CHAPTER 28: Appledore

AUGUST 2015

Barcelona

'Slippery as a shark,' Sherlock commented, falling back into his chair with a huff. He tilted his head back and rubbed his weary eyes, strained from long hours staring at screens. They had four laptops opened: two on the bed, one on a chair, and one on John's lap.

They had been at it for two days, what Sherlock was calling 'the final hunt', but had hit roadblock after roadblock in positively identifying their quarry. Had it been the start of their self-assigned mission, with four linchpins yet to track, two days would have been acceptable for scratching the surface. As it was, three linchpins had been neutralised over a period of nearly four months. For the fourth, they did not have the luxury of such a timeframe—they were being hunted themselves. In truth, they had teased the predator onto their scent.

'Right, so, what do you we know?' said John, rubbing his fingernails down his beard, which had slowly been growing back since Istanbul. It was his turn to be the optimist. Sherlock groaned at his process of repetition, but John carried on anyway. 'We know he's a business tycoon. Owns several newspapers and media outlets throughout Western Europe. Big ones. Where's that list . . . Ah-ha.' He flipped to the right page in his notebook. 'Amsterdam, Oslo, Warsaw, Berlin, Rome—'

'Paris, London, and Barcelona, yes yes, get on with it,' Sherlock griped.

John ignored the tone. 'So, he's rich. Well connected. Highly influential, if not a mastermind in his own right. Just . . . personal details are scant. Not a single confirmed photo online.'

'Not even a name,' Sherlock sighed. He scratched his scalp in agitation. He could really use a haircut—the sideburns were getting out of control.

'But Mycroft's intelligence places him here, in Spain.'

'Old intelligence. He's probably a floater. Residences in a dozen cities, business meetings in a dozen more. For all we know—'

'Fine. We've reached the limits of what we can do from a hotel room. So let's, you know, get out there. Start investigating on the ground. You know, do your thing.'

Something tugged at the side of Sherlock's mouth, threatening a smile. 'My thing.'

'You know what I mean.'

'Aren't you keen.'

John set aside the laptop and stood up, walking to the window. 'Why aren't you?' He carefully parted the curtain and peered out onto the street, like he did at least once an hour, looking for cars that hadn't moved or the same man sitting on a bench. But as before, he spotted nothing amiss. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. He supposed that—what with weeks and weeks on end of fleeing one city to hide in the next, of stalking and killing some of Europe's worst criminals, and of being jumped in the street, dragged into a sewer, and nearly killed—paranoia wasn't an unreasonable consequence.

John took Sherlock's silence for refusal to answer, so he was surprised when, after a time, he did, and the impatient, cynical tone had dissolved away like salt in water.

'Do you remember when you told me how it had been,' he said softly, 'when you couldn't see tomorrow? The end of time, you called it.'

John turned from the window, frowning. He had not been expecting the gravity in the room to shift so suddenly downward.

'I . . . can't see beyond tomorrow. Not literally tomorrow, but . . . what I mean is, once we find this final linchpin, whoever he is, and once we've defeated him, then there's Moran, and then . . . there's nothing after that. I don't know what comes after that.'

Now understanding—and perhaps a little too well—John folded his arms and thought. 'Blank slate, then.'

Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion, a thing he despised giving voice to, and John knew it. He spared him asking for clarification.

'If there's nothing written for tomorrow,' John said slowly, 'then it can be whatever we want it to be. We write our own story.'

It couldn't be London, they knew. A different threat lay there. But maybe, John thought, they could find a little sanctuary somewhere old and forgotten, a little cottage in a forest or on a mountain or beside the sea. Quiet, hidden, and . . . peaceful. And why not? Why not fall asleep without triple checking the locks on the doors, or filching food from outdoor markets to avoid making money transactions, or ensuring that there was a bullet in the barrel of one of their pistols? Why not a quiet life? He said so.

'Of course,' John said as an afterthought, pushing from the wall to stand by the table. He angled the screen of one of the laptops to remind himself that such a life wasn't really their brand. 'You'd be bored to tears. Before long, we'd have to find you a riddle to solve.'

Sherlock leant back until his chair balanced on two legs, and grinned up at John. 'I could manage without the gunfire. The broken bones. Blood loss.'

John smiled back, laying a steadying hand on Sherlock's shoulder. 'And give up the thrill of the chase? The blood pumping through your veins?'

'I have you, haven't I?'

John laughed shortly, his mouth closing, but before he could feel out exactly what Sherlock meant, there came a sudden knock at the door.

Their heads snapped toward the door as one. It was eleven o'clock in the morning, but they had hung a sign on the door (No molestar) and booked the room for the week. They had no need of towels or service of any kind. Slowly, Sherlock lowered the chair's front legs back to the floor, meeting the tile soundlessly.

The knock came again, more insistent this time.

John's eyes darted to the windows first. They were on the third floor and the curtains were drawn. As Sherlock's arms darted to close computer screens, John walked quietly but purposefully to the bedside table and retrieved a pistol, the Zastava PPZ, just in case whoever was on the other side of the door didn't move along. No one knew they were here. No one friendly, in any case. He moved like a ghost toward the door, which had no peephole, and positioned himself with his back against the wall.

'Mr Holmes.'

A voice called through the door. John's eyes jumped to Sherlock, who shook his head minutely, which he took to mean, Don't answer.

John had not intended to. He was, at the same time, fully prepared to pull the trigger.

'Mr Holmes,' came the voice again, 'kindly open the door. I have a key, but I do prefer an invitation.'

It was a man's voice, deep and vaguely British sounding, in the way of second-language speakers. John thought he detected a slight accent, so he was confident Sherlock did. But the accent was not particularly Spanish. If put to it, John might have guessed Scandinavian.

Sherlock slowly rose from his chair looking grim, eyes still locked with John's, and it was John's turn to shake his head no. But a pallor of resolve had taken Sherlock. In the blink of an eye, the mood had shifted again, and it wasn't just John who had gone into battle mode. Sherlock smoothed down the front of his button-up shirt and began to unroll the sleeves as walked to the centre of the small hotel room, facing the door. Then, with a gesture of his head, he indicated John come stand beside him.

'Mr Holmes,' the voice said a third time, and with a touch more impatience.

'You'll receive no invitation,' said Sherlock, his voice at full volume. 'So the key it will have to be.'

John raised his gun, levelling it at the centre of the door. Sherlock did not try to stop him.

A moment later, they heard a key card slide into the lock, a machine-like whir, and a metallic click. The door swung inward, revealing not one man, but many, eight at least, all crowded at the entrance, and at the front, a man who looked like a hotel attendant, his name badge askew, another man's arm wrapped around his neck, and a gun to his head. He was shaking, and his eyes glistened with tears. John's gun lowered by degrees.

'Put down your weapon,' said the man with the gun, eyes darting between Sherlock and John as though expecting them to take rash action. With a strong Castilian accent at a higher pitch, this was not the man who had spoken through the door. 'Put it down, or our friend here dies.'

Breathing hard, John shook his head, but there was nothing for it. The innocent man was terrified, caught up in something he had no business being a part of. He had woken that morning and left for work, a day like any other, and now he stood between two firearms, seconds away from a brutal end. John was suddenly recalled to blameless Londoners, kidnapped by a madman and strapped to a bomb, and an old blind woman who hadn't made it to tomorrow.

He lowered the pistol.

'On the floor, if you please. Kick it here.'

He complied. Beside him, Sherlock didn't move, but John could have sworn he felt the heat, the anger, radiating from Sherlock's body.

'I have no interest in killing you, Mr Holmes.'

The group parted, and in walked a man in a sleek silver suit. His hair, too, was silver, as was his goatee, and on the bridge of his nose balanced a pair of silver-lined spectacles. He stooped a little to pass through the door, and when he stood tall, he towered over everyone else, who followed him into the room and flanked Sherlock and John on all sides.

'Thank you, Sergio, that'll be all.'

The man holding the hostage suddenly withdrew his arms, but it was only when the hostage flashed a quick smile that John realised it was not the gunman who was called Sergio, but the hostage, who had been playing along. He left the room without a word and closed the door behind him.

'You see,' the tall man continued, 'unlike you, Mr Holmes, I am not a murderer. Though I suspected that even you would hesitate to kill an innocent man. My instincts were right, as they usually are.' He grinned, a contained but self-satisfied sort of grin and put out his hand. 'A pleasure to me you at last. My name is Charles Augustus Magnussen. I believe you are looking for me.'

Sherlock did not move a muscle, but John could almost feel the gears of his brain spinning like the motor of an engine, in sync with the rhythm of his own pounding heart.

When Sherlock did not shake it, the man called Magnussen withdrew his hand and glanced in John's direction, though with little interest. 'And this one?'

'If you know who I am, then you know who he is,' Sherlock retorted acidly, lips barely moving.

Magnussen simpered. 'Dr Watson,' he said. 'Of course. He too is, shall we say, something of a celebrity. In certain circles.'

Though John's fingers twitched, Sherlock did not let the implications rest in the minds of any who heard that. 'If you're not here to kill me,' he said, 'then why are you here?'

Turning in a circle, Magnussen surveyed the room. As though he hadn't heard the question, he tugged a kerchief from the inside pocket of his jacket and dabbed at his nose. Then he moved directly in front of Sherlock, leant forward, and sniffed.

'Just checking.'

Sherlock's eyebrows pinched together, but he refused to ask the most obvious question. So Magnussen supplied the answer.

'I wanted to know whether you still had the stink of sewage about you.' He stepped back, though not very far. John stared straight ahead, stock still as a soldier, but he imagined Sherlock could smell the man's breath, his mouth only inches from Sherlock's nose. 'Clean enough. Still. I imagine you haven't had a proper bath in ages, which must be a trial for a posh British man like you. Or rather, the man you used to be.'

'I've been busy,' said Sherlock drily.

'So I'm told.' Magnussen tsked slowly. His men shifted their weight, holding their pistols at the ready. He had not told them to stand down. 'Snipers in Albania. Assassinations in Turkey. A massacre in Serbia. And now, you come after me. How was it to go down, Mr Holmes? How were you going to do me in?'

He turned abruptly and walked the short distance to the table Sherlock and John had so recently occupied and sat himself in Sherlock's chair. He stretched out his legs and looked perfectly at ease.

'You've shaken the hornet's nest, no doubt about it. A.G.R.A. is in chaos, and that is not a thing easily done. You see, some of the network believe it was Colonel Moran who took out the Albanians. The whole sniper thing? That's his trademark. And most believe it was Ms Adler who took out the Turkish ring. She is rather fond of poisons, as you must know. My condolences regarding your brother, by the way. He was always a kink on the line, so to speak. In any case, kudos to you both for causing such confusion and discord among the A.G.R.A. lot. I cannot help but admire your handiwork.'

'We'd be happy to offer further demonstration.'

Magnussen frowned. 'Such hostility. I was hoping we could come to an understanding.'

'Oh, I'm sure we can,' said Sherlock sarcastically.

'I'm quite serious. You want to see A.G.R.A. destroyed and Moran deposed. I am sympathetic with the latter, and furthermore I want to live. What is the phrase you English love so well? If you scratch my back . . .'

'And what would that profit you?'

'My life? A good bargain, I'd say.'

'Forgive me if I don't entirely trust your motives.'

Magnussen gave a conciliatory nod. 'Then let me do what I can to prove myself. You will come with me to Appledore, my villa just outside the city. There, we can speak more cordially about our joint problem. You can ask your questions, any questions, and I'll tell you everything I know about A.G.R.A. Everything.'

'Pass.'

For a moment, Magnussen just stared. Then he placed his hands on his knees and pushed to standing. Buttoning his suitcoat, he came to stand toe to toe with Sherlock again, while John fought every instinctual muscle itching to push the man away.

'This isn't really an invitation. You see'—he nodded to one of his armed men—'you don't get to say no.'

'Then I have one condition,' said Sherlock, calm as a summer's breeze. He knew, just as John knew, that they were utterly trapped.

'Name it.'

'At no point shall John and I be separated. He stays with me, and I with him.'

Magnussen lifted his eyebrows, as though surprised. 'Of course. I would not dream of leaving the good doctor behind. I know you two are . . . close.'

And with that, Magnussen bid them follow. Compelled, they left everything behind, including the room key. On the public street, a limousine awaited them. Without a word, Sherlock passed through the open door, and John followed. Magnussen was right behind them.

It wasn't like the last time, John thought. There were no bags over their heads, no binds of any kind. They were not led at gun point, and they had not been beaten and dragged into the back of a transit van. Their host was, by all objective accounts, perfectly polite. Nevertheless, they were prisoners just the same, and John felt no safer now than he had in the Serbian sewer.

Thus, as captives, they were escorted to Appledore.

At the same hours, afar off in London, right after checking her watch (her instructions had been to be aggressively punctual), Michaela Warner knocked on the door of a flat she had never been to. Not even a second later, the door opened and she was ushered inside cramped living quarters—not quite a studio, but calling it a one-bedroom would be generous.

On a two-seater sofa, a man in police uniform sat casually reclined. The woman was standing, already holding out her hands.

'You got it?'

This was Sgt Donovan, whom she had first met when interviewing her about the Bruhl case—the kidnapped children of a British ambassador who, as it turned out, had not been abducted by Sherlock Holmes—and whom she had always thought was a hard, rather off-putting woman. People tended to warm to Michaela quickly, but not Sgt Donovan, who remained the whole time professional, if not a little curt. So she was surprised to receive her call, out of the blue, so many months later.

Nodding, Michaela reached into her bag and pulled out the photo album. 'Mrs Brook is eager for her son's story to be told. Only, she wants the whole story, you know?'

'We're working on it.'

'And this will help?'

Sgt Donovan passed the album to the man sat on the sofa, who began turning pages. 'We think so.' She folded her arms. Yes, still curt. 'You get in touch with the sister?'

'Took some doing, but yes, she's agreed to a phone interview. Given the time difference, it looks like I'll be up past midnight to talk to her. Oh, and I'm meeting with Hugh Freemont's ex-wife tomorrow morning. She's bringing his mother and sister, so it will be a panel of women to tell me his story. Might take all day.' She smiled, hoping for some camaraderie to spring up between them. She was doing everything Sgt Donovan had asked, and then some, and with good humour to boot. Granted, she dearly wanted this story, and to be the one to tell it, and she was delighted that the detective sergeant had asked her (proving that she'd earned her respect), but she couldn't deny wanting some accolades for her work. This was damn difficult stuff she was pulling off.

'Excuse me,' said Sgt Donovan, whose phone had buzzed in her pocket. She turned away, checked the screen, and retreated quickly to the back room, presumably the bedroom, and closed the door.

Michaela stood awkwardly for a moment, then turned to the man on the sofa.

'Your flat, is it?' she asked. She could not imagine it belonged to Sgt Donovan, and the constable was far too much relaxed to be on duty.

'A palace, innit?' he said, closing the album to smile up at her. 'Don't mind Sally. She's got a lot on her mind these days.'

'Clearly. So.' Did she dare ask? It seemed like such a touchy subject, no matter who she brought it up with. 'You know Sherlock Holmes?'

'Only professionally.'

'John Watson?'

'Barely.'

'Did you ever meet James Moriarty? The real one, of course.'

The constable's smile went crooked. 'Am I being interviewed now?'

She shrugged. 'If you know something. I mean, if I'm the one who's going to write the story—'

'Tom, we have to go. Now.'

Sgt Donovan had flung open the bedroom door and was back in the sitting room in two steps, shoving her mobile back into her pocket. Without a question, the constable was on his feet.

'Take the album?' he asked. 'Or . . . ?'

'We'll take it with.' Sgt Donovan turned to Michaela. 'Sorry, gotta dash. I'll call.' She opened the door for Michaela but saw herself through it first, and the constable brought up the rear.

While Michaela, a little dazed, turned right to go back the way she had come, the sergeant and the constable went left. The last thing she heard, before they were out of earshot, was Sally Donovan saying, 'HQ. Urgent, he says. Lestrade is in a strop.'

Appledore was palatial, in the most modern sense of the word. As they approached from the west, winding their way up the long side of a forested copse on the north end of the city (with city life far behind), John felt not dissimilar to the day he was transported by helicopter to Buckingham Palace itself, half suspecting he was about to meet the Queen. It seemed fitting—this man, Magnussen, seemed to think of himself as something of a king.

Over-awed against his will, he stared wide-eyed and gape-mouthed as the white mansion came into view, growing ever larger the nearer they came, as if rising out of the earth like a hand-carved mountain. It seemed illogical that it was the residence of only one man and not, say, a hotel for all of Europe's most elite business tycoons, political leaders, and heads of state.

At his side, Sherlock sat stock still, hands clasped in his lap, staring straight ahead as though he did not see anything marvellous at all outside his window. John knew better. He was seeing everything.

The limousine rolled up a circle drive before the front doors of the mansion, and there they were let out of the car and escorted into the house. As if they were themselves eminent guests, Magnussen entered the mode of tour guide.

'Italian marble, that,' he said, indicating the statue of a naked woman at the foot of a rather grand staircase, and John's lips pinched. It wasn't exactly Renaissance in its motif, celebrating the female form. Rather, the figure was on her knees, back arched, breasts pushed forward, one hand in her hair, the other hand a fair bit lower. Her expression was pornographic. 'Custom made. And that'—Magnussen gestured to a large painting at the top of the first landing, depicting a naked man semi-reclined on a sofa, holding a glass globe that reflected the look of contempt on his face, 'I bought at auction last year. Breathtaking, isn't he?'

'Fascinating,' Sherlock said dully, his eyes roving elsewhere, taking it all in, cataloguing, calculating. John wished he had access to his thoughts, but trapped in the spectre of their host, he dared not intrude upon Sherlock's brain or draw attention to its computations.

'Now then,' Magnussen continued, 'allow me to show you the kitchens and order you some nibbles, or a sizeable lunch. I imagine it's been a while since you each had a proper meal, and I wouldn't be much of a host if I didn't—'

'Thank you, no,' said Sherlock.

'Perhaps, then, you'd like to see the ballroom. It's spectacular, if I do say so myself. Appledore regularly hosts soirees and midnight parties—the Spanish simply come alive at night, you must know—and invites the most honoured of guests and performers. Simply a wonder to behold.'

'Listen, Charles,' Sherlock rotated to face their host squarely, 'you don't mind that I call you Charles, do you?' He didn't wait for an answer. 'You said yourself we are not here by invitation, so please dispose of your treatment of us as guests, and let us get on with the business of why we are here.'

Magnussen lifted his chin, smiling faintly. 'Still so polite. That's the thing about the English, isn't it? You're all so domesticated. That's something I always appreciated in James Moriarty—he would have you for tea, all the while plotting your demise. Now, Mr Holmes, I'm afraid I must insist that you make yourselves at home. There is a room prepared for you—my man will show you the way—where you can wash and dress, and feel just a little more human. Take some time to rest. Lunch is at one o'clock—someone will fetch you and escort you to the patio—and then, then, Mr Holmes, we'll talk.'

The room was a veritable suite, the kind one would find in an upscale hotel anywhere in the civilised word: in the bedroom was a Euro super king bed overlaid with a comforter of silver and gold threads, a two-seater sofa too luxurious to sit on, a wide wardrobe, and a massive en suite with standing shower, spa-size tub, and private loo; all this was adjoined to a second room, connected through two open French-style doors, to a sitting room replete armchairs, facing sofas, a large stone fireplace, and expensive artwork. Conspicuously, there was no television, and the doors leading to a balcony were locked.

On the bed were two sets of clothes, neatly folded. They were informed that a barber would be along at half twelve.

When the door closed, John rubbed his beard anxiously, turning around and observing the rooms. 'Bugged, you reckon?'

Sherlock grunted an acknowledgement. He walked to the edge of the bed and examined the clothes. One pile was made of neatly tailored slacks and suitcoat, and a dark, collared shirt, nearly black, striped with thin blue lines, along with socks and black, shined shoes. The other held humbler garments, including white-and-blue striped button-down shirt with a black woven tie, relaxed blue suitcoat, and matching trousers. These could easily have come from their own wardrobes at home.

'Our arrival has been fully anticipated,' he mumbled.

'I don't trust this. Any of this.'

'Nor should you.' His eyes still roamed, taking in every detail of the room.

John placed himself in Sherlock's eyeline. 'So? Can you tell me what's going on?'

'What's going on?'

'You've been observing. Everything. I've been watching you do it. What have you seen?'

'You've seen everything I've seen, John. What do you make of it?'

'Oh no. No no, this isn't a tutoring session. This is serious.'

'Why?'

John looked apoplectic, and it seemed that the only reason he didn't start shouting was out of fear of being overheard. 'Why? That man out there means to do us both in.'

'He said he would see Moran deposed.'

Stunned and gaping, John's face began to purple. 'That's what Kovač said. But you don't believe these sons of bitches. We are prisoners here, Sherlock. Every man here is carrying heat, I know you picked up on that. Even Magnussen had a piece inside his right coat pocket. You also noticed, I am sure, that nine men came to the hotel but only seven left. The two they left behind are finding everything, everything we've been searching for online and more besides. And they've left us in deceptively luxurious accommodations—with locks on all the windows and no way out. We're dangerous. Magnussen knows we're dangerous. To him, to A.G.R.A., to this whole operation. God knows he's simply out to tidy everything up.'

'Interesting word you use. Tidy.'

'Of course, you saw him. Heard him. The first thing he did was sniff you, then make some crack about your whether you were clean enough, whether you had bathed, and the last thing he does is send you off to wash and dress and wait for a barber. He was constantly rubbing his fingers along his thumbs, like he was itching for a hand sanitiser. Maybe not full-on OCD, but he definitely has an obsession for keeping things clean. I mean, you've seen the state of this place. And that!'

He marched over to the bed and picked up the pile of clothes clearly meant for him. But the fury seemed to be draining out of him, leaving behind something of fatigue, a soldier weary of war but suiting up for the next battle all the same.

'This I don't understand,' he said softly. 'I used to have a shirt just like this.'

Sherlock exhaled sadly and came to stand at John's side. He hesitated, but only a moment, before resting his right hand on John's back, just below his nape. 'It's a replication of what you wore on the day of Moriarty's trial.' He indicated the other pile. 'That's near enough to what I wore in the witness box.'

Startled, John turned his head sharply, and they looked into one another's eyes, blue meeting blue, sea and sky. 'Why?'

'I believe he's telling us two things. One, Magnussen was there, that day, at the Old Bailey. Not in the courtroom, couldn't have been, I would have seen him, giant of a man that he is. I would remember. So maybe on the street, seeing us arrive, maybe in some shadowy corner or crevice of the interior of before reaching the courtroom—'

'We were on telly, too.'

'Yes, maybe that, but my money is that he was there. He been part of Moriarty's network a long time, an important part. Maybe this, all this, all of Appledore, is the fruit of that association. This mansion is not old. Its architecture, its interior artwork, it's all new. New enough, that is. I don't date it earlier than 2005. Remember, Anthea said Moriarty's most active period was between 2001 and 2010. He recruited Moran during that period, and likely his other linchpins as well.'

'So he wants us to know he's been a player longer than we have,' said John.

'No one has been a player longer than I,' Sherlock said, voice tinged with bitterness at the thought, not pride.

'And two?'

'I think it's a reminder.'

'What of?'

'What lead to the trial, John?'

For a moment, John only stared. Then it clicked, and he closed his eyes, shaking his head. 'Get Sherlock.'

'I think he's going to try to win the game. Tonight.'

He turned John forcibly by the shoulders to face him square on.

'This is not a tutoring session. I need you to see yourself clearly—you don't need me to spot the dangers and deduce the truth of things. You did it yourself, just now. You never saw a gun, but you know he's carrying one. You spotted his compulsive need for cleanliness. And of course you don't trust him. He said he would not separate us. Don't believe it for a second.'

'I never did,' said John, his voice choked with emotion. 'The moment he agreed to your terms, I knew it was a lie.' He let out a huff of air and scrubbed his nose furiously. Then, his spine straightened, his jaw set, and as a soldier looking to his captain, he said, 'So what do we do?'

They showered. They dressed. When the barber arrived, all smiles and compliments, they each sat to be shaved and sheared, each keeping careful watch, lest the barber get too friendly with the blade. But perhaps the man was none the wiser. He performed his vocation and was gone, leaving Sherlock and John as if they had just stepped off the streets of London from five years before, if only a little gaunter.

'Ànec amb peres,' said Magnussen as the server set dishes on the table before them. They sat at a square table on the patio off a dining hall, just beside soaring windows and looking out on a forest that rose up a copse on the side of the mansion. 'Stewed duck with pears. I have one of Barcelona's most prominent chefs on staff. The things he can do with fish and squid, you wouldn't believe.' He picked up his fork, stabbed a slice of tender pear, and after chewing dabbed at the corner of his perfectly dry mouth with a white serviette. 'Please, eat.'

In almost perfunctory manner, Sherlock and John each took a bite. John tasted nothing. He could not remember the last time he had had a proper appetite. Eating was merely a survival tactic these days.

Sherlock followed manner with the serviette, which he then placed on his lap. 'Delicious. So tell me, Mr Magnussen, how long since you first joined Moriarty's criminal network? John and I have a wager, you see. John believes it was after his earliest post-9/11 activities, while my money is on pre-9/11 involvement.'

Magnussen chewed slowly, a small smirk playing at the corner of his mouth as he looked between them. 'Now then,' he said after a time, setting down his fork, 'let's see. I suppose the problem is in how you phrase the question. I didn't so much as join A.G.R.A. I created it.'

'You,' said John sceptically.

'That is, I gave James the idea. I helped him think big. World-wide big. Empire big. I had experience, you see, in creating networks, in collecting information and knowing how to use it, in getting people to do what you want. I told James of it, and he put his own, shall we say, spin on things. A.G.R.A. is a symphony, and no mistake. But I like to think that I played a little part in it, as muse to the artist.'

'Those letters,' said Sherlock, as one finally asking the question at the heart of all his queries, 'what do they mean?'

'Come now,' Magnussen said, as though Sherlock were playing stupid.

'Tell me.'

At this Magnussen quirked an eyebrow. 'Mr Holmes, we thought you knew. You as much as told him yourself . . .' He trailed off as a something occurred to him, and he began to chuckle. 'But you didn't, did you?' His laugh grew. 'Oh, isn't that irony at its finest.'

Confused, John nervously looked to Sherlock but did not see that Sherlock had any clearer understanding of the joke than he did.

'James Moriarty isn't a man. He's a spider. Your words, Mr Holmes, your very own. You called him a spider—a spider! in public!—so he thought you knew all about A.G.R.A. Lord, he was furious. That was not for you to figure out, let alone blab.'

'Figure out what?' Sherlock asked impatiently.

'It's rather obvious, when you think about it. Moriarty was born in Ireland, that's your first clue. I don't suppose you speak a lick of Irish? Few do. Save, of course, for the Irish. And me. I have something of a passion for language, you see. I was born in Denmark, so Danish was my mother tongue, but quickly I acquired French, German, English, Spanish, and the list goes on. Irish is bound to be somewhere on that list.' Then he licked his lips and said with relish, 'A gréasáin rúnda de damháin alla.'

But he wasn't the only one with an affinity for foreign tongues. John heard Sherlock, under his breath, repeat what he had just heard. 'A gréasáin rúnda de damháin alla . . .'

'His secret web of spiders,' Magnussen translated, grin spreading. 'A.G.R.A.'

Sherlock shook his head, unconvinced that such was the full truth of it. 'But the damháin is unaccounted for.'

'Of course. The spider—damháin—is hidden, Mr Holmes. The spider is always hidden. All these threads, all these pieces of a greater puzzle, hidden in plain sight, a master criminal network operating just under the noses of law enforcement—and private detectives—all around the world. And he thought you had figured it out and were teasing him with that knowledge in the courtroom. That's why he decided to kill you.'

'He decided that long before I ever called him spider.'

'True, true. Though he had no immediate plans, so I understand. Until you revealed you knew his greatest secret. Then his plans changed on a dime. He was probably working out the details of your death on the short walk to your own front door! He believed you had proved too dangerous to the durability of magnum opus.' Magnussen laughed again. 'Turns out, you were just being colorful. Look what poetry will get you!'

John's grip on his fork tightened. If Magnussen was to be believed—and as far as John was concerned, there was much room for doubt—then had Sherlock not uttered those few, innocuous-sounding words of insult, then maybe the fall never would have taken place, nor any of the tragedies that had happened since.

We are not pawns on a board, he thought, to displace the fatalistic superstition that he was sure Sherlock himself was fighting in that moment. The final domino does not fall.

Magnussen recovered himself from mirth. 'In any case, Moriarty's A.G.R.A. is too sophisticated an instrument for a knucklehead like Sebastian Moran to manage. Hm, that is a good English word, isn't it? Moran thinks he has come into an inheritance, but he has relied far too heavily on me as, shall we say, the key to its operations because of my media connections. You know all about that, of course.'

Yes, he had certainly had his people confiscate their laptops and comb it for all their research.

'Media networks, crime networks, you'd be surprised by how well they overlap.'

'Not remotely surprised,' drawled Sherlock. 'So let me see if I understand you. You want to be the next Moriarty. The kingdom should belong to the one who knows how to manage it.'

Magnussen took another bite, closing his eyes as his mouth closed around the fork, relishing. 'You really must eat,' he said around a mouthful. 'Divinity on a plate.'

'We've heard this line already, Mr Magnussen. You're not the first to promise an alliance in the interest of usurping Moran's claim.'

'Not so much an alliance as . . . an arrangement. I have no interest in replacing Moriarty as the master designer.' He pointed a fork. 'I want you to do it.'

It was all John could do to stop himself from laughing. He looked at Sherlock, who had not moved a muscle, but he could practically feel the revulsion emitting from his skin.

'That's absurd,' Sherlock said tightly.

'Is it so?' Magnussen rejoined. He set aside his fork, and perching two elbows on the table, interlocked his fingers and leant forward intently. 'There's no one in the world with a mind like yours—brilliant, cunning, amoral. You're a shoe-in master criminal. So you keep A.G.R.A. in operation. You pull the puppets' strings, and you make crime world go round, from right here in Appledore. Only a genius can pull the right levers and keep these gears turning. Prove to me that you are the equal to James Moriarty—maybe even his superior—and I'll give you all the resources you need, and you keep me in the lap of luxury. And what's more, keep you alive.'

John opened his mouth, his tongue poised to scold this man for having badly misjudged his friend's morality and ego, but he need not have even inhaled, for Sherlock was already giving his answer.

'No.'

Magnussen chuckled. 'Just like that?'

'Just like that. You sound ridiculous. Why would I ever entertain such a thought? Why would you? I'm here to destroy A.G.R.A., there's no secret in that.'

'Why would you entertain the thought,' repeated Magnussen with mock contemplation. 'You become the next king of the castle, with my full endorsement and the fear, trembling, and respect of all your inherited underlings to reward that damaged ego of yours. In return, I keep your secret.'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. 'My secret.'

For a moment, John was uncomprehending. What secret did Sherlock have that a man like Magnussen could possibly exploit? The history of Project Raptor was so well protected that Sherlock himself had only recently become aware of its existence, and regardless, it wasn't his secret so much as Theirs, and exposing it was unlikely to do more damage than already planned. But what else was there?

With a knowing smile, Magnussen said, 'The Holmes family tradition, of course.'

'You take a good deal of satisfaction in crypticism,' Sherlock replied. 'It's annoying.'

'Then I'll be frank. You are not the only Holmes brother to fake his death.' He grinned devilishly. 'Mycroft Holmes is very much alive.'

John stopped himself from gasping, from flinching, from reacting in any way, and though Sherlock remained perfectly motionless, John did not fail to notice the blood drain a little from his hollow cheeks.

'You see, Mr Holmes, I'm in the business of information. I use my considerable wealth and influence to acquire that information, and the more I acquire, the more powerful I become. And right now, you're sitting in the Alexandrian Library of the most sensitive and—let us say it—most dangerous information anywhere in the world. Appledore is my empire. Just call me the Napoleon of modern intelligence.'

'Blackmail,' said Sherlock through clenched teeth. 'That's all you do. You prey on the vulnerable, collect secrets and scandals and dirt, and you call it an empire of data.'

With a nod and a frown, Magnussen conceded. 'Is there a more effective tool? Secrets and scandals are my bread and butter. In the end, it's all about pressure points, and frankly, my dear Sherlock, you don't hide yours very well. You have many. James Moriarty was the first to use them against you, Sebastian Moran the second.' He smiled at John, as if they shared the same fond memory. 'I'm the third.'

'You are sick. Diseased.'

'I notice you are not denying it. I thought you would try, at the start.'

'I'm waiting to hear the threat, Charles.'

'It's implicit.'

'It's hollow.' Sherlock slowly slid his plate back, then his chair, then rose to standing. Holding his hands behind him, he began to walk down the length of the table. 'My brother is dead, by all meaningful measures. The Woman murdered him. I failed to protect him. All of these things are true.' He turned, slowly pacing back. 'Nevertheless, I know his mind, what he would say if here were standing in this room, and I can speak for him. So what would he say to your threat of exposure?' He put on a voice, slightly deeper, certainly more cartoonish. 'Say, brother mine, you know this A.G.R.A. lark, this criminal network Frankensteined by our common enemy, the one that has destroyed countless lives and hurt some of the people most dear to us? Keep me safe, why don't you, by taking up the mantel of king of crime, and let this thing live on forever.'

He stopped pacing to face Magnussen. 'Mycroft would rather die a thousand deaths than see me on that loathsome throne. He would rather I die myself.'

At last, Magnussen had stopped smiling. 'That, too, can be arranged.'

One final time, he dabbed his lips, then slid his chair back and joined Sherlock in standing. As he buttoned his suitcoat, he said, 'Do take your time and enjoy the food and the view. Tonight, I am hosting something of a soiree. Only the most elite of people will be in attendance, of course. Music, entertainment, mingling, and the finest array of tapas in all of Barcelona. Consider this your official invitation.'

Sherlock showed his teeth, and his response dripped acid. 'Consider this my RSVP: go stuff yourself.'

Turning his back, Magnussen started away, but he paused when he passed by John's chair. John could feel his giraffe-like form behind him, hovering, and he saw how Sherlock's eyes were locked just over his head, glaring at the man while holding his breath. Then, slowly, Magnussen stepped to John's side and bent at the waist, as though he were noticing John for the first time and was intrigued by what he saw.

'Don't think I've forgotten about you, little one,' he said, staring at John intently.

John didn't know what to do. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock's fist curl tightly at his side. As for himself, he was determined not to react.

Then Charles Magnussen lifted a hand close to John's face. As though casting away a cigarette, he flicked his middle finger, striking John in the cheek just below the eyed.

John flinched.

As Magnussen chuckled to himself, John looked to Sherlock as though to make sense of what the hell had just happened, but Magnussen said, 'Now now, don't be bothered, Dr Watson. I'm told you have incredible . . . endurance. Look at me.'

The moment he did so, Magnussen flicked him in the face again. John's skin burned hot with humiliation he couldn't account for, and just as he shot to standing himself, and Sherlock took two menacing steps forward to come around the table, the two armed men who stood guard near the exit made themselves known, and Sherlock and John both froze.

'That's right,' said Magnussen, and for a third time, he flicked John in the face. John blinked, but otherwise remained still. Nor did Sherlock move, but his eyes glowed with fire. 'That's right,' he repeated.

At last, as if nothing at all had transpired after his invitation to the evening soiree, Magnussen turned his back and headed for the door. 'You'll be my very honoured guests. A pleasure, Mr Holmes. Until tonight, please do enjoy a well-earned rest. Perhaps the ensuing hours will be enough for you to reconsider my offer.'

They were returned to their cell, with its deceptive form as a luxurious suite. John, in peak agitation, was unable to be still for two seconds together, and he wore the rug thin with his ceaseless pacing, yanking the necktie from his throat as he did. By contrast, Sherlock faced the window, still as a horse in a storm, tail to the wind.

'Should break the damn window,' John was saying. 'Jump off the balcony. Head for the hills.'

It wasn't a serious plan. They'd break their ankles in that kind of jump. In any case, John would not be surprised if Magnussen had a pack of Doberman pinschers to sic on them if they attempted to flee the grounds. But Sherlock wasn't saying anything, and it was driving him mad.

'He's not serious about A.G.R.A.,' John continued. 'He's mad. You wouldn't do it. Obviously. You said you wouldn't.' He laughed without humour. 'Barmy. Bloody barmy, that one.'

He still suspected that they were being monitored in some way or other. Microphones or cameras or heat-sensing binoculars, who the hell knew. But he couldn't seem to shut himself up.

'I mean, what is he thinking? You got no reason to. No reason.'

'Just one,' Sherlock said, so softly John almost didn't hear him. But hear him he did, and he stopped in his tracks.

'What did you say?'

Slowly, Sherlock revolved from the window.

'John,' he said, and his face looked pained. 'Tonight, I . . . whatever he has planned, it's going to happen tonight. So if you get the chance, no matter how slim . . .' His voice lowered, and for half a second, John thought it was because he, too, was afraid of being overheard. But the shine in Sherlock's eyes and the strain in his throat told him differently. 'I need you to run.'

John stared, his intellect understanding but his heart refusing to. 'We run. That's how we do things.'

But Sherlock was shaking his head. 'Please.'

'Please what? No, Sherlock, shut up, no.'

He knew what was in Sherlock's heart, knew exactly where this conversation was going, and no, he refused to let it be spoken. He turned away. 'Shut up, shut up,' he whispered fiercely.

'Pressure points, he called them.'

'Sherlock, stop.'

'Look at me, John, please.' When John refused, he spoke anyway. 'You know it's true. It's not the threat of death, not mine, not even Mycroft's . . . John, hear me. We've dealt with murderers, psychopaths, terrorist, serial killers. None of them turn my stomach like Charles Augustus Magnussen. What he wants, he knows how to get. And even I can be coerced, if he goes after you.'

John whipped back. 'Then let me die. You said Mycroft would rather be dead than to live knowing how you were being used. How can you believe it would any different for me?'

With a ferocity John was not expecting, Sherlock crossed to him in two strides and gripped his arms. 'Because it wouldn't be death. It would be torture. He would see you tortured, as before, and he would make me witness to it, and I would break, John, I know I would. And then I would do anything he asked of me, anything at all, because I know myself—I am that weak. I could not bear it, not for any moral principle or higher calling or greater good. I would save no one, not myself or the whole damn world, if I might save you.' He released John's arms, and held his head instead, palms against John's jaw, fingers wrapping to his nape. He was near tears as he lowered his forehead against John's. 'So run. Please run.'

John wanted to scream, to thrash his limbs and burn a hole in the sky with his rage. Instead, he closed his eyes, lifting his hands to hold Sherlock's wrists in place. 'And where would I go,' he asked, 'when the whole of my existence is right here?' He gently pulled Sherlock's hands away, then lifted his head. 'We promised each other. Good, bad, and worse. We promised. It's you and me to the end. Say you remember that.'

Sherlock closed his eyes, a tear escaping down one cheek. When he opened them again, they stared at each other a long time, each remembering that morning, only a December past, when they had made that pact. This was a battle they were fighting side by side, and win or lose, they would do it together.

'You fall, I catch,' said John.

'When it rains, it rains on us both.'

'And if the sun comes out again . . .'

Sherlock nodded. 'On us both.'

Four escorts (with pistols hanging inside their coats) came to collect them just as the sun disappeared behind the horizon. Each flanked by two of these guards, they followed in silence, down the long hall and to the expansive grand staircase leading to the foyer. They heard, before they saw anything, the voices of assembling guests passing from the hallway and into what Sherlock presumed was the aforementioned ballroom, whose large double doors had been thrown wide open and from which light poured across the polished white tiles of the foyer.

It was no small gathering, nor a casual one. As they entered the ballroom—a room Sherlock estimated to be some two hundred square metres and was taken aback by its size—he counted some two hundred guests, all in black tie and floor-length gowns, mingling and laughing together. In his dark grey suit coat and no tie, he was severely underdressed, and John even more so. A few of the guests side-eyed them as they passed, though without saying anything. The tongue was Spanish, for the most part, but Sherlock also caught snippets of French, German, English, Hungarian, Japanese, likely more. An international gathering, so it seemed.

High windows stretching from floor nearly to ceiling lined one side of the room, framed by curtains that hung from nearly the height of the rafters. At the far end was a stage, its velvet-gold curtain hanging and adorned with gold rope. On the wall opposite the windows, a balcony, or rather, a theatre box offering the best view in the house. And on the floor, just to the left of the stage, a raised platform where played a string quintet: violin, viola, cello, bass, and harp. A second platform, just off centred from the stage, stood at about chest height. It was little more than a black box with a single metal pole rising up from of its corners, and Sherlock couldn't discern its purpose. In the centre of the room, a makeshift video-and-audio station had been set up, with two cameras pointed at the stage and a soundboard with two workers. To the right of the stage, high on the wall, was a large screen projecting the words Bienvenidos a Appledore in fanciful script.

Servers moved around the guests, bearing hors d'oeuvres and champagne flutes, but also little black gift bags with red ribbon. Many guests had already received their bags and carried them on their wrists or at their sides. Sherlock tried to peer inside but could not get close enough; he was being steered down the centre of the ballroom floor. But he could tell that they were lightweight by the way they hung from a wrist or swung at the side.

The further they went, the more they were side-eyed, until guests started grazing Sherlock up and down, from his face to his shoes, until they started grinning, until they turned to see him full on, no longer hiding their interest . . . or recognition. And he saw it on their lips, the smiles, the formation of his name, and it occurred to him, perhaps too late, that they were expecting him, each and every one. He was the reason they had come. The soiree was, ultimately, all about him.

He twisted around to warn John, but John was gone.

'¡Damas y caballeros!'

A voice rang through the ballroom on a PA system, quieting the quintet and the susurrations of a hundred conversations.

'Ladies and gentlemen, welcome!'

The speakers filled the room, from a dozen directions, obscuring the source of the voice. Panic rising, Sherlock whirled around, craning his neck, until he spotted him, Charles Magnussen, on the balcony with a microphone in hand.

'We are gathered today in memoriam'—Sherlock turned, turned, trying to spot John in the crowd—'to honour the life and masterwork of the man, the genius, responsible for bringing us all together for the first time in our history'—he tried to push through the press of bodies, only to be seized at the arms by his escorts—'and to solve . . . the final problem.'

Applause swelled to fill the room and shake the rafters.

'John!' he cried, trying to wrestle free of his captors.

'To kick off tonight's events, please welcome to the stage your illustrious host, Colonel Moran.'

He froze. With mounting dread, he looked to the stage just as the footlights began to illuminate and the houselights to dim. The roomful of partygoers also turned to look, and there, stepping through the part in the golden curtain, stood Sebastian Moran.

Applause, whistles, and cries of approval filled Sherlock's ears. Moran held up his hands, as though soaking it all in, then he swept an arm and bowed deeply, like a circus ringmaster. The welcome message on the screen had disappeared. In its place, a magnified image of Moran: a freshly shaved face, slicked-back dark hair, dark eyes and heavy eyebrows, and a mean scar slashing across the bridge of his nose.

Sherlock thought he heard the muffled, strangled cry of a familiar voice, lost somewhere in the crowd.

Moran said not a word. Instead, he walked the length of the stage, and as he did, the curtain parted. Where once had been only darkness, now a spotlight shone on a solitary object, which cast a long shadow across the stage: five wooden stairs to a wooden scaffold, an elevated crossbeam, and, hanging from the beam, a rope ending in a noose.

'What happens to a bird that can't fly?' he had asked John, on the night Molly had found the bird with clipped wings in her tea kettle.

'So it was a symbol.'

'All of it. A prelude of what is to come.'

The crowd continued to cheer its excitement, even as the spotlight shifted and found him in the horde, a trapped deer in a circle of wolves.

'This whole series of crimes, every piece of it, is one long charade, a narrative built around one central theme: the fall. My fall.'

He had finally come to it. The last domino.

Across the table, on the opposite side of the chessboard, Moriarty's grin spread slowly as he reached for his rook. Sherlock shook his head in disbelief and horrified wonder, studying the board and all its missing pieces. There was nowhere to go, no more moves. The rook was raised, and like a bird in flight, captured in slow motion, it passed over the heads of the remaining pawn, a bishop, a knight, and found its final square.

'Checkmate, Sherlock Holmes.'