Chapter Seventeen

I am the world's biggest idiot. Sherlock was standing in the glass walled office of the CEO of the PR company on Pentonville Road. It was 5.59 in the morning and he had just had the most important epiphany of his life. Just moments before, he had solved the Geek Killers case, and put the details into two e mails now sitting it the draft folder of the PR company's CEO. One would go to DI Lestrade telling him where to find everything he needed on the HOLMES2 database and the universities' systems, and the second e mail would go to his brother, with the same information, and quite a bit more telling him about the security implications of a new computer code that could not only infiltrate and undermine any current security program, it was being built into the next generation of computing, too. No one would be invulnerable.

The fact that it had taken all night was testament to the fractured state of his Mind Palace. The CEO's office was littered with yellow sticky notes and A4 sheets blue-tacked to every conceivable piece of glass or wall. He'd had to externalise and write down things that he used to be able to keep in his head. With no functioning memory apart from visual basic, he felt like he was trying to use fat crayons to write microscopic text- intensely frustrating and tediously slow. If his mind was forced to operate in the future using such a crude language, then he'd rather stop right now. Only the need to solve this one last case kept him going in extremis. Now that it was over, he could return to the task at hand. The three syringes were beckoning.

Both e mails were in the draft box, ready to send. He'd only do that when he was so far along on the second dose of cocaine that even if they were able to track the IP and get a location, it would be way too late.

And then all of those ideas were swept away in a single moment. "OH!"

"Of course. Corelet. I've just been using it to solve the case. It's perfect." He breathed this out loud. It didn't matter that there was no one to hear him.

His grin grew and he started laughing. He had a way out, a worm hole to escape the debris of the Mind Palace. He'd use corelet programming concepts to build it from scratch. He started to pull all the notes and sheets off the walls and bundled them into an envelope. They'd be useful in a few days' time, when it came to explaining to others how he'd solved the case- for once, sufficiently dumbed down so even idiots could understand it.

He opened the desk's second drawer and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. The woman CEO was obviously a smoker, and the scent in the room showed that as boss, she decided to smoke indoors no matter what the law said about "public places". He took them and the ashtray; she'd probably assume it was some 'do-gooder' on her staff that had nicked it. He then sent the e mails to a drop box account that he'd set up ages ago under a false ID. They'd sit there until he was ready. Then he deleted all references to the work he had done, and shut down the computer's screens.

By his estimation, it would take him the best part of a day and half a night to build a new Mind Palace using corelet. Even this defective brain of his could do it; he'd just proven that by solving a case involving the program language. All he needed was a quiet place. He'd seen the To Let sign over the old un-refurbished building on the other side of the one he was in now. It looked very unoccupied. He could access it via the back of this building. Even if there was no power or water on, it wouldn't matter. With blue-tack, felt pens, blank paper and yellow sticky notes he could manage it in visual basic. He bundled his materials into a carrier bag found under one of the open plan desks. He swept the three syringes off the sofa and back into the gauze, slipping the package into the sling. Waste not, want not. He'd have to find a good place to stash it back at Baker Street. But, he certainly didn't think he'd need the contingency plan anytime soon. By 6:19 am, he was ensconced in his new venue, beginning to re-build the ground floor foundations of his Mind Palace.

oOo

Mycroft Holmes was facing yet another particularly punishing schedule today, and it was annoying, especially given the fact that it followed an equally horrid day yesterday. He usually enjoyed these meetings- his favourite chess board on which to play his particular kind of strategy. But like any Grand Master, he had his off days, too, and yesterday had proved to be one. The session with the Prime Minister had not gone well. Coalition politics meant that the man would say one thing in a closed room with Holmes, but then find his coalition partners forcing him into a u turn the moment they could get their teeth into him. At times like these, Holmes regretted the current trend of UK politics towards consensus. Strong leadership and an authority backed by large parliamentary majorities had advantages.

That frustrating morning had been followed by a set of back-to-back meetings with top level security liaisons from France, Russia and the USA. The French were incensed at recent revelations about CIA surveillance in Europe. It was a case of amour proper; their egos had been dented because they were not aware of it occurring. Of course, the CIA is spying on you; they spy on us, they spy on everyone. But he hadn't been so blunt. The Russians were asking for British intermediation behind the scenes, trying to rescue an arranged summit between their President and the American President. Then you shouldn't have offered asylum to the latest US military whistle-blower, should you?. But, he couldn't say that in so many words, either. And the Americans? They were just being bloody minded, as always. His relationship with Langley had deteriorated recently, as the Bond Air project stuttered forward, slowed down by budget cuts and an over scrupulous Cabinet Secretary wanting to look tough.

That afternoon had been followed by a state dinner, which he'd been obliged to attend. It was not often that the Queen put down a marker that required his presence, but this had been one such night. He'd used it to brief the new Equerry on how to handle the princess's next overseas goodwill trip to Africa. Perhaps a round of refugee camp visits and seeing how the other half of the world lived would sober up her playgirl party image. Then he'd had to endure the tedious conversation of the Secretary General of the Commonwealth, an Australian who fancied his chances when he returned to Canberra politics next year.

Normally, none of this would have mattered. He prided himself on remaining at peak performance irrespective of any day-to-day pressures. Mycroft Holmes was known for playing the game long, for keeping his cool no matter how hot and bothered others were. But, yesterday he had snapped at several of his staff, because he was also uncharacteristically distracted. It was now 7.30 in the morning, and if anything, his mood had grown worse overnight, not helped by the fact that he had suffered uncharacteristic insomnia.

"My dear, really! Was this the best they could manage?" Mycroft's impatience was telegraphed in no uncertain terms by the tapping of his umbrella on the floor, as he stood beside his PA's desk. He gestured with his other hand at the file he had just handed her. "I asked for ears in the room- and instead someone can only manage photographs. I know who these wretched people are, what I wanted to know is what was said. The team had a full day yesterday to process the scene. Something, anything more valuable than these wretched paparazzi shots should have come in by now."

"I understand, sir. But, the private dinner party was…very private. There was a jamming device on the whole time the guests were in the room, so external listening devices didn't work. We didn't get enough notice about the actual room to be able to put anything cabled into it. The host brought in his own catering staff, and no one on the Dorchester payroll, including several of our informants, was allowed anywhere near the room."

Mycroft frowned. "What is the Dorchester playing at? They've never allowed that sort of abuse of their rooms in the past. Even their corkage contracts require a physical presence." Mycroft seethed. Foiled by yet another of the Irishman's dark angels.

His PA ignored the irritated tone. He wasn't angry at her. And if letting off some steam helped him find his usual equilibrium, then she was glad that he felt comfortable enough in her presence to do it. "All I could get from the catering manager is that he'd been told by the hotel owners, the Brunei Investment Authority, to allow anything this client wanted.

Mycroft knew that Moriarty was back in town and that the man's Dorchester dinner had drawn a group of guests that graced the Most Wanted Lists of a dozen countries. But, for the same reasons that he had never arrested the Irishman before, he wouldn't be doing so now. Every one of the thirty two countries where the man had operations was in exactly the same bind- put him behind bars and the man's contingency plan would ensure he got out within days. For every day he was held, an increasingly public crime would be committed. Sooner or later, the arresting authority would throw in the towel; they'd never get the evidence to convict, and the man's dark angels made holding him…politically painful.

He realised that he was still tapping his umbrella against the side of his Oxford brogues. He frowned at his foot, and stopped. "What else have you come up with?"

"Sir, we spent yesterday tracing the calls and the departures of every one of those guests. Something is being…auctioned. Sold to the highest bidder, but exactly what is being sold is not clear. If the discussions going on in the networks of the people who attended are to be believed, the sums involved are staggering."

For Moriarty to reappear just when Sherlock had disappeared was nothing short of excruciating for Mycroft. At times like these, having Sherlock safely back behind the locked door of a rehab facility or a secure psychiatric facility would be the best of all possible worlds. And given what Mycroft had seen of Sherlock two days ago in Baker Street, he needed the treatment that was provided in such places. He was worried about his brother's mental health, and at the same time dealing with his own vulnerability. If Moriarty gets his hands on Sherlock in this state, I have no idea what will happen. If Sherlock found out that Moriarty was back in town, there was also no way of knowing what stupidity he might get up to. And that thought was worrying Mycroft more than anything else on his day's agenda.

His PA was watching him, with sympathy in those dark eyes. "I'm sorry, sir. I know it's been three days. You know we are doing everything we can to find him." She knew what was really bothering him. He sighed, and asked her to hand him the files for today's set of meetings.