Episode 1: Hiding in Plain Sight
Part II
Sherlock had to suspend his disbelief at the screen.
The man on the screen smiled. "Don't worry. I know it's you. And don't worry. I'm not going to report you. I mean, I can't exactly do that without drawing attention to myself. "
The consulting detective stared in shock.
"Look, I know you're shocked and all, but I've been watching you for a while. My job lets me do that with ease." He smiled. He seemed so real, even after death.
"You're probably wondering why I killed myself. You ever seen the movie 'I, Robot'? Probably not. You're not the kind of person who watches movies. I got that off your friend's blog."
So he read John's blog. Just how much did this Alexander person know about him?
"Maybe I should try a better reference…Hansel and Gretel. You know, two kids go into the woods and leave a trail of bread crumbs so they can find their way back home? The point is, I'm leaving you a trail of bread crumbs. Clues. One after the other. The first would be...well, you know. I'll give you the second soon enough."
Sherlock almost smiled. Even if they looked alike, Alexander seemed so…normal. He seemed intelligent, but they both had a different way of speaking. Sherlock was really fast and technical; Alexander was very slow and tended to use analogies more often than he stuck to the facts.
"Anyways, I know what you're running from. So here. I can't cope with this life anymore. The things I've done, the things I've learned, the things that have happened...and Lana. God, I can't look her in the face again, knowing what I know now. Everything I thought I knew, I didn't. And now what's been proven to me..."
Sherlock didn't understand how excessive stress could push this man to kill himself, but he wanted to see what this man was saying.
"Look, I know why you faked your own death. It was kind of obvious. Jim Moriarty filled me in when I started getting roped up in this whole mess. He framed you. I know. He made it seem like everything you did was a big elaborate lie. Well, my life was a big elaborate lie from the moment I was conceived."
That would typically be an exaggeration, but Sherlock sensed that it wasn't.
"So I'm offering something to you. I'm giving you my life. You don't need to take it, you can just have it. Besides, if you take my life, it will lead you many different and interesting directions." He smiled. "Some you will think are unexpected. But everything will make sense at some point. If you don't find us, we'll find you."
We? At first Sherlock wondered how a dead man could possibly find him. It took him a second to realize that what the man had just said was the same clue that he'd been talking about earlier.
"Everything you need is in the house. I already took a few days' leave to give you time to prepare. I'm due back by Wednesday. Lana said she won't be back until Friday. That gives you a good four days to prepare for work, and almost a week to prepare for my girlfriend. Fooling her is going to be harder." Another smile. "My name is Alex Axis, and I'm signing off."
The video ended. Sherlock ripped his phone out and dialed Molly again.
The answer was, again, almost immediate. "What happened?"
"Molly, I'm in Alexander's house," Sherlock said. "Or, Alex, as he apparently refers to himself."
"What do you mean?"
"He knew who I was. He left me a video."
"Oh God..."
"I think he knew everything that happened at St. Barts."
"How? I didn't tell anyone, and the only person you told was Mycroft."
"No, I know that." Sherlock put his cell phone on speaker and placed it on the table, leaning back in the chair and steepling his fingers. "If you recall, I deduced that he was a criminal. Perhaps he is like my brother."
"Your brother's the British Government. He wouldn't commit a crime unless it benefited the country somehow."
"That's not what I meant." He paused. "My brother has a tendency to watch me. Street cameras, hidden cameras, anything. This Alex person probably has connections."
"So you think he could have been watching you this whole time?"
"Possibly. Or he had someone else watching me."
"What? What did he say?"
"He said, 'if you don't find us, we'll find you.'"
Silence on both ends. "What does that mean?"
"I don't know. But I'm not going to bother trying to find them. They'll find me."
"So...what now? You're just going to take his life?"
"Actually, he offered it."
"What?"
"How's my Canadian accent, Molly? I used it at the pub today."
Sherlock could almost hear the meek, embarrassed smile on the other line. "No offense, Sherlock...but...it's not very good. Rubbish, actually."
He smiled. "I'll work on it. Good night, Molly."
"Good night, Sherlock."
Click.
/
The air was cold against the man's skin. Frost emerged from his chapped lips as he exhaled. His eyes closed and he smiled, breathing again. He was thankful for his life.
He wasn't sure where he'd be right now. Dead, most likely. In a morgue somewhere in the city while people try to figure out what was wrong with him. The self-inflicted wings on his back. The dehydration. The starved body. The hair that was dyed blond but clearly dark.
They'd make a ton of guesses.
But they'd never know the truth.
He walked down through the parking lot. It was empty…too empty for an Ottawa parking lot, but he'd take it. He could see the red glow off in the distance, which appeared to have been caused by a flare of some kind.
He followed it, knowing it would take him to where he needed to go.
He stopped.
And there she was.
Lying there, arms and legs sprawled, bullet cutting through her punk rock shirt. Not hers. She wasn't the kind of girl who'd listen to something like that. She didn't listen to any music, not really. Except for psalms.
Her eyes gazed sightlessly at the ceiling. Her lips were ever so slightly parted. Her hair was laid out below her head like wings. She was so beautiful, in a strange, twisted way. A mirror image of the man himself.
The man put a hand against her face, brushing her eyes closed. His long fingers, clad in leather gloves, snaked under the body and picked her up. She lay limp in his arms, but he was just glad that she was there.
He let her head rest against his chest, even though she wouldn't appreciate the gesture.
"Rest, my angel," he whispered. "It will all be over soon."
He started to walk out with her. She was very light. Maybe she was an angel.
Then he saw the drawings.
All over the walls. That same figure. Over and over again. The girl. Identical to all the others.
The man looked at his left hand. Large gash. His employer had done that to him earlier that day. A promise.
As best he could, he brushed his fingers on his right hand against the wound. Right next to the figure of one of the girls, he drew, in his own blood, another figure. This time, it was the figure of a boy.
Two little kids in a field near a convent in Ukraine.
Playing with dolls. He never liked dolls, but he respected them. Sometimes they represented people. Hers did. And he respected her. So he played with the dolls.
It was fun to be a child.
He missed that time. The beautiful innocence as they played in the fields, the lack of responsibility, the worlds they created in their minds to escape all of the bad things in the world. There was no killing, no hatred, no evil…just happiness.
The man blinked out of his reverie, returning to the parking lot and the fallen angel in his arms. They weren't children anymore, even though he wanted to believe that.
Only children played games. Only they got lost in the worlds of their imagination. Only they were completely innocent.
He'd lost his innocence a long time ago.
And he knew he could never get it back.
/
FIVE HOURS LATER
Detective Art Bell was sitting at his desk, drinking coffee at five in the morning. Cream, no sugar.
He was still trying to wrap his head around what had happened the previous day. How many Beths were there? How many Sarahs? There was the one who who'd fallen in front of the train, the one that pretended to be her for several weeks, the German who'd died, and now...suburban soccer mom? They all looked the same, and yet...none of them WERE the same.
His coworker Angie came over. "Rough night, huh? Don't usually see you here this early."
Art looked at his coffee. "You don't check in this early either."
"Touché." She sipped her coffee. "I stayed up all night thinking of Sarah Manning."
"Yeah, same here. What do you think is going on?"
She shrugged. "I have no clue. I thought clones might be possible, but...that's illegal."
"Quadrupets could work. But the DNA and fingerprints were almost exactly the same. And even quadruplets don't look so similar, but the faces were identical."
"What if they're...like, the start of some superior race or something?" She smiled. She'd intended it as a joke, but in both their minds, it was entirely possible.
"I don't know. Maybe. To be honest, I don't know what to think about this anymore."
The phone rang. Art picked it up. "Detective Arthur Bell," he said in an official tone.
"There's a visitor here for you," the secretary said.
Art and Angie turned to see the woman in question standing at the door. When she could see that the cops were aware of her appearance, she walked over.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Art asked.
"I need your help," Sarah said simply. She had changed her clothes now—leather jacket, a British punk rock t-shirt, black jeans. Her hair was down and straightened, like Beth's was, but her makeup was different: thick black eyeliner, black eye shadow, no lipstick. Same face, different person.
"Well, that's convenient, because we need yours," Angie said, sipping her coffee. "Can you explain—?"
"Why Beth and I look exactly alike? Why our fingerprints match? Why the DNA's screwed up? Sure, all of that. I can tell you everything. But, in exchange, I need your help."
Art leaned back in his chair. "And why should we help you?"
"Like I said in the message on my—Beth's—phone, you're about the only person I trust to figure the whole thing out. Angie," Sarah said, turning to her, "I'm extending that to you."
"Thanks," she said.
"I'm not lying. I've got a brother, but he's kind of useless sometimes. And Paul says he'll help me, but…" she sighed. "…I have my doubts."
"What do you need our help with?" Art asked, his voice stern but his eyes curious.
"I won't bother asking for your help if you won't. But I need your help now. So I'll give you until midnight to think about it. And I promise you…" Sarah took out a pile of pictures from her pocket and dropped them on the table—pictures of her, Cosima, Alison, Katja, and the other Euros. "…if you help me, I will explain everything."
The two cops stared in shock at the pictures on the desk.
"Call me. You know what number." She turned around and left, leaving even innocent bystanders confused.
/
Sherlock started investigating his cover's house. Pieces of Alex's personality started to fall into place. He began to note things in his mind:
1) diagnosed with dysthymia; medicated for it and good at hiding the fact that he has—had—it; only his close friends were aware of this fact
2) probably in one of the higher positions at his job (apparently, he worked at a law firm, but it seemed that more often than not, they asked him for other favors)
3) often bought things for his girlfriend (receipts for women's jewelry and such)
4) close with his coworkers (lots of birthday and Christmas presents that weren't from Lana or anyone in the Axis family)
5) kept good financial records
6) paid his bills on time and had paid the rent for the rest of the year (he really did prepare for Sherlock's arrival)
7) privileged childhood
8) dead parents (scrapbooks that were obviously made by his mother that he filled in after her death)
9) only child (which explains all of the attention he got from his family)
Fitting these all together was not going to be difficult. Sherlock had already seen Alex's mannerisms in the video (as well as some family videos that were in the DVD box.) He did an incredibly amateur thing: practicing his act for hours in front of the mirror.
He studied the videos constantly, repeating words back at the screen in order to get the accent right. He memorized important pieces of information: bank account numbers, passwords, names of important people in Alex's life (coworkers and such).
After five hours of doing this, Sherlock had a big part of the information memorized, but his act was still not very good. He was a fast learner, so he figured that he'd have the accent down in a few more hours, and the personality down by the time he went to work.
He'd found some interesting items, though. There was a handgun, a pocket knife, and a great deal of security cameras (nanny cams). All of the memory was saved onto his computer. He seemed to only turn them on when Lana (a young redheaded woman) was visiting. He'd figure out the motive for that later.
His phone rang. He was still using the burn phone that Mycroft had given him.
Sherlock picked up and put it on speaker. "Alex Axis speaking," he said, using the accent he was training himself to use.
"No, it's Sherlock Holmes speaking. And Sherlock Holmes has some work to do on that voice," Molly said on the other line.
Sherlock smiled, but kept the accent going. "Well, as people say, 'practice makes perfect'."
"You pronounce the 'a's wrong."
"Well, how am I supposed to pronounce them?"
"Like a person from Canada."
"Well, how do they pronounce them?"
"Open your mouth a little more, so it sounds more like eh. Does that make sense?"
Sherlock went to the bathroom, setting the phone down next to the mirror. He started combing his hair back, using the driver's license picture as a guide. "When did you become an expert in accents?"
"I did an acting class when I was in high school. I was never very good at it, but I learned how to speak in different dialects. Never thought it would serve me as well as it did."
He let that all sink in. "So, how is your new job at the morgue going?"
"Not badly. Today's my first day on the job. Apparently, we have a John Doe in. I think it's Alex."
Sherlock stopped combing his hair and let the accent drop completely. "What are you going to do?"
"Well, I…I don't know, what's your plan?"
He came up with one in an instant and started combing his hair again. "Moriarty's web probably knows I'm alive. ID the body as me, so then they will have some assurance that the body is me. That business card and the video I saw imply that the web viewed Alex as an asset. I can use that to my advantage. They'll think Alex is alive, and they'll think I'm dead."
"So you're faking your death again?"
"Yes."
"Sherlock, I filled out your paperwork when you died! How do I explain that you're alive now? You were buried!"
"Molly, tell them that you didn't know anything about this. You can say that you didn't test my blood—that much is true. Say that you performed the autopsy—because you did. Say anything you think you need to say. You have to make your case."
"What if John hears about this and comes? Sherlock, he's your best friend! If he comes here, he might run into you on the street!"
"No, he won't."
"Why not?"
Sherlock finished combing his hair and stood up straight, his mouth turned in a slight smile. He turned the accent back on, this time taking Molly's advice into account.
"He'll run into Alex."
He hung up.
/
ONE HOUR LATER
"Miss Hooper?" a morgue attendant asked Molly when she entered the room.
"Call me Molly," she said, smiling and shaking the man's hand. He was tall, blond, with blue eyes and skin that was pale from staying indoors so much.
"Noah." He smiled. "You're not from around here, are you?"
"No. I'm from London. I used to do post-mortems at St. Bartholomew's Hospital."
"Ah, okay. I think I've heard of it."
She smiled, then her face turned grim. "It's famous, alright. For the wrong reasons."
"Oh. I probably shouldn't have asked."
"It's okay. It's in the past now." She turned to the body bag. "Who do we have here?"
"John Doe. Fell in front of a train at approximately midnight last night. He died on impact." Noah sighed. "That's how I want to go out, you know? I mean…not the suicide part of it, but I want to go quickly, so I don't know when I'm dead."
Molly nodded. "I want to know when I die. So I'm ready for it."
"Oh…okay. That…that works too."
She smiled a little halfheartedly. "I'm sorry if I scare you."
"No, it's fine. It's just an unusual answer."
She shrugged. "I used to think the way you did. I take it you're new at the job?"
"I got out of school last year."
"Yeah. Your perspective might change over the years. It always does." She wasn't lying. Her outlook on the world before and after Sherlock's fake suicide had changed. Lestrade actually commented that she seemed more serious, less cheerful, and angrier after the suicide. No one blamed her, because they always knew she was close to him.
No one guessed the real reason.
"Okay." Noah began to unzip the body bag.
Molly clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming.
The body looked exactly like Sherlock's.
She'd expected this, but she couldn't have prepared herself enough. The gray-green eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. His skin was gray, but much paler than most people's. He was tall and thin, but still had very good muscle tone. His hair was dark, and most definitely naturally curly, but had been straightened. But the most frightening thing was probably that, even though the body was dead, still had the glimmer of a smile on his heart shaped lips.
"Molly?" Noah asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
She stared at the body, then looked up. "I think I have."
APPROXIMATELY FIVE HOURS LATER
"So, this is how you normally do your hair?" Cosima asked, watching as Felix was prepping Sarah's hair for dyeing. They'd practically moved into the warehouse already—Sarah and Paul managed to get pillows, Felix brought blankets, Delphine had set up wi-fi, and she and Cosima had gone on a food run. Each person got their own area of the warehouse (Felix had been annoyingly particular in picking the least dusty place that was not next to any windows), and they'd managed to make a makeshift bathroom. There already was one in the warehouse, but it needed to be cleaned. Really cleaned.
"Yeah…or at least, it's how I like to do it." Sarah yelped as Felix yanked on her hair. She turned to him. "Can you not?"
"I'm sorry," he said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "But it's not my fault you didn't bother combing your hair before we did this."
"I did brush my hair!"
"Sarah, if this is what you call brushed, you need serious help."
"I brushed it for almost five minutes!"
"No, you brushed it for two minutes. I know because I counted."
"You count minutes when she brushes her hair?" Cosima asked.
"When I'm about to do it, yes."
Sarah rolled her eyes. "Please, just start dyeing it already."
"If you think I am going to dye your hair when it's this messy, you are so wrong."
"If you react this way with her hair, you're going to hate mine." Cosima fingered her dreadlocks.
"Believe me, I already do. Well, I don't hate the style, but I'd hate having to brush that bird's nest."
Delphine came in with a cup holder stocked up with Venti coffees from Starbucks. "I figured we'd all need some," she said smiling.
"Delphine, you are a saint," Cosima said, taking a coffee cup.
"Hardly. I just know what people need." She handed the coffees around, saving one for Paul. "Anyone know where Paul is?"
"Bathroom," the other three said in unison.
"Which one?"
"The old one. He thought if we were going to be here for a while, we might as well get a clean, working bathroom." Felix sighed and took out a box of hair dye. "I don't get it. A military guy like him comes into a warehouse and decides to clean the bathroom? Isn't he used to dirty conditions? He was in Afghanistan. What's his problem?"
"You," Sarah teased. "All that fuss you made over it when we came in."
"Hey, it was unsanitary. I would do your hair in there, butthat whole bathroom reeks. I can't stay in there for more than a few seconds without getting a sinus infection."
Cosima laughed. "It hasn't been used in ages. What do you expect?"
"With Felix, he expects everything to be like the bathrooms at the upscale casinos in Las Vegas." Sarah turned to her brother. "Now shut up and do my hair."
"You've been to Las Vegas?" Delphine asked, interested.
"Yeah, once." Felix started to highlight Sarah's hair. "Lovely town, but the casinos are everywhere. Every hotel has one. Even the airport has slot machines. Although those weren't too bad…Sarah made a couple hundred off of those."
"No way," Cosima said, smiling.
Sarah smiled. "I didn't do much with the money. I took Fee to see a Cirque du Soleil show and that's about it."
"Still amazing."
Suddenly Paul came out of the bathroom. His t-shirt was covered with grime, but his hands were clean (he'd been wearing gloves.) He handed Sarah her phone. "You got a text."
Sarah took the phone and looked at the screen. It was a text from Art.
We need to talk. Meet me in two hours. I'll email you the location.
"I think I might have a deal with Art and Angie," she remarked.
"Great! With the police's cooperation, we'll be able to accomplish a lot more." Cosima leaned back, her face filled with excitement and approval.
"Are you sure it's a good idea to get the police's help so soon?" Paul asked.
"We need all the help we can get," Sarah said, almost confused as to why Paul would ask a question like that.
"That's great. Now hold still while I highlight your hair. There's no way you're going to see Art looking like this." He continued his work and frowned when the brush caught on her brown hair. "Jesus Christ, how many are there?"
Everyone sighed in unison. "Felix…"
TWO HOURS LATER
Molly heard a knock on her door and immediately answered. Sherlock was standing there, wearing a suit. Well, he often wore a suit, but this time it was different. The suit was dark blue, and while the white shirt was of fine material, it wasn't the silk that Molly was accustomed to seeing Sherlock wear. His hair had been slicked back, so it appeared more businesslike. He was wearing cologne, which was also unusual.
"Well, you've transformed," she remarked, smiling.
He smiled back. "So to speak," he said, putting his accent on
"Your accent is coming along." She motioned for him to come inside. "So, when are you going to work?"
"Two days. I want to make sure I have everything exactly right before I go."
"Okay." She sat down. Her apartment didn't have much—a living room with a couch, telly, and coffee table; a kitchen with a small table and a stocked fridge; and a bedroom with a bed and a closet. She'd had to leave her kitten back in London…Mycroft, oddly enough, offered to take care of him for her. She assumed that he'd given the kitten to Anthea (with whom she'd had a brief conversation with, but she seemed nice enough.) "Can I get you anything?"
"No thanks." Sherlock kept the accent but went into his normal thinking position. "How was work today?"
"I identified the body as you."
Silence fell between them. "What questions were asked?"
"Just basic stuff…you know, how you died, what I remembered about the autopsy, stuff like that."
"Good. We should keep it that way."
"They called Mycroft though."
Sherlock cocked his head in her direction. "What did he say?"
"He covered you. He backed me up on everything I said…minus the stuff that he wouldn't have known about, since he wasn't in the morgue at the time. He called me afterwards, asked me what happened. I told him you were alive and had made arrangements."
Sherlock nodded. "Good. I trust you more than I trust him."
"Sherlock, he's your brother. I think he trusts you…why don't you return the favor?"
"We've been distant ever since I was younger. He separated himself from me. If I went into a room, he left. It wasn't until after uni that he started paying attention to me." He put his fingers to his temples. "You know how Sergeant Donovan calls me a freak?"
"How could I not?"
"Mycroft called me one first."
Molly covered her hand with her mouth in shock.
"I was five. He was twelve. I forget exactly what the context was, but he called me a freak and ran into the house. I can only assume that my mother chastised him, because he apologized for it immediately after. Not genuinely…he still seemed angry with me for several days."
"So that's why you're so distant from everyone else?"
"There are a number of reasons. But yes, that is one of them."
"Sherlock, I'm sorry."
He dropped his hands, and with it, the accent. "What's there to be sorry for? It wasn't your fault."
"I'm just sorry you had to go through it."
He stood up. "It doesn't matter anymore."
"Well, still." She stood up and put a hand on his shoulder.
Sherlock sighed and put his hand over hers, removing it from his shoulder. "I appreciate it. But what's past is past. We have to focus more on what's ahead of us."
"You can't focus on what's ahead of you without remembering what's behind you," she said.
Sherlock frowned at her.
Molly suddenly held up a coffee mug. It was steaming, filled with a dark brown liquid. "Which is why, when I heard you were coming here, even if you said no, I made you some. Black, two sugars."
He took it, his disposition softening. "Thank you."
"Well, Mrs. Hudson's not around, so someone's got to take care of you." She sat down on the couch, keeping her distance but still close enough to comfort Sherlock if he needed it.
"What are you going to do if they call John?"
"Well, Mycroft actually asked for the body to be preserved in cryogenics. From what he told me privately, he'd rather not have the family know that you died again."
"No…" Sherlock frowned again. "That's not like Mycroft. He would have just shipped my body off to a foreign country under a different name, staged a funeral with mourners and everything, then buried me."
"How do you know that's what he'd do?"
"He did the same thing with two different pairs of twin assassins. When one was killed and the other one was identified as being the one that had been killed before, he buried the body under a different name. It was respect wrapped in a lie."
"So…if someone who looked like you and was identified as you was found dead after you had died…"
"The government never learns. They repeat the same strategies over and over again." Sherlock thought back to his encounter on Flight 007 with Irene Adler and his brother. It was the same strategy from the Coventry Conundrum from World War II—the way not to reveal that they'd broken the terrorists' code was to let their bombing happen.
"Then why would Mycroft change his plans?"
"I am still not sure." He smiled. "Molly…this is like a case"
"No. Sherlock, you can't get caught up in a case when you're supposed to be undercover."
"A dead man who looks like me, my brother's change of behavior…it's practically calling me."
Molly sighed. "If there are any developments, I'll let you know. But I'm not going to go searching unless something catches my eye."
He nodded. "That's fair."
"Okay." She sighed and smiled. "Well, what do you want to do?"
Sherlock took out a sheet of paper, Alex's wallet, and a pen. "The paper has information about Alex on it. I need you to test me."
Molly nodded and took the paper. "Okay…go."
Sherlock began to recite the information in Alex's voice. "Alexander Axis. No middle name. Born July 26, 1974. Enrolled in private school. Graduated early in 1986 after skipping sixth and eleventh grade. Got an LLB and LLM at University of Toronto. Became a criminal defense attorney in 1995. Currently working at Bruce, Muse & Wilkshire. Has a good relationship with coworkers and clients."
"What about family?"
"Adopted. His adoptive parents were William and Xanthe Axis. Both of them died in a car accident, 2005. No siblings, no extended family. He's currently in a relationship with a young Lana Clay, who works as a computer programmer."
She smiled. "Pretty good."
"Why pretty good?"
"You left out some of his favorite things."
Sherlock frowned. "Why do you need to know that?"
"It will help you when you're acting."
He sighed. "Alex's favorite book is Paper Towns by John Green. His favorite movie is The Return of the King. His favorite food is sushi, specifically California rolls. He goes to an office around the corner from his office frequently…every Thursday, to be specifically." When Molly gave him a look, he simply said, "Facebook."
"Oh," she said. "Perfect, Sherlock, you got it right."
"Thank you."
"I think you're ready for now."
Sherlock nodded, but he still felt uneasy. Not about the act, but the dangers that might come. "I hope so."
/
Art was sitting at the booth when Sarah walked in.
"So…this is how you normally look?" he asked, gesturing to her hairstyle.
She nodded, then slid into the booth. "I figured…well, my secret's out. And I liked my old look. So I went back to it."
He nodded. "So…what do you need help with?"
"Depends. Will you help me?"
"Depends."
She sighed. "We need answers. Many of the answers you want are the same that we need. If we join together, we can accomplish more."
Art gave her a look. "I don't know you as well as I know Beth, but I can still read you pretty well. And I can tell that that's not the only thing you're going to ask for."
Sarah leaned forward on the table. "You know about my daughter."
"I read about her in your file. She lives with your foster mother, right?"
"She did. She was kidnapped."
"So you need me to help find her?"
"She's more valuable than you think. The people who took her. . .who knows what they'd do to her?"
"What kind of people?"
"I'll explain everything, but I have to know that I'll have your support and protection in trying to find her. I know, it's not something you're inclined to give to an ex-con that was arrested for fraud and assault, but…" she sighed. "…you really are one of the only people I trust right now."
Art looked at her for a long time.
Finally, he said, "Angie and I talked earlier. We're too deep in this to just let it go. We lost sleep last night over it. We need answers."
Sarah smiled. "Deal?"
Art nodded. "Deal."
They shook hands.
"So, where do we start?" he asked.
"From the beginning."
"Then shoot."
She leaned back. "Well, I guess it started on the platform at the train station…"
/
TWO DAYS LATER
Sherlock got ready for work. He took the gun that he'd found and tucked them in his pants, slipping the blazer over him. His back would be completely concealed, so no one would notice the weapon. He also kept the pocket knife with him. He picked up the briefcase and left.
He walked outside and locked the door. Apparently, the man had walked all the way to the train station—the black Audi A6 was still parked out front.
He slicked his hair back, mirroring Alex's habit. He took the car keys out and unlocked the car, walking over to the driver's side (the side in Canada, not the one in England). As if it was any other day, he got in and put the key in the ignition.
As he was about to drive away, Sherlock felt a hand on his shoulder.
He whirled around, and found himself face to face with...himself.
There was another man in the car who looked just like him.
Well, almost. They were both wearing suits, but the man in the backseat was wearing a pale cream, almost white color. His hair was dark brown, with a reddish tint. His gray eyes were wide and fearful.
"Alex!" the man almost yelled. He had a (very evident) Eastern European accent.
Sherlock jumped, which was how he assumed Alex would have reacted (Sherlock otherwise would have not reacted). "Jesus!" he yelled. "Don't do that!"
"Alex, do not vorry – eez me."
Sherlock still stared at the new man's face. Just how many people looked like him? "Um..." He probably would have said something else, more intelligent, but he was putting on an act.
The man sighed. "So sorry. I know eez shock. I saw it vith the others. I vill formally introduce myself vhen we do not have the screen betveen us." The man held his hand out. "My name eez Maxim."
Sherlock stared at it for a moment, then took it. "Alex."
"Very nice to meet chu. Now drive!"
"Calm down," Sherlock said, trying to contain himself. "Listen, Maxim…I have to go to work. Can we talk about this later?"
"I brought the invormation you requested. Ve must go back to my hotel, now."
"I can't." He thought of an excuse, fast. "If anyone hears I'm late for work, they're going to start asking questions."
Maxim shook his head. "Deez cannot vait. Zee briefcase is back at my hotel. I did not vant to give it to you here because…jou know."
Sherlock did not know, but he pretended that he did. Again, his mind raced as he improvised. "We should talk in private. I know a place near the river…I'll drive there."
"Very vell. Go!"
"Alright! God, don't be so pushy."
They drove mostly in silence. When Maxim offered to explain everything in the car, Sherlock insisted that they not speak. He needed to get all of the answers straight out of him…most likely, this new man would assume that Sherlock knew everything, and because of that he would explain nothing. He needed more than what the man would give him. Also, Sherlock had no idea what questions to even ask. What do you ask a man who looks just like you?
Finally, they reached the location that Sherlock had in mind—an isolated area at the end of a dirt road, just north of the Ottawa River. It was enclosed by a small field and some trees just a little further inland. It was completely isolated from the rest of the world.
The two men got out of the car, Sherlock reaching to grab his weapon calmly.
"Alex, first—"
"No," Sherlock said, dropping the act completely. He pulled out the gun and quickly leveled it to Maxim's head.
Maxim seemed startled at first, then he smiled. "I should have known. You do not have a mark."
Sherlock stared, puzzled. "What?"
The man cocked his head to one side and pointed to a tiny spot behind his right ear. Even with a few meters in between them, a small roman numeral III was visible. "I am the third. Alex was zee fourth."
"Fourth of what?"
Maxim smiled again. "You are one of us. Have you not figured it out by now?"
Sherlock was sick of asking blunt questions, but he had no choice. "Who's us?"
Before Maxim could answer, there was a bang. His face went blank and a small red hole appeared in his skull, right in the center of his forehead. He fell face first into the dirt, completely lifeless.
Another gunshot rang out. Sherlock felt a brief slash of pain against his cheek. He brought his fingers up to the source, and when he pulled them back, there was blood.
Bullet wound.
Sherlock quickly dropped to the ground his eyes rapidly canning the foliage in search of the sniper. He pointed his gun towards where the sounds seemed to have originated, and fired multiple times. No shots were fired back, but there was some rustling in the plants a few meters away. Sherlock fired a few more shots (three where he'd heard the noise, two extra shots right above that area as a warning for the assassin) until he was out of bullets.
The rustling stopped. However, Sherlock could almost feel that the sniper was still alive. Just hiding, holding his or hers (its?) breath, completely still so as not to attract attention. It was an odd feeling…almost like they had a connection.
His theory that the sniper was still alive was soon proven by the man in the green, fake-fur-lined parka that jumped up from the ground and sprinted towards the edge of the field.
Sherlock reloaded his gun quickly, aimed, and fired in the man's direction. He slowed his walk closer to steady his, which was hard with a moving target. John should've been there—he was a better shot than Sherlock was.
Finally, a bullet grazed the man's shoulder. The man didn't even scream, but he did collapse on the ground and put a hand up to stop the bleeding. It wasn't a serious wound—it would heal relatively quickly.
The consulting detective contemplated his options. He could kill the man right then and there, but then the ballistics would trace the bullet to Alex's gun, and he would be arrested. Then an investigation would happen, and he'd be found out. He decided a threat was the best way to go.
"I'm warning you," Sherlock called out, this time using Alex's voice, "if I ever see you again, I will kill you. Got that?"
The man didn't turn around. He didn't even acknowledge him. He just hopped on a motorbike (which Sherlock realized had been hidden in the grass the entire time; how could he have missed that detail?) and sped away.
Sherlock saved a picture of the license plate—PRL-284S—in his mind palace and turned back to the dead body at his feet. He'd walked close enough to the point where he could actually touch it now. Apart from the hair, they were identical. Just like he and Alex had been, this is how they were now.
He took Maxim's wallet out of the dead body's pants and slipped it into his own pocket. He then turned back to the dead body, not entirely sure of what to do with it. Finally he came up with an idea that made the most sense—he had to dispose of it in a way that would keep people from finding and identifying it.
Taking his pocket knife out and rolling up his sleeves, he sliced the body's face in a few places, then cut a gash in the stomach, as deeply as he possibly could. He stuffed rocks in the body's pockets to help it sink. He calmly picked it up and carried it over (careful not to smear blood on his clothes; that was a difficult job, given all of the cuts that he'd put in it, but he held Maxim's body in such a way that the blood didn't rub against his suit).
Sherlock walked over to the edge of the water, where he could see that there was four feet of murky liquid below the surface that was just inches from him. He set Maxim's body down, rolling it into the river. It became completely submerged in the murky water. Hopefully no one would find the body anytime soon. In twenty-four hours, the body would become bloated. The deformation would make it more difficult for someone to identify the body. Maxim looked just like him and Alex, and Sherlock didn't want to take any more chances. He wished he could have found a bridge and dumped the body over the edge so no one would find him, but he didn't have enough time and he would run the risk of being seen. If the worst came, he would have Molly find a way to make sure he wasn't linked to Alex.
He brushed off his suit and straightened it, keeping the loaded gun in his hand in case someone tried to kill him again. He promptly walked to his car and turned on the engine, getting ready to drive to work—for real, this time.
Of course, nothing is that easy. Alex's phone rang as soon as he got on the main road. The caller ID was blocked. Sherlock picked it up and sighed.
"Molly," he said, turning on his fake accent. "I really don't have time for this."
"Who's Molly?" a man's voice asked on the other line. It seemed oddly familiar, but Sherlock couldn't place who it was.
"Sorry?" he asked.
"Alex, we need to talk."
/
And the next part is up! This one took a while, because I had to do a lot of editing on it.
Sorry about all of the "x hours later" headings...I had to put those there just to move the story along. There's going to be a lot more involving Art and Angie as they make discoveries about the whole clone thin. There will also be a lot more about the mysterious man and his "angel". And Alison - she just wasn't important in this episode.
I had to add the banter with Felix because, well, he's FELIX. Felix just needs to interject at some point, relieve all of the drama by just being himself, so I put him in there. :D
Anyways, I hope you enjoy it! The next part will be up soon.