Why Fireflies Flash
Chapter Four
"All of London"
Scotland Yard
"Brian Lukis, freelance journalist murdered in his flat," Sherlock says while typing away on DI Dimmick's laptop. He turns it around to show the article from earlier. "Doors looked from the inside."
"You've got to admit it's similar," John speaks from beside the consultant. "Both men killed by someone who could walk through solid walls."
"Detective, do you really think this is just another city suicide?" Anabeth asked.
Sherlock sighed. "You have seen the ballistics report, I suppose. And Anabeth was right, was she not? The bullet wasn't fired from his own gun."
"No," the detective answered.
"No. So this investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as gospel."
At the word gospel, Quinn smacked herself in the forehead. "Yesterday was Wednesday, was it not?" At John's nod she winces "Crap, I promised Momma I would go to Confessional. Gallivanting around with you all, I forgot," she says pointedly.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. He's been doing that a lot since he met Anabeth... Turning back to the task at hand he leans forward, bracing himself on the desk in front of him. "I just handed you a murder inquiry. Five minutes in his flat."
With a sigh, Dimmick gives in.
Brian Lukis' Flat
Quinn found herself ogling at the clutter found in the newest victims flat. Research, she told herself, it is all for research. Still, it was a lot of books. She enjoyed reading but not this much.
"Four floors up." Sherlock smiled. "That's why they think their safe. Put a chain across the door, bolt it shut, they think their impregnable. They don't reckon for one second that there's another way in."
"I don't understand," Dimmick states as Sherlock brushes past him.
Quinn rolled her eyes. "Of course you do not. Do try to keep up. Our killer is a climber. A highly skilled one at that."
"What are you doing?" Dimmick asks as Sherlock opens a skylight.
"Clings to the walls like an insect. That's how he got in."
"What?"
"Climbed up the side of the walls, ran along the roof, dropped in through this skylight."
"What? You're not serious. Like Spider-man?"
Quinn shook her head. "He climbed up six stories and jumped a balcony to kill Edward Van Coon."
"Ha ha ha h-hold on-"
"And of course that's how he got into the bank; he ran along the window ledge and onto the terrace," Sherlock continues. He turns around and pauses in doorway leading out. "We've got to find what connects these two men." A bright orange book catches his eye. He opens it briefly before snapping it shut and storming out, leaving his two comrades to follow him.
221B Baker Street
Quinn pranced about the kitchen, not having eaten in nearly twenty-four hour, her stilettos tapping a non-rhythmic staccato beat as she gathers the ingredients for a bacon butty, proud of herself for remembering the term. As the bacon sizzled in the pan and the bread toasted, she tuned into the boys' conversation.
"So the killer goes into the back, leaves a threatening cipher for Van Coon, Van Coon panics, returns to his apartment, locks himself in, hours later he dies."
"The killer finds Lukis at the library, he writes the cipher on the shelf where he knows it'll be seen... Lukis goes home..."
"Late that night he dies too."
"Why do they die, Sherlock?"
Quinn placed her finished bacon on her toast and took it out on a plate and to the sitting room on a plate. "Well, that is the question, is it not? The cipher will tell us. I have seen these markings before. But I do not remember where. We figure the cipher, we find the killer."
"The world's run on codes and ciphers, John. From the million pound security at the bank to the pin machine you took exception to, cryptography inhabits our every waking moment," Sherlock explains as they round the fountain.
"Yes okay, but-"
"But it is all computer generated," Quinn says, her voice devoid of the usual emotion. Sherlock takes note of this and files it away for later use. "This code is too ancient for modern code breaking. Which is the point. Would not want the world knowing their secrets, would they?"
"Then where are we headed?"
"I need to ask advice," Sherlock says as they start to climb the stone stairs.
John's eyes widen in shock. "What? Sorry?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You heard me perfectly. I won't say it again."
"You need advice?"
"On painting yes. I need to talk to an expert."
"Couldn't you just ask Anabeth? Why did we have to come here?"
"I'm afraid Miss Ryder doesn't possess the expertise I'm seeking."
The rounded the corner of the building, spotting a young kid spray painting.
"Part of my new exhibition," the kid says as he continues to spray.
"Interesting," Sherlock replies as he digs in his jacket for his phone.
"I call it 'Urbanbloodlustfrenzy'." He says the phrase like it's a single word.
"Catchy," John speaks with a hint of sarcasm.
"I got two minutes before a community support officer comes round that corner. Can we do this while I'm working?"
Sherlock holds out his phone. The kid takes it after tossing a can to John.
"Know the author?" Sherlock asks.
"Recognize the paint. Michigan hardcore propellant. I'd say zinc."
"Yes, yes," Quinn says impatiently. "Now what about the symbols? Do you recognize them?"
"Not even sure it's a proper language."
"It is, I assure you. Now two men have been murdered. That cipher is the key to finding their killer."
"Well, come on, this is all you had to go on. It's hardly much, now is it?"
"Are you going to help us or not?" Sherlock barked.
"I'll ask around."
"Somebody must know something about it."
"Oi!"
The foursome looked over to see two officers rushing towards them. Sherlock, Quinn and the kid booked it. When they made it away safely the kid latched on to Quinn's arm giving her a huge smile.
"Are going to be there tonight?"
Anabeth smirked. "Damn skippy. See you there?"
"Wouldn't miss it." He left them then leaving a red hand print on her arm. Quinn frowned at it. It looked like it might be sore in the morning, especially after tonight...
"Have you slept with everyone in London?"
Quinn blinked at the bluntness of Sherlock's question. "I have not slept with you, now have I?"
There was that emotionless voice again. He could add a stiffer posture to the mix as well. There was something military about it.
221B Baker Street
The slamming of the door was the only warning Quinn and Sherlock received before John stormed into the flat.
"You've been a while," Sherlock stated.
"Yeah, well you know how it is; custody sergeants don't really like to be hurried, do they? Just formalities. Fingerprints. Charge sheet. And I've got to be in magistrate's court on Tuesday," John rambled.
"What?"
"Me, Sherlock! In court! On Tuesday! They're giving me an ASBO!"
"Good. Fine."
"You can tell your little pal he's welcome to own up anytime."
"It's simple but I still can't place it." Sherlock slams his book closed and dropped it somewhere before shoving John's coat back on him. "No! I need you to go to the station and ask about the journalist. Personal effects would've been impounded. Get a hold of his diary or something that would tell of his movements. I'll go see Van Coon's PA. You retrace their steps and somewhere they'll coincide.
Quinn nods. "Good. I will go see one of my contacts. This whole Hong Kong thing has got me missing her. Perhaps she will give me some insight. I have been needing to brush up my Mand..." Her eyes widen in realization before she starts running in the opposite direction. "Catch you later!"
The West End
"Two men travel back from China both head straight for The Lucky Cat Emporium. What did they see?" John asks.
"It's not what they saw," Sherlock responds folding up the napkin with his notes of the Chinese numbers on it. "It's what the both brought back in those suitcases."
"You don't mean 'duty free,'" John states. A waitress appears beside him with his food. "Thank you," he breathes.
"Think about what Sebastian told us," Sherlock says leaning forward after the woman had left, "about Van Coon, about how he stayed afloat in the market."
"Lost five million..."
"Made it back in a week. That's how he made such easy money," he says nodding toward the shop across the way.
"He was a smuggler," agreed John, as he popped a bite in his mouth.
"It would've been perfect, businessman making frequent trips to Asia. Lukis was the same, a journalist writing about China. Both of them smuggle stuff out, The Lucky Cat was their drop off."
"But why did they die?" John wonders. "It doesn't make any sense. The both turned up at the shop to deliver the goods. Why would someone threaten them, and kill them, after the event, after they've finished the job?"
The question had been brewing in Sherlock's mind as well. If everything had gone according to plan, why would they end up killed? There was no point... Unless... He smiled. "What if one of them was light fingered?"
"What do you mean?"
"Stole something, something from the hoard?"
"But the killer doesn't know which one took it, so he threatens them both." John glances out the window, pausing when something catches his eye. "Is that Anabeth?" he asks.
Sherlock follows his friends gaze to the flat next to The Lucky Cat and sure enough there stood the woman with her straight black hair in its ever present ponytail. She knocks on the door, having already buzzed the inhabitant, waited a moment before walking away and down a nearby alley. Sherlock glimpses at the sky. "Remind me," he says, "when was the last time that it rained?"
Sherlock runs his thumb across and exposed corner of the phone book. "It's been here since Monday." He stands and rings the bell briefly in hopes that Quinn was already inside. Needless to say she wasn't. Turning abruptly, he followed the path Quinn too to the alley behind the apartment. "No one's been in that for at least three days."
"They could have gone on holiday."
"Do you normally leave you windows open on holiday?" Quinn asks from the fire escape.
The two men looked up to see the (have we come to a consensus on her occupation?) look down upon them. Sherlock took a few steps back before getting a running start and jumped to grabbed the ladder for the fire escape. He scaled it quickly and joined her.
"Impressive. Now, do it in seven inch stilettos."
"I'll pass, thanks."
"What if she had a cat?" John asks.
"Soo Lin did not have a cat," Quinn replied as they slipped in the window.
And here's another chapter. Thank you guys for reading and following and a shout out to Fuchsia Grasshopper for their review. Stay clever. -Lyra