Eleven Weeks and Six Days Ago. 221B Baker Street
When Sherlock arrived back home later that evening, there was one more positive development. His wannabe-anarchist aristocratic hacker texted him the names and email addresses of only five men that received Molly's photos and those names matched up with the five that Tom had written down. At least the son of a bitch had told Sherlock the truth, but he now had to hope that the five men didn't endlessly forward the photos on to others. He couldn't beat up every man in Britain with internet access, although, when thought too long on how Molly must be feeling, he imagined himself able to do just that.
For his part, John identified and researched each of the five men on the blood-speckled list that Sherlock had given him.
"We're in luck, mate, three of the them are based here in London. One lives in Manchester and one in Edinburgh. One of them—a Simon Forster—is out of town on business somewhere this week, according to his secretary, but the rest of them should be close to home."
"Out of town?" Sherlock asked. "He wouldn't happened to be somewhere in North America, would he?"
"Don't know. Can probably find out with some more time. Why?" Sherlock explained to him that he found now two connections to the continent in his lab work. John shrugged and said, "Could be nothing."
"Yes, well, that's all I have to go on for now," Sherlock said, clearly frustrated.
"So, um, do you want to talk about what happened with Greg this morning?"
Sherlock scoffed. "It hit the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. It was a nick, don't make it into a mortal wound."
"You stabbed him, Sherlock."
"By accident. I was distracted."
"You were angry."
"This case has me a bit irate, yes."
"And it had nothing to do with Greg's announcement that Molly would be staying at his home while the case is on-going and not here?"
"I am concerned for her safety, yes."
"And not something else?"
"Like what?"
"Oh, I dunno, jealousy?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
John leaned forward in his chair to look at Sherlock more directly. "I was there, mate. Never forget that. I was there for the phone call. I heard it and I saw what it did to you. We've never really talked about it and . . . "
"And we're not going to."
John was exasperated. Talking to Sherlock about his feelings could tax even the most understanding of friends.
"Fine. Have it your way, but you're forgetting one of the lessons you promised to take away from enduring Euros's mindgames."
"What lesson was that?"
"It's the emotional context that destroys you every time, Sherlock."
After a fitful night's sleep, Sherlock embarked on a mini-London road trip to meet the fine upstanding gentlemen with whom Tom saw fit to share Molly's most intimate photos. As he made his way to the first suspect, an investment broker whose office sat in the heart of the London's financial district, he kept repeating to himself "don't kill him, don't kill him." But any untoward comments about Molly and those pictures and all bets were off, he thought.
Jonathan McFarland walked into his office on the 45th floor of the famous Gherkin Building, surprised to find a tall, aristocratic-looking man seated at his desk, looking at his laptop.
"What are you doing? Get away from my desk," McFarland yelled at Sherlock.
"Not done yet, I'm afraid."
"What are you doing? Who the fuck are you?"
"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective."
"What are you doing in my office? With my computer?"
Sherlock ignored him and instead spoke into his mobile phone lying on the man's desk. "Do you have it all, Mel?"
"One more minute," came the disembodied voice from the device, which had been set to speaker-phone mode.
"We'll be just one more minute, then."
"I'm calling security," McFarland said and made a move toward the phone on his desk.
Sherlock held up a hand to stop him, "I'd cooperate if you don't want an investigation into illegal money laundering on behalf of groups on the UK-Terror watch list."
"I've done no such thing."
"Well, probably not, but just think of how disruptive an investigation would be to your business and reputation, even if you're ultimately vindicated."
"Why are you doing this to me?"
"Ask your friend Tom Orley."
"Tom?"
The female voice on the mobile phone shouted out, "I bet you'll think twice next time you polish your knob looking at dirty pictures." She laughed and then told Sherlock, "All done."
At that, Sherlock removed a some kind of device from the side of the laptop.
"Hey," McFarland said, protesting, "there's private, sensitive financial information on that computer."
"Not my problem, which is probably what you said when you received those photos in your email box-'not my problem where they come from or who is getting hurt.'" He then turned back to his phone. "Bye, Mel. Talk to you when I get to the next asshole." Sherlock then took an electric drill out from underneath his coat and proceeded to place numerous holes throughout McFarland's laptop over the sounds of that man's apoplectic cries of "No!"
Corbin Drury had a lovely wife and four beautiful little girls. Sherlock found this out when after traveling to that man's modest suburban Ealing home. Upon claiming to be an old college buddy of Corbin's, the kindly Mrs. Drury invited Sherlock into the home for a cup of tea and some biscuits. They waited together, making polite chit-chat until her husband walked in the front door and looked confusedly at the stranger sitting having tea with his wife. Mrs. Drury stood and happily announced that his old friend from University—Augustus Nemo—had come to say hello to his old friend.
Drury looked quite baffled, but, before he could saying anything, Sherlock bounded over, put an arm around his shoulders, and said loudly, "I was just telling your wife about the good old days back in college when you, me, and Tom Orley hung out on campus."
"I, uh, . . . " Drury began to sputter, but Sherlock cut him off.
"I particularly remember," Sherlock said, turning to Drury, "how Tom used to love going about and taking photographs and you would examine those photographs for hours. He did send you his latest photographs, didn't he? The one of the mollies?" Drury looked stricken. Sherlock turned to Mrs. Drury and explained that "mollies are fish, you see, and Tom loves to take photos of them and send them to his friends." Turning back to Drury, he said, "You did get them, didn't you?"
"Um, I, uh . . . "
Sherlock put his arm back around Drury and said, "Why don't we go look at them together, old chap?" Responding to the horrified look on Drury's face, he leaned in closer and whispered, "Take me to your laptop right now or I'll tell your lovely wife what the 'mollies' really are."
Drury tried to effect a normal demeanor for his wife. "Yeah, sure. I left my laptop in my car outside. Follow me. Back in a sec, dear."
Before Sherlock and Drury went out the front door, Mrs. Drury asked, "Will you stay for dinner Mr. Nemo?"
Sherlock turned sweetly to her. "No, I only came by for a little chat with my old friend. Some other time perhaps."
When the two men reached his car, Drury turned and spit out "Who the hell are you?"
"The Ghost of Christmas Past, now get out your damn laptop or I'll go back in there and ruin your marriage."
"You son of a bitch. I don't know what this is about, but . . . "
"You can thank your friend, Tom. Now, the laptop if you please?" Drury huffed, but opened his car door and removed the laptop from a canvas bag on the front passenger seat and handed it to Sherlock. "Now turn it on and unlock it," the detective requested.
When Drury complied, Sherlock took out a small black device and attached it to the side of the computer, same as he had done to McFarland's. Then he called Mel, who answered immediately. "Is it ready?" She asked. He replied in the affirmative.
"What . . . what are you doing?" asked Drury.
"We're putting a worm inside all of your email and internet accounts so that if you ever seek out anything pornographic again from any device, your wife and all your co-workers are instantly notified," Sherlock lied and heard Mel chuckle on her end of the phone line.
"What are you—the porn police?" Drury asked, uncomprehending what the hell was going on.
"Done," Mel announced and asked, "Is that the last one today?"
"Yes, thank you, be in touch." Sherlock ended the phone call, removed the device from the side of the computer, tucked the laptop under his arm, and started to walk away from Drury and toward the street.
"Wait, you're stealing my laptop?"
"Why would I want a broken laptop?"
"It's not broken."
Sherlock turned and proceeded to throw the laptop onto the road in front of Drury's house just as a lorry was passing by, thus crushing the laptop under the vehicle's wheel. He turned back to Drury. "Now it is," Sherlock said, with a self-satisfied grin, and continued walking away.
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