A Silent Game
The Answering Silence
Sitting in the back of the cab, Sherlock turned to Rose. "1989, young kid, champion swimmer, came up from Brighton for a school sport tournament, drowned in the pool. Tragic accident. You wouldn't remember it; even if you did hear about it." He showed her his phone, the screen showing a news article. "Might be before your time." He told her, thinking he was still too young to say such a phrase.
"But you remember it." She stated, knowing the answer.
"Yes." He took his phone back.
"Something a bit off about it?"
"Nobody thought so." He said, mind half in the past. "Nobody except me. I was only a kid myself. I read about it in the papers."
She tried to picture a younger Sherlock Holmes, only coming up with the idea of a very small child with dark curls, running around crazily, wreaking havoc in his bid to understand the world. She couldn't imagine the man having had a childhood. She frowned. "Started young, didn't you?"
He ignored the question though. "The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out, it was too late. There was something wrong somewhere. I couldn't get it out of my head."
Rose thought back to Jim and just how wrong he seemed to be. She couldn't get the wrongness out of her mind either, simply putting it to the side for later. She could understand where Sherlock was coming from. "What was it?"
Sherlock turned to her after having looked outside the back window, restless in his movements, unable to stay still for very long. "His shoes."
She just frowned a little more in confusion. "What about them?"
"They weren't there." Sherlock sighed, looking a little defeated. "I made a fuss. Tried to get someone to listen, to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important." He paused for a moment. "He'd left all of the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes."
Sherlock picked up the plastic evidence bag, looking at the shoes again. Rose watched him, muttering, "Until now."
John slid the kitchen door open, poking his head in. He saw Sherlock looking at several news articles, as well as various other papers. Rose was sat next to him doing the same. "Can I help?" He was really starting to worry now, not liking having a persons life on the line should they fail. "I want to help. There's only five hours left." He slipped his hand into his pocket as his phone beeped, distracting him momentarily.
Any developments? MH
John looked to the man, lifting his phone up slightly. "It's your brother." He told him. "He's texting me now. How did he even know my number?" The ex-army doctor was a little puzzled at this, and a little more unnerved.
"Just go with it, John." Rose suggested, smiling slightly at the confused doctor.
"Must be a root canal." Sherlock muttered, ignoring her words.
John slipped into the kitchen after pocketing his phone again. "Look, he did say national importance."
Sherlock found himself oddly amused. "Hm! How quaint!"
"What is?" Asked John, not knowing what Sherlock was talking about.
"You are. Queen and Country." Sherlock paid no mind for such things, they barely affected him after all.
Rose knew that John would take his words to be an unintended insult and said, "Sherlock…" in a quiet, warning voice. It was definitely a habit of hers now to give the Consulting Detective a bit of a warning when he went a little too far with something and needed to be pushed back - not that he listened to her most of the time anyway.
"You can't just ignore it." John said in a hard voice, ignoring Sherlock's comments.
"I'm not ignoring it." Retorted the man, still not looking up. "I'm putting my best worker on it right now."
"Good." Said John, huffing slightly and crossing his arms.
Rose however became immediately suspicious. "And who would that be, pray tell."
Ten minuets later, John sat at the table - having taken Rose's seat - with a cup of tea in hand, turning to pick up where his female flatmate left off. She had left the flat a few minuets before hand, quickly catching a cab to the office of Mycroft Holmes.
"Why did you send Rose to deal with Mycroft?" He asked after a minute.
Sherlock didn't look up as he answered, but John still heard the humour in his voice. "I work better when working with you and she works better when she knows what she's doing. Besides, I'm sure she will have far more fun there than she will here."
John frowned, not missing the insinuation, but not wanting to jump to conclusions at the same time. "I'm missing something here, aren't I?"
Sherlock just looked up, mischief in his eyes. "They have a little game going, it seems."
John just chuckled, shaking his head at his friends actions, hoping she knew what she was getting herself into.
Rose sat in the obviously expensive and professional office, at least feeling that she looked the part.
Before leaving the flat she had decided to change her outfit. She was now sat in a very comfy chair, wearing one of her two low cut, black work shirts, a pair of soft, black trousers and a pair of shiny, black ankle boots, giving her another four inches to her height. Her brown hair was tied back so that it fell thickly down her back and her coat was over the back of the chair she sat on, a plain black handbag sitting next to her, leaning against the chair leg.
Letting out a small breath, she decided that she had missed wearing nice clothes, having gotten used to wearing casual jeans and t-shirts for the past year or two. She knew she was going to have to get some form of uniform for when she was working - which was likely to be most days - and now she knew what she was going to look for. She could even get some of the shirts in some different colours, maybe green or blue. She may even be adventurous and find a dark red one.
She was pulled out of her thoughts of shopping and clothes by a door opening.
"Miss Spencer, how nice!" Mycroft said, walking through the door, heading towards his desk, looking at some papers in his hands. "I was hoping it wouldn't be long. How can I help you?"
She slipped a note pad and a pen out of her bag, resting the pad of paper on her right knee as she folded it over her left. "Well, as much as I would love for this to be a social call, Mr Holmes, Sherlock sent me to get some more facts about the stolen missile plans." She told him confidently, the ghost of a smirk on her lips.
Mycroft turned to face her as he heard her words. He saw she was dressed smartly, yet still somehow distracting him just that little bit. He smirked slightly. "Did he?" He asked in a low tone of voice.
"Yes, he did." She replied, mimicking his tone. Mycroft turned and leaned against his desk, rubbing his mouth slightly as he did so. She turned her tone lighter again, leaning back in her chair slightly, pen in hand, ready to take notes. "I was just wondering what else you could tell me about the dead man."
Mycroft took in a deep breath of air, thinking over all the information he had read about the man. Crossing his arms, he relayed it back to her. "27 years old. Clerk at Vauxhall Cross. MI6" He smiled as she took the notes quickly, trying - and succeeding - to keep up with the man. "He was involved in the Bruce-Partington Program in a minor capacity. Security checks a-okay. No known terrorist affiliations or sympathies. Last seen by his fiancée at ten thirty yesterday evening."
"He was found at Battersea, right? So, he got on the train…" She trailed off, thinking CCTV somewhere must have picked him up.
"No." Replied Mycroft, making her frown slightly.
"What?" That doesn't make sense…
"He had an oyster card…" Explained the man, rubbing the side of his mouth again. Ten points to the Consulting Detective, she thought absently as he carried on talking. "…but it hadn't been used."
"He must have bought a ticket then." She argued, still not understanding how the man got to where he was found.
"There was no ticket on the body." Mycroft retorted, only confusing her more.
"Then..." She couldn't see how he got there. Good place to start then, she thought.
"Then how did he end up with a bashed-in brain on the tracks at Battersea?" He continued cheerfully. "That is the question. One I was rather hoping Sherlock would provide the answer to." He turned serious then. "How's he getting on?"
She heard the seriousness in his voice, but also caught the underlying concern for his little brother that Mycroft held. It made her smile slightly, reminding her of her own brothers. "He's fine. Working as hard as always. I'm sure the case will be solved in no time." She said, confidence still running in her voice, even though she knew Sherlock wasn't focused on this particular case at all. She slipped the cover over the note book again, slipping both it and her pen into her bag again.
Mycroft watched her carefully as she picked up her bag, folding her coat over an arm. He was looking out for her next move in their little game they had going. "I will see you soon then, my dear. Do keep me updated on the progress of the case."
"Of course." She said, but as she did, a flash of pain shot through his damned tooth again. He winced as he tried to suppress it. She caught his movement though.
"Aww…" She said quietly, a look of sympathy on her face. It was practically mocking. Before he had a chance to give some sort of retort however, she approached him. He became very aware of his slightly elevated heart rate as she placed a hand on his chest, thumb skimming the material of his suit slightly as she moved it back and forth.
Seeing his eyes widen slightly, she inwardly smiled at her sudden idea. She leaned in closely, placing a feather light kiss on his cheek, right over where he had been rubbing his mouth in pain earlier. As she pulled back, she smiled, not needing to be a mind reader to know that he was more than a little surprised at her boldness. Hides it well though, she admitted, still seeing the emotion in his eyes.
"I do hope your tooth gets better soon, Mr Holmes." She said with a smug smile.
He just gave her a smirk in return. "You need not concern yourself, my dear."
She flashed him a smirk before turning her back to him, heading out of the door. Before she left, however, she called back to him, not bothering to turn around. "Until next time, Mr Holmes."
As the door closed with a small noise, Mycroft chuckled slightly, shaking his head and moving to sit at his desk. He knew it was illogical and made no sense at all, but his tooth actually felt a little better than before. His mind once again drifted to the young woman, and he started to wonder if he was enjoying their little game a little too much.
As she walked into the living room of 221B, she checked her phone for the time, seeing that they only had a few hours left. She frowned, pushing aside the worry again, finding it a little harder to do this time. She just managed though, shaking herself of the negative and practically useless emotion.
"Poison!" Came a shout from the kitchen, followed by a loud bang.
She frowned, hearing it was Sherlock. "Sherlock ,what are you shouting about now?" She asked as she walked into the kitchen, not bothering to take off her heels.
"Clostridium Botulinum." He turned to her, looking to John next who was sat at the table, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet." He got only confused looks from them. "Carl Powers." He insisted, not really explaining properly.
Rose did what she could though. "Are you saying he was murdered?"
He got up, going over to a line of string which had the shoes - having been taken apart - pegged up carefully. She followed him as he talked. "Remember the shoe laces?" She hummed in agreement. "The boy suffered from eczema. It would be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication." He moved around the table, passing John and going to stand in front of his laptop. "Two hours later, he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles and he drowns."
John though for a moment though. "How come the autopsy didn't pick that up?"
"It's virtually undetectable. Nobody would have been looking for it." Sherlock said, before turning to his laptop and typing something into his website. "There's still tiny traces of it left inside the inside of the trainers from where he put the cream on his feet." He pressed enter and stood up straight again. "That's why they had to go."
"So, how do we let the bomber know?" John asked, thinking about the hostage again.
"Get his attention. Stop the clock." Sherlock said, indicating to the laptop. Rose frowned and went to read what he had typed.
FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978 - 1989).
Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221b Baker St.
"The killer kept the shoes all these years…" She muttered, mind racing as the pieces of the puzzle came together.
"Yes." Sherlock said lowly, thinking along the same track.
"But that means-" John started, Sherlock cutting him off.
"He's our bomber." Sherlock's hand flew to answer the pink cased phone on the side as it rang out, Rose and John unknowingly holding their breath.
Again they heard the sobbing woman on the other end of the line before she spoke. "Well d-d-done you. Come and get me." Her voice steadied out a little at the end, sounding surprised that she could say such a thing.
"Where are you?" Sherlock asked. "Tell us where you are."
Ten minuets later, the three of them were sat in the living room, each with their respective hot beverages in hand, each in their respective places of comfort, Rose with added cigarette in hand. They had sent the police to retrieve the woman, they would deal with her now.
Flicking ash into a tray, Rose spoke up. "So, what now?"
"Now we wait." Sherlock answered. "The bomber's bound to call again."
"Right…" She replied. A few minutes later, she had finished her drink and her cigarette and stood up, taking her bag with her, thinking she could look over the notes of the West case before she turned in for the night. "I'll see you both in the morning then."
"Make sure to get up early enough to go to the yard. We need to speak with Lestrade." Sherlock told her, not looking up from where ever he was staring off to.
"Alright." She said, thinking that sleep would be a much better plan now. "G'night guys."
"Night." John called as she turned away, mind already getting ready for a heavy session of slumber.