S3E3 - The Uncanny Valley - Part Nine: A Little Inconvenience
Episode number: s03s03 of Series 3: Unfinished Business
Title: The Uncanny Valley
Subtitle: A Little Inconvenience
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word Count: 3,200 - 3,300
Rating: R
Warnings: language, violence, kidnapping
The majority of the car ride was stuffy and silent. Molly seemed shaken over the whole affair, while Sherlock remained flabbergasted with John's excursion to South Derbyshire. John tried to explain, briefly, about his search for Indigo Kendall Berwyn and the subsequent trip, but Sherlock didn't respond. He sulked. Or perhaps he was deep in thought; John never could decipher between the two.
At some point, John fell asleep. He must have done, because the next thing he remembered, it was night, and Sherlock was coaxing him to get onto a helicopter. John dimly acknowledged that they were on a hospital helipad, but he was too tired to ask any questions.
"Sherlock," Molly began. "Where are we going?"
"We're going to the source. There is one man who started all this. I should've seen it. The brazen kidnapping, enough to rally the suspicions of Mycroft or myself... it was all a distraction. Wendell was sent after us because Moran knew I'd go straight to Edinburgh, where I thought it all started."
That woke John up.
"Sorry, you think this man knows you're alive?" John asked.
"It's entirely possible he knows or at least suspects. Ten years ago, I pointed the investigation towards Moran, but nothing came of it."
"Because there wasn't enough evidence?" Molly asked.
Sherlock shrugged. "Still, I marked him. It's not coincidence that the kidnapping happened in Edinburgh, where I first picked up his scent, as it were."
"Sherlock, if someone else thinks you're alive... that's not good, is it? Wasn't the whole point of faking your own death... wasn't there a point?" John asked, fumbling his words.
"Of course there was!" Sherlock replied. "Moran was groomed by Moriarty. He's connected to him but not part of the network I've been working to bring down."
"So if he knows you're alive, isn't the jig up?" John asked. "You'd have to stop being dead officially?"
Sherlock shook his head, but he made no reply. He looked out the window and drifted off into thought.
"You all right?" John asked Molly.
"Yeah."
"Must've been nice, to drop the man that attacked you."
"A little," Molly admitted. "But to be honest, I was in the loo, and when I heard his voice... I, uh... I... just sort of froze. For a long time."
"But not forever, and that's what counts."
"Is this what it's like?" she asked. "Working with Sherlock? Does it always feel so... never ending."
"Sometimes, yeah. But, though he might be a bit of a prat, don't forget we've got Sherlock Holmes on our side."
"Of course."
The belligerent sound of the helicopter filled the awkward silence.
Sally Donovan escorted Isabelle Hennessy into the securest room in the morgue.
"Is this the final report?" Isabelle asked as she picked up the medical examiner's file.
"As far as I know. According to forensics, this body bag was modified to include a tension-drawn razor wire, placed right across the neck. Once done, the wire receded back into this lining pocket to disguise the mechanism."
Isabelle flipped through the report, not entirely listening. But she replied, "The only way for that to happen would be for the wire to be cut after... the decapitation. I imagine the best way to hide such a thing would be to disappear the entire body bag. Swap it out for a replica, or just plain steal it."
Donovan shrugged. "Sure, but that didn't happen. One of the pathologists was attacked about a week later. It's possible that the attacker was here to steal the bag."
"Over a week later? The evidence was already processed."
"We just found this as of this morning."
Isabelle stopped. "So the person who examined the body, who did this report, didn't mention the wire at all?"
"He didn't see it. It was well hidden."
"Maybe he did see it," Isabelle suggested. "Maybe he cut the wire. Have you checked him out?"
"He's cleared to work here. No connections to organized crime. No red flags."
"He might not have had a choice," Isabelle replied. "That abduction I was looking into, that Cypress was investigating, one of the reasons it's been so hard to figure out is that a lot of the people involved were good people put in bad situations."
"Trust no one," Donovan said blandly. "I like that."
"Hold on, didn't your man Lestrade say something about him being poisoned first? Because I don't think that's what happened."
"Right then, enlighten me," Donovan replied.
"There's a cocktail of drugs in his system, a combination of antagonists to the noradrenergic system with d-tubocurarine, likely from curare. Combined with any thing that could cause a mild hypothermia, and you'd be well on your way to inducing cataplexy."
"Sorry, what?"
"Cataplexy. Loss of muscle tone. It happens naturally during REM sleep and in some disorders it occurs randomly throughout the day. In extreme cases, the person is conscious but can't move at all. In very extreme cases, it can be difficult to find any signs of life - respiration, pulse, anything."
"So, he faked his death? Or was trying to?"
"This isn't a scifi movie," Isabelle said. "The EMTs might not have been able to find anything, but if he came to this hospital, the equipment certainly would've."
"First you're saying someone at the morgue must've covered up the wire. Now you're telling me someone was here to help him fake his own death?"
"Could even be the same person," Isabelle said. "That makes sense, doesn't it? Transmigration."
"You think this final phase requires people to fake their deaths?" Donovan asked.
"That would explain the other missing bodies. They're not missing bodies. They're people who have all the paperwork to declare their former identities dead."
Donovan remembered reading the text from Lestrade's phone the previous day. Her stomach jolted.
"I'm as ready as I'll ever be," Isabelle said. "It's time for me to inspect the body."
"You sure about this?" Donovan asked automatically.
Isabelle nodded.
"John! Wake up!" Sherlock said loudly. "You need to escort Molly to the Yard."
John opened his eyes to find himself in yet another car. "Sorry, what are we doing?" he asked.
"I need to run down a lead, it'll take some time. You need to take Molly to Lestrade."
"What? Why?" Molly asked.
"Because you've been put at risk several times at my behest, and now we're flushing out Moran, you need to be protected," Sherlock said shortly. "Once Lestrade has Molly, meet me back at the flat."
"Don't I get a say in this?" Molly asked.
"No," Sherlock replied.
"And why not?"
"Because Mycroft didn't collect Wendell last night. He escaped, and he'll be particularly unhappy with you, Molly, since you've now bludgeoned him and stabbed him. I imagine you'll be a target."
"Hang on, you serious?" John asked, detecting actual concern for Molly beyond Sherlock's general demeanor.
"Yes. This is my stop," Sherlock replied.
He got out of the car and approached one of his homeless network contacts. John had already dialed Lestrade.
"You can't be serious," Molly said. "The man just kidnapped us both to Scotland on a whim, and now you're just, doing what he says?"
"You're right, he's off his rocker," John replied. "But Sherlock used my phone - which he said he didn't have - to text Lestrade a number of tips. If he's acted on any of them, Molly, we need to know."
"So you want me to pretend I need protection so I can get information?" Molly asked.
It hadn't occurred to John that the idea could be objectionable. "Basically. That all right?"
Molly didn't reply.
Sherlock approached Lindsey, one of his frequent contacts via the Homeless Network.
"Spare some change?" she asked.
"For what?"
"Cup of tea, of course," she replied.
Sherlock handed her a fifty-pound note. She didn't even blink.
"Let's not wait for the water to cool," Sherlock said quietly.
"Three blocks, take a right, and Max will be able to help you with that," she said. "Till I can get back to you."
Sherlock made short work of her instructions and found Max within the next ten minutes. Max was an older member of the Homeless Network, and she had experience with dodging organized crime. Part of that experience included knowing the haunts of certain groups or individuals.
"Hear you're looking for a pretty piece," said Max, her smile slightly crooked. "Trouble is, he hasn't been around much. But I think I got something for you."
"Lead the way," Sherlock said happily.
"Look, I know it's a little weird, and I'm sorry," John said. "Molly and I are coming to the Yard. I think we could be being followed or tracked, or at least Molly. Right? Thanks. Yes, we'll see you soon, Lestrade."
"That went well," Molly said, a quiet smile playing at her lips. It was the first time she looked like herself in days. The bruises on her face hadn't quite healed, but the smile brought back the old Molly Hooper.
"I'm glad you're here," John said to Molly.
A scream dragged their attention to the front of the car. Their driver was pulled out with a knife at his throat, and two masked individuals took the front seats. One of them pointed a gun squarely at John's chest.
"Sorry," the woman with the gun said as her cohort pulled away. "But we needed a little leverage. Your attendance is required at the house of Sebastian Moran."
Molly didn't bother hiding her shock or the flicker of recognition at the name.
"Lovely. Will Sherlock be joining us?" John asked.
"Never you mind. Pass me your phones, electronics, and weapons. And don't think I won't shoot you."
Donovan didn't even knock before she entered Lestrade's office.
"Donovan, how did you - " he began.
"Shut it," she replied, shutting the door behind her.
Normally Donovan kept a professional air about her, so her tone was particularly dire. Lestrade considered his words, but before he could think properly, she began to speak.
"So, according to Miss Isabelle Hennessy, the victim Cypress Hare had a cocktail in his system that suggested he attempted to fake his death with the help of someone at Saint Bart's. She also says that someone must've covered up the wire - probably the person who did the autopsy."
"All right, have we checked out whoever did the autopsy?" Lestrade asked.
"According to the paperwork, Molly Hooper."
"Is that right?"
"Can't be. She was with officers or when the autopsy was being done."
"She was scheduled to do the man's autopsy, wasn't she? Maybe someone just mixed up the paperwork."
Donovan shook her head. "I checked into it. That man went from the EMTs, to the ER, down to the morgue all in under three hours. He jumped the morgue line for no good reason. That's not something that just happened. Someone at Bart's must've been in on it. Someone who can cover their tracks." She changed gears and continued, "Funny thing. Hennessy thinks that Transmigration requires the criminals to fake their own deaths. Start a new life. All those missing bodies? Not missing."
"Seriously?"
"I say funny because John Watson texted you something about that the other day, didn't he? About the bodies being alive and working together."
Lestrade nodded. "Yeah, you read that out loud and laughed, as I recall."
"Is Sherlock Holmes alive?" Donovan asked bluntly.
"No, I don't think he is."
"You don't think? What does that mean?"
"It means I thought he was. I kept an eye on 221 B and John, looking for Sherlock."
"So you think he's alive?"
"After that mess out in Salcombe, yeah, I thought he might be!" Lestrade replied loudly. "But I've no proof, and if I tried to bring it up with anyone without proof, they'd just say I wanted him to be alive, wouldn't they?"
"So, as far as you know, Sherlock Holmes is dead. But John Watson has somehow absorbed his investigation and texting habits?"
"Something like that."
Donovan took a breath. "We need to figure out who at Bart's doctored the report. Chances are, that person also covered up the wire. Maybe even helped with the fake death."
"If this is some kind of conspiracy, why would they let him fake his own death, then kill him? Seems like it would attract too much attention."
"Unless they wanted to cast suspicion onto someone."
"Molly Hooper?"
"That'd be my guess," Donovan replied.
"She and John Watson are heading in now. I'll start looking at who could be the man at Bart's. But I think we should bring in Bernard Thomas."
"Why's that? Another John Watson tip?"
"His name appears on the paperwork, doesn't it?" Lestrade hedged.
"Fine, I'll take a few and bring him in."
Max led Sherlock to a small cafe. Everyone looked away as they entered. A business of see no evil, report no evil.
"She's over there and waiting for you," Max said.
Sherlock replied. "You said this was about Sebastian Moran."
"Sure is."
Max left quickly, leaving Sherlock only a minute to make up his mind. He joined the young woman at her table. She had heavy shades on, so it was difficult to see much of her face. He had to sit down before he knew who she was.
"Elena Wilhelm-Glass," he said.
"I think that was the name I used when we met the last time," the woman replied.
"Not yours, I take it."
"No. You recognized the - "
"Old Spice, Swagger. Yes," he replied before she could say it. "What should I call you?"
"Elena is just as good a name as any."
"You keep turning up in my investigations, Elena. Care to explain?"
"You've got it backwards, boy," she said. There was a particular way that she said boy, like the whole thing was a habitual phrase regardless of who she was speaking to. "You keep turning up in my investigations."
Sherlock made short work of what he could see. She had mild bruises up her arm and scrapes on her hands, although they seemed to have rubbing injuries over them, like someone who worked with their hands after a bar fight. She was relaxed, and the only remarkable thing ordinary people would likely collect from her was the men's deodorant. When Sherlock had last met her, her hair and makeup were different, down to products, even. Her posture was stronger someone, as if previously she had been putting on a stooped posture. She used her right hand to handle pens, easily seen by the bump along her ring finger, but her left hand had signs of use, too. Perhaps she pretended to be left-handed from time to time? That seemed unlikely.
"Your investigations?" Sherlock repeated. "So you're a detective, too?"
"This is disappointing. I thought you'd be more interested in Sebastian Moran. It's pure dumb luck that Lestrade managed to find Hennessy before Moran did."
"Don't you mean Kendall?"
"Does it matter?"
"According to John Watson, you knew about her new identity, where she was. You coordinated it all. Yet you said she was dead and buried somewhere in Salcombe."
"I also said you were due a little inconvenience."
"That's hardly a reason."
"Isn't it?" she asked. "Had I known you were still alive, I'd've never come to London. I put a lot on the line, as revealed to me quite recently by Sebastian Moran."
"What's your interest in him?"
"You got that backwards, too," she replied. "Sure I put Kendall out in South Derbyshire to root around for him, but that's just because I wanted him exposed."
"So you knew all about his criminal ring? Over a decade of murder, kidnapping, and forgeries, and you couldn't be bothered with it?" he asked. "Who are you?"
"Right now, I'm not the problem. Moran is. Moriarty was important to him. He's interested in ruining the people who killed him. Or put a dent in his ego."
"Moriarty killed himself."
"That doesn't matter to Moran," she replied.
"So he's after me because I'm the reason he's dead. Why is he after you?"
"Because I'm the reason he decided to go on the war path to begin with. He couldn't take the idea that he wasn't the most notorious criminal mastermind as much as the world's neediest."
Sherlock changed the topic, "You killed a man with a pencil."
"A pencil was all I had."
"You were there to break out the second prisoner?" Sherlock asked. "Is that why you killed the guards?"
"I only killed the one guard. I imagine Moran took out the others for failing him."
Sherlock adjusted his deductions. It was clear to him that the containment center set up in that building was made to give the prisoner the impression that they were completely expendable. If Sebastian Moran pretended that he was held captive, he could've used the situation to extract information from a second captive. This would give him the upper hand in forming a survival bond.
"You didn't answer my question."
"Yes, I wanted the second prisoner. But I was too late."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning Riley Wendell had already served her purpose. Leverage against her husband and information."
"According to my brother, you've caused quite a few problems lately. Clearing my name being the least of them. Revealing some very embarrassing organized crime patterns involving law enforcement. Uncovering conspiracies. Freeing patsies. Apparently killing people with writing utensils. Under different circumstances, I might even be mildly impressed."
"Sebastian Moran is in London and looking for you. Should he be unable to find you, what do you think he'd do?"
"He'd probably do something foolish to draw me out."
"A sloppy kidnapping in Edinburgh. Seems foolish enough to me. I recommend you find him."
"And why's that?"
"He knows you're alive. So the next thing he'll take is leverage, if he can find any."
Sherlock didn't bat an eyelash at that. "You want to find Sebastian Moran?"
"I'd like him to be dead. Making him dead is not a personal goal."
"It just so happens that his bloodhound, Gregory Wendell, caught up with me. I put a tracker on him before we said our goodbyes. Care to join me?"
"So you can make deductions about me?" she asked. "Why is it you care so much?"
"Care is a strong word," Sherlock replied. "But in the past three weeks you've given my brother more than his fair share of headaches. Normally that is my doing. So whatever else you're up to, I confess myself interested in your general demeanor."
"You mean you want to see if you can tell the different between what I'm putting on for you to deduce and the real facts from your deductions. Have you figured out if I'm right or left handed yet?" she asked shrewdly.
Sherlock wasn't certain about her. When he had last come into contact with her, she not only had different style and makeup products, but her posture was different. She had gestured more when she spoke. In many ways, she was like a serpent, shedding her skin into the next incarnation.
"My brother would be displeased to hear I'd worked alongside the Engineer," he said simply by way of invitation. "And according to my phone, Wendell has been stationary for over ten minutes. Care to see where he's settled?"
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Risorgimento
Primary Post: The Uncanny Valley - Series 3, Episode 3
Primary Post: Unfinished Business, or Series 3 (s03ff)
Title: The Uncanny Valley
Subtitle: A Little Inconvenience
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word Count: 3,200 - 3,300
Rating: R
Warnings: language, violence, kidnapping
The majority of the car ride was stuffy and silent. Molly seemed shaken over the whole affair, while Sherlock remained flabbergasted with John's excursion to South Derbyshire. John tried to explain, briefly, about his search for Indigo Kendall Berwyn and the subsequent trip, but Sherlock didn't respond. He sulked. Or perhaps he was deep in thought; John never could decipher between the two.
At some point, John fell asleep. He must have done, because the next thing he remembered, it was night, and Sherlock was coaxing him to get onto a helicopter. John dimly acknowledged that they were on a hospital helipad, but he was too tired to ask any questions.
"Sherlock," Molly began. "Where are we going?"
"We're going to the source. There is one man who started all this. I should've seen it. The brazen kidnapping, enough to rally the suspicions of Mycroft or myself... it was all a distraction. Wendell was sent after us because Moran knew I'd go straight to Edinburgh, where I thought it all started."
That woke John up.
"Sorry, you think this man knows you're alive?" John asked.
"It's entirely possible he knows or at least suspects. Ten years ago, I pointed the investigation towards Moran, but nothing came of it."
"Because there wasn't enough evidence?" Molly asked.
Sherlock shrugged. "Still, I marked him. It's not coincidence that the kidnapping happened in Edinburgh, where I first picked up his scent, as it were."
"Sherlock, if someone else thinks you're alive... that's not good, is it? Wasn't the whole point of faking your own death... wasn't there a point?" John asked, fumbling his words.
"Of course there was!" Sherlock replied. "Moran was groomed by Moriarty. He's connected to him but not part of the network I've been working to bring down."
"So if he knows you're alive, isn't the jig up?" John asked. "You'd have to stop being dead officially?"
Sherlock shook his head, but he made no reply. He looked out the window and drifted off into thought.
"You all right?" John asked Molly.
"Yeah."
"Must've been nice, to drop the man that attacked you."
"A little," Molly admitted. "But to be honest, I was in the loo, and when I heard his voice... I, uh... I... just sort of froze. For a long time."
"But not forever, and that's what counts."
"Is this what it's like?" she asked. "Working with Sherlock? Does it always feel so... never ending."
"Sometimes, yeah. But, though he might be a bit of a prat, don't forget we've got Sherlock Holmes on our side."
"Of course."
The belligerent sound of the helicopter filled the awkward silence.
Sally Donovan escorted Isabelle Hennessy into the securest room in the morgue.
"Is this the final report?" Isabelle asked as she picked up the medical examiner's file.
"As far as I know. According to forensics, this body bag was modified to include a tension-drawn razor wire, placed right across the neck. Once done, the wire receded back into this lining pocket to disguise the mechanism."
Isabelle flipped through the report, not entirely listening. But she replied, "The only way for that to happen would be for the wire to be cut after... the decapitation. I imagine the best way to hide such a thing would be to disappear the entire body bag. Swap it out for a replica, or just plain steal it."
Donovan shrugged. "Sure, but that didn't happen. One of the pathologists was attacked about a week later. It's possible that the attacker was here to steal the bag."
"Over a week later? The evidence was already processed."
"We just found this as of this morning."
Isabelle stopped. "So the person who examined the body, who did this report, didn't mention the wire at all?"
"He didn't see it. It was well hidden."
"Maybe he did see it," Isabelle suggested. "Maybe he cut the wire. Have you checked him out?"
"He's cleared to work here. No connections to organized crime. No red flags."
"He might not have had a choice," Isabelle replied. "That abduction I was looking into, that Cypress was investigating, one of the reasons it's been so hard to figure out is that a lot of the people involved were good people put in bad situations."
"Trust no one," Donovan said blandly. "I like that."
"Hold on, didn't your man Lestrade say something about him being poisoned first? Because I don't think that's what happened."
"Right then, enlighten me," Donovan replied.
"There's a cocktail of drugs in his system, a combination of antagonists to the noradrenergic system with d-tubocurarine, likely from curare. Combined with any thing that could cause a mild hypothermia, and you'd be well on your way to inducing cataplexy."
"Sorry, what?"
"Cataplexy. Loss of muscle tone. It happens naturally during REM sleep and in some disorders it occurs randomly throughout the day. In extreme cases, the person is conscious but can't move at all. In very extreme cases, it can be difficult to find any signs of life - respiration, pulse, anything."
"So, he faked his death? Or was trying to?"
"This isn't a scifi movie," Isabelle said. "The EMTs might not have been able to find anything, but if he came to this hospital, the equipment certainly would've."
"First you're saying someone at the morgue must've covered up the wire. Now you're telling me someone was here to help him fake his own death?"
"Could even be the same person," Isabelle said. "That makes sense, doesn't it? Transmigration."
"You think this final phase requires people to fake their deaths?" Donovan asked.
"That would explain the other missing bodies. They're not missing bodies. They're people who have all the paperwork to declare their former identities dead."
Donovan remembered reading the text from Lestrade's phone the previous day. Her stomach jolted.
"I'm as ready as I'll ever be," Isabelle said. "It's time for me to inspect the body."
"You sure about this?" Donovan asked automatically.
Isabelle nodded.
"John! Wake up!" Sherlock said loudly. "You need to escort Molly to the Yard."
John opened his eyes to find himself in yet another car. "Sorry, what are we doing?" he asked.
"I need to run down a lead, it'll take some time. You need to take Molly to Lestrade."
"What? Why?" Molly asked.
"Because you've been put at risk several times at my behest, and now we're flushing out Moran, you need to be protected," Sherlock said shortly. "Once Lestrade has Molly, meet me back at the flat."
"Don't I get a say in this?" Molly asked.
"No," Sherlock replied.
"And why not?"
"Because Mycroft didn't collect Wendell last night. He escaped, and he'll be particularly unhappy with you, Molly, since you've now bludgeoned him and stabbed him. I imagine you'll be a target."
"Hang on, you serious?" John asked, detecting actual concern for Molly beyond Sherlock's general demeanor.
"Yes. This is my stop," Sherlock replied.
He got out of the car and approached one of his homeless network contacts. John had already dialed Lestrade.
"You can't be serious," Molly said. "The man just kidnapped us both to Scotland on a whim, and now you're just, doing what he says?"
"You're right, he's off his rocker," John replied. "But Sherlock used my phone - which he said he didn't have - to text Lestrade a number of tips. If he's acted on any of them, Molly, we need to know."
"So you want me to pretend I need protection so I can get information?" Molly asked.
It hadn't occurred to John that the idea could be objectionable. "Basically. That all right?"
Molly didn't reply.
Sherlock approached Lindsey, one of his frequent contacts via the Homeless Network.
"Spare some change?" she asked.
"For what?"
"Cup of tea, of course," she replied.
Sherlock handed her a fifty-pound note. She didn't even blink.
"Let's not wait for the water to cool," Sherlock said quietly.
"Three blocks, take a right, and Max will be able to help you with that," she said. "Till I can get back to you."
Sherlock made short work of her instructions and found Max within the next ten minutes. Max was an older member of the Homeless Network, and she had experience with dodging organized crime. Part of that experience included knowing the haunts of certain groups or individuals.
"Hear you're looking for a pretty piece," said Max, her smile slightly crooked. "Trouble is, he hasn't been around much. But I think I got something for you."
"Lead the way," Sherlock said happily.
"Look, I know it's a little weird, and I'm sorry," John said. "Molly and I are coming to the Yard. I think we could be being followed or tracked, or at least Molly. Right? Thanks. Yes, we'll see you soon, Lestrade."
"That went well," Molly said, a quiet smile playing at her lips. It was the first time she looked like herself in days. The bruises on her face hadn't quite healed, but the smile brought back the old Molly Hooper.
"I'm glad you're here," John said to Molly.
A scream dragged their attention to the front of the car. Their driver was pulled out with a knife at his throat, and two masked individuals took the front seats. One of them pointed a gun squarely at John's chest.
"Sorry," the woman with the gun said as her cohort pulled away. "But we needed a little leverage. Your attendance is required at the house of Sebastian Moran."
Molly didn't bother hiding her shock or the flicker of recognition at the name.
"Lovely. Will Sherlock be joining us?" John asked.
"Never you mind. Pass me your phones, electronics, and weapons. And don't think I won't shoot you."
Donovan didn't even knock before she entered Lestrade's office.
"Donovan, how did you - " he began.
"Shut it," she replied, shutting the door behind her.
Normally Donovan kept a professional air about her, so her tone was particularly dire. Lestrade considered his words, but before he could think properly, she began to speak.
"So, according to Miss Isabelle Hennessy, the victim Cypress Hare had a cocktail in his system that suggested he attempted to fake his death with the help of someone at Saint Bart's. She also says that someone must've covered up the wire - probably the person who did the autopsy."
"All right, have we checked out whoever did the autopsy?" Lestrade asked.
"According to the paperwork, Molly Hooper."
"Is that right?"
"Can't be. She was with officers or when the autopsy was being done."
"She was scheduled to do the man's autopsy, wasn't she? Maybe someone just mixed up the paperwork."
Donovan shook her head. "I checked into it. That man went from the EMTs, to the ER, down to the morgue all in under three hours. He jumped the morgue line for no good reason. That's not something that just happened. Someone at Bart's must've been in on it. Someone who can cover their tracks." She changed gears and continued, "Funny thing. Hennessy thinks that Transmigration requires the criminals to fake their own deaths. Start a new life. All those missing bodies? Not missing."
"Seriously?"
"I say funny because John Watson texted you something about that the other day, didn't he? About the bodies being alive and working together."
Lestrade nodded. "Yeah, you read that out loud and laughed, as I recall."
"Is Sherlock Holmes alive?" Donovan asked bluntly.
"No, I don't think he is."
"You don't think? What does that mean?"
"It means I thought he was. I kept an eye on 221 B and John, looking for Sherlock."
"So you think he's alive?"
"After that mess out in Salcombe, yeah, I thought he might be!" Lestrade replied loudly. "But I've no proof, and if I tried to bring it up with anyone without proof, they'd just say I wanted him to be alive, wouldn't they?"
"So, as far as you know, Sherlock Holmes is dead. But John Watson has somehow absorbed his investigation and texting habits?"
"Something like that."
Donovan took a breath. "We need to figure out who at Bart's doctored the report. Chances are, that person also covered up the wire. Maybe even helped with the fake death."
"If this is some kind of conspiracy, why would they let him fake his own death, then kill him? Seems like it would attract too much attention."
"Unless they wanted to cast suspicion onto someone."
"Molly Hooper?"
"That'd be my guess," Donovan replied.
"She and John Watson are heading in now. I'll start looking at who could be the man at Bart's. But I think we should bring in Bernard Thomas."
"Why's that? Another John Watson tip?"
"His name appears on the paperwork, doesn't it?" Lestrade hedged.
"Fine, I'll take a few and bring him in."
Max led Sherlock to a small cafe. Everyone looked away as they entered. A business of see no evil, report no evil.
"She's over there and waiting for you," Max said.
Sherlock replied. "You said this was about Sebastian Moran."
"Sure is."
Max left quickly, leaving Sherlock only a minute to make up his mind. He joined the young woman at her table. She had heavy shades on, so it was difficult to see much of her face. He had to sit down before he knew who she was.
"Elena Wilhelm-Glass," he said.
"I think that was the name I used when we met the last time," the woman replied.
"Not yours, I take it."
"No. You recognized the - "
"Old Spice, Swagger. Yes," he replied before she could say it. "What should I call you?"
"Elena is just as good a name as any."
"You keep turning up in my investigations, Elena. Care to explain?"
"You've got it backwards, boy," she said. There was a particular way that she said boy, like the whole thing was a habitual phrase regardless of who she was speaking to. "You keep turning up in my investigations."
Sherlock made short work of what he could see. She had mild bruises up her arm and scrapes on her hands, although they seemed to have rubbing injuries over them, like someone who worked with their hands after a bar fight. She was relaxed, and the only remarkable thing ordinary people would likely collect from her was the men's deodorant. When Sherlock had last met her, her hair and makeup were different, down to products, even. Her posture was stronger someone, as if previously she had been putting on a stooped posture. She used her right hand to handle pens, easily seen by the bump along her ring finger, but her left hand had signs of use, too. Perhaps she pretended to be left-handed from time to time? That seemed unlikely.
"Your investigations?" Sherlock repeated. "So you're a detective, too?"
"This is disappointing. I thought you'd be more interested in Sebastian Moran. It's pure dumb luck that Lestrade managed to find Hennessy before Moran did."
"Don't you mean Kendall?"
"Does it matter?"
"According to John Watson, you knew about her new identity, where she was. You coordinated it all. Yet you said she was dead and buried somewhere in Salcombe."
"I also said you were due a little inconvenience."
"That's hardly a reason."
"Isn't it?" she asked. "Had I known you were still alive, I'd've never come to London. I put a lot on the line, as revealed to me quite recently by Sebastian Moran."
"What's your interest in him?"
"You got that backwards, too," she replied. "Sure I put Kendall out in South Derbyshire to root around for him, but that's just because I wanted him exposed."
"So you knew all about his criminal ring? Over a decade of murder, kidnapping, and forgeries, and you couldn't be bothered with it?" he asked. "Who are you?"
"Right now, I'm not the problem. Moran is. Moriarty was important to him. He's interested in ruining the people who killed him. Or put a dent in his ego."
"Moriarty killed himself."
"That doesn't matter to Moran," she replied.
"So he's after me because I'm the reason he's dead. Why is he after you?"
"Because I'm the reason he decided to go on the war path to begin with. He couldn't take the idea that he wasn't the most notorious criminal mastermind as much as the world's neediest."
Sherlock changed the topic, "You killed a man with a pencil."
"A pencil was all I had."
"You were there to break out the second prisoner?" Sherlock asked. "Is that why you killed the guards?"
"I only killed the one guard. I imagine Moran took out the others for failing him."
Sherlock adjusted his deductions. It was clear to him that the containment center set up in that building was made to give the prisoner the impression that they were completely expendable. If Sebastian Moran pretended that he was held captive, he could've used the situation to extract information from a second captive. This would give him the upper hand in forming a survival bond.
"You didn't answer my question."
"Yes, I wanted the second prisoner. But I was too late."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning Riley Wendell had already served her purpose. Leverage against her husband and information."
"According to my brother, you've caused quite a few problems lately. Clearing my name being the least of them. Revealing some very embarrassing organized crime patterns involving law enforcement. Uncovering conspiracies. Freeing patsies. Apparently killing people with writing utensils. Under different circumstances, I might even be mildly impressed."
"Sebastian Moran is in London and looking for you. Should he be unable to find you, what do you think he'd do?"
"He'd probably do something foolish to draw me out."
"A sloppy kidnapping in Edinburgh. Seems foolish enough to me. I recommend you find him."
"And why's that?"
"He knows you're alive. So the next thing he'll take is leverage, if he can find any."
Sherlock didn't bat an eyelash at that. "You want to find Sebastian Moran?"
"I'd like him to be dead. Making him dead is not a personal goal."
"It just so happens that his bloodhound, Gregory Wendell, caught up with me. I put a tracker on him before we said our goodbyes. Care to join me?"
"So you can make deductions about me?" she asked. "Why is it you care so much?"
"Care is a strong word," Sherlock replied. "But in the past three weeks you've given my brother more than his fair share of headaches. Normally that is my doing. So whatever else you're up to, I confess myself interested in your general demeanor."
"You mean you want to see if you can tell the different between what I'm putting on for you to deduce and the real facts from your deductions. Have you figured out if I'm right or left handed yet?" she asked shrewdly.
Sherlock wasn't certain about her. When he had last come into contact with her, she not only had different style and makeup products, but her posture was different. She had gestured more when she spoke. In many ways, she was like a serpent, shedding her skin into the next incarnation.
"My brother would be displeased to hear I'd worked alongside the Engineer," he said simply by way of invitation. "And according to my phone, Wendell has been stationary for over ten minutes. Care to see where he's settled?"
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Risorgimento
Primary Post: The Uncanny Valley - Series 3, Episode 3
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