Eleven Weeks and Three Days Ago. Gatwick International Airport
Sherlock sat eating chips at one of the fast-food terminals near the international arrivals area of Gatwick. John sat across from him, having a coffee.
"I can't believe you are eating again. We just ate breakfast an hour ago," John remarked to his friend.
"There's always room for chips."
"I swear Sherlock, I've never seen any human persist on a diet composed so much of potato products. Anyway, back to the text."
"I'm not showing you the photograph."
"I don't want to see it, I want to know what you think it means."
"Well, I think the first part is clearly a crass sexual pun."
"'Little Sherlock being, uh . . . " John pointed downward and Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Yes. The second part, the part about there being 12 photos and 12 weeks until the game is over, suggests a countdown to some event, most likely a time limit for me to solve something."
"You know, this sounds a lot like Euros."
"Yes, I've thought of that, but I've nothing direct to connect her with it as of yet."
"So, um . . . the photo?" John asked, causing Sherlock to breathe deeply, looking annoyed.
"What about it?" Sherlock asked, anger showing on his face.
"Are you ok, having seen it?"
Sherlock cleared his throat and squirmed in his seat. "I tried to avoid looking too closely at it, out of respect for Molly. A hacker I know is working on trying to find out more about where the text was sent from."
"How did Molly react when you told her about it?"
"I haven't told her."
"What?"
"I haven't told her and I'm not going to tell her. She doesn't need to know because I'm going to take care of all this and she'll never have to know anything about it."
"You need to rethink that, mate. This is her life."
"John, my mind is made up on this point. Molly will not be burdened with any of this. Listen, you didn't see her when Lestrade and I were emptying that fucking box. You weren't there to see her face when she realized what was on those photos. And you didn't see her the day after. It was maddening, John, maddening, and I can't see her like that again. This is my call and I've made it."
"Yeah, it's your call, but I don't agree with it."
"Noted," Sherlock said and, just as he did, he received the text he'd been waiting for. "It's showtime. Shall we?"
When the two men entered the room reserved for interrogating passengers with questionable cargo and/or those exhibiting suspicious behaviors, they could see that Simon Forster was already quite agitated at being pulled aside and detained. At the sight of Sherlock and John, he started to speak in an angry, authoritative tone.
"See here, I don't know what this is all about but I demand to call my solicitor immediately."
"Oh, do shut up and listen," Sherlock told him, as both he and John sat down in the chairs across the table from the increasingly belligerent man. The man's laptop had been removed from his bag by security and placed in the middle of the table. "Please open up your laptop and put in your password."
"Absolutely not! I demand to see my solicitor. What is this all about?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, pulled the laptop toward himself, and opened it up. As he did so, he said, "Fine. We'll do this the mildly harder way." He pulled out the little black device he'd used on the four other computers and plugged it into the side of the laptop.
"What are you doing? That's mine. You can't do that. It's illegal."
Sherlock shushed him as he pulled his mobile phone from his coat, dialed Mel, and put her on speaker phone. "Mel? We've got a fighter."
"Didn't you tell him that resistance is futile?"
"Didn't want to waste my breath."
"Ok, give me three minutes. I'll text you when I got it all."
"Thanks so much." Sherlock rang off. A second later the laptop whirred to life, as if operated by a ghost. Forster looked astonished.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he demanded.
"So how was New York? I hear it's lovely this time of year."
"I'm not saying anything without my solicitor here."
"As you please."
"Will one of you tell me what the fuck this is all about?"
"Apparently, an old college buddy of yours—Tom Orley—sent you some photos some months back," Sherlock said by way of explanation.
Forster looked confused and then a look of recognition came across his face. "What of 'em?" he asked, cautious.
"Do you want to save us some time and tell us if you've shared those photos with anyone?"
Now Forster looked genuinely worried and croaked out, "I want my solicitor." This was not the reaction of someone who may have shared what he thought were just some naughty photos with other men wanting to get their jollies off, Sherlock thought. He seemed genuinely scared.
Sherlock's text notification sounded, indicating that Mel had cracked the laptop and uploaded everything on it.
As Sherlock and John got up to leave, the detective told Forster, "I think we'll be in touch soon, Mr. Forster."
"Can I leave now?" The man asked irately. Sherlock nodded. Forster made a motion as if he was going to reach for this laptop.
"Oh, almost forgot," Sherlock said, pulling the laptop out of Forster's reach. "John, would you like to do the honors?"
"Absolutely," John replied. At that, Sherlock took a hammer out of his jacket and handed it to John, who promptly began to smash the laptop to bits in front of a stunned Simon Forster.
Detective work, Sherlock Holmes had long ago concluded, was often a game of hurry up and wait. And waiting was not his forte. As he made his way back to Baker Street alone, as John had to go pick up Rosie, he grew more and more impatient to hear from Mel the results of scanning Foster's laptop as well as his own mobile for the origin of last night's text. His interactions with Forster confirmed Sherlock's suspicion of that man's involvement.
As his taxi pulled up to the outer door of his flat, Sherlock's heart leaped into his throat as he saw Molly ringing the buzzer. He charged out of the taxi, throwing money at the driver, both elated to see her and concerned at her being alone, without security.
He immediately yelled, "Where is your security detail?"
She turned around and blushed. "Oh Sherlock. It's fine." She grabbed his arm to spin him around toward the street and pointed in three directions. "There, there, and there. I'm fine. I'm more protected than the Prime Minister."
Sherlock felt a little bit easier. "Ok, they should be closer but . . . um, Molly, are you here to see me?" For a second, he panicked at the thought that she somehow knew about the text he'd received last night, but dismissed that concern because she possessed too much casualness, too much equanimity, to know about that.
"Well, yes."
"Oh, come up, please." They ascended the stairs and entered the flat in silence. "Can I make you some tea?"
"Don't go to any trouble."
"Don't be silly, I would be making some for myself anyway."
"That would be nice then."
"Please, sit."
Sherlock went to his kitchen to prepare the tea, leaving Molly in the living area. "I can't believe it. You really did recreate 221B to the exact way it was before the explosion. How did you do it? I mean, where do they even make wallpaper like that anymore?"
"I had to have it especially made."
Molly laughed. "Of course you did."
Once the tea was ready, Sherlock brought the tray, complete with biscuits, into the living area. "So," Sherlock began carefully, "I take it this isn't a social call."
"Well, um, you see, I was actually wondering if I could take you up on the offer to stay here with you for the duration of the case." Sherlock stood immobile and expressionless, as if he'd fallen into a trance, reminiscent of when John had asked him to be Best Man at his wedding. At Sherlock's silence, Molly became nervous and her stutter returned. "B . . . b . . . but of course, I . . . I don't have to."
"No, no, no. You should absolutely stay here. That is absolutely for the best. Absolutely." He wondered to himself if he could find a way to say "absolutely" one more time.
"It's just that, Greg . . . oh, it seems so mean to say, he's so nice and means well and all, but, Lord I think I understand why his wife left him." Sherlock laughed. She smiled.
"You can sleep in my bed. I mean, you can have my bedroom. I'll sleep in John's old room."
"Well, why? I can just as easily sleep in John's room. There's no need to put you out of your own room."
"You gave me your room when I used your flat as a bolthole."
"That's only because I don't have a guest room, Sherlock. And you would have had to pretzel yourself to fit on my sofa. I can take John's old room, really."
Sherlock wasn't quite conscious of why he wanted her to take his room so much, so he made up a reason. "John's room is a little drafty. I don't mind it personally, so you have to take my room. No arguments."
"Um, ok. Can I come by tonight, then?"
"Yes, absolutely." There was that "absolutely" again.
"Ok, one more thing. To spare Greg's feelings, I'm telling him that you're making me do it. Will you back me up?"
"Absolutely."
Reviews are things of beauty and keep the demons away and the muses close by.
**BTW, for those concerned that I'm risking my health writing this so damned fast, two things. (1) The first few chapters had been written ahead of time and needed only proofing, so they came online fast. I wanted people to get a real sense of the story right away than just one of two chapters could provide. (2) But, yes, I do get a bit manic when I feel an idea I like come on. I really love writing this and hope people are enjoying it. It's a very strange thing to write this much text, send it out into the ether, hoping like-minded souls will find something worth reading about it. But there you have it. -F.C.
**If you go back now and re-read the story, you'll see that all the dating at the top of each chapter has been corrected to reflect a correct story "end date." The way I had attempted to do it was too confusing. So, essentially, the story converges at some point—where both the therapy sessions and the action run in the present.