Pax X
They had only walked a few blocks down Fifth Avenue before Sherlock became aware that they were being tailed by a black SUV with tainted windows.
"Someone is following us," Sherlock said in a low voice. "Keep walking. There's an entrance to Central Park in a few blocks. We need to cross the street first."
"Shouldn't we make a run for it?" John asked.
"Not necessarily. I want to take down the license plate number." The car came to a halt at a stoplight. Sherlock and John crossed the street, directly in front of it, heading towards the park.
The back window in the SUV slid down and a man with a red and white cap peaked out, calling to them.
"Sherlock! Dr. Watson!" The men turned, startled.
"Isn't he supposed to be downtown?" John asked Sherlock.
"Yes," Sherlock said, walking towards the car. "There's something off here, something I'm missing. Come, John."
Mycroft opened the door and they hopped into the vehicle before the traffic light changed. The back seat of the car was just large enough for the three of them; John, being the smallest and unrelated to either, naturally sat between them. He was amused to see that Mycroft, indeed, was dressed as Father Christmas. "It suits you," he said to Mycroft, pointing at the costume.
"I rather thought so myself," Mycroft drawled. "Happy Christmas, Dr. Watson. Happy Christmas, little brother."
"We don't have time for this," Sherlock said. "Mycroft – what are you doing here?"
"I thought we said we'd meet at the Frick at noon. When I got there, the museum was blocked off and several armoured vehicles were stationed outside. No doubt you are aware of all this, Sherlock."
"You were late," Sherlock hissed.
"My apologies, dear brother. A minor alteration to my costume detained me."
"If you didn't buy your clothes a size too small, you wouldn't have this problem," Sherlock said.
"While I thank you for your sartorial advice, I think there's a more pressing problem to solve." Mycroft smiled falsely. "What happened in the museum just now?"
Attempted heist," John said. "It was a complete coincidence that we were there."
"No," Sherlock interrupted. "It wasn't an coincidence. Mycroft, you didn't go to the Morgan Library, did you?"
Mycroft shook his head, puzzled. "No. Why would you think that? We agreed to meet at the Frick, and we would have, had I not been unexpectedly delayed." Realisation dawned in his eyes. "Show me your phone, Sherlock." Sherlock handed it over.
Mycroft scrolled through the messages. "Good thing I happened upon you just now," he observed. He quickly dialled a number. "Good afternoon, police commissioner. This is Mycroft Holmes. I need you to send a team to intercept a suspect at the Plaza Hotel."
"I don't understand," John complained. "Can someone explain?"
Mycroft put a finger over his mouth, signalling John to hush. "Yes, Plaza Hotel. Dressed as Fath—Santa Claus…Yes, commissioner, I am aware that today is Christmas . . . Yes, I understand that Santa Claus is 'on the town' today, so to speak . . . I suggest you detain anyone in the Plaza who is dressed as Santa Claus . . . Warrant? I'm afraid I don't understand your pesky little procedures . . . Yes . . . Yes . . . No . . . Can't you find some way to close the entrances? . . . . Well, get a warrant, for heaven's sake! You're the police commissioner! Can't you do anything? . . . . We're talking about a terrorist suspect. . . . You don't want another 9/11 on your hands, now do you? . . . Good. . . .Good. . . . Very good . . . I look forward to our next chat . . . Oh, and commissioner – Merry Christmas!"
"It's Him," Sherlock said. "He scrambled the signal and planted a fake message. So we would go to the Plaza and meet him there."
"Who? Moriarty?" John asked. "So – it was just a coincidence that we were at the museum during the heist."
"Not a coincidence," Mycroft announced, closing his mobile.
"You knew," Sherlock accused him. "You knew, and you were going to let us go in there without a clue…"
"Come, come now. You cannot expect me to believe that you didn't know what could happen this morning. After all of our discussions with the Ambassador about the financial side of Moriarty's organisation?"
"Come clean, Mycroft, or I'll fly back to London tonight."
"Me too," John said. Sherlock and Mycroft looked at him in puzzlement. "Sorry," John said. "I'll stay out of this."
"That may be for the best, Dr. Watson," Mycroft smirked. "Sherlock, whatever do you mean?"
"What were you planning this morning?"
"You know that I like to put my professional skills into practice from time to time. Despite what you believe, Sherlock, I haven't always worked behind a desk."
"You were there after all. You dressed as Father Christmas to confuse the thieves."
"Naturally."
At last, John understood. Or, at least he understood enough to grow very, very angry at Mycroft.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?" he said, turning to Mycroft and pinning him against the side of the car door, his forearm pressed under Mycroft's chin.
Sherlock cracked a small smile.
"Now, now, Dr. Watson, let's not get violent. Wouldn't want assault to go on your record, now would we?" Mycroft said hoarsely.
"It would be aggravated assault," John said, releasing him. "You let us go in there without telling us what was going on."
"You were never in any danger, John," Mycroft said smoothly. "Barreiro and Heinz made sure of that."
"It's Dr. Watson to you," John growled.
"Dr. Watson. Please forgive me. Let me assure you that you and my brother were never in any danger. We monitored the entire situation."
"I'm sure you did," John grumbled. "There were children there, Mycroft. Children. Think about that next time you plan a sting operation and bring in a SWAT team."
"I believe it was my brother who called in the cavalry," Mycroft said.
"Sherlock?" John asked. "What is going on here?"
"We almost prevented a major art crime," Sherlock explained. "But I'm assuming they got away with it? Mycroft?"
"It was decided to let the thieves go, yes. We hope they'll lead us to Moriarty."
"How?" John asked, still confused.
"When they try to exchange the masterpieces for Moriarty's product," Sherlock explained. "That's the deal that we've been following."
"Wait – are you saying that Moriarty is supplying terrorists with arms in exchange for the missing paintings?"
"Were they paintings that went missing, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked. "No statues? Etchings?"
"The theft was limited to paintings. The two Vermeers and the two Holbeins."
"And the Bellini?" Sherlock asked.
"Untouched," Mycroft confirmed.
Sherlock turned to John. "Yes, John. Moriarty agreed to sell the arms and explosives to an Al Qaeda splinter group in exchange for a number of masterpieces from the Frick. He undoubtedly already has a client who is willing to purchase the paintings from him on the black market. For a hefty sum, of course."
John shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.
"This is such a complicated money trail," he said. "Mycroft, is this the kind of work you usually do?"
"Yes," Mycroft said, as Sherlock, at the same time, answered, "No." John looked from one to the other.
"So…you decided to follow the thieves to Moriarty? Why didn't you just stop the theft from occurring? The terrorists wouldn't be able to pay Moriarty, in that case."
"They would have found someone else to sell them the arms they needed," Mycroft said. "We couldn't risk them severing the connection with Moriarty."
"We couldn't take that risk, eh?" John was practically shouting. "Are you absolutely bloody nutters, Mycroft? Sherlock! You may have just facilitated a transaction between terrorists and an arms dealer! And what if we can't stop them?"
"Precisely what I said," Sherlock sighed.
"As I recall, Sherlock, you were pretty pleased at the idea that we might stop a terrorist attack and tighten the noose on Moriarty."
"What I did not countenance was letting them steal the real articles," Sherlock said.
"There wasn't time to replace them with replicas," Mycroft said lightly. "Moriarty would have noticed if the paintings were suddenly removed. And we couldn't replace every piece of art in the museum just to prevent them from nabbing another."
"You could have closed the museum," John pointed out. "Was that never an option?"
Sherlock and Mycroft looked at him in astonishment.
"That would have ruined the entire operation," Mycroft said. "As I have already explained, we needed to track the exchange between Al Qaeda and Moriarty. Which we will now be able to do, thanks to this morning's successful heist."
"OK, let me see if I have got this straight," John said. "While Sherlock and I were waiting for you the basement – which now I see was just a ruse to get us out of the way – someone connected to Moriarty just got away with how many millions dollars or pounds worth of art?"
Sherlock and Mycroft looked at him.
"The worth of those paintings is not estimable in common currency, John," Mycroft said patronisingly.
"I'm sure it's not," John said. "So let me speak more plainly: how many explosives can those paintings purchase? Enough to blow up Times Square? Enough to level the Brooklyn Bridge? Rockefeller Center?"
"Hypothetically…yes," Mycroft said.
"As well as several more key spots in the city, I would guess," Sherlock said. "What do you think, Mycroft – could they take down Grand Central? How about the Empire State?"
John put his hands over his ears. "Stop it, you two! Are you planning this city's destruction yourselves or are you going to stop it?"
Mycroft smirked. "Can't you call your bulldog off, Sherlock?"
Sherlock looked up from his phone, where he had been texting, and leaned across John to stare Mycroft in the eye.
"What did you say?" Sherlock asked icily.
"I merely asked you if you could restrain Dr. Watson."
"I don't think that's what you said. And if you did ask me to restrain him, that's even worse. But I should have known you'd say something like that; someone who has to kidnap John to spend time with him obviously doesn't know the least thing about him."
Mycroft's ears pricked up. "And what do you call this, this trip to New York? Now, don't tell me he came willingly and fully informed, or did he?"
"He was perfectly willing," Sherlock said priggishly.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "How satisfactory that must be. Tell me, Dr. Watson, how do you like the hotel that Sherlock picked out for you?"
"THAT'S ENOUGH!" John shouted, flinging his arms out to both sides. "You, Mycroft, shut it. Right now. Sherlock, don't egg him on. I don't want to hear another word out of either of you until we get to – to – to wherever it is that we are going." The Holmes brothers were silent. There was a dangerous tone to John's voice. "Mycroft? Where are we going?"
"You, my dear Watson-"
"It's Dr. Watson to you," John reminded him.
"My dear Doctor Watson," Mycroft began. "You will be going back to the Hudson Hotel, to rest and relax before tonight's ball at the United Nations."
"Oh, and I suppose I'm supposed to primp and preen while the two of you go gallivanting after Moriarty, is that it?"
"Don't be so juvenile, John," Sherlock drawled. "I'll be coming with you, of course." He winked. "There's nothing we can do for now about Moriarty."
"Oh, right," John said, exasperated for what was perhaps the fiftieth time that day. "Terrorists just stole four of the world's most valuable paintings and you two decide that we should spend the afternoon pretending we're Scarlett Fucking O'Hara." The Holmeses looked at him without recognition. "Gone With the Wind," he reminded them. "Great American film. Ever seen it?"
"My, my, he's a bit testy these days, isn't he?" Mycroft said to Sherlock.
Sherlock leaned forward and whispered something to the driver. The car pulled up to a traffic light and, a second later, Sherlock opened the door, swung his long legs out of the vehicle, and pulled John along after him. They were on the south side of Central Park, a few long blocks from their hotel. They began to run, all along the Park's walls, dodging people left and right, until they reached the fountain at Columbus Circle.
"Do you think he followed us?" John asked, panting and laughing at the same time.
"Yes," Sherlock said. "But there's so much traffic that he's probably still back a few blocks." He laughed. "That felt good." He nodded fondly at John, struck with the sudden urge to hug him. Not here not now not yet in public, Sherlock thought.
"The wanker," John ejaculated. "Can you tell me just one thing, Sherlock? Why are we still going to this dance tonight if Moriarty is out and about?"
"In case he shows up, John. Mycroft was serious about us going back to rest. It may be a long night."
"I think it would be a long night anyway," John said, more hopeful than flirtatious.
"We can always make a long afternoon of it," Sherlock said suggestively.
"Just what kind of rest and relaxation did you have in mind?" John asked, now catching on. "Mycroft . . . was he -? Does he think-?"
"I don't know, John, and to be honest, I don't bloody well care. I would have snogged you right there in the car if I hadn't thought it would give someone a heart attack."
"I'm not that easily frightened," John said, "not after living with you for two years." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Does he want me to – should I? Now? Out here?
He leaned down and gripped John's upper arms, pulling him so close that their foreheads were almost touching. "May I?" Sherlock asked, before kissing John, ever so softly and ever so fleetingly, on the lips. And then Sherlock was striding away, heading across the Circle and towards the Hotel. John, still somewhat dazed from the car ride, and flustered by the kiss, jogged after him.
Author's Note: Spoilers for A Scandal in Belgravia below.
It's January 1st and I am almost hesitant to post this after watching what was another brilliant episode from Moffat and Gatiss. They amaze me. And so does this fandom! I think that every relationship development that occurred in Belgravia was explored by one fanfic writer or another in the past year: John's string of girlfriends who all dump him because he's in a relationship with Sherlock; Sherlock the virgin, Mycroft the ice man; Sherlock deducing that Irene was aroused because of her pulse and dilated pupils; it goes on and on. Which makes me get very meta-analytical and think: is fanfiction an exploration of the degrees of freedom in a fictional universe? If so, are we watching a living example of the Infinite Monkey Theorum? (Among an infinite number of monkeys typing away at typewriters, eventually a work of Shakespeare will be produced.) Gosh, I need to go back and read some Borges here. I am feeling entirely too cerebral. Anyone else about to have a cerebral orgasm from the brilliance of this show? I know that my heart rate is elevated.
Oh – and I was so happy that the newspaper clipping in the show suggested a possible link between Moriarty and Al Qaeda. This is where I was going, folks…just another monkey with a typewriter.
One more thing: the story is continuing past the new year. So keep reading!
Feliz año,
Emma