The next morning, John woke up to see Sherlock standing by the window, like a portrait.
"Morning." John tried to bluff. "I found something interesting last night."
The detective turned his face towards John. His face was pale, his lip trembling. John's heart got squeezed, "What's that? Did you sleep at all last night?"
"London Eye." He said motionless.
For a long time, two men gazed into each other's eyes without move or speak. Then John said with great difficulty, "What?"
"Mycroft's people searched Buckingham thoroughly and found nothing. They turned to London Eye just in time." He retreated a little then shook his head, "You can imagine the mock."
"No." John couldn't believe his ears. Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective and brightest mind he ever knew, made a mistake.
He was speechless for a long time. Then John laughed with relief, to his own surprise.
"What?" Sherlock looked annoyed and hurt.
"It's nothing." John said, reassuringly and surprisingly relaxed. "It is nothing, Sherlock."
"You are human. You make mistakes. It's all right." He smiled, "If you don't mind, I'd make tea, and we can sit down on Moriaty's next move, together. OK?"
Sherlock looked at John, as miserable as a lost kid could be, as if John was somehow his source of help and warmth. He nodded.
Ten minutes later, they were sitting face to face, each with a cup of tea in hand, and Sherlock said, "What's your finding last night?"
"Well," John admitted in embarrass, then looked at Sherlock sincerely, "nothing at all. I can get nowhere without your help, really. Even the left eye case..."
"No," Sherlock interrupted him, "You did very well all by yourself."
"I mean it. Sherlock, you are the best."
The latter smiled shyly, that was another Sherlock from what John had known, but the latter didn't mind. "So what did you try last night?"
"Er, mouth, ears, eyebrows, heart, a bit actually, and none of them worked."
"No," Sherlock shook his head, "Not them. It is brain."
"Brain?"
"Yes. Three organs are enough to suggest the location and scale of a face. By this Moriaty wanted to imply something deeper than skin. Brain or heart, and heart is far beyond a scaled map of face could reach."
"He said he'd burn you once." Thinking this for a while, John pointed out slowly.
"Yes, so I expect some kind of explosion." Sherlock said briskly.
"Like a trap?" John couldn't believe what he was thinking.
"Yes, to get me down." Sherlock seemed appreciating John's following well.
"Where is it?" John didn't get comfort at all.
"You tell me."
As Sherlock instructed, John drew a line between the market and London Eye, and another line middle perpendicular to it which went through Faraday Garden. John examined carefully on its extension, where the brain should be.
It took longer than John had expected. Moriaty was showing off his power, he would have chosen somewhere fancy, yet John didn't find any place really that special. He checked the map again more closely while Sherlock began to tap the chair arm.
Then John got somewhere.
"Is that…" He hesitated, and Sherlock looked like some felid with ears up, "The International Press Center?"
Sherlock lifted an inquiring brow.
"I mean," John's heart sank, "You always said that, right? Everything comes in circle, there's nothing new. Look at the street beside it whose name is Little New. Maybe that's a hint, Moriaty wanted to challenge you with something new. And International Press Center has something to do with news, of course."
Sherlock spoke with a moving tone, "John, exact what I thought."
They stared at each other for a moment. The flat once again was filled with linkage between two partners, and John felt lucky to be one of them.
"So I'll call Lestrade?"
Sherlock nodded.
"And I'd tell, well," John hesitated, "ah, maybe they had already known?"
Sherlock shook his head, "No, Mycroft hid it; he wanted me to thank."
John lowered his phone.
"I prefer you telling them, indeed." Sherlock said gently. "It's all right, you said that."
And John did.
Lestrade sighed on the other side of the line. Then he suggested, "Maybe you can come for recording? I mean, alone."
But when John put down the phone, Sherlock had already reached for his coat.
"I'll go." He shrugged, "I can take it."
"Actually that would be much easier without you," John murmured to himself. Then he understood Sherlock's decision to face critics and mocks. Much moved by his determination, John said nothing.
"Aha," Anderson was on their way to Lestrade's office, "look who it is. And guess what I've said."
Unlike Sherlock, John felt hard to show indifferent.
"Stop this." John warned him, and dragged Sherlock's arm to get away from the scene as quickly as possible.
But Anderson didn't want to stop. On the contrary, he shouted at their backs. "You are wrong. You Are Wrong. I'm the right one. Admit this, you freak."
That was too much.
"Fuck." John made a sudden turn. He didn't expect his voice to be this loud, but anyway he went on, "You are terrible enough even not making the biggest fool of yourself. Stop this, for God's sake I warn you, and I mean it."
Anderson didn't see this coming, and apparently startled from John's sudden deed. Then Sherlock stepped forward and said quietly, "I'm wrong." Then he turned around and walked directly to Lestrade's office while John followed, relieved yet somehow heart-broken.
"What do you expect will happen in the International Press Center?" Lestrade asked them, all three with crossed brow.
"Boom. Within 48 hours, according to existing frequency."
"And Moriaty planned to get you killed there?" Lestrade lifted a doubtful eyebrow, "You don't necessarily show up."
"His plan would make sure of my existence. I won't give up a try anyway."
"Yes, you will." Lestrade shrugged, "We have much better men in this field. Trust us; we'd take care of it."
"Not likely." Sherlock pointed out sharply.
They stared at each other for a moment.
"Yes, we will. Just go back home, and John, please keep an eye in him."
John did.
For a whole day they expect Lestrade to call, and there was none.
Towards evening, the call came. Lestrade sounded frustrated from the other side of the line. He explained to them that they cleared all staff in that building and took a thorough check, no bomb was found.
"Do you have any idea what's going on?" He finally asked.
"We'd be there." Silent during his speech, Sherlock simply replied.
"But we are leaving…"
"Leave." With these words Sherlock hung up the line, then looked at John.
"Shall we break into there?" John suggested.
"No." Sherlock smiled.
They really didn't. The International Press Center were full of people making up the work delayed by bomb check, so they simply went in, and showed the front desk Lestrade's ID card. The manager on duty frowned at their efficiency, but still allowed a second check as far as not disturbing anyone else.
"Exactly what I need." When they got into the elevator, Sherlock said to John. Then they went into different floors separately, looking for any suspicious details that ignored by police in the day.
Half hour later, John went back to the entrance hall bare-handed. When he saw Sherlock getting out of the elevator with a grave look, his heart sank.
Sherlock stopped him before he could inquiry. They got into a cab and went back to 221B, perfectly silent for the whole trip and the following evening.