Chapter 5
Lock and Load
"Bright it back straight!" a tall, salt and pepper bearded man in a camo beanie called. He watched, painfully embarrassed as his new driver botched backing the truck into the vast space on the side of the building.
"Crank the wheel, or you'll take the whole bloody church down!" He yelled. The truck came to an abrupt stop. "For Christ's sake." The man hissed.
"Get a move on it! I want this done with!" the short haired brunette snapped as the camo man ran to instruct his driver.
Sherlock and John watched from above, lying flat on their stomachs on the roof top.
"That's Bianca." John whispered as the woman turned, jittery with impatience. He was holding a small video camera and capturing the events on the digital HD screen.
Sherlock nodded. "If they manage to back the truck up into the appropriate position we'll have a clear view of everything they're unloading. If not, we'll have to adjust our viewpoint a bit."
"Right, looks like the tall bloke's taken over. He seems to have it under control."
The midnight air was icy and the light from the street lamps were clouded by fog. John and Sherlock watched as the tall man in the camo hat backed the truck in properly. When it was parked, he flipped the lights off and another man, younger and bulkier, hopped out of the passenger side of the cab. This man wore a red beanie, a black scarf and a leather jacket.
"Open it up!" Camo beanie commanded.
The back of the truck rolled open to reveal crates upon crates of food. The two men began unloading it under Bianca's supervision. So far, everything looked normal.
"Sherlock, what if this isn't actually a distribution point? What if she's got nothing to do with what her brother does?" John whispered.
"She does." Sherlock insisted. Slowly, the cargo was unloaded and taken inside the building. Through the twilight John saw headlights coming up the road and gave Sherlock's shoulder a nudge. A black caravan was pulling into the parking lock. It backed in beside the truck and a hooded man hopped out.
"He's armed." Sherlock whispered. They watched as Bianca went to greet him.
John handed the digital camera to Sherlock to continue recording the scene. He pulled out a notepad and took down the license plate on the caravan as well as the plate on the truck.
"There." Sherlock whispered. The men were unloading a different kind of box. These were cardboard, not crates and they were smaller. Obviously not produce. Several boxes were removed and stacked beside the caravan.
"Lock this one down, load the other up." said the tall man to the thick, leather cladded one. The hooded driver of the caravan unlocked the back and watched as the more than half of the boxes were loaded inside. John craned his neck, trying to get a good view. Three boxes remained and Bianca ordered the tall man to have them taken inside and stacked with the produce. The caravan driver glanced up, causing Sherlock and John to duck back.
There was a moment of silence.
"I think we're fine." Sherlock whispered, lifting his head again. Immediately there was a loud, sharp ping and John pulled Sherlock back down.
"Someone's up there!" a rough voice called.
"They have a silencer." Sherlock said as he and John scrambled to their feet. "That was a bullet ricocheting off the vent directly below us."
"Shut up!" John snapped. They bolted for the opposite end of the building, slipping on the wet roof tiles. Sherlock went down, sliding sideways and John caught him by the sleeve, bracing himself as best he could. A few more feet and they had caught hold of the maintenance ladder they'd used to get up and were quickstepping backwards down it as fast as they could manage. John jumped, half way down and drew his gun. As soon as Sherlock hit the ground beside him they were off, sprinting for their lives.
They rounded the corner toward the front of the building and came face to face with the bulky man in the leather jacket. Sherlock turned at the last second and shoulder checked him. The man grunted loudly as he hit the ground. They darted around him and heard the sharp crack of another bullet hitting the pavement beside them.
John glanced to the left and saw the armed man hopping into the van, gun in hand.
"He's going to run us down!" He called to Sherlock over the loud, frantic slap of their feet on the ground.
John could hear Bianca yelling and Sherlock glanced back. The man he'd knocked down was on his feet again, running after them. Bianca was on her phone, speaking rapidly. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. The caravan was peeling out, less than fifty feet from them. If they continued straight, they would be hit. If they swerved right, they would probably be hit. The only thing they could possibly do was dart left, right through the path of the vehicle. Sherlock reached out, grabbing John's hand to guide him.
"Sharp left!" he commanded. John didn't hesitate. He trusted Sherlock with his life, to the point that in a moment of near death he would follow the man's orders without question or thought. The caravan was already turning right. It was careening straight towards them now. It was mere feet away. Seeing what they were doing, the driver tried to follow them left as they dodged around him, missing being hit by inches. Sherlock dropped John's hand. Time sped up again.
There was a loud screech and the smell of burned rubber. The caravan spun, lifting on one side. For a moment John though that it might go over. Instead it fell heavily back onto all four wheels and began to reverse, reorienting itself to follow them again. John and Sherlock continued left onto the street and made for the closest intersection. The spinning vehicle had caused the man on foot to halt, not wanting to chance being hit. Now, he was back on their tail. Sherlock assessed their position, using practiced hand signals to give John some direction.
"Got it." John huffed. When they reached the four way intersection they took another immediate left and darted into a densely cluttered alleyway. Sherlock sprang gracefully over a cluster of garbage bags, darted around bins and thoughtlessly skipped over a few sleeping strangers wrapped in patched wool. He was intensely focused on the path ahead. John was right behind him and when he heard the caravan screech to a stop and footsteps padding after them he turned, firing two rounds. The leather clad man dodged a bullet. With a bang, one of the caravan's tires blew out. The alleyway split and John followed Sherlock right, leaping over a sleeping homeless man in a yellow rain jacket. The man jerked, sitting up and John's foot caught on the edge of his jacket. He dove straight into a left side shoulder roll and was back on his feet, riding the momentum back into a sprint.
Their hearts were pounding, their bodies wired with adrenaline and their minds sharp with the desperate thrill of a foot pursuit escape. There was nothing that could match the feeling of clarity that came from ones carnal survival instinct being paired with a lifetime of training and strong intuition. If you haven't been there, felt the intensity of the hunt, the chase, there is no way to describe it. The only word that could be used in every sense that would come close would be absolutely, unquestionably alive.
The alley ended and they shot into the street, all electric, vibrant energy. One car honked as they cut it off. Traffic was getting thicker as they headed into the dark, edgy world of London's nightlife in that part of town. John glanced behind him. The foggy lamplight gave way to two quickly growing shadows and two men rounded the bend after them.
"On the main street, dead ahead, take a right and go through the green door." Sherlock ordered. John nodded. The leather clad man had fallen behind and John could now see clearly that their other assailant was not the armed man from the caravan. It was the tall older gentlemen in the camo beanie. He was catching up. They took a sharp right onto a crowded street, shouldering their way past people.
John saw a flash of green to his right and turned on a dime. He slammed through the door with Sherlock treading on his heels. The door swung closed behind them.
They were pressed together in a hot, loud, thriving bar. John and Sherlock doubled over, catching their breath.
"Did you hit a wheel on that caravan?" Sherlock gasped.
John nodded. "I think they've got bigger things to worry about than us. They need to get it out of there, fast."
The straightened up and pushed through the crowd until they reached the back of the room. Sherlock ruffled his hair and tugged off his scarf, hoping to break through the sudden, overwhelming heat. He took a seat in the darkened corner while John went to fetch them both a drink. Pulling out his phone he messaged Mycroft.
One foot in the Westrom door. –SM
His phone sounded as John returned, handing him a dark glass topped with foam.
I thought you'd forgotten. Tomorrow morning. 7 Sharp. –MH
Sherlock drank deeply, inhaling the rich scent of the thick craft brew.
"You were right. That is definitely a distribution point." John said, taking a long drink.
Sherlock nodded. They drank quickly and silently, cooling down before flagging a taxi back to the flat. John made for the shower when they returned, aching to wash the rooftop grit and sweat from his pores. Sherlock threw off his coat, stoked the fire and sat down to think. John would go to surgery in the morning for a full day of work. Mycroft would arrive early.
He was thinking of the quicksilver dynamics that occurred between them, how he could speak to John so clearly with a single look or movement.
"You look amused. What's on your mind?"
Sherlock looked up to see John standing before him, looking curious.
"Nothing in particular. I just thought this case would be more difficult."
"More difficult? You've been on it for over a week now."
"Not the murder, John. Saul Westrom. I thought he was better, smarter than that."
"You've been trying to get a lead on him for months."
"Now that I've got a lead on him though, it's practically over."
"He got away last time." John reminded him.
"This time the company he owns is going to be caught distributing. This time, things will be different. By the way, while we're on the topic of mysteries, you haven't broken or misplaced anything of importance to me have you?"
John's expression grew confused. "We're never not on the topic of mysteries, Sherlock. I haven't, why?"
Sherlock frowned. "You've been acting, odd. I can't place it."
John felt his stomach flip and he took a step backwards. "Haven't the foggiest idea." He said, turning away.
Sherlock watched John leave for his bedroom with burning curiosity. A step backwards was defensive and though he knew John would never betray him in any way there was something different in him that hadn't been before.
Something secret was between them and Sherlock longed to find out what. The curiosity was becoming steadily stronger. It had almost reached the point now where Sherlock cared more to find out what troubled John than to crack the Westrom case.
Time ticked by swiftly and before Sherlock realized it, the sun had come up. His eyes refocused and he realized he was staring down at a shiny pair of black shoes. He looked up. "Hello, brother mine."
Mycroft gave a short smile. "Had I been an enemy arriving with ill intentions towards you, Sherlock, you would have been deaf and blind to them. You really shouldn't close your ears off when you enter you mind, you know. It tends to make you unaware of your surroundings. Vulnerable like a newborn lamb."
"I was aware of your presence; I was choosing to ignore it." Sherlock snapped, flicking his eyebrows. Mycroft annoyed him very much.
"Whatever you say, brother mine."
"Are you familiar with Bianca Westrom?" Sherlock asked.
"We have her under surveillance for some time. Why?"
"She's distributing for her brother. From the church she ministers for. She's also been framed for the murder of an old man for his inheritance. She has a right hand man who is eager to advance and set it up so that she would be removed from the picture."
Mycroft's eyebrows pulled together. He refrained from asking and picked up where Sherlock left off. "So you're suggesting we pull her in and hold her on a murder charge, allowing her second in command to step up?"
"While we have her, I'm sure I can get her to open up about her brother's_ business methods."
"While we run surveillance on the distribution point." Mycroft finished. He sighed. "Saul Westrom has been a thorn in my side. I thought you would never get to it, with all the more important work you have had going on."
"It wasn't on the very bottom of my list."
John padded into the room, dressed for work. "G' morning." He muttered, catching Sherlock's eye as he passed into the kitchen. The icy smile that Sherlock had given to Mycroft turned warm when he'd seen his flat mate's face.
"Distractions tend to be extremely counterproductive to survival, Sherlock." Mycroft muttered, looking sideways.
"I've found that Friendship has no survival value, but rather it gives value to survival itself."
Mycroft scoffed. "A few years ago you would have been the last person, aside from me, to have thought so."
Sherlock shrugged, keeping his voice low. "Perhaps it took meeting John Watson to change my mind."
Mycroft made a face.
From the kitchen, John's ears burned. He'd caught the faintest murmur of his name on Sherlock's lips. He couldn't help wondering what was being said. The night before Sherlock had questioned him. Said there was something off with him. John had gone to bed, pondering it. Something was off, he'd decided. At least, it was different than it had once been. Sometimes, John felt tension in the air between them. After a chase was usually when John noticed it. When the adrenaline was pumping in their veins, he would look at Sherlock and feel what he could only think of as the deepest happiness he'd ever encountered.
"Off to work, Sherlock, Mycroft." John nodded as he passed them by again with a piece of toast in hand.
"I'll brief you on your lunch break." Sherlock promised, giving him a nod.
"Have something to eat!" John called as he treaded down the stairs.
"Adorable." Mycroft's voice was thick with sarcasm.
"It would be better if you contacted Lestrade and directed him. He can't know that Bianca Westrom is actually innocent of the murder; his morals won't stand for it. For the time being, she is by all counts guilty and you're having me come in to question her about her brother and the cartel." Sherlock said.
Mycroft nodded. "Where is your evidence?"
Sherlock had carefully packaged the tea bags, hand written birthday letter and a summary of events for Mycroft to relay.
As he reviewed everything that Sherlock had gathered the buzzer rang short from down stairs, just once.
"Client." Sherlock muttered. A moment later, Mrs. Hudson entered the room with a short, rapid knock.
"Sherlock, there's a man here for you. An older gentlemen." She said.
"Send him up. I told you I've been busy Mycroft." Sherlock said, looking smug.
Mycroft rolled his eyes. There were footsteps on the stairs, soft and slow. A tiresome, impatient minute ticked by before the old man entered. Sherlock glanced up and startled, sloshing his tea onto the carpet. Standing before him, wrapped in a thick winter coat, a woolen hat and a knitted scarf was Earl McKinney. Upon seeing Sherlock, the old man's eyebrows scrunched together. Sherlock made a face.
"You_ You're the fellow_ At my house_" he sputtered.
"Yes, Mr. McKinney, I am the fellow." Sherlock said quickly, ignoring Mycroft's look of confusion. "I'm sorry for not informing you immediately of my true intentions when I questioned you before. It was crucial at the time that you were unaware of my purpose."
"A cousin of mine gave me this address and said I'd have to come here if I wanted help." He said quietly.
"Mr. McKinney, I am happy to make you aware, now that you are no longer a suspect, that your husband's murder is being thoroughly investigated." Sherlock said, smiling patiently.
"I was a suspect?" the old man sputtered.
"Of course you were. However, you no longer are, as I said. Please trust me when I tell you that you will be the first to know when Jason's true killer is brought to justice."
"That's really why you came to the service yesterday? To investigate?" Earl asked.
Sherlock nodded. "Please Mr. McKinney, I am extremely busy with your case at the moment actually and it would be better if you allowed me to contact you later when I have more news I can share with you."
"I thought that you'd want to be paid_" Earl said, clearly confused.
Sherlock shook his head. "I don't need that, thank you. I will contact you soon." He ushered the old man out the door and snapped it shut.
Mycroft stood to take his leave. "Please, arrive at the Yard no later than ten."
Sherlock nodded, picking up his violin. He worried at it as Mycroft made his way out the front door of 221B Baker Street and out into London's chilled concrete jungle. It wasn't long before John's voice was ringing in his head. Have something to eat!
Sherlock put down the violin and went to the kitchen. Sometimes he wondered if John had the faintest idea of how his presence had altered Sherlock's life. Often, he wondered how John could care about him so completely, so unconditionally. On occasion, Sherlock could even see it behind his eyes.
He didn't treat him as if he were a dangerous tool to be wielded with caution, like everyone else did. It was beyond Sherlock and sometimes, when it crossed his mind, he did the things that he knew would make John happy. He crinkled his nose and took a tentative bite of a soft boiled egg, ignoring his lack of an appetite.
Halfway across town, John sat behind his desk fighting the urge to yawn and hoping that Sherlock would eat. Fat chance. He thought. Sometimes he doubted that Sherlock would ever eat during a case if it weren't for John standing over his shoulder, making him. His phone buzzed. He glanced down.
I ate. Half an egg. Happy? –SH
John squinted at the phone, almost disbelieving. He glanced around the room, then out the window. No sign of Sherlock.
Are you here? –JW
No. In a cab. On my way to speak to Lestrade. Why? –SH
Did you deduce that I was wondering if you'd actually eaten or not? –JW
No. I just thought you should know. –SH
So that it wouldn't bother me? –JW
Perhaps. If that's how you'd like to think of it. –SH
I know you weren't actually hungry. –JW
I knew it would make you happy if I ate. –SH
John stared at the message, dumbfounded. He began to type a sentence and then erased it promptly. He started a new one, trying to describe how he felt knowing that Sherlock cared enough about John to do something that he found to be trivial and unnecessary. He erased it again.
I wasn't expecting that. –JW
I certainly wouldn't expect you to tell me. -JW
Sherlock was seated outside of the interrogation room, staring through the window at Bianca Westrom as Detective Inspector Lestrade interviewed her. He glanced down, re reading the messages between himself and John. He stared at the text, trying to decide on what to say.
"Never seen you smile like that before. What is it, a triple homicide? A beheading?" Sargent Sally Donovan's voice cut through Sherlock's thoughts, coming from directly beside him. He pocketed his phone but not before Sally had gotten a glimpse at the texts.
"Of course, texting your boyfriend." Acid dripped from her voice. "It's a wonder he's not dead, with all that you put him through. You know, I think if you really cared about him, you wouldn't be with him."
Sherlock's eyes flashed but he did not respond.
"It's only a matter of time before he ends up dead." She walked out of the room, letting the door slam shut behind her. On the opposite side of the two way mirror Bianca Westrom sat silently, her face was hard. She would neither look at nor respond to Detective Inspector Lestrade. He stood, spoke a final word to her and exited the room.
"My turn." Sherlock said, standing.
Greg nodded. "I haven't gotten anything out of her other than that she swears she's innocent. Do you think she could be?"
Sherlock shrugged. "If she is, I will find out."
Greg nodded and stepped aside, allowing Sherlock to enter.
"Miss Westrom." He said, standing opposite of her.
She refused to look at him.
Sherlock seated himself at the other end of the table and leaned forward.
"What has happened today is not being covered by the press. I made sure of that." He said. Her eyes flickered to him.
"Why would you do that?" She asked.
"Because it would ruin your reputation." Sherlock said quietly.
"Why would you care if it did?" she asked again, leaning forward. Her eyes were sharp and crystal clear.
"You're very accustomed to threatening situations. Your eyes dilate and your heart rate rises and yet there's not a single tremor in your fingertips." Sherlock assessed. "I know you're worried about your reputation because I know that you love and believe in what you do. However, it is constantly in jeopardy from what your brother puts you through. He's not coming for you, in case you were wondering. He won't be making a single delivery for at least three weeks at least and when he does, you will be behind bars and your man Ludovico Benici will be receiving the shipments."
Bianca sat back in her seat, crossing her arms. "Lodi?" She asked, frowning.
"Lodi, who delivered your birthday card to Jason McKinney and attached with it the heartwarming gift of death by heroin and Tylenol poison so that when he was autopsied the death would be investigated and all signs would point straight at you. With you hanging by the neck, he would be there to step up and take your place."
The woman's face hardened. She took a deep breath and Sherlock saw that now her fingers began to tremble with rage.
"He's a terrible public speaker. He'd never take care of my fellowship like I do."
Sherlock frowned. "To take your place in your brother's cartel, Miss Westrom. Not as minister of your church."
Bianca's jaw fell slack. "Ah, that bastard. I couldn't give a damn less if he did take over. Jesus."
"He could have just asked and you would have stepped aside?" Sherlock asked.
Bianca nodded. "That's what I hate about all this. Criminals, instead of just asking for what they want think that they need to find a way to take it. I've been set up for no reason."
"So far," he started. "I'm the only person who knows this and I am the only person who can prove it. I want to prove it, Miss. Westrom."
"Why?" she snapped. "Who are you?"
"I am interested."
"Interested in what?"
Sherlock leaned forward even further, laying his hands flat on the table. "Protecting the innocent and bringing the guilty to justice."
"You want my brother."
"I assume that the Detective Inspector has made you aware of the penalties for the crime you are being charged with?" Sherlock asked. Bianca nodded and he continued. "If you are found guilty there will be nothing that can be done to stop the press from covering the story. Your reputation will be destroyed. You will be imprisoned for years or hanged. By the time you get out, what's left of your youth will be gone. Your brother will walk free, the real killer will walk free and nobody will lift a finger for you. Do you believe that?"
Bianca swallowed hard. "I know my brother. Better than he knows himself."
"Do you think he will involve himself?"
There was a sordid moment of aching silence.
"Nope."
Sherlock nodded. "I need one thing from you."
"In exchange for?"
"Your freedom. You know you are innocent and I am the only person who is capable of proving that. I will do that. In exchange you give me the name of your brother's standing officers."
Bianca shook her head immediately. "I don't know."
"When a shipment is received the rout is similar or the same for all of the trucks. That information could be discovered easily and is currently being used. I need a name."
Bianca sat back in the icy silver chair, hands clenched together, rocking back and forth.
"I don't know. When my brother has a shipment sent to me a man comes to pick it up. I think he is with the metropolitan police force but I can't be sure. It's all I've got."
Sherlock nodded. "Can you explain to me why you feel that way?"
Bianca thought about it. "I can never place it. It just feels like it. I just know it intuitively. It's just the impression I got from him."
"Miss Westrom, do you know what intuition actually is?"
"I have my beliefs."
"Let me break it down for you. The definition is the ability to know something without needing conscious reasoning. This is how it works. When one person comes in contact with another person for the first time, they form a nearly instantaneous impression of them and they call it the sense of intuition. It is a sense as real as taste, touch and smell. It is also both physical and nonphysical at the same time. Do you follow me?"
Bianca nodded and Sherlock continued. "Every single time you meet someone new, memories are triggered. Your brain is a computer and in a single instant it assesses everything about that person that you can unconsciously observe and relates it to every past experience with every single person that you have ever encountered in your life. Your mind takes tiny pieces of memories from these past experiences and literally splices them together. When this calculation is complete it projects an apparently instantaneous feeling which you called an impression, based on these narrow windows of experiences. That is your instinct. It's called thin-slicing. Now, think about it very hard and try to tell me exactly why you feel like this man is with the police."
Bianca sat back and looked away. "I suppose it's the way he talks that makes me think that. He sounds like a police officer but my brother told me he's not. I thought he was a spy, at first. He's been with us for so long now. I've always trusted my brother."
"He was the man driving the van on Monday night?" Sherlock asked.
Bianca's eye flashed. "That was you then?"
Sherlock nodded. "If we are able to stop the robbery and distribution of these narcotics then I will be able to give you your freedom. Either way, you will get off the murder charge. If we are able to half the distribution I can get you off with community service rather than actual time. I need his name."
Bianca shook her head. "I can't act in vengeance against my brother or Lodi. It wouldn't be right. I am a woman of God."
Sherlock opened his mouth. They proceeded to argue. She would not give in and nothing Sherlock said was convincing her. Finally she stuck her tongue out at him. Sherlock made a face at her. She gave him the finger.
Sherlock stared at her. She stared back, unflinching. He pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking. He took out his phone and texted John.
Miss Westrom won't give me a name because she is afraid to sin by giving me the information out of vengeance against her brother.. Help? –S
Try a different approach. –JW
Any suggestions? –S
Just don't try and discredit her religion by giving her a thousand scientific explanations for why there is no hell. –JW
Too late. Come down here? –S
I have a feeling that she will respond better to you. –S
A slow minute ticked by.
I need you. -S
On my way. –J
Sherlock smiled. Ten minutes later John walked in. His eyes were a little tired, his hair was ruffled from the wind and he had two coffees in hand. One of them he handed to Sherlock, the other he set on the table for Bianca.
"No, thank you though." She said. John shrugged, "Suit yourself." And picked it up to take a sip.
"That's your fourth cup today." Sherlock said, eyeing him.
John rolled his eyes. "I don't want to know how you knew that."
Sherlock shrugged.
"My name is John Watson." John said, reaching a hand out to Bianca who nodded, lips pursed. John dropped his hand.
"Right. So, you don't want to give us a name because you think it would be a sin if it's done in vengeance?"
Bianca nodded.
"Even though you're innocent."
"Yep."
"God forgives."
"I still don't feel right doing it."
John's mouth twitched to the side. He glanced at Sherlock who raised his eyebrows.
"You feel better about leaving your congregation in Lodi's hands?" John asked.
Bianca frowned. So did Sherlock.
John continued. "You're the shepherd of that flock. Lodi's not. What's going to happen if you abandon them? You think he's going to take care of those people? They look to you for leadership."
The woman breathed deeply and ran a hand through her close cropped hair.
"Those families are supposed to receive a portion of Jason's inheritance to help them, do you think Lodi will follow through? Or will those families suffer because you allow them to be passed into the care of a bad man? You took them under your wing. Those are your people. They love you, they need you and you're going to leave them."
Bianca slammed her fist down on the table.
"You know I'm innocent. You don't need me to give up my brother to prove me innocent." She hissed.
"I am not like you." Sherlock snapped, leaning towards her. "I am the only person who knows, the only person who can prove it and I am not afraid of sin. I don't need that name to prove you innocent, no. You do, or I won't clear your name."
"Damn you."
"Don't abandon your people. They need you. Just give him what he wants. One name." John said.
"Can't you stop him?" Bianca said, turning to John with eyes that were starting to fill with tears.
John shook his head. "I'm sorry. It won't be an act of vengeance. It will be an act of protection. Protect your people, protect God's children. That is your roll. Not to have your neck in a noose."
She sat back in her chair, staring at the wall. He face was forlorn. A long stretch of silence flowed between them.
"Gregory D. Norman." She said quietly. "He's one of the drivers. I still don't know that he is with the metropolitan police. It's just a hunch. I think he patrols the highways, stops the shipment trucks for a weigh test and somehow manages to get the cargo swapped from one truck into another. Then he gets off duty and shows up with the van to pick up the shipment. That's the only way I can see it being possible."
Sherlock nodded. "For your sake, I hope you're right. You'll be here for a few more weeks. Your trial is being pushed out."
"When will I get to speak to my attorney? He was supposed to come. He never showed up. What have you done with him?" She asked.
"Your brother didn't trust him. He was found in a ditch about an hour ago. He had him killed almost immediately after your arrest. I have no proof of this, yet but that's the most likely explanation." Sherlock said.
Bianca swore violently.
"In the meantime, we will make you as comfortable as possible. Thank you for your cooperation."
Bianca did not respond. Sherlock stood and John followed him out the door, a half step behind. Outside, Sherlock turned to face John.
"Thank you." He said. "That was tedious. I was about to start threatening her with other, more illegal things when you showed up."
John chuckled. "Lestrade told me on the way in that you both regressed to primary school communication techniques in the end."
Sherlock pursed his lips. "She started it. Stuck her tongue out at me."
"And you made a face at her. You realize half of Scotland yard was on the other side of that window laughing at the two of you. They didn't need to be able to hear you both to know that it was an argument and that you were losing. Donovan in particular got a kick out of it."
Sherlock muttered a crass insult under his breath, making John snigger.
"What now?" John asked.
"Let Lodi rise to take Bianca's place, keeping the church under surveillance. I've already extended my most genuine gratitude to him for pointing us in the direction of Jason's murderer. He ate right it up. We're going to keep Gregory D. Norman under surveillance and work up the evidence to take as many of them down as possible in one swing. For this to work we need to devastate Westrom's network, not just him."
They were standing in one of the dimly lit corridors in the back end of the Yard. John yawned loudly.
"Where do we go from here?" John asked.
"Mycroft is taking care of the surveillance part. There may be some legwork to be taken care of in a few weeks but until then, yes. We wait."
Sherlock took a deep breath, grinning.
"If this is done right, we could successfully end the reign of one of the world's richest, most obnoxious drug lords. This will also put over a thousand criminals out of a job."
John frowned. "In the meantime, a killer walks free and an innocent woman sits behind bars."
"She wouldn't be there if she hadn't been allowing the distribution of drugs through her church."
"You think she had much of a choice? What do we do about Earl McKinney?" John asked.
"Taken care of already. He's on holiday in America for the next month and a half. Visiting his children. This should all be over by the time he gets back. If not, Mycroft is going to erm_ extend his visit by a few weeks."
John smiled catching Sherlock's eyes. In this lighting they were a shining, clear green; so sharp and cunning when Sherlock had his mind on a case. Now Sherlock met John's eyes and John's heart stuttered to see the edge leave his expression. His gaze softened.
As Sherlock stared at John he saw his smile drop and watched as expression turned searching. Sherlock tilted his head, confused. John broke eye contact and turned to the door. "Lunch?"
"Starving." Sherlock replied, following him.