The Silent Game
Silent Impatience
Sitting in Lestrade's office, Sherlock adopted his thinking position, watching the criminal woman closely who was sat in front of Lestrade, Rose standing in the doorway, watching them all in silence.
"You know, it's interesting." Sherlock started. "Bohemian stationary, an assassin named after a Prague legend, and you, Miss Wenceslas. This whole case had a distinctly Czech feeling about it. Is that where this leads?" With no response, Sherlock continued looking at the woman, but was now talking to Lestrade. "What are we looking at, Inspector?"
Lestrade thought for a second, knowing what Sherlock was trying to do. "Well, criminal conspiracy, fraud, accessory after the fact, at the very least. The murder of the old woman, all the people in the flat…"
"I didn't know anything about that!" She cried, snapping under the pressure of such responsibility. "All those things, please, believe me." Rose saw Sherlock nod to Lestrade; she was telling the truth. "I just wanted my share. The 30 million." She looked between the two men and Rose saw the defeat in her posture. The woman sighed heavily. "I found a little old man in Argentina. A genius - I mean, really. Brushwork, immaculate. Could fool anyone." Sherlock just hummed in response as the younger woman raised an eyebrow. "Well, nearly anyone." She rephrased. "But I didn't know how to go about convincing the world the picture was genuine. It was just an idea. A spark which he blew into a flame."
"Who?" Sherlock said sharply, head snapping away from the window where he had turned in his boredom.
"I don't know." She said. Lestrade laughed at her though, not believing her words. Rose frowned at the action; she still seemed to be telling the truth by her eyes. "It's true! It took a long time but eventually I was put in touch with people. His people…" Sherlock sat up at this point, interest spiking. "Well, there was never any real contact. Just messages…whispers."
"And did those whispers have a name?" Sherlock asked, almost spitting the words out in his attempt to get an answer.
The woman looked to Lestrade, trying to get some reassurance of her safety; the sharp featured man was scaring her. She opened her mouth to speak, trying to say something, but couldn't. She just nodded, closing her mouth again, trying to find some courage.
"Moriarty." She eventually said, her accent thick, the word sending a chill down Rose's spine in remembrance of the last time she had heard someone else utter the name.
Rose's phone beeped then, telling her that she had a message. As Sherlock leant back in his chair, she took out the devise and looked at the screen, sighing heavily at the words it showed.
My patience is wearing thin, my dear.
Mycroft Holmes
"Sherlock, I've got to go." She told the man lost in his thoughts, getting no response. She looked to Lestrade then, knowing he was far more likely to listen. "Call me if you need anything, yeah?"
"Alright." He replied, looking between a thinking Sherlock and a tired looking Rose.
He could never understand how she could still function all the time, always working and thinking; he knew Sherlock must have kept her awake most nights with either theories, experiments or simply his damned violin. As he watched her leave he felt a familiar sensation of pride in the young woman; she did so much and made it look easy and Greg knew from just working with the madman genius that working with him and living with him is far from the fact.
"So this is where West was found, right?" Rose asked the railway worker as they walked towards the tracks.
"Yeah." He replied. "You gonna be long?"
"Might be, yeah." She replied a little distractedly, trying not to loose her footing on the gravel ground; heels and gravel really didn't play well together.
"Are you the police, then?" He asked, looking her over briefly.
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. No one ever believed her to be working with the police; she looked too young and simply not the type. "Sort of."
"I hate 'em." He said sharply.
She frowned slightly, wondering if he was going to be difficult. "The police?"
"Nah, jumpers." He clarified, sounding confused as to how she could have not understood him the first time. "People who chuck 'emselves in front of trains. Selfish bastards."
Rose was glad that he wouldn't be difficult but didn't quite know what to say to his comments. "Well, that's one way of looking at it, I suppose."
"I mean it." He told her. "It's alright for them. It's all over in a split second, strawberry jam all over the lines. What about the drivers, eh? They've got to live with it, haven't they?"
As the man waffled on, Rose frowned, thinking on his words; strawberry jam all very the lines. But the lines are practically clean, of blood anyway. She double checked though, running a finger over the metal of one of the lines, finding only a bit of grime of her fingertips.
"Speaking of strawberry jam, there's no blood on the lines. Has it been cleaned off?" She asked, wondering if someone could give her a decent answer.
"No, there wasn't that much." The man replied as she stood up again.
She frowned at this. "But you said his head was smashed in."
The man nodded. "It was, but there wasn't that much blood."
"Okay…" She said, frowning, looking back to the lines, mind thinking of possible solutions.
The man saw he probably wasn't needed anymore and threw a thumb over his shoulder. "I'll leave you too it, then. Just give us a shout when you're off."
"I will." She replied absently, not looking up to him.
Okay, she started to think, putting the facts in order.
Andrew west got on the train. Or did he? There was no ticket on the body… but how did he get here then?
A small metallic screech sounded then as the lay lines crossed over. She watched the metal move, frowning as she did so. The points!
But the blood. There would have been a lot of blood when he was killed, but there was barely any blood on the tracks. So it would be logical to say that he wasn't killed here then. But where?
Her phone went off then, announcing that she had a text. Hoping it wasn't Mycroft again, she opened the message, raising an eyebrow in question.
21 Saltram Crescent
Don't do anything I wouldn't do!
SH
"Ah, brilliant…" She muttered, pocketing the devise and heading back to find a cab once more. Looks like it's house braking time again.
On her way to the mystery address, Rose thought about other relevant facts; like the missile plans. She was sure that, had they left the country, Mycroft would have heard about it and since she had not been told about it, she would think it safe to conclude that they hadn't left the country. But why? There would probably be a fair few buyers for that kind of information so the person in possession of them can't know what to do with such a thing.
She was broken from her thoughts by the cabbie. "Here we are, love."
Glancing at the meter, she handed him a few notes and got out. "Thanks!" She called to him, closing the door behind her, looking up and down the street, looking at the numbers on the houses to find where number 21 would be. She had gotten out of the cab a little way away, just to be sure she wasn't seen so easily.
Having found the right house, she looked around conspicuously, putting both hands in her pockets, pulling her coat tighter around her waist, feeling the gun in the back of her trousers press into her lower back.
Jogging up the steps to the house, she scanned the windows, finding no movement inside. Now how do I get in? She saw there was a welcome mat and looked under it, finding a spare key.
When will people learn? She thought, opening the door and stepping inside, closing it once more, all without making so much as a whisper of a noise. She held still for a moment, listening to see if anyone was actually inside, but on hearing nothing but her own breathing, she moved up the stairs, going through a doorway and finding herself in a living room.
Looking around she went to the window, hearing a train going past it. Looking down a little, she saw tiny specs on the off-white window sill. Taking out her magnifying glass - smiling slightly at the sight of it - holding it over the small dots, finding they were a dark scarlet colour.
Blood.
She smirked slightly, she had found their killer. But why kill him?
Just then she heard the front door open again. "Shit." She whispered, pocketing the magnifying glass once more and taking out the gun, keeping it just behind her thigh and out of sight.
She crept forward on her tiptoes so as to not let her heels click on the floor, tuning the corner to see down the hall way again. She saw a familiar man, just about to pick up his bike. As he did though he saw her and picked it up almost over his head, about to run at her. She raised the gun though, aiming at him with an almost steady hand.
"Don't even try it." She told him in a firm voice. He froze at the sight of the gun, eyes going wide. He brought the bike down again slowly.
"Let's talk about this…" He said, suddenly changing his tune, eyes not leaving the gun.
"Yes, let's." She replied calmly, not lowing her own weapon. "So put the bike down on the floor and we'll go sit down, eh?"
He did as he was told and she moved aside to let him into the living room. As he sat on the sofa, hands on his knees and eyes on the floor, she stood by the doorway, gun in her pocket but her hand still holding it, ready for it to be drawn at a moments notice.
"So." She started.
"He wasn't meant to…" He started shakily, eyes still not looking up. "What's Lucy gonna say? Jesus…"
"Let's start with something simple, then. Why did you kill him?" Rose asked, all business, voice as blank as she could make it.
"It was an accident. I swear it was." He told her, looking up, pleading eyes meeting cold blue ones.
"But stealing the plans for the missile defence program wasn't an accident, now was it?" She replied, voice sharp. She may have a gun but intimidation still worked well enough when interviewing people. She was rewarded with a slight flinch and his head dropping again.
"I started dealing drugs." He explained. "I mean, the bike thing's a great cover, right? I don't know how it started. I just got out of my depth. I owed people thousands. Serious people. Then at Westie's engagement do, he starts talking about his job." He looked up to meet her eyes again, trying to get her to understand. "I mean, usually he's so careful. But that night, after a few pints, he really opened up. He told me about these missile plans. Beyond top secret. He showed me the memory stick, he waved it right in front of me."
"And you thought, why not?" Rose stated.
"You hear about these things getting lost, ending up on rubbish tips and what not. And there it was. And I thought…well, I thought it could be worth a fortune. It was pretty easy to get the thing off him, he was so plastered. The next time I saw him, I could tell by the look on his face that he knew."
Rose took in a deep breath. "So, what happened?"
"We got into a bit of a shoving match, he went down the steps out front. I was gonna call an ambulance, but it was too late. I just didn't know what to do. So I dragged him in 'ere. I just sat in the dark, thinking."
Rose's eyes darted over to the window ledge. "And then a neat little idea popped into your head."
"Took him out onto the ledge." He explained. "Put him on one of the trains."
"Literally, on the train." She replied. "He would have gone on for ages if the train hadn't hit a stretch of track with curves and points."
"Exactly." Joe whispered.
"Do you still have it, then - the memory stick?" She asked after a second. He nodded. "Fetch it for me, please. If you wouldn't mind."
He waited a second, then pulled himself up off the sofa, crossing the room. Rose watched him carefully, pondering what to do next.
Making up her mind, she took out her phone and called Lestrade.
"Lestrade."
"Just me." She said into the receiver. "Is he there?"
"Yeah, wanna talk to him?" He asked, knowing that if she wanted to talk to him, calling the man himself would be useless.
"No, just checking in. Just tell him he was right." Rose asked of the DI.
"Yeah, I will. You coming to get him or should I just send him home?" Lestrade asked, his words making Rose smile internally.
"I ain't his mother, he can do what he wants. I'm going home after this though." She informed him.
"Alright." She heard him sigh then. "He's just sent a couple of my officers somewhere."
"If they've listened to him, it's probably here. I'll meet them, then be off." She explained.
Joe had walked up to stand in front of her by now, holding up a small, black memory pen, red stripe down the side. She took it off of him, taking her hand off of the gun for a split second before pocketing the small devise and replacing her hand where it was, nodding over to the sofa.
After her phone call with Lestrade, Rose had only had to wait for a couple of minuets before the officers showed up. They both knew her and why she was there, having worked with her before. As she explained the situation outside - Joe having been cuffed and taken to a police car - Rose lit up. By the time she had finished her cigarette, she had explained everything and was well on the way to the main road to catch a cab back to 221B.
Going through the front door, she was once again reminded the nether Joe nor John would be there; the thought brought her mood down again. She went to her own room, taking off her coat and changing into a comfy t-shirt for the night, planning on just relaxing until the next day.
She also took everything out of her coat pockets, laying it all out on her made up bed; half a packet of cigarettes and her lighter, the gun, the memory pen, some spare change and her mobile phone. After slipping her mobile into her trouser pocket, she unloaded the gun once again and put into the back of her trousers and it's ammo into another pocket.
Turning back to the bed, her gaze fell on the memory pen; she should give it to Sherlock, but she didn't quite want to. She didn't know why. Sitting on the bed, she thought about it, coming to an unsurprising conclusion not much later; she didn't trust him with it.
The thought made her frown deeply. She wanted to trust him and it's not like she had a choice about things, he was her boss. The again, she did know Sherlock and knew what he was capable of. She sighed deeply, lighting up another cigarette as she lay back on her bed, thinking about trust and her unpredictable friend and flatmate.
Sherlock walked into the living room only to find it empty of both his flatmates. Rose should have beaten him home by now though so he concluded that she was most likely in her room.
He checked his experiments, then his email, finding nothing that caught his interest. So he decided to simply think about what could happen next in the case of the bomber.
He had just thrown himself in his chair when he heard Rose coming up the stairs, her door shutting quietly just seconds before.
He watched her as she walked in the room, raising her hand about to throw something to him. He raised his own hand and caught it easily as she said, "Here, you can give it back to Mycroft. I'm too tired to deal with him at the moment."
Sherlock caught the small piece of plastic and pocketed it swiftly, glancing over his flatmate quickly as she took the gun from her trousers and put it on the desk, taking a handful of ammo and putting it in one of the draws, placing the gun in after it. She had bags under her eyes, which were half closed and she seemed to be a little heavier than usual. He frowned inwardly; she was never this tired, maybe the case was getting too much for her.
He sighed, looking off into the distance and away from the young woman as she went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea for herself. It was then that he thought about his other flat mate and realised he hadn't seen the doctor for some hours. "Where's John?" He asked.
"Gone to Harry's for a few days." Was the reply he got. "He should be back soon though."
Sherlock just hummed in reply, hands coming together under his chin. Rose came back into the room then, cup of tea in hand. Heading for the desk, she took a slight detour and picked up her laptop from the side of the sofa, noting Sherlock's slightly longer exhale of breath; the only indication that he had still not been able to guess the password to the folding devise.
An hour or two passed before any more noise was made from either of them apart from the clicking of the laptop keyboard. The sound was that of Sherlock shouting at the television that Rose had turned on to keep him a little more occupied when she had noticed his hand getting a little restless, his index finger making the motion of pulling a trigger. "No, no, no! Of course he's not the boys father." The madman was shouting at the flickering box of light. "Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!"
The sudden out burst made Rose jump slightly, though the content of it made her smile a little. "Knew it was dangerous…." She muttered.
"Hm?" Sherlock hummed in question.
"Getting you to watch crap telly." She explained.
Sherlock just sniffed. "Not a patch on Connie Prince."
Rose just chuckled. "Still waiting for it, you know."
"Waiting for what?" Sherlock asked, brain automatically wracking it's seemingly endless supply of data to try to get ahead of the conversation. He didn't get anywhere.
"For you to admit that a little knowledge of the solar system and you would have cleared up the fake painting business a little bit quicker." She said, still not looking away form the screen of her laptop.
"Didn't do you any good, did it?" Was the snarky reply she had gotten in response.
"No." She replied lightly, hitting the power button on the laptop. "But then again, I'm not the worlds only consulting detective."
"True, but you are his assistant." Sherlock retorted, always trying to get the last word.
Rose just chuckled again, rubbing her ribs as they ached slightly once more. Closing the laptop she got up and went to take it back to the side of the sofa. "Going out for a bit; we are nearly out of milk and I might actually want some cereal tomorrow morning. If we have time that is."
Sherlock frowned slightly. "You never have breakfast."
Rose smirked as she debated a coat or not; it was true. She barely ever had breakfast, never mind cereal. Though she did like cereal once in a blue moon and liked to have the choice non the less. "That's why I said might." She said, deciding that she wouldn't be that long.
Sherlock just hummed slightly again, turning back to the television screen, hearing as his flat mates steps sounded down the stairs and out of the front door. He waiting two seconds before grabbing his own laptop off the coffee table and turning it on, logging it and going to his web page.
Clicking to update his blog he typed in a message, knowing that the bomber he was contacting would definitely be watching.
Found: The Bruce-Partington Plans. Please collect.
The pool. Midnight.
Hitting the send button, Sherlock smirked slightly at his plan. Then for the first time in a long time he had a thought; was he doing the right thing?
The consulting detective frowned; it would appear that he had developed some form of a conscience. He was now considering whether he should be doing this or not, if it was right to do it.
He knew John wouldn't approve of it. The good doctor had morals far too high to do such a thing… but then again, Sherlock Holmes wasn't John and John Watson wasn't Sherlock. They were two different men with two different outlooks on life, on what was right and wrong, on what was acceptable and unacceptable, on what should and shouldn't be done.
John isn't here though.
Sherlock frowned as his own mind fought back then; Rose is here.
What would Rose think? She would probably not agree to it either but she would certainly understand a lot better than John would.
After a surprisingly long time of five minuets, Sherlock frowned at the little USB pen he had taken out of his pocket, the two, thin green stripes standing out against the black of the little box of plastic and electrical data. Why was he even debating this? The message was sent, the cards had been dealt all that was left to do was to follow through and catch the bomber.
Wondering if he would regret it, Sherlock pushed himself off the chair, muttering a quiet, "hell," as he went, moving swiftly out of 221B, taking only one detour to the desk draw, heading to the pool to meet his biggest challenge yet - and his most interesting one.