Magpie: Two For Joy
Chapter Three: T minus 86 to 81
Author''s Note: A bumper chapter of 11,000 words to keep you going over the holiday. And please remember that in my stories, Sherlock's parents are dead, and very different from Cumberbatch's parents.
"How'd it go?"
Mary saw her reflection smirk in the mirror over the bathroom sink. She'd made a mental bet that John wouldn't be able to resist raising the question tonight. She responded with a cheery, "I think he's coming round to the idea. Just have to wait until he processes it all."
She heard a chuckle from John, who was getting into bed. "Yeah, it took him the best part of two minutes' worth of silent panic before he could get a word out when I asked him to be Best Man. I still think you are asking the impossible. If you really have talked him into doing this, then you are amazing."
"Of course I'm amazing. Why else would you be marrying me?" Mary went back to brushing her teeth, and neither she nor John raised the topic again for four days.
On the fifth day, the summons came- simultaneously, to both their phones, on their way home from the surgery. John managed to get his out before she located hers in the bottom of her handbag.
6.10pm If you are available, come to Baker Street. If you are unavailable, come anyway. SH
John frowned at his phone. "A bit of a command performance. He does know that it's a forty minute train and tube ride from here to there."
"Yeah- but what else were we going to do tonight? We're available."
"Sure?"
It had been a long day, and she seemed to have spent all of it on her feet, but the chance to find out if Sherlock had accepted her proposition was too strong- she had to go. "Yep. I'm sure."
John took her by the arm, and turned her around. "It'll be quicker if we walk to Tooting Bec station."
Although it was the rush hour, because they were going into London rather than escaping to the suburbs, it was possible to find seats on the tube. But, not together- two seats together on the underground were about as rare as hens' teeth. So Mary picked up an abandoned copy of the Evening Standard and flicked through it until she found the crossword. She kept an eye on John, across the carriage and six seats to the left. He just seemed to zone out. She knew he wasn't all that keen on the tube, after his experience in the tunnel under Westminster. Don't blame him.
But, at least that life-threatening episode had a known perpetrator who was, according to John, "no longer a threat to anyone." He'd been close-mouthed to her about the bomber's identity, and the press coverage had died down when no one had come forward to claim responsibility for a bomb that didn't go off. But, even without being told, she suspected that Mycroft knew, and Sherlock knew, and maybe John did, too. And the fact that none of the three seemed worried about it suggested that she could relax about that particular threat.
But no one had yet come up with a plausible suspect for the attempt to kill John by drugging him and then putting him into the bonfire. Whenever she raised it with John, he just grimaced. The one time she'd mentioned it to Sherlock, he'd just said tersely, "no idea." It worried her, constantly. In particular, it worried her that the person behind it had sent her the skip code. If it was just because Sherlock was back, then they would have sent the message to him. That she had been targeted was a real problem, and one she couldn't ignore.
When she allowed herself to stop to think about it, the incident raised all sorts of unpleasant questions that needed to be answered, and yet if they were answered, then those answers might compromise her current identity. It scared her, deeply. She had shed her past and wanted nothing more to do with it. But she was all too aware how precarious her current situation was. Her arrangement with Mycroft was clear- he would investigate her background more thoroughly if she tried to stand in the way of John and Sherlock re-establishing their relationship. So far, she'd felt no need- in fact, the reverse. She loved John when he was grieving for his friend. And she had watched with amazement as Sherlock's return brought her fiancé back to life, fully, in a way that she had not realised was possible. It healed a missing part of John, and she loved the new version even more than the previous one.
Luckily, Sherlock had so far respected her secrets. That he knew she was not all that she claimed to be was highly likely, yet the man had been very careful not to interfere, or to use that knowledge against her. But that did not mean she was home free. While the Morstan identity was a strong one, it certainly wasn't fool-proof. And neither Sherlock nor Mycroft were fools. It's like walking a tightrope. Sometimes, she was so frightened by it all that it was hard to keep moving forward.
When she and John arrived at Baker Street and he used his key to enter, Mary hoped that her scheme to have Sherlock plan the wedding would keep her balancing act going.
When they got into the living room, a quick glance showed it to be empty, so John went through the kitchen and down the hall. "Sherlock?" He stopped at the door to the bathroom and knocked. "You in the loo?"
A muffled "bath" was followed by a splash in answer.
John rolled his eyes. "If it's convenient, we're here as you asked. If it's inconvenient, tough. Get out and tell us what you wanted."
There was a chuckle that came from the bath, and the shared memory brought a smile to John's face too as he headed back to the living room.
Mary stood staring at the wall over the sofa, eyes wide with amazement. "I think this is a 'Yes', don't you?"
The wall had been neatly sectioned off- a series of printed labels were pinned up: guest list, church, reception venue, catering, transport, gifts, attire. Under each another set of colour-coded index cards, also labelled. Under church, there were cards marked denomination, vicar, flowers, order of service, music- entry, choir, music-exit, bell ringers, organist, photographer, ushers….There was a large map of the UK in the centre of the wall, and what looked like a Gantt chart timeline printed out on an A3 sheet just below it.
Mary just stood back, trying to take it all in. She smiled, as John came alongside her. She watched his face as he surveyed the wall, and caught a hint of discomfort under his bemusement.
John pointed at one label at the far right hand side of the wall. "Sex holiday? What's that?"
She giggled. "What he calls the honeymoon." John smothered a laugh.
She threaded her arm between his elbow and his side, pulling him closer to her, and was rewarded with a quiet whisper in her ear: "You are a bloody miracle worker, Mary Morstan. Who would have believed it?"
"Before he gets out, I need to say something." Mary turned to face John and held him in her arms. Keeping her voice low, she said, "Sherlock needs this, John. He needs to feel valued by you, and not just because of his crime solving skills. You're not with him on that many cases now, so he's got to get positive reinforcement from you for the wedding planning that he is doing for us. That means, however tedious you might think the details are…"
He shook his head, "not tedious."
"Hush…I know it's not your scene. But, by letting him be a part of it, and by you being willing to get involved, too, he'll come to realise that our getting married is okay. It won't change things between you two. So try to put a brave face on it, please? For his sake?"
As they heard the sound of bare feet coming down the corridor and into the kitchen, John raised his voice, so he would be heard. "Sherlock Holmes, Wedding Planner…well, if the cases ever dry up, you've found a second career."
"No. Only you. I would never, ever consider doing this for anyone else. I'd rather starve on the street." The baritone was smothered, sounding odd.
John turned to see what was going on, and realised that Sherlock was standing there in just a pair of trousers, bare-chested, his head covered in a towel that was being scrubbed vigorously to dry his hair.
Mary watched as a fond smile of bemusement blossomed on her fiancé's face. "Sherlock, you'll catch cold if you walk about the flat like that. Get something warmer on."
The towel was pulled aside and a tousled head peered out. "You said, if inconvenient..."
John laughed. "I was joking. Go finish dressing. We can wait."
"Don't blame me. You were twenty one minutes earlier than I anticipated, because you walked further in order to take the underground, rather than the train before changing to the tube."
Mary's eye's widened. "Have you been watching us? Picking up bad habits from your brother?"
Sherlock gave her a raised eyebrow. "Mycroft is lazy; he has minions to watch screens. I don't need CCTV; logic and your arrival time are enough for me to deduce your journey."
"So, why didn't you assume we'd take the quickest route? After all, your text made it sound like a command performance." John was still amused.
For a moment, the grey green eyes just looked at them both, as if slightly confused. "My text didn't say anything about speed; Mary's the one who's the procrastinator, so I was attempting to limit the possible excuses. And I assumed she wouldn't want to walk the extra distance; after all, a nurse's duties keep her on her feet most of the hours that you're sitting down. Or did you not think of that?"
As soon as he finished talking, the half-dressed man gave an involuntary shiver. There were goose-bumps on his arms.
Mary waved him back toward his bedroom. "Shoo- get warm. Open pore syndrome…"
"That's a myth. Tell her, John. Human pores aren't like doors- they don't open and close. They just are. Shouldn't you know that, as a medical professional?"
She grinned. "Nurse, not a doctor. All those anatomy classes are why he's paid more."
John intervened. "Whatever- go get the rest of your clothes on, and then come back and tell us about this."
By the time Sherlock returned, fully dressed and wearing his burgundy wool dressing gown as well, the pair had taken the straight chairs from the table between the windows and were sat side-by-side facing the wall and its labels.
For a moment, Sherlock paused on the threshold, feeling awkward. After being alone in the flat for almost three months, suddenly the living room felt crowded, almost alien to him. John was different when Mary was with him. He was acting as if he was a visitor, rather than someone who lived here. His body language, his whole demeanour was not what it had once been, even though the smile on John's face was encouraging. It made Sherlock's chest hurt, so he looked away and faced the wall, standing between the coffee table and the wall. He kept his back to the pair, acutely aware of their presence, but not willing to face it.
"Where do we start?" Mary's voice carried excitement and anticipation. Sherlock realised she was enjoying this, in almost exact mirror image of how much John was trying to feign enthusiasm, but not quite pulling it off.
For a moment, Sherlock started to turn to look at them again, to deduce what was behind the difference, to really let loose his observational skills on Mary. But the second that thought crossed his mind, a memory interjected-
"Don't you dare!"
In the living room of his Memory Palace, John sat in his proper chair, telling him how he had sabotaged his love life by deducing every one of his dates. "I won't have you do that to Mary, and that's final." John's anger that had greeted him on his return was still raw and open then. The demand had been delivered through clenched teeth, an ultimatum on the morning after John had been pulled from the bonfire. Between then and now, Sherlock had consciously avoided delving too deeply into Mary. This was his gift to John.
"Sherlock?" John's questioning tone cut through the wall of his Memory Palace and brought him back. He stopped his move, keeping them just on the edge of his peripheral vision, then stiffened his shoulders, and started.
"There are four questions that need answers today, because everything else depends on them. Of those four, one must be answered at the start. What is your budget?"
Mary smiled at John, as if waiting for him to answer.
"Um…we've set aside £5,000 pounds of what we've saved."
"Does that include the dress?"
Mary nodded. "All in, including the honeymoon."
Sherlock wrote this on an index card and stuck blue tack on the back. Then he stepped up onto the sofa and pushed the card into place at the far right. "That automatically limits the number of guests. What number have you in mind?"
"No more than fifty." John sounded quite firm about this.
Sherlock wrote that on a card and pinned it. "That limits the location. A lot of wedding venues will only accept a minimum number of guests- and that's usually one hundred."
He stepped back down off the sofa and faced them. "The next question is where- how far out from London are you willing to go?"
It was Mary's turn to answer. "It needs to be within an hour's drive or train ride from the centre- and close enough to a station that it isn't impossible to reach. Most of our friends in central London don't have cars. And it can't be so far out that people would have to stay overnight if they have families or can't afford it."
Sherlock turned to the map while flipping the cap off of a black magic marker. He leaned over the sofa to draw an almost perfect circle around London, just beyond the perimeter of the M25 that circled London.
"Date is the other issue. Saturdays are the most expensive, mid-week the least."
Mary was equally firm. "Got to be a Saturday; no disrespect intended to a Consulting Detective, but most of our friends work a nine to five, weekday job, so taking a day off to attend a wedding will cut into their limited holidays- and if they have kids, they can't take them out of school. So, a Saturday- in May."
Sherlock wrote "11 May" on one card and "18 May" on the other, then pinned them up under the budget and guest numbers on the far left.
In a puzzled tone, John remarked, "Last time I looked at a calendar, there were four Saturdays in May."
Sherlock smiled. "You see, but do not observe that calendar, John. The first and last Saturdays of May are Bank Holiday Weekends. Travel is congested, and these are prime vacation times for people, most of whom are looking to leave the UK for warmer climates. It's even worse for the last weekend- that's half term, schools are out, and if you want the parents to attend your wedding rather than heading for Gatwick airport en famile, then you need to avoid those dates."
Mary smirked. "You are a natural at this, Sherlock."
He sniffed. "There are supplementary questions. Perhaps it is easiest if I give you a choice between two things, and you tell me which you prefer."
John and Mary exchanged a puzzled look, but John shrugged and said "fire away."
"Church service or civil ceremony?"
"C of E or another denomination?"
"Sit down meal or buffet?"
"Traditional or modern?"
"Garden marquee or inside?"
"Hotel or historic building?"
"Afternoon reception only or an evening function, as well?"
He worked his way through what had been called the style questions, getting a feel for Mary's taste. Each answer made it onto an index card and was posted. For the most part, John seemed happy to let Mary take the lead.
"Vintage car or pony and trap?"
"String quartet or disco?"
Both John and Mary answered "Disco" at exactly the same time, and started laughing.
Sherlock put up another card up, muttering "No accounting for some people's taste."
As the questions were asked, answered, written out and then posted on the wall, part of Sherlock's mind disengaged from the present. He'd never understood the institution of marriage, based on the admittedly limited experience of observing that of his mother and father. For some reason, a memory took over.
"Why wouldn't you let me tell Mummy?"
He was nine. Mycroft's terse, "I told her. No need for you to get involved. You'll only make it worse. You don't understand how grown-ups feel about marriage. Father's reaction should have been a warning to avoid the topic. Instead, you just kept on, until he lost his temper."*
Sherlock sulked. "It wasn't my fault. And I don't understand what difference it makes whether Father has a girl friend or not. I still don't know why he got so angry." Unconsciously, he reached up and rubbed the side of his face, where the bruised purple was only just starting to fade, a week after the blow that had made them.
Mycroft saw his gesture and frowned. "It wasn't right that he hit you, no matter what you said, or how you said it. He has a temper; you know that but you forgot to follow the five steps I taught you."
The previous summer, Mycroft had given him a simple set of avoidance strategies, to avoid getting into trouble with his father. Sherlock didn't always understand when they should be used, or even why. So much of other people's behaviour was perplexing. Even Mummy's. She'd been relieved to find him when she got to Eton, but in the car on the way back to Parham, she'd taken him by the shoulders firmly and told him never, ever to run away from home again.
"I wasn't running away. I was running to Mycroft, because he'd be able to explain what I had done wrong, and find a way to stop Father from sending me away."
Mummy had cried then. He didn't understand why. And then the next morning, Mycroft had gone into Mummy's bedroom with her breakfast tray and they'd had a long talk. Sherlock had sat on the floor outside her door, trying to hear what they were saying. Whatever it was, it made Mummy cry even more. She'd stayed in her room for the rest of the day.
A lifetime later, he knew what he'd done. His revelation had shredded the last vestiges of their married relationship, bringing to light things that neither of them wanted to admit. Until then, they'd both been willing to turn a blind eye. Sherlock also knew, with the benefit of hindsight, that caring for him was what had taken his mother's eye off her relationship with her husband- something for which his father had never, ever forgiven him. But his father's infidelities – and his mother's willingness to accommodate them- made Sherlock cynical about why two people would continue to pretend that their relationship was worth preserving. Marriage remained something of a mystery to him- apart from being the motivation for quite a number of the crimes he had investigated. It was a rule of thumb for him to always suspect the boyfriend, the lover, but especially the husband. He wasn't gender-blind. If the victim was male, he'd look carefully at the wife or mistress, who was just as able to kill as their partner. Start there. Love makes people make the wrong decisions.
And the second most common motivation for crime was now staring him in the face, as he scanned the wall, and looked again at the one index card at the far left that read "£5,000". Money.
Sherlock capped his black magic marker and turned to face the couple for the first time. "You do realise that it is not possible to do all of this within the budget you've set?"
Mary giggled. "Probably not, but it's fun to think of what we would like if there were no constraints. Then when we have to cut our cloth to fit the budget, we can decide what to do without."
Sherlock sat down on the coffee table. "I'm not sure you understand. You clearly don't realise that the average cost of a wedding in the UK today is £20, 983 pounds. Ninety two guests is the average, and the average spend per guest is over two hundred pounds- that's just for the venue, food and drink. It doesn't include the wedding rings, the dress, the church fees, honeymoon and all that."
The look of shock on John's face told him what Sherlock had begun to suspect- he had no idea what the wedding would cost or involve. Mary's eyes were a bit wide, but then she smirked. "You're the genius. You'll figure it out."
Sherlock started to think about what his bank balance was, and what might be moved to increase the income from the Trust Fund. He'd have to talk to his brother.
John snapped. "No, Sherlock. Don't even think about using any of your money- or even Mycroft's. This is our show. Either we pay for everything, or it doesn't happen." Then realising what he'd said could be misunderstood, he hastened to add "…at least not in the way that it would if money were not an issue."
That caveat made it a challenge. Not insurmountable, but definitely more challenging. He would need to call a lot of favours in. Sherlock turned around to survey the wall.
"I need to think. You should go away now."
John cleared his throat, "Ah, no. I was thinking about ordering some take-away and then we could all have a bite to eat."
Sherlock wouldn't turn around. He waved his hand behind him, dismissively. "You know I don't eat on a case."
"But you aren't on a case now. You wouldn't have interrupted the real Work for this, so you can join us." John sounded determined.
He shook his head. "This is a case, John. If you won't let me solve it with money, then it is going to take some real thinking."
John shook his head. "We'll just do what everyone else on a limited budget does. Go to our local church, and hire a room over a nearby pub. It won't cost the earth."
Sherlock had turned to see John deliver this pragmatic response. In his peripheral vision, he could see Mary make a face of disgust. He thought about her expectations not being met, and wondered what effect that would have on the married life of John Watson. His friend had made his choice, and Sherlock needed to do more than just honour that choice; it was incumbent on him to help the couple start their married life without disappointment. He had disappointed John enough; if he could do something now, then that would be what John would call a bit good.
So, he turned back to the board with renewed determination. "John, you can put it on your blog as "the best possible wedding" case. Go away; I need to think. Why not go to Angelo's? Tell him I sent you -that way you won't be spending money that you should be saving for this."
Mary piped up, "What a good idea! We haven't eaten out properly in ages; come on, John." She got up and reached for the coats that had been hung on the peg alongside Sherlock's Belstaff.
Sherlock tuned them out, and started to mentally map which of the index cards could be matched with the names of people who owed him favours. There were advantages to not accepting payment for solving most cases- it created a sense of obligation. He barely registered the sound of their departure, but as soon as the front door clunked shut, he started writing on yellow sticky notes. Better they didn't know; John had peculiar ideas about pride. He would want to think that they had paid a proper amount. The balancing act would be hard to maintain- but not impossible. He'd honed his deception skills whilst undercover as Lars Sigursson; now he would have to channel those, whilst still being Sherlock Holmes. An interesting case, this one.
oOo
12 hours later…
"The murderer hit him in the throat, probably with an elbow, certainly hard enough to shatter the hyoid bone and the thyroid cartilage, driving fragments of both into the internal carotid artery. He would have been unconscious in seconds, bled out in minutes….if he didn't choke on the blood first. Belt and braces- the work of a professional."
Greg Lesdrade could see that blood- it was everywhere - on the throat and around the head of the body of a young man, whose clothes suggested office worker, middle manager. Even in the dawn's early light, there was enough contrast to see the dark coagulating blood pool in the empty carpark.
"The blow caught him by surprise. Only time to raise his arm in defence." Sherlock lifted the right arm of the victim, and Greg could see the broken bone- a compound fracture of the forearm, from the odd angle that it was showing through the waterproof jacket.
"Given body's still just warm, this is recent- within the last ninety minutes." Sherlock was now examining the man's hands.
"The owner of the Curtains and Blinds unit across Argall Way had called in the crime at 6.32." It was now just after seven. Sally Donovan was bundled up, with a hat, scarf and gloves, trying to keep warm by stamping her booted feet. "No ID, no effects in his pockets. Could this be a body dump?"
Sherlock snorted. "Your skills are deteriorating, Sergeant- not with that amount of blood. He was killed here, after meeting someone."
Greg looked around. The light industry park on the edges of Hackney Wick was park of the ongoing development of the Lea Valley- a legacy of the 2012 Olympics. Sally said, "This isn't a derelict area. Someone should have seen the murder, or the body if it had been lying here for even a short time."
Sherlock shook his head. "You are not thinking straight. Go stand at the roundabout and look at the entrance to this car park- where a car would pass."
Annoyed, the Detective Sergeant did what she was told, and when she turned to look back, Sherlock called out, "Squat down to a driver's position."
Watching Sally follow the instruction- and disappear from view, Greg realised what Sherlock meant. The verge surrounding the car park on the corner of the roundabout was overgrown- a few shrubby evergreens, interspersed with ivy were just high enough to obscure the body. So, if no one was actually parked in the car park, it was likely to have escaped notice from the road.
How does he do that? It still amazed Greg at how quickly Sherlock would see all of the angles at a crime scene. It took trained Forensic Examiners ages, using computer generated imagery and sometimes even laser lights to clarify angles of sight. The two who were working the scene had scarcely had time to get the crime scene tapes in place and start taking fingerprints and DNA swabs of the blood. As ever, Sherlock seemed to be working on a faster time clock than any of the professional services. This morning, the Consulting Detective seemed wound up tight, almost ticking with urgency.
He glanced back to where Sherlock was continuing his explanation. "The killer chose this spot well. Unlikely to have anyone parked here overnight from a Sunday, and limited traffic coming in this morning at this hour. This is an overspill carpark- most of the workers in early will find spaces at their units. So, the killer would have expected to have until 7.30 or 8 to get away." He looked up and pointed right and then left. "No CCTV either. Why bother, most of the units have their own. Also, because the roads in the industrial estate are private, no traffic cameras either. A perfect choice- again, made by a professional."
If Sherlock's terse assessment made him sound like a professional who looked for places and opportunities to get away with murder, Greg decided not to comment on it. He had no idea what Sherlock had actually gotten up to on his two years away- not the details, anyway. The DI's imagination had given him enough to think about when he'd seen the scars of Sherlock's back. He knew that Sherlock before his fall could give as good as he got, and the man who returned had not hesitated to get into a boxing ring with people who fought by the bare minimum of rules.** Right now, the tight shoulders and taut temper of the Consulting Detective reminded him a bit of those times. He's grumpy and looking for a fight.
Sherlock stood up and flipped up the collar of his Belstaff against the stiff breeze. He walked over to a pothole in the carpark, bending down to get his eyes close to the crumbling edge of the tarmac. He slid open the pocket magnifier and looked carefully. Greg went over to see what had caught his eye.
When the Consulting Detective stood up again, he said just one word. "Motorcycles."
"Motorcycles?"
Sherlock gave him an odd look. "Yes- motorcycles- that is, two bikes, with distinctive tread patterns. A rendezvous that didn't work out for one of the bikers. It was planned in advance because the killer came with someone riding pillion."
Sally had returned to the two men and was looking rather askance at Sherlock. "I get how you could figure out tyre treads in the pothole edge. But how do you know they were put there by the killers?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Anyone turning in this car park is going to hit that pothole. By the end of rush hour, the car park will be full and the tyre treads will have been obliterated. So, last ones in the carpark were motorbikes. Both the victim and the killers came in by bike."
Greg looked around. "So where's the guy's bike, and his helmet?"
"Obviously taken by the killers." He was not hiding his impatience.
Sally wasn't mollified. "How do you know how one of the bikes had two passengers?"
"Weight differentials- one bike much heavier than the other- just look at the tyre imprints." This was delivered in rapid fire, almost staccato cadence.
"So, maybe the killer was fat?"
Sherlock closed his eyes as if in disbelief. "For God's sake, Sergeant. This isn't rocket science." He burned her with a look. "If I was going to kill someone who came on a motorbike, I'd bring along someone who could drive it away after the murder. Wouldn't you?"
"I'm not in the habit of killing people. How do you know? I mean you can't actually know." Sally's hands were actually on her hips; this early in the morning, she wasn't willing to let Sherlock get away with just bulldozing her opposition.
"I don't need evidence; logic is enough to tell me what happened here." He stalked away back over to the body.
Greg called after him. "Yeah, maybe, but why? I mean, who is this guy and why would someone- no, two someones- kill him?"
In answer, Sherlock leaned down and pulled a set of keys from the dead man's jeans pocket. "Observe." He held up what was the top of a USB stick attached to the key ring. But the actual thumb drive was missing. "Whatever was on this was the likely motive for the crime."
"Any idea what would be worth killing this guy for?"
Sherlock looked back at the body. "I've more idea about the killer. They don't teach that kind of lethal blow in the police or the normal services. Only Special Ops- and they'd not have had much experience in putting it into practice. So, whatever it was, you won't find prints- the assailants will have used gloves." He turned away. "I need to make a phone call in private." He started to walk away, reaching into his pocket for his phone.
Two rings were enough.
"To what do I owe the honour, brother mine? You're rather busy playing happy families with the about-to-be Watsons these days."
Sherlock glowered. "You're still bugging my flat? I thought you would have grown out of that phase by now. Anyway, this is what is known as a 'heads up'. Someone who is likely to have been intelligence has just turned up dead in the East End- minus a USB stick. Could be a foreign service, but doesn't look like it from the clothing and haircut. I've just sent you a photo. Do tell."
"Lord, just what I don't need on the one Monday in months that I've escaped to Parham." There was a heavy sigh from his brother. "Hold the line and I'll open the photo."
There was a pause, while Sherlock occupied his mind thinking about the motorbikes and tyre treads. One of those was rather unusual- and he had to go off to the garage attached to his Mind Palace to look through some of the tyre samples he had stored there. He lost track of time.
His brother came back on the phone. "One of mine, alas." The languid tones of his brother had disappeared, and more clipped consonants had taken over. "My people will be there in a few minutes. You get to tell the Detective Inspector that he's off the case. And so are you." His tone was deadly serious, and in his most authoritarian voice.
"I can work faster than your people. Who was he?"
"Keep your nose out of my business, Sherlock. Under no circumstances are you to get involved. This is off limits. Anyway, don't you have a wedding to plan?"
Sherlock took some small pleasure in hanging up on his brother. He walked back to tell Lestrade the bad news. Sally's face said it all- disappointment and disgust in equal measure. "Another example of why liaison between the Metropolitan Police and the security services is at an all-time low." She went off to tell the CS examiners to pack up their kit.
"Lestrade, can I borrow your Norton? It's seven minutes to your flat, if you're willing to drive me there. And you can get back to that breakfast you've been missing."
Greg snorted. "Well, at least this time you're asking permission." But, then he thought about what Sherlock in his current mood would get up to on his own. And what he had learned when he'd gone to see Diane Goodliffe- that without John, Sherlock needed Greg to be a useful drag anchor on his risk taking.*** The volatility of Sherlock's mood clinched it.
"I'm coming with you."
Sherlock reacted with a frown. "How do you know where I am going? I might be using it for some domestic chore."
The DI just laughed. "As if that were ever going to happen. Before your brother's mob shows up here to process this crime scene, you want me to check the CCTV? See if we can spot anything?"
Sherlock looked back down at the body. "Mycroft's people will be too methodical; they don't think like the professional who did this. He will know enough to get some distance away on the back roads, before crossing one that might have a camera on it." His eyes focussed on the middle distance- "he will have sussed out where to do it to miss avoidable cameras. Tell them to check the roundabouts at Crooked Billet, Waterworks Corner and the Whipps Cross –Lea Bridge intersections- sooner or later he has to show up on one of those. And unlike Mycroft's lot, I know what I am looking for- a Honda CBR 250."
Greg nodded and told Sally to mind the fort until it could be handed over to the Security & Intelligence Liaison team. While he drove back to Seven Sisters, he was on his hands-free telling the TfL folk what to look for. Sherlock was in the passenger seat, his eyes glued to his own phone, researching something.
Twelve minutes later, he and Sherlock were arguing about who was going to ride pillion, and who was going to drive.
"I know what I'm looking for." Sherlock's tone made it clear that he'd spent the past two years in control, and was only reluctantly accepting the necessity of bringing Greg along for the ride.
"My bike; I drive." Greg was equally adamant.
The two of them were clad in leathers- Greg had forced Sherlock into storing his gear and helmet in the lock-up garage at the back of his flat. After what had happened in December**, he wasn't about to watch his beloved Norton be taken out again without knowing it was being used by Sherlock.
The DI had just taken a call from Transport for London - a motorbike bearing the license number WG58 KGJ had been picked up by the cameras at the Crooked Billet roundabout between the A406 North Circular and the M11. They would text his phone every two or three minutes with the target's position.
Greg still had a nagging doubt. "You said there were two bikes- the one driven by the victim and then taken out of there by the passenger on the other bike. How do you know this is the right one that we need to be chasing?"
"Are you really that thick?"
"Sherlock… It's early and I haven't had coffee, so just cut the crap and answer the question."
"Well, obviously, the killer came on the Honda- it's the one with the deeper tyre tread, showing two passengers. His accomplice has to take the victim's bike and dump it as quickly as possible- likely to be somewhere in the Hackney marshes or the lakes that are all over this neighbourhood. The killer is on the Honda and taking that USB to whomever ordered the attack."
Sherlock shoved his helmet on. "While we stand here arguing, he's getting away." He was cross at the delay, his tension at the crime scene now boiling over in scarcely concealed annoyance.
"Then shut up and get on." Greg grabbed the handlebars and sat on the front. After a moment of hesitation Sherlock climbed on behind him. As the Norton charged up the West Green Road, heading for the Walthamstow Bridge, the target was heading north on a road the led to Stansted Airport. But at least the transport police were now tracking it, using the Motorway speed cameras on the M11. Greg had warned the police that his own bike would be exceeding the speed limit, and to just let them get on with it. At the first stoplight, he handed his phone back to Sherlock and said over the bike's rumble, "Keep an eye on the texts and tell me where to go."
As they roared under the M25 junction at Hobbs Cross, Greg started keeping one eye on the fuel gauge. He never kept a lot of petrol in the tank while it was in the lock-up; just a fire risk.
It was with some relief that Sherlock tapped his helmet a few minutes later and shouted "Next exit." It was the A414 to Harlow, or Chelmsford if you were heading east. There was no sign of their target when they got to the top of the intersection- and no cameras out here in the rural countryside. Greg throttled back and asked Sherlock, "Which way?"
There was a pause, and Sherlock dragged out his own phone, called up Google Maps, and then said without hesitating, "Follow the signs to Hastingwood, then left to Threshers' End, then follow the road through the three Matching villages. We're headed towards Newmans End and the Arnsworth Castle hotel."
Greg turned to look at him, flipping up his visor. "Why? Why there?"
"He has to hand over a USB, which means he needs a public place that gets passing trade. No pub is open at this hour- or if it is, people will notice anyone showing up. No big stores in this area. We need a hotel, one that gets a lot of international guests. We're less than ten miles from Stansted airport- but the airport hotels have heightened security. So Arnsworth Castle Hotel it is. Stop talking and get going."
It took them another fifteen minutes of small country lanes before they finally spotted the sign to the hotel. A long looping driveway through neatly manicured park land with the obligatory rare breed sheep grazing told Greg that this was one of those "country house" hotels. He wondered where the castle was.
As they drove into the visitor's carpark, a quick scan revealed no motorbike. In fact, there were only six cars in the park, most of which were big, expensive luxury cars. One – a Ferrari- caught his eye. But, before he could say anything, Sherlock leaned forward.
"Head for the staff carpark." Greg spun the back wheel of the Norton in the thick gravel for a moment before the bike's off-road tyres got purchase. The pair carried on past the hotel, around the back to what must have once been a stable area, a long time ago. Now the cars parked there looked more like it- modest, a few bangers, and there, parked up against a lean-to carport was the target bike.
Greg started to switch off, but Sherlock tapped his shoulder. "We need to go in the front entrance; now we know he's staff, we need to pull rank." So Greg re-traced their route, parked up and then started to strip off the leathers. Sherlock did the same, and by the time the two of them went in the front door, one would have assumed that they were business men, whose suits were a bit rumpled- perhaps from a recent flight into Stansted.
Greg let Sherlock take charge, curious as to how the Consulting Detective would play it. Given his current mood, he didn't want to get in the man's way. The younger man strode up to the reception desk and said with firm authority, "We need to see the manager of the hotel, immediately."
The young blonde woman looked slightly taken aback by the abruptness of the demand. "How can I help you, sir?"
"By getting the manager. Or did you not understand me? You may be from Latvia, but I assume that a four star hotel would not employ someone in this role who didn't have a reasonable command of the local language."
Greg grimaced; Sherlock was being his usual charming self. "And while we wait…" the younger man said imperiously, "…you can organise some coffee for us."
Yet, the rudeness seemed to work. The blonde went beetroot red in the face, but scurried back to pick up a house phone. Sherlock took Greg over to the soft leather chesterfield in the lobby area. "Just sit down and look like we deserve to be here, Lestrade. More will be accomplished that way."
The DI rolled his eyes. He's in a foul mood for some reason.
But, he did appreciate it when only a few minutes later, a waiter appeared carrying a tray of china cups with a coffee press. Sherlock gave the middle-aged man a close look, but then shook his head when Greg raised an eyebrow. This wasn't their target. The waiter poured two cups, and Greg realised how much he appreciated it as he drew in the first taste. The morning had been too busy, and he welcomed the caffeine- not to mention the warmth. Tearing up the motorway in late February was not an activity designed to keep you warm. He picked up the newspaper from the coffee table, and saw Sherlock snaffle one of the hotel brochures whilst taking out his phone again.
Greg was on his second cup and starting to thaw out by the time the manager appeared. A short, balding man in a suit who introduced himself: "I'm Simon Edwards, the manager here. How can I help you two gentlemen? I understand that neither of you is a guest in the hotel."
Sherlock gave him an intense stare. "We need to see your staff list. And then your guest list. Immediately."
The manager looked askance. "Why would you want to do that? Who are you?"
Sherlock glanced over at Lestrade, who drew out his warrant card. "Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Metropolitan Police. I'm investigating a murder, and we have tracked the suspect to this hotel. This is Mister Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps you are aware that he occasionally helps the police with our enquiries."
The alarm in the manager's eyes was palpable. There were times like these when Sherlock's recent newspaper fame helped, if it got them co-operation. "A murder?! Nothing's been reported to me."
"Why would it be?" Sherlock sat up and put his own empty coffee cup down on the table. "The murder occurred in East London. Did you not hear what was said? The suspect was tracked here. We believe a member of your staff killed someone a few hours ago, stealing something in the process, and he's come here- perhaps to hand it over to someone, most likely a guest. So, we need to see the list of both staff and guests. Now."
Nonplussed by the revelations and the abrupt demand, the manager stuttered. "Our guests…. I can't just hand over their details. They…er…expect a high degree of privacy. I'm sorry Detective Inspector, but you are out of your jurisdiction. I'd need to have a warrant from the Hertfordshire constabulary to be able to do what you ask, legally."
Sherlock glowered, and then unleashed his ire. "So says a man who has obviously been through criminal proceedings before. I expect the hotel is regularly used for adulterous liaisons, and you've probably been caught hosting other less salubrious activities, as well. I can assure you that the reputation of the hotel will be damaged further if it gets out that you've given cover to a member of staff who is a thief and a murderer, and that the hotel is serving as a meeting place for international organised crime networks."
This was delivered in Sherlock's rapid fire technique, usually reserved for deductions. It had the desired effect on the manager, who seemed to be struggling to catch up, whilst almost visibly panicking when he managed to hear the key words of "reputation" and "organised crime". The bald head started to shine; he was sweating.
Sherlock wasn't finished. "If you really want us to apply to a local judge for a warrant, then I'll be sure to find one that uses your hotel. We'll see how long it takes for the news to get out onto TripAdvisor. It couldn't be any worse than that incident of food poisoning to the Christmas party last year for the Tesco top product sales teams."
The manager actually went pale. Greg tried to hide his smile. Sherlock always seemed to know which buttons to push.
"Um…I'll see what I can do. Just wait here." The manager started to leave.
"Wait." Recognising capitulation, Sherlock pressed his advantage. "Actually, given how few guest rooms are currently occupied, I need to see the reservations for tonight, as well. And don't bother with the full staff list- just today's duty roster will be enough." He flashed his "client smile"- which after many years, Lestrade knew to be mustered only when Sherlock thought it would be to his advantage.
When the manager scuttled off to get the information, Greg let out the smile he'd been trying to stifle. "You are wicked, you know. Poor guy's going to have a heart attack."
Sherlock folded the hotel brochure he'd been reading and put it into his Belstaff pocket. "Hotel managers are risk averse. And a useful source of information, if you know how to prey on their weaknesses."
"Why didn't you just ask which member of staff drives the motorbike?" Sherlock usually took the shortest distance between two deductions, and went straight for the guilty party, so the less direct route seemed at odds with the man's earlier impatience.
Sherlock tilted his head. "And let the manager tell the man he's fired, to bugger off, and then remove all trace of his employment here? Really, Lestrade, are you always so trusting of people? It is in his and the hotel's best interests to deny that there is any connection with a murder."
He sniffed and got to his feet. "In any case, the suspect is merely the means to the end. I'm more interested in finding out if the USB has been handed over yet, or whether the recipient hasn't checked in. If we make too much of a scene here, we might tip off whoever it is he intends to meet."
Greg took a final swig of the coffee and put the newspaper back on the table.
"No, you stay here. I'm going to take a quick look around." The tall brunet strode off in the direction of the restaurant, if the discrete brass sign on the wall was anything to go by.
While he waited, Greg had a hard think about the case. If Mycroft was taking over the crime scene, then it was something to do with security. And Sherlock's behaviour suggested that he wanted in on the case- preferably before Mycroft arrived to stop him. He'd been rather conspicuous in his desire to keep one step ahead of his brother. That was more than a tad worrying- he didn't want to piss off the elder Holmes. Greg started to rehearse his justifications, just in case he needed to explain his actions. He'd once promised to keep an eye on Sherlock, to make sure the Consulting Detective's investigations for the police didn't end up with him in a hospital bed. Given the professionalism with which the victim had been murdered, Greg started wondering whether he should call in some back-up. And Sherlock's absence now made him even more anxious. Might he be confronting the killer even now? Lestrade stood up, and started to head for the restaurant.
But before he could get there, the manager re-appeared, waving some papers. The small man was now sweating profusely. "Here are the lists. Where's Mister Holmes?"
Greg took the lists out of the man's hands and kept going. "He's exploring. I suggest we find him."
The restaurant was almost empty. One couple were sitting at a table by the window, and looked up with curiosity when they entered. The manager flashed them a reassuring smile, and then exited, with Greg behind him.
"Most of the departing guests have finished their breakfast; the latest shuttle to Stansted left at 8.45. I've noted those already checked out on the first sheet."
Greg scanned the list - only six names on it were highlighted in yellow.
"Any of these check out in the past hour?"
Edwards explained, "The ones highlighted on the first list are the guests who are still in the hotel. The others checked out and have left already. The second list has the thirteen guests already here, who are staying on for another day or more, and the third list has the people coming in this afternoon. And the last sheet is the duty roster."
The DI looked at the names and wondered what he should be seeing. He didn't need Sherlock to be present to hear a well-worn phrase, "You see, but do not observe, Lestrade." Where are you, Sherlock? Just when he needed to know what to look for, the man had gone walkabout.
"Where else might Mister Holmes be? Are there other public rooms?"
The manager nodded; "Follow me." He poked his head into a wood panelled room with a fireplace, but over his shoulder Greg could see there was just one guest in there reading a newspaper; he looked up, expectantly. "Has my taxi arrived early?" It was a foreign accent, but not one Lestrade could place.
The Manager shook his head. "It was booked for ten o'clock, sir." He consulted his watch, and then said, "At least another twenty minutes to enjoy your paper. We'll come find you when it arrives. I was just looking for another guest."
Edwards came back to Lestrade and pointed down the corridor. "Let's try the Orangery."
Greg followed the small man to the east side of the hotel, and through a pair of French doors into a long rectangular room filled with light. Windows along one wall looked out over the garden, which even on a cold February morning still looked attractive. But all that was taken in quickly, because the DI's attention was drawn to the sight of Sherlock at the far end of the empty room, standing on a bare stage, using his phone to take photos.
His baritone carried across the empty room to the manager. "You use this as a function room… what's the capacity, when seated at round tables of eight?"
Edwards looked startled at the question, but answered anyway. "Depends on the top table arrangement, but between sixty and eighty."
Sherlock continued to take photos, one of which was a close-up if the yellow patterned wallpaper.
Greg frowned, "Sherlock, what does the room capacity have to do with the murder?"
"Nothing."
Greg glanced at the look of bewilderment from the Manager, before continuing, "Here are the lists you wanted."
Sherlock put his phone away and strode over to the men; he plucked the sheets of paper from Greg's hands and read through them very quickly.
"Ah."
Greg waited. It was not the "oh!" he wanted to hear, but over the years he'd learned how to translate some of the less obvious utterances of the Consulting Detective. Whatever Sherlock had seen on the list, it had surprised him, and that required some thinking before he could deduce a solution to the case.
Sherlock was shaking his head. "I've got it back to front…Mister Edwards, you have not listed your agency staff here."
The bald man shook his head, "No, because they don't tend to work here for any length of time, so why bother? We just pay the agency."
"So, anyone could turn up claiming to be from the agency, and you'd not know any difference, because you aren't even given a name. And the agency staff would not necessarily know each other." This was a statement, which got him a nod of agreement from the hotel manager.
Sherlock raised his hands, pressing his fingers together in a familiar steeple. His eyes focused off in the middle distance.
Edwards shifted a little, and then explained, "It's not unusual practice; everyone does it to cope with the uneven pattern of demand for staff. No point in having people on the payroll, if the work isn't here."
There was no answer from Sherlock, who was still staring off into the distance. Greg tried to fill in the gap, "what agency staff have you got on at the moment?"
"We just finished a Tea Dancing weekend. So we laid on an extra bedroom floor maid, two catering, two waiters and one extra chap to shift luggage and do the set ups and break downs in the function rooms because we've a lot of shifting to do- stages, lighting and the like." Edwards was staring at Sherlock, puzzled by the man's disengagement.
Greg gave the manager a reassuring smile. "It's okay; he's just thinking."
Sherlock suddenly came to life, and focused his complete attention on the manager with almost frightening intensity. "Tell me about one of the guests checking out today- Iuri Malkhaz Chkhetidze. Is he a regular?"
"Um… yes, he is; A businessman, something in import-export business."
"You confirmed his identity against a passport? A Georgian passport?"
"Well, it was ages ago, but I presume so- the reception staff are trained so the first time someone checks in we have to confirm against a photo ID. We're close enough to the airport that it just makes sense. With so many international travellers, we use a passport to confirm ID and then check that the credit card is valid."
"How many times has he been here?"
Edwards shrugged. "Maybe a half dozen times or so this year. Once every other month; he's been coming for years."
A predatory smile was forming on Sherlock's face. Greg realised that he'd just made an important connection, but had no idea what it was.
Unaware of Sherlock's change in demeanour, Edwards continued, "Do you need to speak with him? His flight is at midday. He was in the library just a moment ago reading a newspaper. We've booked him a taxi for ten, so he's parked himself in there until it arrives. It's his usual routine."
Sherlock suddenly bolted through the French doors, running flat out back towards the Library. Greg took after him, with the portly manager bringing up the rear. Once the DI skidded around the corner, he could see down the corridor. Before Sherlock got to it, the heavy wooden door to the Library opened and a white-coated burly waiter started to come out from the room. He took one look at the men charging down the corridor and bolted back into the room.
Sherlock tore after him into the Library and Greg heard a great clatter of breaking china and the sound of something metal hitting the floor. When Greg got into the room, it was to witness an extraordinary scene. The waiter and Sherlock were fighting- and it wasn't by Queensbury rules. The waiter must have had at least a two stone weight advantage over the taller but more wiry Sherlock. In the brawl the Georgian guest's stuffed leather chair had been tipped over, and he was trying to crawl towards the door. Greg moved in to arrest the man, thinking that he must be the recipient of the stolen USB drive.
"Call an ambulance!"
Sherlock's shout meant he took his eye off his opponent just long enough to see them come into the room, and he was rewarded for his lapse of concentration with an elbow smashed into his right side with enough force to make the Consulting Detective cry out. He crumpled and went down on one knee. The waiter then raised a leg to aim a killer kick at Sherlock's head.
But he never got the chance to deliver it because as soon as his assailant lifted his right leg off the floor to kick, Sherlock grabbed the Persian carpet on which the man was standing and gave it a terrific yank. Off-balance, the waiter wobbled, and Sherlock rose to his feet and lashed out with his own kick, connecting with the front of the knee that was taking the man's entire weight. With a sickening crunch, the man's patella shattered under the force of the blow, and he crashed to the floor.
The manager had taken Sherlock's order to heart, and run off to call an ambulance. In the meantime, Greg bent over the suspect guest who was struggling to get to his feet, trying to speak. His face had gone bright pink, his eyes bulging and his breathing ragged. The DI realised that the Georgian was in some way injured, but he could see no visible signs of it- no blood, or bullet wound.
Sherlock had thrown himself onto the fallen waiter, and the pair of them now wrestled for a choke hold. The bigger man moved just as fast as Sherlock, and was using his elbows and hands to good effect, keeping Sherlock from getting an advantage.
The Georgian was gasping now and looked like he was having real trouble breathing. "Damekhmareba…. gt'khovt." Then he seemed to rally for a moment, enough to blurt out "I'm on your side."
Lestrade was trying to make sense of this as he took a hold of the man's shoulders and eased him back down onto the floor, as his legs started to give way.
The DI called out, "Sherlock, need some help?"
Sherlock's hand caught the waiter's wrist and he drove his left elbow deep into the bicep, hoping to stun the muscle long enough to gain a lock-hold. He called out "No. Keep him alive…cyanide. He's going to stop… breathing." Another painful grunt erupted from the Consulting Detective as the waiter struggled, got a blow of his own in and nearly broke the choke hold. Sherlock grappled again, this time flipping the bigger man over, so the Consulting Detective was underneath, his arm across the man's throat, cutting off both air to the lungs and blood to the brain. "Don't…" Panting now from the exertion, Sherlock was finding it hard to find the air he needed to explain. "Coffee poisoned. No mouth-to-mouth… but he…needs oxygen."
The manager was back in the room, with a panicked look in his eyes. "The ambulance is on its way from Bishop Stortford. Ten Minutes- then another ten to the hospital in Harlow."
The waiter was still thrashing, trying to break Sherlock's hold. He was lifting up his shoulders and crashing back down on Sherlock, who grunted with pain each time he was thrown back onto the floorboards. But he didn't let go, even after his opponent started to go limp. The manager watched as if he couldn't believe what was happening in his hotel.
Lestrade was now bent over the guest, checking his pulse. The man was muttering in some foreign language- Georgian, he presumed- but at least he was still conscious and alert. Then in English the man shouted out- "Cooked clams."
"What?!" Lestrade didn't understand; had he heard him right?
"Yes! Or liver- quick." Sherlock said this through gritted teeth, then finally let the limp body of the waiter go and started wriggling out from underneath him. He looked straight at the manager, who was wringing his hands anxiously, not knowing where to look- the room was a total shambles from the fight.
Sherlock sat up slowly; he was panting from the fight but repeated, "Cooked clams, or beef liver; you must have one of them here in the kitchen." He drew in a deep breath. "Vitamin B12 counter-acts cyanide. Both have over a thousand times the recommended daily allowance. Get him to eat a hundred grams before he passes out. It will slow absorption."
Edwards looked unconvinced.
"It works- if you can be bothered to get it to him quickly," Sherlock rather unsteadily got to his knees, as the Manager scurried out of the room again. The Consulting Detective then patted down the unconscious waiter, and checked the man's pockets.
Lestrade saw the momentary flinch as Sherlock straightened up. "You okay?"
"Fine. Better than he is, for sure." Sherlock glanced back at the waiter, then down at the Georgian who was watching him. "I need to find the USB."
Chkhetidze could hardly talk, but he reached in his jacket pocket and fumbled a thumb drive out. "Get this to Mycroft Holmes," he wheezed.
Sherlock smirked. "My brother won't be long." He plucked the drive from the man's hand. "I think I hear a helicopter."
Greg listened, and sure enough, he too could hear it. He went over to the window and peered out. "Yep. You're right."
Sherlock looked more annoyed than pleased by that fact. "I need to find something else- mind the fort, Lestrade." He then exited the room. Less than a minute later, the manager reappeared caring a plate of what looked like raw liver. The Georgian grabbed at it and began to stuff it in his mouth. He had turned a rather alarming colour of pink. Greg held the plate and stifled his own instinct to gag at the idea of eating the raw offal. Then the man slumped, and closed his eyes.
The next thing he knew the room was swarming with black uniformed officers- their body armour said police, but one glance told him that these were not the Met's special protection or counter-terrorism men. One pointed to the waiter, "Hostile?"
Greg nodded, and they used plastic security cuffs to restrain the unconscious waiter. He figured this might be a rare outing of one of Mycroft's operational teams. A medic came in behind them, carrying a stretcher and a kit, and immediately started examining the Georgian.
His suspicions were confirmed when one of the agents called out "Clear." A moment later, Mycroft came into the room and swept it with an imperious glance before resting on the unconscious Georgian.
"Will he live?" The question was directed to the medic, who was putting in an IV.
"Cyanide. If we move fast and take the copter, he might make it."
Mycroft nodded, and two of the agents picked up the litter and they departed. Then he turned to Lestrade with a steely look. "Where is he?"
Greg shrugged, and pointed to the downed waiter. "There's your murderer. Sherlock's gone off in search of something; don't know what." He watched as two of the agents remaining in the room picked up the unconscious man and carried him out. It annoyed him that the back of their body armour read "police".
"Truth in advertising? Your men are not police, Mycroft."
That got him a raised eyebrow. "It works to identify them as 'friendlies'; less likely to be an issue when the local forces can be bothered to get involved."
"Are you going to tell me what's going on here?"
"No. Your security clearance isn't high enough."
"Is Sherlock's?"
Mycroft gave him a steely look. "That depends. In this case, no. So if you have the stolen USB stick, I would appreciate its return. Now." He held out his hand.
Greg shook his head, and was about to explain, but then Sherlock walked back into the room.
"Late again, Mycroft. Your man from Georgia would be dead if he'd relied on you."
The elder Holmes gave a long-suffering sigh. "Sherlock, just hand over the data. This does not concern you."
"Doesn't it? One of your agents is playing courier, delivering something to one of your contacts. But somehow he takes a little detour and ends up killed. The murderer then shows up here- to assassinate a particular guest, now that he knows who he is supposed to kill." Sherlock pulled out not one but two USBs. "This is the one that your Georgian was supposed to exchange for the one with your courier. But why did the assassin want to kill him for it?"
Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "I meant what I said, Sherlock. This is none of your business." He took two strides closer to his brother and then closed his hand over the USBs in Sherlock's hand.
Sherlock did not release them.
There followed one of their staring matches, that Greg had come to realise was the default mode when both or either of them was too angry to trust using words.
It was Mycroft who broke the impasse, his face like stone. "Brother mine, give me the data."
In all the years he'd known the man, Greg had never heard quite so much menace in his words.
Sherlock took a step closer. "Or what?"
"You will lose every shred of protection that Elizabeth has ever afforded you in the past. You will be barred from any work of this nature with any branch of the United Kingdom government –or any other foreign government for that matter."
Sherlock actually smirked, totally undaunted by the threat.
But Mycroft wasn't finished. "And I will see to it, personally, that you never, ever work with the Metropolitan Police again. If that is not enough incentive, then consider this. The Detective Inspector here will also be sent to purgatory, his career over, for directly disobeying the orders of the security services to cease and desist involvement in this business."
Greg's eyes widened, as the silence grew.
Then, Sherlock released the data sticks and stepped away, his face now as inscrutable as his brother's.
Mycroft did not even look at Sherlock or Greg as he strode out of the Library.
Once he got over the momentary shock of it all, Greg managed to find his voice again. "Sherlock, just what the bloody hell just happened?"
"Good question, Lestrade, but I don't have an answer…yet. Mind giving me a lift back into London?" The man's tight, tense manner from the crime scene was gone, replaced now by an almost breezy nonchalance.
All the way back down the M11, Lestrade tried to understand it- and failed.