S3E3 - The Uncanny Valley - Part Two: The Veiled Lodger
Episode number: s03s03 of Series 3: Unfinished Business
Title: The Uncanny Valley
Subtitle: The Veiled Lodger
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word Count: 3,300 - 3,400
Rating: R
Warnings: graphic depictions of violent, language
"Yes, all right, Greg!" John Watson said loudly.
Lestrade started at the sudden interjection of his first name into the conversation.
The waiter topped off their drinks and darted.
"It's important that you get this right, because there's a spec, a glimmer, that you ran off to Salcombe because Mycroft put you onto it, then everyone will be wanting to know who Mycroft is, why he - "
"Okay, all right," John replied. "Give me a minute."
The minute was fairly long, closer to three minutes. Finally John asked, "Have you heard anything?"
"About?"
"Indigo Kendall Berwyn," John replied. "Who else? Did you find her body yet?"
"No, and why are you so certain that there's a body to find again?"
"She disappeared while investigating a lunatic who had starved dogs guarding the grounds of his estate at night. Not a huge leap, now is it?"
Lestrade's face betrayed his suspicion, but he didn't press the issue again. John Watson had sidestepped every question and skirted every pitfall that the detective could think of. All John would admit to was Mycroft's invitation to Salcombe, and Mycroft barely admitted to even that.
"Right then, I need you to go over it, all of it, even the stuff that's about dirt or knitting or whatever it was that put you onto this guy, John."
"It was the Dewey Decimal System, Lestrade! Nothing at all to do with forensics," John said. "Come off it. I've told you this half dozen times today alone. What's all this about?"
"It's an investigation."
"No, no. We've never done this before. Whatever this is."
"Before?" Lestrade began. "That's a knock, isn't it? Before, Sherlock submitted testimony. Or he gave us something else, another route, that didn't involve him putting off a judge and jury."
"Mueller was supposed to be the ticket on this," John replied, barely containing his frustration.
"Yeah, well, he's been babbling on about the ghosts that possessed him and Edward Miles. Not exactpy
"'Cept he's not exactly stable, now, is he? Babbling on about ghosts and all that. Don't get me wrong, he's key in putting Miles way, but I don't want to stack everything against him just to have him crack during the trial."
"So, that's what this is about?" John asked. "About the trial?"
Lestrade nodded.
John let out a laugh that had nothing to do with humor. "Edward Miles is going to be in some kind of institution for the rest of his life. You certainly don't need my testimony for that."
Throwing all pretense, Lestrade replied, "You kidnapped a baby."
"No, no, I didn't," John said mildly. "See, the baby had already been kidnapped. I was returning the baby. And it wasn't even me who carried him, it was Mueller. So really, all I did was free Mueller, who by the way, was abducted and held against his will."
Lestrade had developed a sense for Sherlock's shenanigans - it had been an absolute requirement for dealing with the man - but he just didn't have the same knack for John. It wasn't just the odd case with hungry dogs, the ghosts, or the recovered baby. It was the fact that every time John Watson opened his mouth it was as if Sherlock was speaking.
"While we're off topic," Lestrade began, "how's Molly?"
John sat back. "Better off than she should be, given the circumstances."
"Look, I know there's this whole mess with the Miles family kidnapping, but I think Molly would be better off if you looked into it."
"Looked into it?" John repeated. "You mean her case?"
"'Course I mean her case, what else would I mean?"
"Lestrade, I'm not Sherlock!"
"No, you're John Watson. Right now, that's as close as I can get, and it's more'n enough. I think Molly'll be better for it, too, if you'd work with her."
John didn't really think on it too long before replying. "For Molly? Anything. Just, don't make it a big deal."
Lestrade smiled, wondering at what the hell was going on. "So, that means we'll go over all this, one more time," he insisted. "Last time, all right? And I'll pick up the last round."
"Cheers," John replied miserably.
Mycroft Holmes dragged his brother - kicking and screaming, as per usual - to a gutted and neglected building nestled away in Caterham on the Hill. The paint job and detail afforded the outside of the building was the perfect camouflage.
Sherlock's disposition changed as his interests peeked. His eyes zeroed in on the hard line where the set dressing of the building simply ceased and the true decay of its structure was revealed.
"This isn't one of your safe houses," Sherlock commented.
"No, it's not."
The younger Holmes sized up his brother. He was conflicted. On one hand, Mycroft had quite literally abducted him from his bed to take him out to Caterham, all the while refusing to give a reason as to why. On the other hand, why go to the expense of maintaining the exterior of the building, down to the gardening, while allowing the inside to be so blatantly disregarded? The cost of bribing building inspectors alone would be prohibitive. No, whoever managed this place had special intentions for it. Mycroft's interest in the situation made it clear that those intentions were illegal and dangerous.
"I imagine you've spotted the windows by now, assuming you can do without your skull to talk to," Mycroft began.
"Bulletproof glass?" Sherlock observed. "And false latches. These windows can't open in either direction. I'd say added within the last week."
"Three days, actually. Along with - "
"The security monitors. Camera, microphone, microphone, reflector, heat sensor, movement sensor, early alert system of some kind that relies on lasers that seem to be disabled," Sherlock rattled off as he waved his hands at each item, boredom clear in his voice. "Clearly whoever was here went to great lengths to conceal themselves. Or at least to know when someone was approaching. Is there a reason we're here?"
"Shall we have a look?" Mycroft asked.
"A look?"
"There was an, how shall we say? An event here quite recently. That's why all the security is offline now."
"Certainly the local law enforcement - "
"Have no idea. Because of the parties involved."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'The parties involved' meant that some royal family member had another blunder -
But his stream of thought changed abruptly as they stepped inside. This was not some fool's hideaway for illegal paraphernalia or a gambling ring. This place had been used for some kind of holding cell.
"One prisoner," Sherlock said.
"Two prisoners," Mycroft commented.
Sherlock followed Mycroft's train of thought, but he was already ahead of his brother.
"That's certainly what everyone else thought," Sherlock replied shortly. "But this second prisoner, if you could call her - and yes, it's definitely a woman, by the size of that hand print and foot print over here - a prisoner, but she surely wasn't."
"How's that?"
"The first prisoner had been accounted for in every way. The chair, the chain restraints," Sherlock reeled off, the boredom seeping back into his voice, "this cell is essentially customized. Made for the size and shape of a very dangerous person."
"Not a difficult conclusion, given that the chair was made for someone nearly two meters tall."
"Not just the height. The bars on this one cell in the middle here, they're specially fitted. I imagine one of your prisoners were a propensity for escaping might find themselves in a place just like this. The bed is just so. Even the cell itself is place in the room to allow for guards and snipers to have optimal vantage points." Sherlock paused. Then he added, "You're getting old Mycroft. You don't need me for anything of this."
"Don't I?" Mycroft asked, allowing a little smile to pass over his lips.
Sherlock inspected the secondary cell. Like the first, it had special bars, a bed, and a chair with restraints. But it was all wrong, like an old house with an added wall to break a room into two. It was just off enough to be obvious. For some reason, the second prisoner was unexpected, yet the people holding these two had enough time to set up the cell.
"Where are they?" Sherlock asked.
"Sorry?"
"The prisoners. I imagined you recovered them."
"I certainly can't fault you entirely for that assumption," he replied. Mycroft waved his arm at something - or someone - and makeshift overhead floodlights came on, filling the room with industrial lighting.
Two bodies were in the room. Four other chalk lines indicated that whatever happened here had at least four survivors.
"I received a call, me personally," Mycroft began, "just four hours ago."
"From whom?"
"That's a rather long and unnecessary story."
"Is it?"
"We know that the man that was held captive here is known as Colonel Sebastian Moran."
"And the other person?"
"No idea," Mycroft replied. "I did surmise it was a woman, possibly a relative or girlfriend of Moran's, used against him, but neither were here by the time we arrive. No physical evidence in the cells, either."
"Then how did you establish his identity?"
"Intelligence. Photographs. What little security footage that remained showed him being, ah, escorted in. He's rather distinguished."
"I imagine so. And the other prisoner?"
"Unfortunately, nothing. Recordings for the past day have been... unrecoverable as of yet."
"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock repeated. "I know that name."
"'Course you do. He was groomed by Moriarty."
The two Holmes brothers turned to each other. "That's not the context of the name, not as I know it," Sherlock said firmly.
"Isn't it?"
Sherlock began his stroll through his mind palace, following the long walkway of uneven cobblestone, each one a name of Moriarty's network he'd identified and neutralized, one way or another. No, Sebastian Moran didn't belong here. That name was older; in fact, he had heard it before the name Moriarty was screamed by the dying cabbie.
So he moved away from the newer parts of his Mind Palace and moved past the lovely, ornate arcades and followed the engraved balustrades up, up, and up into the corridors of the second and third floors. It occurred to Sherlock that he knew far too many people named Sebastian, and the name 'Moran' was completely unhelpful, since it was used so often as a descriptive noun rather than a last name.
And then he remembered.
Sherlock had tucked Moriarty away in the dreary wards of the dungeon since his death. But Sebastian Moran, that name was older than the dungeons; so he focused on the oubliette...
KIDNAPPING VICTIMS FOUND STARVED TO DEATH. The headline of every newspaper covering Edinburgh, Scotland a decade ago. Three bodies were discovered, but there was evidence of other victims held captive. The investigators had no physical evidence or any real indication of the perpetrators; instead, they focused on identifying any other kidnapping targets that had been released and therefore survived the ordeal.
Sherlock had connected Sebastian Moran to the case as a part of the working theory, but the 'full international cooperation' offered to the investigation from Scotland Yard was withdrawn after a year passed with no real progress or suspects.
"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock said out loud. "What do you know about him?"
"Not nearly enough, I'm afraid," his brother replied. Then he added, "You were a long time about that, Sherlock. It seems as if I'm not the only one getting old."
Sherlock ignored Mycroft and began to examine the interior more closely.
Oddly, Sherlock wished John were here. Something about his partner - even with his lack of observation - made his mind work faster. He didn't like to admit it, but it was true. Especially here and now.
So the younger Holmes took his time. Every inch of the building yielded a new clarity, new evidence. Impressions from boots and shoes abounded, and the floor was in such a state of decay that those who walked here left behind more than just footprints. With just a few samples, he could map out the movements of every individual that passed through this room, or at least, the ones that had been wearing shoes.
Following the footprints, he wound up back at the cell in the center of the room. While the bars ran straight to the ceiling, thick cylinders of metal that couldn't be shifted or even wriggled from their positions, the rest of the walls had been reduced to thin columns. Bare, somewhat dilapidated furniture lined up against the walls.
The floodlights illuminated everything, but those lights weren't part of this building. No, Mycroft's lackeys had added nearly all of them only a few hours ago. The only true overhead light beamed down directly over the prisoner's cell, and by association, the added cell.
He drifted idly to a small stand that held a lamp. Click. The light was so low that he couldn't see it with the overheat lighting.
"Blue light," Mycroft said softly. "All the lamps have blue blubs or - "
"Tinted gels," Sherlock interrupted. "It's commonly used in backstage lighting for theatrical performances. Good for containing images. For illusion."
Sherlock didn't need to stand behind the bars to know that whoever was locked inside would not be able to see more than a few feet beyond the bars. The beam of light not only lit up the prisoner, it also served as a blinder.
All in all, a very clever arrangement, assuming there were half a dozen individuals assigned to keep watch at all times. What little furniture there was - a few cots, desks, stands, and so on - was lined against the walls. The entire building was a giant, decaying cavern with a brilliant beam of light focused on the only individual of concern: the person being locked up. Should he attempt to escape, he could be stopped at a distance with a tranquilizer gun, or killed with a bullet, before he could even get near the door. If someone tried to break in, the same principle would apply. The prisoner could be executed quickly and easily, so long as one of the guards was a good shot.
This, of course, begged the question: how did someone manage to take out the guards? All walls and windows were in tact, so no long-range attack was mounted. There were eight unique footprints. Four individuals injured and two dead; Sherlock deduced that these were the guards. The seventh set of prints belonged to Sebastian Moran. That left only one set of footprints for the second so-called prisoner who eliminated the guards.
"Tell me, Sherlock, what do you think happened here?" Mycroft asked, as if two minutes was too much time for Sherlock to think.
The older Holmes lingered by the door of the cell.
"Still looking in the wrong places," Sherlock said under his breath.
He waved his brother over. "It started over here."
Mycroft crossed the room. Several long tables were set on their edges around a chair. Had the chains been ribbons and the tables three-sided marks, the area could've been mistaken for some kind of photo set.
"I thought so too, as this was likely the first body," Mycroft indicated the man lying not three feet away.
"And?"
"And what?"
"You said it in a manner that suggested this body seemed first, but wasn't first."
"Indeed."
"Mycroft!"
"If I felt confident in my assessment, I wouldn't've risked bringing you out into the open like this."
"This was either a woman or a teenage boy."
"Oh?"
"The captors had prepared for a Goliath of an escape, yet they severely underestimated the second prisoner. I could claim rampant sexism and say definitely this was a woman..."
"Yes?"
"But that seems unlikely. If she was, as you say, a relative or lover of one Sebastian Moran, the man who deserved his own very special, very particular cage, then they would've have moved her here, away from the primary light, in minimal restraints."
"So you think it was a young man, then?"
Sherlock rarely wavered on such deductions, and he didn't like it when it did happen. Maybe he overestimated the kidnappers, or perhaps this person gained the uppehand somehow.
"No, it could very well have been a woman."
"Ah. So you don't know?"
"Do you?" Sherlock asked.
"Not as of yet. What do you think you are for?"
"A woman," Sherlock decided after spotting partial shoe imprints of the person who sat in the chair. They had a clearly defined heel shape common to women's high heels.
"Having a bad day are we?"
Sherlock ignored his brother. "For some reason, the kidnappers think she's incapacitated. Unconscious. Maybe she feigned illness. One of the guards brings her over here, setting up floor lights angled up at her from here and here."
"Obviously."
"At some point, she struggled. The guard grabbed her, trying to get her back into the chair, and for some reason, lifted her up, off her feet."
"Not all that uncommon."
"That's exactly what she wanted," Sherlock continued. "Her wrists were bound - you can see that clearly from the rope burns on the man's face - but they were bound one over the other in front of her. When he lifted her up, he gave her the position she needed. Took her fists, stacked together, and thrust down hard over his eye."
Sherlock mimed this maneuver on Mycroft, who brushed his arms aside.
He continued, "Had she been standing like this, facing him, her attack would've failed. But she was lifted up, almost above him, with both his arms, so he had no recourse. The strike itself would hardly be worth mentioning, except she had a rather sharp instrument concealed."
"A pencil," Mycroft offered.
"A pencil?"
"Specifically a drafting pencil with no eraser."
Sherlock inspected the man's injuries. The movement had been brutal and precise. Most of the pencil stabbed into the eye socket with the initial strike; the last bit was likely pounded in with the edge of her fist as the man fell on his back. It was difficult to tell with the blood, but a glimpse of the graphite could be seen in the center of the tip.
"Indeed, it is a pencil."
"You doubted me?"
"Can't've imagined where she found a pencil. Let alone sharpened it well enough to manage this kind of attack."
Mycroft took a moment to consider this, but he made no reply.
"Now, the rest is obvious. She used her smaller frame to avoid bullets. These captors wouldn't risk firing unless they could see her. Since you moved the four other bodies - "
"I assure you, it was solely because they weren't dead. Couldn't have them here."
"All unconscious?"
"All lucky to be barely alive, I'd wager."
"She used a combination of crippling and stunning techniques, unfortunately not a surprising choice for a woman who knows combat and is used to facing larger opponents. Maximum results with minimum effort."
"You sound unimpressed."
"Mycroft, why am I here? Surely everything I've said has crossed your mind. This woman eliminated the guards and freed Sebastian Moran. They fled together."
"Sherlock, you've always been a bit of an idiot. I remember that case out in Scotland - "
"Edinburgh," Sherlock interrupted.
"Yes, naturally. If you hope to maintain your death, you can't wander about London with John Watson."
"So you're sending me out of the country?"
"Like you'd go anywhere I'd send you," Mycroft said. "No, I brought you here today because I believe this... situation is connected with your veiled lodger."
"What?" Sherlock asked. "What lodger?"
"Haven't you been by? When she stands by the window, she covers her face," Mycroft said. When Sherlock's expression of confusion didn't fade, he added, "The woman currently taking up your bedroom at 221 B Baker Street."
"My bedroom?"
"Yes. She's been staying there for the past two days."
"Who? And why? If it's another one of his girlfriends, why should she be in my room? Shouldn't she - "
Mycroft interrupted, "John explained to me that she was lodging and that she'd be there indefinitely. Don't worry, there's no threat to your secret."
"Mycroft, who exactly is this lodger?"
"Haven't you heard?"
"If I had, I wouldn't be asking."
"Molly Hooper."
<<< Previous Part:
Part One: A Mortuary Uprising
Next Part: >>>
Part Three: Quiver
Primary Post: The Uncanny Valley - Series 3, Episode 3
Primary Post: Unfinished Business, or Series 3 (s03ff)
Title: The Uncanny Valley
Subtitle: The Veiled Lodger
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word Count: 3,300 - 3,400
Rating: R
Warnings: graphic depictions of violent, language
"Yes, all right, Greg!" John Watson said loudly.
Lestrade started at the sudden interjection of his first name into the conversation.
The waiter topped off their drinks and darted.
"It's important that you get this right, because there's a spec, a glimmer, that you ran off to Salcombe because Mycroft put you onto it, then everyone will be wanting to know who Mycroft is, why he - "
"Okay, all right," John replied. "Give me a minute."
The minute was fairly long, closer to three minutes. Finally John asked, "Have you heard anything?"
"About?"
"Indigo Kendall Berwyn," John replied. "Who else? Did you find her body yet?"
"No, and why are you so certain that there's a body to find again?"
"She disappeared while investigating a lunatic who had starved dogs guarding the grounds of his estate at night. Not a huge leap, now is it?"
Lestrade's face betrayed his suspicion, but he didn't press the issue again. John Watson had sidestepped every question and skirted every pitfall that the detective could think of. All John would admit to was Mycroft's invitation to Salcombe, and Mycroft barely admitted to even that.
"Right then, I need you to go over it, all of it, even the stuff that's about dirt or knitting or whatever it was that put you onto this guy, John."
"It was the Dewey Decimal System, Lestrade! Nothing at all to do with forensics," John said. "Come off it. I've told you this half dozen times today alone. What's all this about?"
"It's an investigation."
"No, no. We've never done this before. Whatever this is."
"Before?" Lestrade began. "That's a knock, isn't it? Before, Sherlock submitted testimony. Or he gave us something else, another route, that didn't involve him putting off a judge and jury."
"Mueller was supposed to be the ticket on this," John replied, barely containing his frustration.
"Yeah, well, he's been babbling on about the ghosts that possessed him and Edward Miles. Not exactpy
"'Cept he's not exactly stable, now, is he? Babbling on about ghosts and all that. Don't get me wrong, he's key in putting Miles way, but I don't want to stack everything against him just to have him crack during the trial."
"So, that's what this is about?" John asked. "About the trial?"
Lestrade nodded.
John let out a laugh that had nothing to do with humor. "Edward Miles is going to be in some kind of institution for the rest of his life. You certainly don't need my testimony for that."
Throwing all pretense, Lestrade replied, "You kidnapped a baby."
"No, no, I didn't," John said mildly. "See, the baby had already been kidnapped. I was returning the baby. And it wasn't even me who carried him, it was Mueller. So really, all I did was free Mueller, who by the way, was abducted and held against his will."
Lestrade had developed a sense for Sherlock's shenanigans - it had been an absolute requirement for dealing with the man - but he just didn't have the same knack for John. It wasn't just the odd case with hungry dogs, the ghosts, or the recovered baby. It was the fact that every time John Watson opened his mouth it was as if Sherlock was speaking.
"While we're off topic," Lestrade began, "how's Molly?"
John sat back. "Better off than she should be, given the circumstances."
"Look, I know there's this whole mess with the Miles family kidnapping, but I think Molly would be better off if you looked into it."
"Looked into it?" John repeated. "You mean her case?"
"'Course I mean her case, what else would I mean?"
"Lestrade, I'm not Sherlock!"
"No, you're John Watson. Right now, that's as close as I can get, and it's more'n enough. I think Molly'll be better for it, too, if you'd work with her."
John didn't really think on it too long before replying. "For Molly? Anything. Just, don't make it a big deal."
Lestrade smiled, wondering at what the hell was going on. "So, that means we'll go over all this, one more time," he insisted. "Last time, all right? And I'll pick up the last round."
"Cheers," John replied miserably.
Mycroft Holmes dragged his brother - kicking and screaming, as per usual - to a gutted and neglected building nestled away in Caterham on the Hill. The paint job and detail afforded the outside of the building was the perfect camouflage.
Sherlock's disposition changed as his interests peeked. His eyes zeroed in on the hard line where the set dressing of the building simply ceased and the true decay of its structure was revealed.
"This isn't one of your safe houses," Sherlock commented.
"No, it's not."
The younger Holmes sized up his brother. He was conflicted. On one hand, Mycroft had quite literally abducted him from his bed to take him out to Caterham, all the while refusing to give a reason as to why. On the other hand, why go to the expense of maintaining the exterior of the building, down to the gardening, while allowing the inside to be so blatantly disregarded? The cost of bribing building inspectors alone would be prohibitive. No, whoever managed this place had special intentions for it. Mycroft's interest in the situation made it clear that those intentions were illegal and dangerous.
"I imagine you've spotted the windows by now, assuming you can do without your skull to talk to," Mycroft began.
"Bulletproof glass?" Sherlock observed. "And false latches. These windows can't open in either direction. I'd say added within the last week."
"Three days, actually. Along with - "
"The security monitors. Camera, microphone, microphone, reflector, heat sensor, movement sensor, early alert system of some kind that relies on lasers that seem to be disabled," Sherlock rattled off as he waved his hands at each item, boredom clear in his voice. "Clearly whoever was here went to great lengths to conceal themselves. Or at least to know when someone was approaching. Is there a reason we're here?"
"Shall we have a look?" Mycroft asked.
"A look?"
"There was an, how shall we say? An event here quite recently. That's why all the security is offline now."
"Certainly the local law enforcement - "
"Have no idea. Because of the parties involved."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'The parties involved' meant that some royal family member had another blunder -
But his stream of thought changed abruptly as they stepped inside. This was not some fool's hideaway for illegal paraphernalia or a gambling ring. This place had been used for some kind of holding cell.
"One prisoner," Sherlock said.
"Two prisoners," Mycroft commented.
Sherlock followed Mycroft's train of thought, but he was already ahead of his brother.
"That's certainly what everyone else thought," Sherlock replied shortly. "But this second prisoner, if you could call her - and yes, it's definitely a woman, by the size of that hand print and foot print over here - a prisoner, but she surely wasn't."
"How's that?"
"The first prisoner had been accounted for in every way. The chair, the chain restraints," Sherlock reeled off, the boredom seeping back into his voice, "this cell is essentially customized. Made for the size and shape of a very dangerous person."
"Not a difficult conclusion, given that the chair was made for someone nearly two meters tall."
"Not just the height. The bars on this one cell in the middle here, they're specially fitted. I imagine one of your prisoners were a propensity for escaping might find themselves in a place just like this. The bed is just so. Even the cell itself is place in the room to allow for guards and snipers to have optimal vantage points." Sherlock paused. Then he added, "You're getting old Mycroft. You don't need me for anything of this."
"Don't I?" Mycroft asked, allowing a little smile to pass over his lips.
Sherlock inspected the secondary cell. Like the first, it had special bars, a bed, and a chair with restraints. But it was all wrong, like an old house with an added wall to break a room into two. It was just off enough to be obvious. For some reason, the second prisoner was unexpected, yet the people holding these two had enough time to set up the cell.
"Where are they?" Sherlock asked.
"Sorry?"
"The prisoners. I imagined you recovered them."
"I certainly can't fault you entirely for that assumption," he replied. Mycroft waved his arm at something - or someone - and makeshift overhead floodlights came on, filling the room with industrial lighting.
Two bodies were in the room. Four other chalk lines indicated that whatever happened here had at least four survivors.
"I received a call, me personally," Mycroft began, "just four hours ago."
"From whom?"
"That's a rather long and unnecessary story."
"Is it?"
"We know that the man that was held captive here is known as Colonel Sebastian Moran."
"And the other person?"
"No idea," Mycroft replied. "I did surmise it was a woman, possibly a relative or girlfriend of Moran's, used against him, but neither were here by the time we arrive. No physical evidence in the cells, either."
"Then how did you establish his identity?"
"Intelligence. Photographs. What little security footage that remained showed him being, ah, escorted in. He's rather distinguished."
"I imagine so. And the other prisoner?"
"Unfortunately, nothing. Recordings for the past day have been... unrecoverable as of yet."
"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock repeated. "I know that name."
"'Course you do. He was groomed by Moriarty."
The two Holmes brothers turned to each other. "That's not the context of the name, not as I know it," Sherlock said firmly.
"Isn't it?"
Sherlock began his stroll through his mind palace, following the long walkway of uneven cobblestone, each one a name of Moriarty's network he'd identified and neutralized, one way or another. No, Sebastian Moran didn't belong here. That name was older; in fact, he had heard it before the name Moriarty was screamed by the dying cabbie.
So he moved away from the newer parts of his Mind Palace and moved past the lovely, ornate arcades and followed the engraved balustrades up, up, and up into the corridors of the second and third floors. It occurred to Sherlock that he knew far too many people named Sebastian, and the name 'Moran' was completely unhelpful, since it was used so often as a descriptive noun rather than a last name.
And then he remembered.
Sherlock had tucked Moriarty away in the dreary wards of the dungeon since his death. But Sebastian Moran, that name was older than the dungeons; so he focused on the oubliette...
KIDNAPPING VICTIMS FOUND STARVED TO DEATH. The headline of every newspaper covering Edinburgh, Scotland a decade ago. Three bodies were discovered, but there was evidence of other victims held captive. The investigators had no physical evidence or any real indication of the perpetrators; instead, they focused on identifying any other kidnapping targets that had been released and therefore survived the ordeal.
Sherlock had connected Sebastian Moran to the case as a part of the working theory, but the 'full international cooperation' offered to the investigation from Scotland Yard was withdrawn after a year passed with no real progress or suspects.
"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock said out loud. "What do you know about him?"
"Not nearly enough, I'm afraid," his brother replied. Then he added, "You were a long time about that, Sherlock. It seems as if I'm not the only one getting old."
Sherlock ignored Mycroft and began to examine the interior more closely.
Oddly, Sherlock wished John were here. Something about his partner - even with his lack of observation - made his mind work faster. He didn't like to admit it, but it was true. Especially here and now.
So the younger Holmes took his time. Every inch of the building yielded a new clarity, new evidence. Impressions from boots and shoes abounded, and the floor was in such a state of decay that those who walked here left behind more than just footprints. With just a few samples, he could map out the movements of every individual that passed through this room, or at least, the ones that had been wearing shoes.
Following the footprints, he wound up back at the cell in the center of the room. While the bars ran straight to the ceiling, thick cylinders of metal that couldn't be shifted or even wriggled from their positions, the rest of the walls had been reduced to thin columns. Bare, somewhat dilapidated furniture lined up against the walls.
The floodlights illuminated everything, but those lights weren't part of this building. No, Mycroft's lackeys had added nearly all of them only a few hours ago. The only true overhead light beamed down directly over the prisoner's cell, and by association, the added cell.
He drifted idly to a small stand that held a lamp. Click. The light was so low that he couldn't see it with the overheat lighting.
"Blue light," Mycroft said softly. "All the lamps have blue blubs or - "
"Tinted gels," Sherlock interrupted. "It's commonly used in backstage lighting for theatrical performances. Good for containing images. For illusion."
Sherlock didn't need to stand behind the bars to know that whoever was locked inside would not be able to see more than a few feet beyond the bars. The beam of light not only lit up the prisoner, it also served as a blinder.
All in all, a very clever arrangement, assuming there were half a dozen individuals assigned to keep watch at all times. What little furniture there was - a few cots, desks, stands, and so on - was lined against the walls. The entire building was a giant, decaying cavern with a brilliant beam of light focused on the only individual of concern: the person being locked up. Should he attempt to escape, he could be stopped at a distance with a tranquilizer gun, or killed with a bullet, before he could even get near the door. If someone tried to break in, the same principle would apply. The prisoner could be executed quickly and easily, so long as one of the guards was a good shot.
This, of course, begged the question: how did someone manage to take out the guards? All walls and windows were in tact, so no long-range attack was mounted. There were eight unique footprints. Four individuals injured and two dead; Sherlock deduced that these were the guards. The seventh set of prints belonged to Sebastian Moran. That left only one set of footprints for the second so-called prisoner who eliminated the guards.
"Tell me, Sherlock, what do you think happened here?" Mycroft asked, as if two minutes was too much time for Sherlock to think.
The older Holmes lingered by the door of the cell.
"Still looking in the wrong places," Sherlock said under his breath.
He waved his brother over. "It started over here."
Mycroft crossed the room. Several long tables were set on their edges around a chair. Had the chains been ribbons and the tables three-sided marks, the area could've been mistaken for some kind of photo set.
"I thought so too, as this was likely the first body," Mycroft indicated the man lying not three feet away.
"And?"
"And what?"
"You said it in a manner that suggested this body seemed first, but wasn't first."
"Indeed."
"Mycroft!"
"If I felt confident in my assessment, I wouldn't've risked bringing you out into the open like this."
"This was either a woman or a teenage boy."
"Oh?"
"The captors had prepared for a Goliath of an escape, yet they severely underestimated the second prisoner. I could claim rampant sexism and say definitely this was a woman..."
"Yes?"
"But that seems unlikely. If she was, as you say, a relative or lover of one Sebastian Moran, the man who deserved his own very special, very particular cage, then they would've have moved her here, away from the primary light, in minimal restraints."
"So you think it was a young man, then?"
Sherlock rarely wavered on such deductions, and he didn't like it when it did happen. Maybe he overestimated the kidnappers, or perhaps this person gained the uppehand somehow.
"No, it could very well have been a woman."
"Ah. So you don't know?"
"Do you?" Sherlock asked.
"Not as of yet. What do you think you are for?"
"A woman," Sherlock decided after spotting partial shoe imprints of the person who sat in the chair. They had a clearly defined heel shape common to women's high heels.
"Having a bad day are we?"
Sherlock ignored his brother. "For some reason, the kidnappers think she's incapacitated. Unconscious. Maybe she feigned illness. One of the guards brings her over here, setting up floor lights angled up at her from here and here."
"Obviously."
"At some point, she struggled. The guard grabbed her, trying to get her back into the chair, and for some reason, lifted her up, off her feet."
"Not all that uncommon."
"That's exactly what she wanted," Sherlock continued. "Her wrists were bound - you can see that clearly from the rope burns on the man's face - but they were bound one over the other in front of her. When he lifted her up, he gave her the position she needed. Took her fists, stacked together, and thrust down hard over his eye."
Sherlock mimed this maneuver on Mycroft, who brushed his arms aside.
He continued, "Had she been standing like this, facing him, her attack would've failed. But she was lifted up, almost above him, with both his arms, so he had no recourse. The strike itself would hardly be worth mentioning, except she had a rather sharp instrument concealed."
"A pencil," Mycroft offered.
"A pencil?"
"Specifically a drafting pencil with no eraser."
Sherlock inspected the man's injuries. The movement had been brutal and precise. Most of the pencil stabbed into the eye socket with the initial strike; the last bit was likely pounded in with the edge of her fist as the man fell on his back. It was difficult to tell with the blood, but a glimpse of the graphite could be seen in the center of the tip.
"Indeed, it is a pencil."
"You doubted me?"
"Can't've imagined where she found a pencil. Let alone sharpened it well enough to manage this kind of attack."
Mycroft took a moment to consider this, but he made no reply.
"Now, the rest is obvious. She used her smaller frame to avoid bullets. These captors wouldn't risk firing unless they could see her. Since you moved the four other bodies - "
"I assure you, it was solely because they weren't dead. Couldn't have them here."
"All unconscious?"
"All lucky to be barely alive, I'd wager."
"She used a combination of crippling and stunning techniques, unfortunately not a surprising choice for a woman who knows combat and is used to facing larger opponents. Maximum results with minimum effort."
"You sound unimpressed."
"Mycroft, why am I here? Surely everything I've said has crossed your mind. This woman eliminated the guards and freed Sebastian Moran. They fled together."
"Sherlock, you've always been a bit of an idiot. I remember that case out in Scotland - "
"Edinburgh," Sherlock interrupted.
"Yes, naturally. If you hope to maintain your death, you can't wander about London with John Watson."
"So you're sending me out of the country?"
"Like you'd go anywhere I'd send you," Mycroft said. "No, I brought you here today because I believe this... situation is connected with your veiled lodger."
"What?" Sherlock asked. "What lodger?"
"Haven't you been by? When she stands by the window, she covers her face," Mycroft said. When Sherlock's expression of confusion didn't fade, he added, "The woman currently taking up your bedroom at 221 B Baker Street."
"My bedroom?"
"Yes. She's been staying there for the past two days."
"Who? And why? If it's another one of his girlfriends, why should she be in my room? Shouldn't she - "
Mycroft interrupted, "John explained to me that she was lodging and that she'd be there indefinitely. Don't worry, there's no threat to your secret."
"Mycroft, who exactly is this lodger?"
"Haven't you heard?"
"If I had, I wouldn't be asking."
"Molly Hooper."
<<< Previous Part:
Part One: A Mortuary Uprising
Next Part: >>>
Part Three: Quiver
Primary Post: The Uncanny Valley - Series 3, Episode 3
Primary Post: Unfinished Business, or Series 3 (s03ff)