Fic: Wrong, [6. Serial]
He didn’t know.
Lestrade preferred honest answers so he would give him an honest answer: he didn’t know. He also didn’t know why he gave an honest answer when a lie could have served his purposes just as well. Perhaps it was because he felt the answer didn’t actually matter.
A year or so into their partnership, Lestrade realized what Sherlock had always thought patently obvious-he was a criminal. He’d hacked MI5 on a whim, he’d technically perpetrated a thousand other crimes in cyberspace. At one point, he was certain he’d had the largest botnet in Britain. People were stupid about the security on their computers, just as people were stupid about the noises they left on a crime scene. He’d never permanently stolen anyone’s identity, and it hadn’t been difficult to amass a pretty collection: master passwords yielded access to bank accounts, emails, stock portfolios, porn subscriptions, personal social networking pages, administrative access to private corporate networks, databases, classified information of all sorts. He’d scoped the security around the LSE servers and planned, in his head, the ways and means by which to bring their operations to a standstill and essentially crash the market. Likewise on how to remotely take control of a US Army satellite. He had been in the process of discovering a means to access some nuclear weaponry when he was secretly arrested and incarcerated-he recalled being mildly surprised that Britain’s intelligence agencies were capable of intelligence at all. Mycroft, of course. It was just as well. If he’d become any more bored with the state of things, he might have written up a convenient instruction manual, posted it on a dozen forums and their mirror sites, and watched the world spiral to chaos. It would have annoyed Mycroft and upset his mother, if nothing else.
Lestrade wanted to know why he wasn’t a criminal when clearly, he had all the makings of one. The answer was that he didn’t know, and he already was-or at least, had been-a very active and dangerous criminal in cyberspace. He didn’t carry a phone, never mind a smart phone, because Mycroft had known it would be too much of a temptation for Sherlock to fall back on old habits. The laptop he’d been issued carried a thousand pieces of tracking software that logged every key Sherlock might input. It hadn’t prevented him from trying to bypass everything anyway by replacing key pieces of hardware. Not thirty minutes later Mycroft had descended on him and threatened to chain him to the service of Queen and country-or better still, lend him to the Americans in their obsessive hunt for terrorists-if he did not behave. There had been no doubt that Mycroft would make good on his promise. He’d use his Voice.
Ultimately, Sherlock had decided that it the best way to beat Mycroft at his own tracking game was to retaliate. Knowing that some hapless would-be intelligence agent was on the other end monitoring his activity, he set up an elegant program that would select a site and run the worst gay porn it could find. As his schedule was erratic, he programmed the timers to reflect the irregularity. It was simple to modify the same program to give the impression that he was browsing the internet, reading Wikipedia articles and checking BBC news feeds every five minutes. He allowed the computer to become further infected with malware-it would not eliminate Mycroft’s programs, but it would slow down the overall performance, produce noise, and interfere with Mycroft’s ability to gather information instantly. That gave him a window of time and some cover to develop a second tier of operations, removed from the main applications. He siphoned off processing power from various corners and had almost succeeded in establishing an encrypted internet connection when Mycroft once again paid him a timely visit and made him an offer that he couldn’t refuse.
Murders. Mycroft recalled the obsessive power solving mysteries had held over Sherlock when he was a child. Thus, to keep him occupied, useful, and the country safe, Sherlock would solve murder mysteries. That was why he was working with Lestrade on the side of the law, rather than building a life across the line. Mycroft had forced him into a life of relative lawfulness. If anyone was to blame it, was his overbearing older brother. Why Mycroft was such a devoted servant of the government was beyond the scope of Sherlock’s imagination, nor did he want to know. Mycroft had always been their mother’s favorite.
As for his choice of felony-Sherlock was a criminal, or had been a criminal, or could be a criminal, but his taste in crime didn’t run to murder. He enjoyed puzzles, games, encryption, all the things that had made the digital realm a perfect medium for his activities. Murder didn’t hold that same kind of thrill. Killing someone and recreating the circumstances surrounding the act were two entirely different activities. One required brains, the other did not. That is, unless one considered serial killers, in which case brains were very much required, and a certain degree of planning, a knowledge of investigative methods and the ability to keep quiet. Serial killing was a fascinating mixture of establishing enough patterns to mark the work as one in a definite and unique sequence, but not enough so as to reveal one’s identity.
It was true that his mind had often turned to serial killers. He’d compiled, at the age of twelve, the factors signaling that one was dealing with a repeat offender: method of execution, target victims, time, location, witness sightings, the presence of some sort of calling card, accompanying messages, etc, etc. Naturally, the next thing he’d considered was which combination was optimal for an aspiring serial killer to maximize their murders and minimize the chances of being caught? He’d been inclined to say that completely random victims, times, and locations with a consistent method of killing and some small calling card was ideal, but the fact remained that it was difficult to perpetrate a murder during the day, there were certain locations-particularly cities-where murders were more likely to go unwitnessed, and some victims were easier to kill than others. True randomness was difficult to achieve-it seemed that convenience and practicality forced the creation of unintentional patterns.
Then there was the method of execution itself. It was not easy, though not impossible, to obtain illegally a firearm and silencer. Using that firearm, however, required some experience. Knives were bloody and often necessitated close range, which increased the risk of some genetic evidence being left behind, or possibly even injury. Strangulation required technique and physical strength. Drowning required water in the form of the Thames, a tub, the toilet. Needless to say, it severely limited one’s options. Perhaps the easiest way might be to drug a victim and kill them in a controlled environment, then disposing of the weapon, but that might mean possible relocation of the victim, and more time spent with the body increased the chances of a possible witness. A controlled environment would also imply preselected locations. And while it was true that people generally were not observant and did not notice even the most obvious things, people were also careless and fell into making mistakes, not planning for contingencies, panicking when they should keep a cool head. Murder was best committed professionally and without hesitation by those who had murdered before.
In the course of thinking about all these factors, it had always seemed to him that murder and serial killing was more effort than it was worth. Lestrade had choked at the implication of that statement-that Sherlock was not a serial killer because he was too lazy. Nonetheless, it was true. What’s more, the puzzle and problems were different and he couldn’t imagine them offering any real intellectual satisfaction, not in the same way that algorithms or solving mysteries appealed to him. There was no right answer, only a continuous process of eluding the many mistakes one could make. And one could not tell anyone of one’s accomplishments, so where was the fun of that? Granted, there were some serial killers who gladly confessed to their crimes, wanting to be caught. But then the subsequent trial and incarceration took away any opportunity to be a serial serial killer-it was a rather one track career. Serial killing, one had to provide all the variety for oneself, while solving mysteries presented a different and new situation each and every time.
While he was on the topic, he added that Mycroft was much better serial killer material. He had all the patience, secrecy, and brilliance for it. He may even have considered it as a career option before deciding to do whatever it was he was currently doing. For all he knew, Mycroft was a serial killer, only one whose killings were sanctioned by the government and committed in the name of national and global security. Sherlock didn’t care either way.
When Lestrade asked whether Sherlock, for all his thoughts about serial killing and the ways to do it, ever thought that murder was a bad thing, he looked at Lestrade and shrugged.
“No.”
Lestrade didn’t know whether it was good that Sherlock was being completely honest.
Lestrade preferred honest answers so he would give him an honest answer: he didn’t know. He also didn’t know why he gave an honest answer when a lie could have served his purposes just as well. Perhaps it was because he felt the answer didn’t actually matter.
A year or so into their partnership, Lestrade realized what Sherlock had always thought patently obvious-he was a criminal. He’d hacked MI5 on a whim, he’d technically perpetrated a thousand other crimes in cyberspace. At one point, he was certain he’d had the largest botnet in Britain. People were stupid about the security on their computers, just as people were stupid about the noises they left on a crime scene. He’d never permanently stolen anyone’s identity, and it hadn’t been difficult to amass a pretty collection: master passwords yielded access to bank accounts, emails, stock portfolios, porn subscriptions, personal social networking pages, administrative access to private corporate networks, databases, classified information of all sorts. He’d scoped the security around the LSE servers and planned, in his head, the ways and means by which to bring their operations to a standstill and essentially crash the market. Likewise on how to remotely take control of a US Army satellite. He had been in the process of discovering a means to access some nuclear weaponry when he was secretly arrested and incarcerated-he recalled being mildly surprised that Britain’s intelligence agencies were capable of intelligence at all. Mycroft, of course. It was just as well. If he’d become any more bored with the state of things, he might have written up a convenient instruction manual, posted it on a dozen forums and their mirror sites, and watched the world spiral to chaos. It would have annoyed Mycroft and upset his mother, if nothing else.
Lestrade wanted to know why he wasn’t a criminal when clearly, he had all the makings of one. The answer was that he didn’t know, and he already was-or at least, had been-a very active and dangerous criminal in cyberspace. He didn’t carry a phone, never mind a smart phone, because Mycroft had known it would be too much of a temptation for Sherlock to fall back on old habits. The laptop he’d been issued carried a thousand pieces of tracking software that logged every key Sherlock might input. It hadn’t prevented him from trying to bypass everything anyway by replacing key pieces of hardware. Not thirty minutes later Mycroft had descended on him and threatened to chain him to the service of Queen and country-or better still, lend him to the Americans in their obsessive hunt for terrorists-if he did not behave. There had been no doubt that Mycroft would make good on his promise. He’d use his Voice.
Ultimately, Sherlock had decided that it the best way to beat Mycroft at his own tracking game was to retaliate. Knowing that some hapless would-be intelligence agent was on the other end monitoring his activity, he set up an elegant program that would select a site and run the worst gay porn it could find. As his schedule was erratic, he programmed the timers to reflect the irregularity. It was simple to modify the same program to give the impression that he was browsing the internet, reading Wikipedia articles and checking BBC news feeds every five minutes. He allowed the computer to become further infected with malware-it would not eliminate Mycroft’s programs, but it would slow down the overall performance, produce noise, and interfere with Mycroft’s ability to gather information instantly. That gave him a window of time and some cover to develop a second tier of operations, removed from the main applications. He siphoned off processing power from various corners and had almost succeeded in establishing an encrypted internet connection when Mycroft once again paid him a timely visit and made him an offer that he couldn’t refuse.
Murders. Mycroft recalled the obsessive power solving mysteries had held over Sherlock when he was a child. Thus, to keep him occupied, useful, and the country safe, Sherlock would solve murder mysteries. That was why he was working with Lestrade on the side of the law, rather than building a life across the line. Mycroft had forced him into a life of relative lawfulness. If anyone was to blame it, was his overbearing older brother. Why Mycroft was such a devoted servant of the government was beyond the scope of Sherlock’s imagination, nor did he want to know. Mycroft had always been their mother’s favorite.
As for his choice of felony-Sherlock was a criminal, or had been a criminal, or could be a criminal, but his taste in crime didn’t run to murder. He enjoyed puzzles, games, encryption, all the things that had made the digital realm a perfect medium for his activities. Murder didn’t hold that same kind of thrill. Killing someone and recreating the circumstances surrounding the act were two entirely different activities. One required brains, the other did not. That is, unless one considered serial killers, in which case brains were very much required, and a certain degree of planning, a knowledge of investigative methods and the ability to keep quiet. Serial killing was a fascinating mixture of establishing enough patterns to mark the work as one in a definite and unique sequence, but not enough so as to reveal one’s identity.
It was true that his mind had often turned to serial killers. He’d compiled, at the age of twelve, the factors signaling that one was dealing with a repeat offender: method of execution, target victims, time, location, witness sightings, the presence of some sort of calling card, accompanying messages, etc, etc. Naturally, the next thing he’d considered was which combination was optimal for an aspiring serial killer to maximize their murders and minimize the chances of being caught? He’d been inclined to say that completely random victims, times, and locations with a consistent method of killing and some small calling card was ideal, but the fact remained that it was difficult to perpetrate a murder during the day, there were certain locations-particularly cities-where murders were more likely to go unwitnessed, and some victims were easier to kill than others. True randomness was difficult to achieve-it seemed that convenience and practicality forced the creation of unintentional patterns.
Then there was the method of execution itself. It was not easy, though not impossible, to obtain illegally a firearm and silencer. Using that firearm, however, required some experience. Knives were bloody and often necessitated close range, which increased the risk of some genetic evidence being left behind, or possibly even injury. Strangulation required technique and physical strength. Drowning required water in the form of the Thames, a tub, the toilet. Needless to say, it severely limited one’s options. Perhaps the easiest way might be to drug a victim and kill them in a controlled environment, then disposing of the weapon, but that might mean possible relocation of the victim, and more time spent with the body increased the chances of a possible witness. A controlled environment would also imply preselected locations. And while it was true that people generally were not observant and did not notice even the most obvious things, people were also careless and fell into making mistakes, not planning for contingencies, panicking when they should keep a cool head. Murder was best committed professionally and without hesitation by those who had murdered before.
In the course of thinking about all these factors, it had always seemed to him that murder and serial killing was more effort than it was worth. Lestrade had choked at the implication of that statement-that Sherlock was not a serial killer because he was too lazy. Nonetheless, it was true. What’s more, the puzzle and problems were different and he couldn’t imagine them offering any real intellectual satisfaction, not in the same way that algorithms or solving mysteries appealed to him. There was no right answer, only a continuous process of eluding the many mistakes one could make. And one could not tell anyone of one’s accomplishments, so where was the fun of that? Granted, there were some serial killers who gladly confessed to their crimes, wanting to be caught. But then the subsequent trial and incarceration took away any opportunity to be a serial serial killer-it was a rather one track career. Serial killing, one had to provide all the variety for oneself, while solving mysteries presented a different and new situation each and every time.
While he was on the topic, he added that Mycroft was much better serial killer material. He had all the patience, secrecy, and brilliance for it. He may even have considered it as a career option before deciding to do whatever it was he was currently doing. For all he knew, Mycroft was a serial killer, only one whose killings were sanctioned by the government and committed in the name of national and global security. Sherlock didn’t care either way.
When Lestrade asked whether Sherlock, for all his thoughts about serial killing and the ways to do it, ever thought that murder was a bad thing, he looked at Lestrade and shrugged.
“No.”
Lestrade didn’t know whether it was good that Sherlock was being completely honest.