`Good day Sherlock – there are Many Terms for you.`
`Good day Sherlock – This Equals That.`
`Good day Sherlock – Variables – who knows how many?`
`Good day Sherlock – who is your Constant?`
`Good day Sherlock – Multiply by Yourself – what happens?`
`Good day Sherlock – an Exponent of Two.`
`Good day Sherlock. Pattern down from a 3 to a ZERO.
"Well, he`s polite anyway." Thus, Scotland Yard`s finest gives his opinion on Sherlock`s mystery texter. Perhaps not such a mystery anymore, however.
Sherlock takes his phone form Lestrade, considering.
"The Binomial Theorem. That is what it is. He is showboating to me. He is taunting."
He gets up and throws open the patio doors into the balmy Cornish evening. The hazy sun is settling into the golds, scarlets and oranges of a spectacular looking sunset. Birds are chirruping in and around the lawn and rhododendron bushes.
"Sounds kinda familiar." Despite the evening, John is chilled to the bone.
"`Many Terms` indicates a polynomial, many numbered, pattern. `This equals That` is just another way of saying an equation. A `Variable` - a number we have yet to find and `Constants` are known numbers on their own."
"That bit does worry me, Sherlock." Lestrade rubs his chin, thoughtfully. "Does he know about – your new `situation`? Molly. And Benedict."
John often wonders how anyone could define Sherlock`s `new situation` - including Sherlock himself.
"I would imagine a man who knows every criminal movement on the planet would probably be aware of my – circumstances. The question is, do I send them away, to somewhere I can`t physically protect them, or do I keep them with me?" He had deleted the memory of Mycroft`s offer of the Lear. It seems he had answered his own dilemma. "They stay here, with me."
Truth be told, John and Lestrade are a little choked up by this.
"`An Exponent of Two` - the number of multiplications possible to a number, for example, squared is a number multiplied twice. He could be referring to John and myself, or Molly. It isn't clear."
"What about the last one - `Pattern down from a three to a zero`?"
Lestrade and John looked at each other. That was the most chilling.
"I will give you an example," continues Sherlock, picking up Lestrade`s tablet and a stylus.
a3 + 3a2b + 3ab2 + b3
He draws circles around the a3, the a2 and the 3a and the b, then:
a3 + 3a2b + 3ab2 + b3
3 2 1 0
"This is the Binomial pattern – the values reduce each time within the equation."
Lestrade shakes his head.
"Well, cheers for the maths lesson, Sherlock, but these texts sound like threats to me. This guy, if he is as dangerous as he sounds – does he not want to wipe you – and your family out? Reducing three to one?"
For a microsecond, Sherlock thinks of his parents and Mycroft, then – no – he has another family. He has something real to lose.
x
"Sherlock, John…." Molly Hooper calls from the garden. She is showing Benedict the maze. "There is a man on the beach. I think he`s watching the house."
Running.
Sherlock is still wearing his lab coat as both men race, erupting from the patio doors into the back garden. Molly points towards the sea.
"South east. Around 500 metres."
The adrenaline has kicked in. John half jumps, half falls down the wooden step ladder to the shingle cove. Sherlock is ahead of him by around 10 metres and is racing across the shingle in the direction of a huge granite archway. He is barefoot. John`s brain can only just factor how much the sharp shingle must hurt, yet he shows no signs of suffering or slowing down.
In the distance, the large, dark silhouette of a man is ambling through the archway. He suddenly forks right and disappears into the sea grasses which border the beach. By the time John, panting like Sea Biscuit, catches up with Sherlock, the intruder is gone. Sherlock is sitting amongst the pebbles, breathing hard; eyes like flints. His feet are bleeding, but he doesn't seem to notice.
"He`ll be back," is all he says.
x
It is Greg Lestrade`s last night at Tregennis Lodge and he has offered to babysit.
"I think I may be a little bit in love with you," whispers Mary Watson, as she wafts past him on the way to the car he is lending them for the evening.
"Stressful time for you all. Least I can do. Sherlock…" his voice is a whisper and Mary leans closer. "Sherlock needs to find the lie of the land. Meet the locals. Find a criminal genius."
Mary nods and opens the door of Lestrade`s hired Megane. "No worries. We`ll text you when we spot him."
The Crossed Serpent in Helston was rustic to the point of being a Harry Potter film set. Thatched roof – check; wattle (and, no doubt) daub walls – check; huge oak door; nooks and crannies; inglenook fire place and flickering candlelight – all present and correct. The beer was brewed (organically) on the premises and the tagine of wild guinea fowl caught John`s attention from the moment he stepped across the flag-stoned floor.
"I am so happy," remarked Mary, shucking off her coat, "to get out of that house. I hardly dare breathe near those candlesticks."
Molly settles into the high-backed wooden seat, abundant with plump cushions.
"Mary, they are fine now. I`ve had them in the dishwasher on 90 degrees four times. I`ve used Sherlock`s app. No trace of …you know what."
John Watson has returned from the bar with a tray of very inviting beverages, which he deposits firmly on the table. "That`s it for tonight. No more."
Molly: "No more? No more what?"
Sherlock has rounded the corner with several bags of quavers, one of which he present to Molly, with a secret smile which makes her cheeks pink. "No more talk of gardening, people. Anyone for bar billiards?"
John is very pleased to observe that, for a polymath, Sherlock Holmes is spectacularly bad at darts.
People around the dart board have discreetly relocated to safer inglenooks within the Crossed Serpent, as winged implements of pointy badness are bouncing and ricocheting around with unpredictable outcomes.
"Oh Lordy," retorts Mary, "It's a good job he didn't have to save you with a poison dart to the neck."
Molly is getting the next round in and is reaching across for a proffered glass of peach schnapps (Sherlock) when she is nudged in the ribs, nearly spilling it.
Hissing: "Look, Molly, over in the other bar… that man with the beard and those blue, blue eyes…he looks so familiar."
She nods in the general direction and Mary takes in a tallish man – around forty years of age, wearing a tartan shirt and – the eyes are the chilling blue of an Alaskan Malamut – almost canine…
"Marylebone Market!" They turn to each other, simultaneously. "`The Pie man`s Life`, or something?`"
"`The Pie Life`? Or …"
Sherlock Holmes, seemingly tired of harpooning innocent drinkers is suddenly standing behind them.
"`The Life of Pie`." He adds.
There is huddling in the inglenook as discussion is had.
"It`s perfectly reasonable," points out John, sotto voce, "to expect a man who sell Cornish pasties for a living to actually live in a Cornish town. One that sells pasties."
"It could be a coincidence – " suggests Molly Hooper.
"The universe is rarely that lazy," dismisses Sherlock, glancing again at the blue-eyed pasty seller. "You are sure it`s him?"
Molly thinks for a microsecond, then reaches into her enormous (mummy) bag. "I thought so – I saved this from months ago – was going to enter their Facebook competition … kind of glad I didn't bother now." She gives John a sympathetic half-smile. There was the same face, smiling from the leaflet, `Sam Porlock`, and, in addition, the benign smiling countenance of `head baker`, Frisbee Sommersby.
"Well, well, isn't it a small world?" Remarks Sherlock. He thinks for a nanosecond, then dives into Molly`s bag and pulls out – Lestrade`s tablet. Molly squeaks.
"Oh, oh! How did that get in there? I never – "
"Oh, I just borrowed it. He won`t miss playing Angry Birds to that extent. I was going to give it back. Eventually."
Sherlock gets out the stylus and taps into an app called `Paper Art`. He opens a new tab into Facebook and finds the bogus account of Lt. James M. Dodd. Uploading `James`s` blurry picture into the app, Sherlock briskly changes the hair colour from sandy to brown, fills in the missing tooth, adds a small beard and finally alters the eyes from hazel to husky dog blue.
And `James M Dodd` is the absolute doppelganger of the pie selling man across the bar. The man who is just leaving.
Sherlock Holmes is standing up and sleeving on his jacket. John stands to go with him, but a hand gently pushes him back down.
"No." Sherlock is calm, quiet but firm. "I am going alone. I need you to protect everyone else. You should all go back now."
Although John is less than happy with this, he acquiesces. However, in the car park, he hands Sherlock his revolver without a word. It is only when Sherlock nods and briefly touches him on the shoulder that he gets how grateful he is. His ex-flatmate is generally not a man for displays of physical affection.
"Maybe I should have brought the darts too." He whispers before sprinting off into the night.