-Day 5
'You'll find this interesting. I found a photo of C.'s husband in a password-protected folder. -SH' -31 Mar. 2012. 3:22A.M.
'[Image]' -31 Mar. 2012. 3:23A.M.
'Get yourself to bed. -M' -31 Mar. 2012. 3:25A.M.
'As if you have any right to saying that to me. -SH' -31 Mar. 2012. 3:25A.M.
-Chapter 6-
Scarlet Warehouse
-Day 5
"I have nothing to tell."
Such are the first words that Mycroft hears from Clara Crawford, as he joins his subordinates in the interrogation room. His lips twitch wryly as he scans the woman with a trained glance. The old landlady's fists are clenched, and her teeth are gritted. But the glints of wetness in her eyes betray her weariness and unsettlement.
Mycroft nods to the others. His subordinates shuffle, one after another, obediently out of the room. He pulls out a chair and sits down, as the screech of metal legs dragging against the floor subsides.
Mrs. Crawford curls back on her seat, her lips quavering. "You're their leader, aren't you? Who are you people? Why would you do this to an old lady? What do you want?"
Mycroft smiles and makes no effort to reply, his eyes cold as ice. Mrs. Crawford cringes. An uncomfortable silence brews in the room. The lady endeavours for a few times to disrupt the silence, but each time that a sound is about to bounce from her larynx, her gaze meets Mycroft's impassive stare, and the sound chokes into a whimper. Mycroft inclines his head and savours her horror. When he finally decides that this silent attack has gone on for long enough, he slowly retrieves a piece of paper from his suit pocket and drawls. "I'm here to show you two photographs of a man who once called himself Mr. Guillaume Dubois."
Baffled and curious, Mrs. Crawford leans forward as Mycroft's slender fingers unfold the paper and lays it flat on the table. A shriek fills the room when she sees the second photo of the corpse, and she shuffles hastily back, tipping over her chair and crashing onto the floor. Mycroft rises toward her and offers her a hand, but she seems unharmed by the fall and refuses to stand up. The frail landlady hugs her knees and weeps.
Mycroft sighs and hands her a handkerchief.
"T-They said - they said they - w-wouldn't harm him," she rubs the handkerchief violently at her eyes and stutters beneath sobs, "They said they - they said they'll e-ensure his s-safety if I l-let them into darling Molly's f-flat..."
Mycroft's expressions soften as he lends her an aiding hand once more. "Please have a seat again, Mrs. Crawford. I won't deny that I have questions, but I imagine you have questions for me as well. I will wait until you are ready to ask them."
For a while, the room is quiet save for Mrs. Crawford's brokenhearted sobs. When, many minutes later, she has recollected enough to speak, she mutters softly, "My husband - how did he die?"
Mycroft answers without missing a beat, "He was strangled to death. We have yet to find the killer. We did, however, find a Guy Fawkes mask at the crime scene."
Mrs. Crawford blanches. The lady is stunned immobile, and soon she begins trembling in silent rage. She takes a sharp breath and stares with newfound determination into Mycroft's eyes.
"They threatened me," she begins, "They said that if I didn't give them access to Molly's flat, they'd kill my husband. They didn't keep their word, and I have nothing more to lose now. I don't know much about those people and their plans, but I will tell you everything I know about my husband's involvement with them."
Mycroft examines her glinting irises, her flushed countenance, her clenched fists, and her leaning posture. His trained eyes see truthfulness and vengeance in the old lady, and he leans back on his chair, breathing an inaudible sigh of relief. "I'm listening."
Mrs. Crawford hesitates, wondering how to begin. She finally notices the glass of water on the table which has been untouched. She seizes the glass and takes a few big gulps.
"Dubois was not his real name, and Crawford is my maiden name. My husband's real name was Humphrey Norton. He was one of the nine English specialists sent to Sudan in 1976."
-Day 5
It is nearly noon when Sherlock stirs on Molly's sofa.
"What's with this flowery scent? For God's sake, I told that Icelander cleaning lady to stop spraying questionable chemicals in my room." He mumbles in confusion and sits up, finding himself staring into a pair of cat eyes. Toby is perching on the tea table, and meows in evident satisfaction at seeing a movement from the new human lounging on his momma's couch.
"A cat. Molly's cat." Sherlock rubs his eyes and remembers the hectic events of the days past.
A few hours ago, he has been practically taking Crawford's computer apart. The lady did not use it often, and if she did, she cleaned up her secrets. There were no useful files he could find in her folders, save a photograph of her husband that was locked away in a password-protected briefcase. She had a few email accounts, but none of them had any contacts, email messages, or chat history stored. The criminals were very cautious in contacting her, and Sherlock had to acknowledge with distaste that he had to rely on Mycroft to squeeze more information from the landlady. Finally, at six in the morning, a resigned Sherlock opted to shut the computer and take a first long nap in three days.
"Well, I suppose I did need that," stretching his arms, Sherlock declares to a curious Toby, "What's there to do other than sleep when I need to thoroughly search a factory later, and when all other clues currently on-hand lead to a dead-end?"
Toby ignores him and jumps off the tea table, waddling toward the kitchenette. Sherlock begins to make his way to the bathroom, and is just about to stifle a loud yawn when a loud meow interrupts him. The consulting detective pauses, and finds Toby tapping his paw repeatedly at an empty bowl by the leg of the kitchen table.
"You want me to feed you?" Sherlock blurts with a groan. Deducing a cat, particularly one that, supposedly, was deprived of his temporary feeder, really is a rather easy task to him in comparison to everything else.
Toby purrs and leaps atop the counter, waving his paw at the mirror cabinet directly above him.
"Oh, for God's sake, don't insult my memory! I remember where the cat food is! I did a walk-around when I first came in here, remember, cat?" Sherlock growls and storms toward the cabinet, flipping it violently open with a loud "bang". Toby screeches and jumps down, trembling by the table leg beside his bowl.
The consulting detective takes the five boxes of cat food from the cabinet and sets them down on the table, squinting skeptically at the post-it notes on each box for minutes, before deciding to take the box informatively labelled "Lunch, or potentially brunch if you slept in, for when Toby's in a relatively good mood, so when his meowing is relaxed and he's not arching his back or hissing or trying to scratch you when you try to pet him. Half a bowl would be more than enough. Thanks Mrs. C! x".
Toby seems fairly happy with his accurate choice; when Sherlock steals a glance from the bathroom's door as he is brushing his teeth, he sees the cat munching silently away. Not even the high-and-mighty intelligent consulting detective can hold back a smile.
-D-A-
25 Apr., 2011
Dear Antirealist,
I bet that my writings last time were not enough to interest you, or if they were, not for long. So, this time, I want to connect realism and anti-realism to something that'll sound more relevant to you.
What do you think of emotions, dear antirealist?
Can we observe emotions? Are phenomena such as dilated pupils really indicators of emotion? Technically, dilated pupils and rushing pulses are simply the effects of epinephrine acting on our visceral organs, activating our sympathetic nervous systems and stimulating our organs to react as such. All the thing we hypothetically feel - happiness, sadness - can strictly be attributed to a combination of hormones or neural chemicals that bind to receptors on cells in the body, causing a cascade of molecular downstream effects. Why do we call them emotions then, when they are really just a combination of chemical reactions?
You're probably nodding your head with a smirk at your lips, thinking to yourself: yes, this is exactly why I deem emotions nonsensical; this is why I believe that, to do my work efficiently, I need to free myself from the effects of chemicals in the body - I need to be immune to them in order to accurately deduce them.
Succumbing to your own chemical reactions is an anomaly for you. You are an anti-realist when it comes to everything, really, and of course you maintain an anti-realist outlook on emotion as well. You must be proud of it, because the anti-realist view - if it can be called that - on emotions is incredibly rare.
We realists believe in emotions because we feel them. You don't believe in them because you can't see them definitively as a separate entity from hormonal pathways and chemical reactions. You don't think sentiment is a legitimate, material state of being.
So in the rare instances of you feeling sentiment at all, you are confused and angry at yourself for this supposed weakness, aren't you? Because you've fallen victim to something you don't even consider strictly existent.
And yet, in some instances, you deduce other people's sentiments to achieve your goal.
Just as how electrons, before they became observable, were hypothesized tools that scientists used to deduce an element's chemical properties.
I'm not one to delve deep into philosophy, dear antirealist, but I love how a philosophical concepts can be stretched to apply to more than just its main area of study. I've been stretching scientific anti-realism for this whole letter to apply to emotions, and now I ask the same question I asked about electrons to you: dear antirealist, how can you scorn emotions when, sometimes, not even you can deny feeling them?
Or, better yet, how can you know that hormonal pathways and chemical reactions are not simply very trivial bits of a greater entity called sentiment, which we, as humans, do not yet have the ability to strictly "observe"?
Sincerely,
A Realist
-D-A-
"I said, we're here, sir!"
"Oh," Sherlock snaps out of his long daze and quickly stuffs the pink notebook back into his pocket. He hands a wad of cash to the grumpy, red-faced cabbie, and steps out to the foul air of overloaded tobacco mixed with a stench of desertion. Even he, who has always welcomed the scent of cigarettes, wrinkles his nose in disdain.
The Wilson Tobacco Factory on the Eastern outskirts of London has been deserted for ten years, and is one of two factories in London that still stored some portions of Y1 tobacco, the other being the Kindler Inc. on the west end [1]. On the day that Sherlock left for Ipswich, the rain in London had been particularly heavy on the east end, and it was most logical for the consulting detective to investigate Wilson first.
And as soon as Sherlock discerns a metallic scent of blood mixed with a revolting smell of rotting flesh as he crosses the skeletal remnant of the front building and approaches the rusty main warehouse, he is instantly certain that he made the right decision. He quickens his steps toward its door.
The lift gate of the metal warehouse is ajar, and the foul stench seeps from beneath and fills Sherlock's wary nose. There are no devices in sight that appear to be used to lift the gate further, and Sherlock crouches to tug at the bottom of the gate. The heavy metal piece does not budge, only covering Sherlock's palms with a thick layer of rust. The consulting detective groans and lays himself on the dirty ground, preparing to stay low and crawl in.
His heart sinks the moment his head passes the gap.
As his eyes accommodate themselves to the darkness, he can make out the shapes of piled bodies, surrounded by hills of dried tobacco leaves. He scoots himself quickly in and springs to his feet, hastily seizing the phone in his pocket and putting on the camera light. The sight deepens his frown and tangles his brows tighter, and he feels his heart jump to his throat.
Six bodies, piled on top of one another atop a stack of tobacco. Blood stains them thoroughly into a single blotch of scarlet, a blotch that spreads and dyes the leaves around them, a blotch that, even in its now-stationary state, seems to extend its crimson tentacles and reach further, as if hoping to fill the whole warehouse with its atrocity.
Sherlock rushes to the body pile, inspecting each face with the camera light that trembles in his hand. He heaves a long sigh of relief when he discerns that they are all male.
His heart rate settles, and he begins to investigate the bodies and the surrounding. All victims died from a blow to the side of the head like Arendale. The dramatic amount of blood is bovine. Clearly used to stage a scene, Sherlock notes and turns around, immediately finding himself face-to-face with something of considerable interest.
Scribbled across the rusty lift gate in blood are seven giant, squiggly letters that spell menacingly:
'REVENGE'
Sherlock steps pensively toward them, but pauses drastically as a sound of grazing metal surfaces above catches his attention. He jumps back hastily, pulling his revolver and pointing it warily at an intruder in black who suddenly drops from an opening in the roof. The intruder rises slowly. On the face is a Guy Fawkes mask, its smile cold and wide, as if mocking his efforts.
"Well, now," the intruder raises her hands slowly and begins, her voice muffled but unmistakably feminine. "There's no need to get angry so quickly. I'm unarmed. Besides, this is no proper manner with which to greet a lady."
Sherlock's index finger rubs lightly against the trigger. "I haven't known ambushing from a roof to be a proper way to greet anybody, either."
The intruder laughs and, seemingly disregarding the gun in Sherlock's hand, takes a step closer. "You're a witty one. I like that. Now I wonder what the mystery is with you, hmm? You call yourself Sigmund Hooper, but you're definitely not him."
"And while you dress yourself in a murderer's garbs, you are not one of them," Sherlock tightens his grip around his revolver and snorts. "They have staged this breadcrumb trail well, from traces of Y1 tobacco on Arendale to this warehouse, and now, judging by your knowledge of my alias, they have potentially planted people in the Suffolk Constabulary. They doused this place with cow blood and destroyed everything useful, and till this point they have not made a mistake. That message on the door is clearly planned to be an advertisement, and they have no need to send an accomplice after an intended audience. So what's the mystery with you? What are you in it for?"
The woman inclines her head, and silence fills the warehouse for a few moments before she laughs once more. "You truly are a brainy one. I could like you very much if your fashion senses weren't truly awful. No, I am not one of them, and I'm in it for information and information only. The organization has been more secretive than I surmised they would be, and my connections are feeble in this city. I need a partner to help me investigate the background of a man, and who better to negotiate with than a strange man in disguise who's sharp enough to pick up the Y1 tobacco hint, about which the mastermind was confident that no one would so quickly understand?"
"Let's drop the honeyed words and get to the heart of it," Sherlock rubs his chin with his free hand pensively. "What do I get in return?"
The woman drawls, and Sherlock can almost hear the confident smile on her face from her voice. "You get surveillance and protection from me, for the woman named Molly Hooper."
Sherlock's frown deepens, and for a while he does not respond.
"It's no surprise that you who choose Hooper as an alias would be connected to her somehow, isn't it?" the woman continues, tapping her gloved fingers idly on her elbows as she crosses her arms. "I don't know what she is to you, but I imagine you would like to keep her safe. I know the mastermind well enough to... sometimes change his mind on what he intends to do with his toys."
Sherlock ponders over the matter for a few more seconds, before he slowly lowers the revolver in his hand. "Information on one man. That's all I'll offer."
"And my only offer is to keep an eye on Molly Hooper and try to ensure her safety," the woman nods. "Though I think I like you well enough to offer one more free tip: don't touch those bodies without protection."
Sherlock glances at the bodies with a raised brow. "Done deal, then. Name of the man?"
The woman fishes a card from her robe pocket and hands it over. "Godfrey Norton."
-Day 8
Molly massages her temples wearily in her little jail-cell of a room.
Guy Fawkes has been working her and the others hard. They have been in the lab producing vials after vials of the solution for at least twelve hours a day, and at night she could hardly sleep. A mixture of happiness and despair boiled within her every time her head hit the pillow. She was ecstatic that those vials are being produced, and yet more of her hope was lost every day on whether these vials would ever fall into the right hands.
Presently she sits at her desk, on which an old computer - still Windows XP - and a scanner have been placed at her request. She sifts through her numerous sketches of dancing Mollies, trying to subdue a growing headache by sheer willpower.
A click sounds at the door, and Guy Fawkes enters, wearing that mocking smile as usual. "Are you done for the day, little lamb?"
Molly has just finished feeding the last sheet into her scanner and nods without the heart to utter a word. Guy Fawkes strides, evidently contently, and swipes the sheets from her hands.
"You're a peculiar one," his slick voice points out, as his slender fingers flip through the pages. "Not a bad artist, but I am beginning to wonder at my assessment of your bravery. All these messages you've been posting online lately have been rather meaningless. Not even funny enough to get a chuckle out of me. Have I misjudged you, darling, or have you still got something else up your sleeve?"
"How - " Molly's eyes suddenly widen, and she stares at him, face ashen.
Guy Fawkes laughs. "I read your little diary, too, remember? Dear Antirealist. Unusual enough for me to remember. Your first post on that blog a few days ago was quite enough to get me started on decoding these dancing figures. And you've posted nothing but rubbish since then. I'm getting bored. I'm waiting for you to surprise me, dear, and if you disappoint me..."
He lifts her chin slowly with a finger, and a trembling Molly can hear his smirk. "You can imagine the rest."
His laugh echoes in the room as he turns his heels and heads for the door. "Oh, and don't try anything too funny with that computer, like we first negotiated. You can imagine what will happen to you if you do that, too."
Molly bites her lip and stares at the door for a long while after he is gone, before she allows herself to breathe a little sigh of relief.
He doesn't yet understand. It's not yet over.
[1]: Factory facts are completely fictional; the existence of Y1 tobacco as well as its controversy in late 20th century are not.