War of Terror.' Meant increased U.S. interest in tracking and infiltrating terrorist organisations. But don't forget, England had been dealing with home-grown terrorists for years before Al Qaeda came to the Cousins' attention."

"The IRA," John whispered.

"Yes. In 2001 there were two IRA bombings in England: the BBC bombing in March, and the Ealing bombing in August. Both before September 11th. Obviously."

"Are you saying that there is a connection between the missing arms shipment and the bombings in England?"

"Yes, there is a connection. The arms went missing in January '01. The first bombing was in March."

"Do you think Moriarty was involved in all of this? An Irish connection?"

"I don't think he was involved, John. I know he was involved. He didn't leave much of a paper trail, but CIA interviews around the time of the Good Friday agreement, several years earlier, suggested a possible link between the missing arms shipment, several prominent Dublin families, and Sinn Fein."

"In Dublin? Really? Which families? Moriarty?"

"That would be rather too obvious, wouldn't it? No, the link is to a certain McGuinness family, among others."

"I don't see the connection."

"Moriarty's maternal grandmother was a McGuinness."

"Ah hah. But, Sherlock – those arms went missing ten years ago. Don't tell me that they're still circulating. They must have been sold to Kosovan rebels or Chechnyan paramilitary groups by now."

"It's not those exact arms that MI-6 and the Americans are trying to find. It's the paper trail that is more interesting to them."

"How so?"

"It looks like those bombings in 2001 may have been an initiation rite for Sinn Fein."

"Meaning?"

"A test for new members. To prove their loyalty and cunning, that sort of thing. But these kinds of bombings can't be carried out by one person alone. So, even if Moriarty were involved, he had to be working with others at the time. There would be one person who would buy the explosives from the source – in this case, the U.N. arms shipment bound for Bogotá. That person would be in charge of money transfers, tracking the shipment, on-the-ground operations in Colombia, that kind of thing. We think Moriarty was involved at that point. He doesn't like to get his hands dirty, he doesn't like to leave a trail. But only a few people at the time had the computer know-how to break into the U.N. database and track the shipment as it left Savannah, Georgia, entered Colombia at Barranquilla, and was loaded onto a truck bound towards Bogotá."

"So far, so good. I think. And then what happened?"

"We know that the shipping container was unloaded in Barranquilla, but after that the trail gets messy. This week, we finally worked out that, instead of heading to Bogotá, as planned, the driver took a detour to Cartagena, the old port city. Port security isn't as strict at Cartagena as at Barranquilla, so it's an ideal place to re-route a dangerous package. We believe that at this point the container was loaded onto another ship there, bound for Jamaica and falsely labelled as a banana shipment. And from Kingston, the same container – which we were able to track through the records – was inventoried as carrying fruit and sent directly to Dublin."

"So far, I'm following. But I still don't understand the connection to Moriarty."

"Moriarty was on the ground in Colombia, under a false identity. One 'Billy Craig,' posing as an American tourist, spent a week at a resort in Cartagena. Oh, here we are. I'll tell you the rest later. Come along." Sherlock handed the cabbie a twenty and he and John scrambled out of the car.

The cab left them outside a large mansion on Fifth Avenue, in one of the most affluent blocks in New York's Upper East Side.

"Mycroft's here already?" John asked as they entered the museum's lobby.

"Maybe not. We're a bit early," Sherlock said. "Go buy us tickets. I'm going to find the loo."

John waited in the queue while Sherlock made his way down a wide marble staircase to the basement. He passed on the door to the men's room, and instead made his way to another door, unmarked, which opened as he approached.

Sherlock entered a large room filled with television screens showing different areas of the museum. He nodded to the two guards who were stationed there and quickly scanned the screens, verifying that someone dressed as Father Christmas was indeed standing near the indoor fountain.

"When did he arrive?" Sherlock asked.

"Forty minutes ago," one of the guards said.

"Did he provide identification?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "But something didn't match. You said that his eyes were blue. This man's were brown. We have him under surveillance."

"Brown?" Sherlock frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Why didn't you inform me earlier?" He thought of John, above, buying tickets. Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket, but there was no signal in the museum's basement.

"I'm surprised you caught that detail," he noted. "Thank you." This woman is wasted as a museum security guard, he thought. He took another look at her. There was the telltale curly cable leading up the back of her neck; she was planted with a microphone and earpiece. She noticed him observing her and smiled, putting her hand out to introduce herself.

"I'm Amanda Barreiro," she said in a broad Queens accent. "Federal Agent," she clarified. "And this is Jimmy Heinz, CIA."

"A pleasure to meet you both," Sherlock said in his poshest voice. "May I see the sales booth?" he asked, pointing to one of the screens. "My partner is buying tickets." She flipped through the channels until it showed an overhead shot of the queue in the lobby. He could see John handing a bill to the ticket agent; nothing was out of the ordinary.

"Call the ticket booth," he directed. "Instruct the woman to tell him to come downstairs to the toilets." She made the call and Sherlock watched on the screen as the ticket agent leaned over the desk to speak with John. Then John nodded and turned, walking out of the lobby and off the screen. Sherlock opened the door to the security chamber and waited for John to come down the stairs. He waved him over and John joined them in the small room.

"This is Amanda Barreiro," Sherlock said. "She's a Federal Agent and she knows all about the case. Ms. Barreiro, this is my partner, Dr. John Watson. Former British Army, special forces."

"Err—Sherlock. I was an army doctor, not special forces."

Sherlock turned his gaze towards him.

"We'll discuss this later, John." To the others, he said, "As I said, my partner, Dr. Watson, former special forces. John, this is Jimmy Heinz. CIA." Sherlock turned to Ms. Barreiro and continued, "Is everything in place?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"And my 'brother'?"

"The man pretending to be your brother is standing next to the angel statue in the courtyard. Handing out candy canes to the children." She pointed to another screen.

"Father Christmas?" John asked. "Is that the disguise that Mycroft came up with?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Only this isn't Mycroft. That's the problem."

"Who is it, then? And where's Mycroft?"

"I wish we knew," Sherlock said. "It's just like him, too. He always had to be the centre of attention at Christmas."

"It's hardly his fault if someone kidnapped him, Sherlock. But what do we do now? Go in after the bloke?"

"That's one possibility. Or we can wait here and gather more information."

The CIA agent spoke. "We have back-up outside, on Fifth Avenue, Park, and both cross-streets. Just in case."

Sherlock glared at him. "You have back-up. But you couldn't stop this man" – he waved at the screen – "from impersonating my brother?"

No one responded. John shrugged, as if to say, "He's always like this." Sherlock's arm brushed against John's side; they stood closely together, eyes fixed on the screen.

"Do we know who the imposter is?" John asked.

"No," the agents said at once.

"And why doesn't someone just go up there and ask him?" The four of them looked at each other.

"He could be armed, John," Sherlock said, impatiently.

"She said we had back-up," John pointed out, nodding at Ms. Barreiro. "Could we get a SWAT team in here?"

"I'll have to ask my superior," she said. "See what she recommends."

Sherlock interrupted. "Tell her that a high-ranking MI-6 officer is missing. Tell her that we need a SWAT team in the museum. Tell her that the British Ambassador will let the press know that the CIA and FBI stood by while a British intelligence officer went missing. Tell her to send in reinforcements—now. But don't clear the museum just yet."

The Agent spoke into her receiver. "Did you catch that, Andromeda? We need a SWAT team here. ASAP. Santa Claus is an imposter." She smiled despite herself and turned towards Sherlock. "They'll be here in less than ten minutes."

"Secure the exits," Sherlock commanded. "Make sure that no one enters or leaves the museum until the SWAT team arrives."

"Done. Mr. Holmes-"

"Quiet! I'm thinking."

They waited in tense silence for a minute. Sherlock anxiously scanned the television monitors.

"Which room is that?" he asked, pointing to a screen.

"The Oval Room," Heinz said. "It connects to the garden courtyard."

"How many other ways are there to get into the courtyard?"

"There's the Oval Room, the East Gallery, the Music Room, and the entrance hall. They all have open passages connecting to the Garden Courtyard." Heinz handed Sherlock a floor plan of the museum.

Sherlock examined the plan as he paced in the narrow space, muttering to himself. "Passageway to Oval Room, right to East Gallery." He looked and spoke to John. "We have to seal off the entrance hallway. That's the most important thing. And then we have to force him into the East Gallery. There are no windows there – are there other means of egress?" He addressed this question to Heinz.

"None."

"Good. So, we have to create some kind of distraction, make sure he moves into the East Gallery."

"What kind of distraction?" John asked.

As if on cue, strobe lights began to flash in the security lounge. A loud siren sounded through the building.

"DAMN!" Sherlock shouted. "He got to it before we could. Keep your eyes on the screens," he instructed Heinz. "Barreiro, John – we're going up there!"

"Are you nuts, Sherlock?" John asked. "We're not armed, and he might be."

"We can't risk letting him go."

Barreiro interrupted. "I brought something for each of you." She knelt on the floor and opened a case, containing two revolvers.

"Is this legal?" John asked. "Giving a gun to foreign nationals?"

She laughed. "You're in the United States, Dr. Watson. Just about anyone can carry a gun here." She paused. "But more importantly: does he" – nodding to Sherlock – "know how to use one?"

"Of course I know how to handle a gun," he sneered at her. "I've grown up hunting and shooting."

"This isn't a fox hunt, Mr. Holmes," Heinz interjected. "We need to know – can you manage this kind of weapon?"

Sherlock glared at him. "Give me the gun. I know how to use it."

"I'll vouch for him," John said, remembering the afternoons they had spent at the shooting range, after the incident at the pool. Just in case, Sherlock had said.

She handed them the weapons and turned to Heinz. "I'm not letting them go up there alone. Keep watch down here, try to follow Santa and tell me where he's going."

"Wait," Heinz said. "Look here." He pointed to a screen. "Now there's another Santa in the courtyard. And two in the Oval Room."

"Where did they come from?" Barreiro asked. "And why aren't the guards clearing the areas?"

"Those aren't the guards," Sherlock said, realisation dawning on him. "Yes, they are," she insisted. "We had them cleared ahead of time."

"They're thieves," Sherlock said. "Not terrorists. Look, there's another one in the living hall. That's where Bellini's St. Francis is shown, and the two Holbeins. Must be the most valuable room in the entire museum. My God – how did I not see this earlier? Seal the exits. Let no one out of the museum. Check the monitors –"

Each screen flashed with static.

Sherlock clenched his fist in anger. "We're too late. They used a scrambler. John, come with me."

"What's going on, Sherlock?" John blocked the door with his body, glaring up at the detective.

"Let's just say that we were at the right place at the wrong time. And good thing, too. They're thieves, John. Simple art thieves. Dressed as Father Christmas and museum guards. Get out of the way."

"And Mycroft?"

Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket. "He sent a message half an hour ago. It must have come through before they turned on the scrambler. He said he would be late."

"So – nothing happened to Mycroft?"

"Unfortunately, no. Come on, John, let me get through."

"What are we going to do?"

"Catch them, of course. If the SWAT team doesn't get to them first! Oh, this is turning out to be a very happy Christmas, indeed!"

John looked at Barreiro. "Where is the SWAT team now?" he asked.

"My transmitter isn't working," she said. "But they must be close now. It's been at least 10 minutes since they were called."

"Sherlock," John said, still blocking the door. "This isn't your case."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, let the agents and the SWAT team deal with this. We still have to find Mycroft."

"Mycroft's not missing, John, he is just being himself. Arriving late so that others have to wait for him. Makes him feel important. He's probably outside the museum at this very instant, sitting in an armoured vehicle and watching the back-up charge in."

"That sounds like a very good place for him to be right now," John said, putting his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. "And I think we're just where we need to be, too. Don't you agree?" He looked at Barreiro and Heinz. They nodded.

"Back-up will take care of this. Those crooks will have no idea what's coming to them." Heinz laughed. "They thought they were performing a simple heist, and we called in a SWAT team. Nice timing, guys."

John stood firm at the door, pushing Sherlock away when he attempted to pass him. In frustration, Sherlock turned and kicked the opposite wall.

"Some people have all the fun," he sulked.

"Give me the gun, Sherlock," John said.

"No," Sherlock whined, his back against the wall.

"Give me the gun," John said more firmly. "It's not yours."

"Fine," Sherlock said, sliding down the wall to crouch on the floor, his arms around his knees. He dropped the gun to the floor and John swiftly bent down and secured it, handing it to Barreiro.

"My apologies," he said. "He, uh, he likes excitement."

"I can see that," she said. "Any reason why he hasn't joined Her Majesty's Secret Service?" John blinked at her. "That's where the adrenaline junkies usually go. There, or the armed forces. But you would know about that, wouldn't you?"

John stared at her for a second, then laughed. "You're good," he said. "Very good. But Sherlock already has a job. As a consulting detective." In a softer voice he added, "There isn't enough room in the Service for two Holmes brothers."

"Well, if he ever decides to jump ship and come to America," she began, "we'll always put in a good word." She turned to Sherlock. "As long as you're on your best behaviour."

"I'm afraid this is his best behaviour," John said. Sherlock looked up at him from where he was crouching.

"John," he said. "I know Moriarty is involved in this. Somehow."

John sighed. "You don't know that, Sherlock."

"He must be. It's another art crime. Remember the last time? The Czech gallery owner? There was art theft involved there."

"I'm surprised that I am the one to remind you of this, but it wasn't an art theft. It was a clever forgery," John said.

"There's a connection here. There has to be. That forgery was supposed to be a Vermeer. The Frick has two of them. What if—"

"You don't know that there's a connection," John said. "You're just guessing. And I'd rather you didn't risk your life trying to prove it. We'll go up after they've cleared the area out. You can poke around and see what evidence there is."

"That's not the same thing," Sherlock whined.

"No, it's not, but you're not risking your life just to chase after a thief in a Father Christmas costume. There are better ways to die, Sherlock." He grinned down at his friend and offered his hands. Sherlock took them and John pulled him upright. "I'll make it up to you later," John promised.

"How so?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm sure I'll think of something that doesn't involve guns or paintings," John joked. "Besides, if you don't behave, I won't give you your Christmas present."

"That's not fair!" Sherlock protested, stepping closer to John, who stood his ground.

"No, it's not," John said. "But who said I had to play fair?"

"You always play fair," Sherlock pointed out.

"And you never do. So there's an end to it. Let's wait until communication is restored. And then we'll see about getting out of here and finding Mycroft."

"And my present?" Sherlock asked.

"You'll get your present, Sherlock."

"It had better be worth my while." Sherlock's voice had turned husky, and John was suddenly reminded of two things: one, that Sherlock was very attractive, and two, that they were not alone in the security lounge. He cleared his throat and pointedly looked at the two agents.

"Oh, it's certainly worth your while," John said. "That's exactly it." They smiled at each other. "And if you're extra good today, I'll give you the first and last dance tonight."

"You would give them to me anyway."

"I would, wouldn't I? I'm such a fool."

Sherlock looked intensely at him. He wanted to say, And I'm a fool for you. But they weren't alone. It was the wrong time and the wrong place. Would it always be like this on cases together? Would he always want to tell John how much he cared about him? And would John always stop him from rushing into the thick of things?

Sherlock phone buzzed; communication had been restored. He checked his messages. There was a text from Mycroft.

"I don't believe it!" he exclaimed. "Mycroft went to the wrong museum. He's at the Morgan Library. That idiot. I specifically told him the Frick." John laughed and put a hand to his head.

"What has he been doing all this time?"

"Looking at Dickens' manuscripts, most likely, and fending off school children who want Father Christmas's autograph," Sherlock surmised. "He still wants to meet us. For lunch at the Plaza. Shall we?" He turned towards Barreiro and Heinz. "As soon as we're safe to leave, of course," he hedged, when he saw John glaring at him.

Barreiro grinned. "Looks like you're safe to go. I've let the teams above know you'll be coming out the front entrance. Just don't linger." She paused. "I hope we meet again, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson." John nodded at her, but Sherlock was already striding out of the door.

"If Mycroft is still wearing that ridiculous costume when we meet up at the Plaza, I'll tell Barreiro that one of the thieves got away."

"You wouldn't!" John said, as he chased Sherlock up the stairs.

"Oh, wouldn't I!" Sherlock cackled.

Before they had walked more than a couple of blocks away from the museum, John had already sent a warning to Mycroft.

No Santa. Duly noted. MH

Nota bene: More case material here, for thisisforyou. And here we have them at the Frick, as promised, and as requested by syncsister (thanks for reminding me about the Bellini).

I'm still open for requests, so keep 'em coming!

~Emma