CHAPTER 21: A MAN WALKS INTO A CAFÉ

WEDNESDAY, MAY 6, 2015

John lifted the Gilbert Rogers painting, which had been hanging on his wall for barely more than a month, to reveal a flat square of steel with no handle, no dial, just a small, black screen in the corner, about the size of a matchbox. He pressed his thumb to it and said, 'Bluebell.'

A light click, a soft hiss, and the steel plate swung outward by mere inches. He reached in, hesitating only a moment before ignoring the pistols, ammo, knives, and taser and grabbing, instead, a single, small, silver key. He squeezed it into the watch pocket of his jeans.

Minutes later, he was rushing down the stairs, an overladen duffle hanging at his side. He expected to make a sharp left down the hallway to where Sherlock was supposed to be packing in his own bedroom; instead, he stopped short, as Sherlock was only just now tucking the violin under his chin and fitting the bow to a string.

'Sherlock,' said John, a little censorious.

Turning his back, he began to play.

'Sherlock. We have to go.'

The bow sawed into the strings, rapid and screeching, Paganini in a rage. Sherlock's shoulders were tight but his head bounced like a rock star, his curls recoiling with each violent stroke. He was playing like he would never again get the chance hold a violin, and if that were the case, he would take it in hand one last time, and destroy it.

John's own shoulders sagged, watching him. He waited for a pause, a breath, a sustained note, but when one didn't come, he raised his voice instead.

'We're coming back, you know.'

Without dropping a note, Sherlock spun on his heel to face John. 'What do you think, John? Think James Moriarty played an instrument? A violin, perhaps? Think this is one of the flags warning of dangerous psychopathy?'

With a sigh, John set the duffle bag on the sofa, then crossed the room, angling for his armchair. 'Play something sad, at least,' he said resignedly, sinking into his chair.

'Why?' Sherlock snapped, his left hand racing up the fingerboard to shriek the high notes. 'Are you sad?'

'No. You are.'

'Ha!'

He spun back around, and, if it were possible, his volume change from fortissimo to super-fortissimo.

'You know,' said John, no longer raising his voice, and if what he had to say was drowned out by a livid violin, so be it, 'I used to believe what Moriarty told you, back then, through the voice of a terrified young man he had kidnapped and strapped a bomb to.'

If only incrementally, the aching harshness of the horsehairs on the string lessened, maybe just enough to hear what John was saying.

'That you two were made for each other. Not that you were alike—I never believed that. You were both geniuses, yes, willing and able to play one another's games, better than anyone else could. But for me, you were as different as night and day. You were Moriarty's match, and he was yours. So that you were made for each other . . . that made sense, at the time. The hero for the villain, the light to counter the darkness, water for fire, whatever it was.' He shook his head, regretful at the thought. 'I was wrong, though. Wasn't I? You weren't made for him. If you were made for anyone in this crazy story. . . well, it was for me. When I think of my own story, and where I was before I met you . . . Well, that's what makes sense. Don't you think? You for me, me for you. Not to counter one another, but to . . . balance, I guess. To complete. Two halves of a whole.' He stared at his hands as he spoke, as the music grew softer and slower. 'Barmy, I know. But that's how it is. To me. I guess I've always felt that.'

Sherlock held one, low, long note. His own eyes were locked on the bridge of the violin, and anyone who didn't know Sherlock as well as John did might think him impassive, unmoved, maybe even that he had heard nothing of what John had said. But John knew he had heard every word.

He suddenly dropped the violin from his throat, turned, and set it in its case.

'Greg and Molly should stay on Baker Street,' he said, seemingly apropos of nothing. He twisted the end of the bow, loosening the hairs. 'It's safer here than that rented hovel they're calling a home.'

John contained his surprised at the generous proposal. 'That's a good idea. We can ask Mrs Hudson to—'

'I'll call Lestrade myself. He's already got a key to the flat, and he'll explain everything to Mrs Hudson. I don't want . . .'

To say goodbye, John supplied in his head.

'. . . her to fuss,' Sherlock finished. He locked the violin case and set it by the window. 'The duffel, John. Leave it.'

'But—'

'We're being watched as it is. No need to raise suspicions by leaving Baker Street with travel bags. We leave with nothing but the jackets on our backs and wallets in our pockets. Best if we don't leave together, either, not from the front door. We'll meet up at Mycroft's.'

'Mycroft? But Anthea said—'

'If I'm to be banished, I'm doing this my way. I'm fixing past mistakes. This time, two things are different: I'm not leaving you behind, and I'm saying goodbye to my brother.'

Despite the pain John saw behind Sherlock's carefully constructed mask of stoicism, he was pleased to see that Sherlock, perhaps in spite of himself, had something resembling a plan. No longer wholly resistant, he had reached a plateau of acceptance, even if he didn't like it, and he would make something of it. It didn't quite occur to John, however, that the acceptance had come only within the last minute, when John had said what he had said.

'And then?' John asked.

'And then, we leave London. Ready yourself, John. The life of an exile is the height of pariah-hood, you'll see.'

He started toward his bedroom, probably to collect the jacket he spoke of, but John swiftly rose to his feet to intercept him, just as he passed the threshold between the sitting room and the kitchen. He grabbed Sherlock's upper arm and held him in place.

'You're coming back, Sherlock,' he said. 'I'm going to make sure of it.'

Sherlock stilled, staring at him, and for once John couldn't read the expression there. Was he angry? Bemused? Hopeful? The muscle beneath his hand began to soften.

'Oh John,' he breathed. He leant close, their noses nearly touching, but John didn't think to step back. 'It was you who brought me back the first time. God forbid I should let you pay the price of my return twice.' He lightly took John's wrist, and his thumb traced the scar there as he parted his lips to say something more, but then seemed to think better of it. He dropped John's wrist and walked away.

By the time Lestrade's super-secret meeting on Baker Street was over, it was nearly time for dinner, but Sally Donovan was too keyed up to call it a day. She had work to do, and she would be damned if she would let it wait until morning.

She didn't ask him to come, but she didn't discourage Dryers, either, from tagging along with her back to the Yard where he entered warily, casting nervous glances at everyone from the security staff to fellow Yarders. Technically, he was still on probation, but no one recognised him enough to really care. Dryers wasn't very high on the totem pole, after all. Few knew him by sight, fewer by name.

They settled into empty cubicles as the day workers were shutting down their computers and the night cleaning staff were beginning to assemble. Donovan ordered Chinese takeaway and hunkered down for a long night of revising the evidence and scouring old records.

'This whole thing's a bit bonkers, innit?' said Dryers.

'Hm?'

'I mean, Moriarty and watchlists and conspiracies, the whole enchilada. This business with Pitts and Murray and others who should have nothing to do with each other, all tangled up in the same skein. And then there's Holmes and Watson rather at the centre of it all. Bonkers.'

'Bonkers,' she agreed.

'So, you've, erm, you've known them a long while now, eh?' Dryers' eyes were fixed on the screen in front of him, but he sure seemed keen to natter away. 'Holmes and Watsons, I mean?'

Donovan grunted a little impatiently in the affirmative, trying to focus on her work.

'So . . . be straight with me. I'm not judging, just curious. What's the deal with those two?'

Her mouse-hand paused in the middle of scrolling. 'What deal?'

'You know what I mean. The way they are with each other.'

Sighing, Donovan dropped her hand and swivelled in her chair. 'What way?'

He snorted. 'Give me a break. If you looked at me the way Watson looks at Holmes, I'd stop wondering if you were into me, know what I'm saying?'

She rolled her eyes. 'What they are isn't any of your business, though, is it?'

'Oh, come on,' he whined, a tease in his eye. 'They're not here. We can speculate.' He winked.

'Look.' She folded her arms. 'I've known Sherlock Holmes for about a decade now, and for half of that time, he was very much the lone wolf, and frankly, we didn't get on. I didn't like him, he didn't respect me. The other half of that time, well, he was dead. So saying that I've known him a long while and that I have insight into his mind and heart just isn't true.'

'Your opinion on him has changed though, yeah? You like him now.'

'Like him? What are we, ten?'

'Don't you?'

She was flustered, this whole conversation having caught her quite off guard.

'Don't you?' Dryers prodded.

'Yes, if it will shut you up.'

He laughed. 'Don't know why you're all defensive about it. He's obviously brilliant. Kinda funny, too. Especially for a guy who gets shit hurled at him every time he leaves his front door. Can't help but admire that, you know?'

'Yeah, he's a right hero.'

'Is that sarcasm?'

She sighed. 'No. Not really.'

'All I'm saying is, it's a damn shame what's happening to him right now. I could see it on his face today, he's devastated. And the only silver lining I can see in all this—besides, you know, maybe saving his life—is that he's got his . . . what would you call him, then?—life partner at his side. I think that's great.'

She finally pulled her eyes away from the screen long enough to give him an unamused look. 'Whatever they are, they're clearly private about it. So I'll thank you not to add more grain to the rumour mill.'

They fell silent after that, each focusing on the search. After another twenty minutes, the silence broke.

'Aha!' Donovan exclaimed. '114 Grosvenor Road, Flat 1C, Chiswick.'

Dryers spun around in his rolling chair and kicked off the side of his desk to glide toward her and her screen.

'Tenant?'

'Getting there.' She clicked a few buttons. 'City records list the property owner as a Georgina S. Reynolds'—she brought up a second screen—'who owns three other flats in the same building: 1B, 2B, and 2C. Let me see if I can find a history of 1C occupants after 2009.'

Renters were in a separate database, which was, quite frankly, something of a mess given that the list was primarily based on a cross-listing with utilities and landline companies, not landlord reporting and tenancy agreements. Most police officers despised searching the records to hunt down suspects because, nine times out of ten, the name attached to the record was out of date or a straight-up lie, leading officers on long, boring chases that were just about as successful as using a sniffer dog and no leading scent. But it was all they had.

'Oh look, there's our boy,' said Donovan. 'Sherlock Holmes, November 2009 to January 2010. He's actually on the flat's occupancy history. Who would've guessed?'

'Our boy?' Dryers repeated, amused.

Donovan ignored him, her dark skin hiding her flush. 'The next guy assumed occupancy in February 2010. Hm.'

Squinting hard at the screen, Donovan and Dryers leant forward together until their heads were nearly touching.

'Holy shit,' said Donovan under her breath. 'Do you see what I see?'

Dryers read the name aloud. 'Aiden Gilmore Rian Anglin? Aiden Anglin? We know him?'

She rolled her eyes. 'Where were you today? Look at it, Tom. A.G.R.A.'

It took a second to sink in. Then, 'Holy shit! That's the network! Moriarty's network!'

'And whoever it is, is still listed as the present occupant.'

Dryers' head bobbed up and down excitedly, his lips pursed and contemplative. 'So what now? Apply for a warrant?'

Donovan laughed. 'Based on what? To look for what?'

'Then—?'

'We'll just . . . go. Talk to this mysterious Mr Anglin, see if we can't wiggle our way inside. And if no one's at home, well, we have a key, don't we? We just let ourselves in.'

'You're not serious. That's not breaking and entering? Trespass?'

Donovan clicked out of the city records and began to shut the computer down.

'Sally,' said Donovan with a crooked smile, like he was waiting for the punchline of a joke. 'This . . . doesn't sound like you.'

'Going to stay here, then, are you?' she asked, swinging her arms into the sleeves of her jacket.

'And it's ten o'clock already!'

'Oh please,' said Donovan, actually smiling. 'Don't you feel it? There are answers in Holmes' old flat. I'm quite keen on uncovering them. Sleep will just have to wait. But go on home, if you like. I'll see you in the morning. Maybe.'

She didn't wait for an answer but headed straight for the exit, knowing that Dryers would be only two seconds behind. Grumbling, perhaps, but excited despite himself.

Sometimes, it felt good to be just a little like Sherlock Holmes.

John arrived at Mycroft's penthouse seven minutes after Sherlock, who was already six minutes into a debriefing with Anthea, but Mycroft was nowhere to be seen. Dressing, Sherlock mouthed to him at his inquiring look, but he was otherwise stone-faced and seemingly disinterested as Anthea explained the features of a new, password-protected, untraceable mobile she was sending them off with and recommended the first leg of their journey: the Thameslink southward to Brighton.

They had left their own mobiles back at the flat, which Anthea promised to collect from the detective inspector, as well as to handle Lestrade and Molly's relocation to the Baker Street in such a way as not to arouse suspicion. Lestrade was unsurprisingly taken aback by the offer, and not a little reticent to accept, as he expressed to John on the phone after Sherlock had already left the flat.

'It doesn't seem right,' he said, 'you and Sherlock not being in 221.'

'We'll be more at ease,' John replied, appealing to Lestrade's protective nature, 'knowing Mrs Hudson has you two to watch over her.'

'This will break her heart.'

'See that you mend it, then. Anyway, it's not forever.'

'No no, of course. Not for long, even, I shouldn't think.'

But the trouble was, neither of them knew if that was true.

Anthea talked, but Sherlock gave little sign he was listening. His eyes travelled to the dark hallway and back to a spot on the wall over Anthea's shoulder. For his part, John was only half paying attention. She was discussing the importance of avoiding travelling together while still in England, their faces being too well known, and all the more so when seen together; but Sherlock had already determined this. They had even discussed, however briefly, the possibility of donning disguises, even outside of the country. Nothing elaborate, nothing like silicone noses and wigs. But John had already decided to stop shaving. And Sherlock would need to do something about those curls.

Suddenly, Sherlock straightened, looking dead ahead with intent even as he folded his hands behind him. John turned toward the hallway.

There stood Mycroft. He wore black, unbelted trousers and black socks, but only a white vest draped with a royal blue dressing gown that reminded John very much of one of Sherlock's. He was standing, true, but trusting his slightly unsteady weight to a cane in a posture John knew only too well—one that stood in defiance of pity but was nevertheless in danger of sudden collapse. Regardless of the risk, this was a man determined to meet them on his own two feet.

Anthea walked up to him and put an arm around his waist to bear him up.

It was good to see him out of the hospital bed, but he still looked poorly. His skin was pale and his shoulders seemed narrower than usual, and perhaps it was the effect of his wan face, but to John it seemed that the hair on the top of his head had thinned even more and more grey touched his sideburns and what was left of his hairline.

He did not know what to expect from Mycroft, or from Sherlock, for that matter. A part of him believed Sherlock would launch straight into his accusations—how Mycroft had lied to him for the greater part of his life; condemnations—how Mycroft had been part of an organization hell-bent on destroying Sherlock and not warning him long ago; old grievances, new grievances, the petty and the profound; demands for answers, explanations, justifications, all of it, breaking open into the hurt Sherlock must surely be feeling, the betrayal, the devastation that once again he was being forced to leave the life he loved.

None of it was said. Not one word.

Instead, Sherlock walked decisively forward, pulled his brother into his arms, and just . . . held on. Mycroft let Anthea take the cane and embraced him back, squeezing his eyes tightly shut, but John saw the tears squeeze through all the same. He felt his own begin to burn with sympathy, and he looked down at his feet, as if he could give them a moment of privacy. But he could not help but notice, after nearly a minute, Mycroft's head turn toward his little brother. At first, John thought he was kissing him on the cheek. When he dared to look more directly, however, he saw Mycroft speaking into his ear.

A moment later, Sherlock pulled back to look Mycroft in the face. He did nothing but nod, only once. Then he turned away. John saw that his eyes were swimming, his nose red, but Sherlock wouldn't look at him. Without a backward glance—for he could not bear one—Sherlock opened the front door and walked through it. Silently, John followed him.

Thursday, May 7, 2015

Donovan and Dryers watched the building, a mid-Victorian gothic structure in need of renovation, from the opposite side of the Grosvenor Road. A stake-out, technically. Surveillance. Donovan sent Dryers in his plain clothes to circle the building as best he could, keeping an eye on the first storey, looking for lights and shadows coming from the windows, noting the fire escapes and egresses. They took note of anyone coming and going, which, given the hour, amounted to a sole individual, a young twenty-something female, coming home at 23.43.

'We going to watch all night?' Dryers asked, almost under his breath.

'Take a nap.'

'I'm fine.'

'Then don't complain.'

'You know, your eyes are really very pretty in the dark. Even in the dark, I mean.'

'Don't flirt. I'm working.'

'Though your small talk leaves something to be desired.'

She sighed.

They watched all night.

Come morning, as the city began to stir, Donovan poked Dryers in the arm to wake him up. His head was fallen back on the headrest with his jaw slack, and at the sudden touch, he snorted and flinched, looking dazed and confused.

'I'm going in,' Donovan announced. 'Mind the car.'

'Whoa, whoa, wait,' said Dryers, orientating himself quickly to the fact he was not in his own bed. 'I'm coming, I'm coming.'

She opened the door and got out.

'Four people have exited the building in the last forty-five minutes,' she said, bringing him up to speed. 'Three women—one of them the girl who got in late last night—and one man. All appeared to be leaving for work. No lights turning on or off in that first-storey flat'—she pointed—'that I could tell. It's time to make a house call.'

They fell in step with one another until they reached the door of the building. Donovan was reaching for the buzzer when, fortuitously, another tenant on his way to work opened the door and let them in. They proceeded directly to the first floor and stood in front of 1C.

She knocked.

No one answered.

They inclined their heads to the door, listening for interior noises, but all was quiet. Donovan knocked again, and they waited another thirty seconds. Meanwhile, Donovan examined the landing with her eyes. There was no welcome mat. The brass door handle was old; she touched the top of it, and her finger came away with rust and dust. From what she could tell, the peephole was cloudy. If she were to guess, she would say that not only was no one at home, but no one had lived there is quite some time.

She pulled out the key.

'We just gonna let ourselves in?' asked Dryers, sounding half appalled, half excited.

Without answering, she slid her key into the lock. It fit. But it was a hard turn and grind to get the bloody thing to open.

Been a while since someone has opened this door, she thought.

It creaked loudly as it swung inward, and Donovan and Dryers stepped inside.

The first thing that struck her was the smell. The air was heavy with a stale, musky, almost sour odour that hung in the air like curtains one had to push aside to advance. The hallway was cleared, but for a dark-red cardigan hanging on a hook and a small table with an empty bowl where one might throw a set of keys. Directly ahead, the door to the kitchen hung ajar.

'Police!' she announced, expecting no answer, and she got none. With Dryers stepping lightly behind her, she pushed open the kitchen door and peered inside. It was virtually spotless. A wooden fruit bowl sat empty on the table dressed with a yellow runner; there were no dishes in the sink. The refrigerator hummed. But she ran a finger on the nearest countertop and tracked through a cakey layer of dust.

'No one's been in here in quite a long while,' she murmured aloud.

They carried on, past the loo on the right and a closed door to presumably a bedroom, and reached the sitting room, unremarkably furnished: a light-blue sofa, coffee table in the centre, TV in the corner, and a long-dead plant by the window, its crispy yellow leaves hanging over the pot, crumbling on the carpet. A map of London hung on one wall. That was it.

'Sally,' said Dryers softly, drawing her attention back to the hallway. He had opened the door to the bedroom. 'You should see this.'

He held the door open for her but let her enter first.

There was a bed, a single, overlaid with a blue-and-green plaid duvet. But lining the walls on three sides of the room, floor to ceiling, were shelves. And on those shelves, shoeboxes. And naturally, within those shoeboxes . . .

'Shoes,' said Donovan, lifting a lid.

Just shoes.

Just before midnight the night before, Sherlock and John arrived in Brighton. They had spoken little since leaving Mycroft's flat, hadn't even sat together on the train. Sherlock had taken the front of the carriage, flat cap pulled down low and face buried in the new phone. John sat at the back with a newspaper, though he spent most of the journey staring out the dark window.

They stayed the night in a cheap hotel room. In the morning, they woke before the sun and headed back to the station. It was just a fifteen-minute train ride to Shoreham-by-Sea. When they arrived, the Metro Bank branch was just opening.

John entered the bank alone. He smiled at the teller behind the counter and laid his ID face up in front of her. 'I need to get into my safety deposit box,' he said.

She picked up the ID, flicked her eyes to his unremarkable face, and seemed satisfied. 'Do you have your key, Mr Watson?'

He showed her his small, silver key.

'That'll be ten pounds, thank you.'

He paid the fee and followed the teller into the vault, three of its walls covered with shiny silver doors. She located his box, and they each inserted a key and turned. As a matter of routine, she removed the box and led him into a small, private room. 'I can give you ten minutes,' she said.

'Two will be enough.'

She closed the door behind him, and John opened the box.

As expected, the contents of the box were few: a flat, black wallet containing no cash but one credit card and two IDs for men who, before now, had not really existed. And beside the wallet, in two vinyl pockets, two passports.

He turned the cover on the first and saw his own face staring back at him under the name Joseph Benjamin Conan. He tried it out, whispering it to himself, imagining himself answering to it. Joseph. Then he flipped over the second, and next to Sherlock's face read the name Arthur Charles Doyle.

In exchange for these items, he left two wallets belonging to two other men.

Minutes later, he was back on the street, walking the short distance to a café where he met a stranger in a flat cap sipping from a steaming mug of coffee. He sat. He slid one passport across the table to the stranger, who picked it up and slid it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Then, the stranger reached across the table for his hand.

'Dr Conan,' he said.

John shook his hand.

'Mr Doyle,' he replied. 'Nice to meet you.'