S3E4 - Four Elizabeths - Part Five: Wounds
Episode number: s03e04 of Series 3: Unfinished Business
Title: Four Elizabeths
Subtitle: Wounds
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word count: 4,758
Rating: R
Warnings: violence, language, deception
Molly Hooper had broken Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock said something about The Engineer being murdered when she was three. His next few sentences were spoken too quickly. All she heard was 'outliers,' 'spy craft,' and 'Mycroft'; thereafter, he diminished into incomprehensible muttering with sudden bursts of shouting. She couldn't hear a proper word of any of it. Then he fell silent.
It was the silence that was getting to her.
As he paced back and forth, she could still see it in his eyes, his wheels ferociously turning.
"She makes a lot of trouble for a dead person," Molly whispered to John.
"Almost as much as Sherlock."
"What are you reading?"
"Take a look," he said, pushing a few pages across the table to her. "When I tried to show this to Sherlock earlier, he yelled at me, but after what he said about - "
"This is The Baker," Molly interrupted.
"What? No, it's not."
"Isn't that why you thought it was important?"
"No, no, I - where do you see The Baker?"
"Autopsy report on two bodies, total of thirteen bullets," she replied.
"Bullets? For the little girl who called the police to report her own murder?"
"Maybe the papers are mixed up or something. This report is for two people, husband and wife by the looks of it, no child mentioned... what do you reckon?" she asked as she laid out the autopsy diagrams. "Mindy and Gerald Cassidy."
"Hang on, these're Americans, aren't they? The case - called the Ghost Caller Case - or at least the bit I read, took place in America, and it was about a little girl, not two adults. Here it is."
He produced another stack of papers that had come loose from the original folder, but Molly was too ingrained in her own reading.
"Thing is, I read Interpol's profile on The Baker, and I don't remember anything about him traveling to America. He was only ever active in Europe and Africa," John said. "No mention of The Baker in the file, either. Before his time, do you think?"
"The Baker's first known hit was in 1978," Sherlock said, abruptly entering the conversation. "The second in 1984 but not identified as such until 1998 when two more victims were discovered and thus a pattern identified. Given the time frame between known victims, it's probable that other victims exist but have not yet been attributed to him."
Molly exhaled in relief. It had been nearly four hours since Sherlock had completed a sentence or acknowledged that they were in the room. His sudden return to brisk annoyance proved that she hadn't broken him after all.
"Man shot six times, woman seven times. The last two shots were post-mortem," Sherlock read aloud. "Why didn't you mention this before?"
"Why? Why? Oh, I dunno Sherlock," John said. "I did show you this case, and you told me I was being idiotic!"
Sherlock ignored him. "Where's the rest of this file? It's missing the name of the child, and yes, a child was involved, it's the only possible explanation!"
"Err, explanation of what, exactly?" Molly asked.
"The last two bullets!" Sherlock exclaimed. He took a moment before he began his latest detective concerto. "The Baker's shots are always perimortem. The Cassidys were hardly his first victims, so why did Mrs. Cassidy receive two shots postmortem? This killer's method requires obsessive planning. If he were hired to murder multiple targets, the order of elimination would be key to success. This translates to a simple formula: the higher threat of the victim, the more bullets allotted to ensure their demise. Both the Cassidys have been trained in some kind of martial art to a fairly high proficiency level, so both had the capacity to defend, fight, or run. Five bullets to Mrs. Cassidy, six to Mr. Cassidy. Why would someone so numerically focused neglect two bullets? He wouldn't. There was a third victim and whoever it must've been considered very low risk. A child, obviously, and almost certainly their child. For some reason, he failed on the third target. With an obsessive personality like his, he couldn't simply leave two shots unfired. He had to spend the two excess bullets, even though it was nearly an hour after his victims had died. Obviously The Baker and clearly a key case. Now, I'll ask again: where is the rest of this file?"
John asked, "How did you...? It doesn't say anything about martial arts - "
Molly interrupted him, "Gerald's sister, Lily, provided a witness statement about it, and there're many common indicators of martial arts training in both autopsies."
"Shannon Cassidy, age ten," Sherlock read out loud.
"The daughter of Mindy and Gerald?" John prompted.
"Don't be ridiculous, of course she's not," Sherlock replied. "Shannon Cassidy was her first false name."
"Hang on, no, you've lost me," John said.
"Amy McDonald," Molly corrected. "According to the Pileus file, her name was Amy McDonald."
"Who are we talking about?" John asked.
"The Engineer, obviously. Pileus records the investigation, but the names of everyone involved have been altered," Sherlock said. "I highly doubt every member of the McDonald family had the same initials and that not one of them had a middle name."
"So, where does that leave us, if our only record points to a false name?" Molly asked. "That just leaves us with Shannon Cassidy, doesn't it?"
"Ah, at least somebody is paying attention. As for the false name, I assume that my dear brother could have that sorted should he choose to answer his mobile."
After a few minutes of quiet, Sherlock added, "Something went wrong with one of The Baker's revolvers."
"He shot thirteen times," Molly replied. "Seems in order to me."
"But his usual hits have fallen into a rough pattern of six bullets from one revolver, seven from another. Obviously he has to reload one of them mid-kill, but this time he had to reload one gun three times. Eleven bullets fired from an unspecified revolver, possibly an FN Barracuda or Minebea, but only two from a confirmed Smith and Wesson revolver. Most probably an older Model 19, though the crime lab that tested the bullets failed to clarify the model. In any case, none of his later murders ever involved this revolver or any other model from Smith and Wesson, but all his previously known kills did. The only reason this would happen is if something went wrong with the weapon during this assassination. It failed, was damaged, or was lost, which makes this a very unusual case for The Baker."
Sherlock then began moving around the room, gathering materials.
"Sherlock, what're you doing?" John called after him.
"Isn't it obvious?"
Molly and John shared an incredulous look.
"You wishing he'd go back to muttering as much as I am?" John asked her.
Sherlock returned to pile his collection into a large box.
"Sherlock?" he asked.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" Sherlock snapped. He continued in his mocking voice, "It appears as if I'm moving papers into what appears to be squared cardboard."
"That's it, I'm leaving!" John blurted. "You can sod off!"
"John, wait!" Molly said.
"Molly's right, John, the car won't be here for at least another twenty minutes."
"You called a car? To go where?" John asked.
"The flat."
"The flat? You mean mine and Molly's flat?"
"Now you're just being tedious. I mean Baker Street, John."
"Baker Street?" Molly asked. "Is that a good idea? I mean, can you do that? Without people learning you're not dead?"
"He has done," John replied.
"No, we can't!" she said rather loudly. "I spoke with Lestrade after I called Mycroft. He had news, and it's not good."
"We already knew that, didn't we? A madman wants to find Sherlock and thinks the best way to do that through you and me."
"He escaped," she said.
"Why is it that you speak at length about dribble and absolute nonsense like your opinions or daily routine, yet when you are in possession of valuable information, you become terse to the point of obfuscation?" Sherlock asked. "Who escaped, and from where?"
"Moran. He broke out of prison."
"And you, what? Just didn't bother mentioning it?" John asked.
"That's...that is correct."
"Perfectly sensible," Sherlock said.
"Sorry, what?" John asked. "What?"
"Until quite recently Molly believed that the whole of our time would be spent in this facility focused on The Engineer. It was quite reasonable of her to delay the delivery of irrelevant information," he said with an odd expression. Was it satisfaction? Or perhaps pride? "On the other hand, providing me with this information at once would have been far more efficient. Finding The Engineer with a years-old homicide will be monotonous and time consuming. It will be much easier to use more recent crimes: the Decapitated Man, the Wendells, Sebastian Moran. Now that we know The Baker attempted to kill her when she was ten. The Baker is connected to Sebastian Moran; thus we can connect Moran and The Engineer."
"Well, then, back to Baker Street it is," Molly said to fill the billowing, awkward silence.
"On the plus side, crime is down," Donovan said. "Perfect time to clear out some paperwork."
"You're telling me that no one - not one informant - has come in with anything?" Lestrade asked. "Largest jailbreak from Woodhill, and we've got nothing?"
"Actually, that assessment isn't quite right," Anderson said from the door.
"Blimey, Philip! Don't you knock?" Lestrade barked.
"The door was open," Anderson replied.
"What do you have?" Donovan asked.
"I just finished going through the reports and results from the Waverly crime scene with the bust," Anderson said. "DNA, which I haven't run, and partial prints, enough for a match."
"Don't keep us waiting," Donovan said.
"Craig Ragland. Extensive criminal record with a current address here in London."
"Excellent work, Anderson!" Lestrade said. "I'll put out a warrant for his arrest."
"Oh, and one more thing," Anderson said. "I had someone track the inventory of the Wilder Shoppe to the bust's most recent owner, Pamela Leavitt. She and her brother handled some distant relative's estate and decided to sell it. Anthony Wilder had no idea that Pamela added about a dozen or so items she'd inherited from someone else."
"Why not just sell them?" Donovan asked. "If she inherited them before, she's already paid the tax."
"Can't be sure," Anderson replied. "But IT forensics dug up a name on the unwanted inheritance: Richard Brook."
"Richard Brook?" Lestrade repeated. "Please tell me you don't mean - "
"Moriarty," Anderson interrupted. "That's exactly who I mean. And it gets worse. The hacker who broke into the Wilder Shoppe, Hacksaw, he did a job covering it all up, trying to make it look like Brook's items were part of the Stanley estate. Leavitt's lawyer confirmed it, but he insists his clients weren't responsible."
"So the Burnsiders abducted Anthony to question him about a bust he sold to John Watson, which apparently belonged to Pamela Leavitt after Richard Brook, aka James Moriarty, died," Lestrade summarized. "And all of this coincides with the largest escape from Woodhill Prison."
"Technically, John didn't purchase the bust," Anderson corrected.
Donovan asked, "Leavitt... Where do I know that name from?"
"You probably don't. The brother's some bigwig out in Derbyshire," Anderson replied.
"Derbyshire?" Lestrade repeated. "Didn't we speak with his assistant or something like that over the not-dead murdered man at Saint Bart's?"
"The Decapitated Man," Anderson corrected. "John titled it, even if he didn't put it on his blog."
"So this bust is connected to James Moriarty and at least one kidnapping and one murder," Lestrade said.
"Add Sebastian Moran to that list," Donovan said with a frown on her face. "We know he's involved in the decapitation case somehow."
"So we find Craig Ragland, maybe we find Sebastian Moran?" Lestrade asked. "Better bring him in now. Oh, and put a call into protective custody. I need to arrange a meeting with Indigo Kendall Berwyn."
Saint Bart's seemed unnecessarily gloomy. Not that John ever expected the morgue to be a cheery place, but it usually wasn't so hostile. Granted, he was sitting in a room full of inconvenienced staff members, including the distraught Barry Thomas and Molly's traumatized assistant, Samuel Rountree.
Molly returned with a look on her face that was both sad and annoyed. John felt a twinge of guilt. He had been so frustrated with Sherlock these past few days that he refused to wear the camera and ear bud required to allow the consulting detective access to "real time data" as he called it. That left Molly to act as his surrogate.
She walked over to him and leaned in for a whisper. "He told me to tell you that you need to say you're off to the toilet and then wait outside the door. The first one out there leaving in a hurry should be stopped."
"You serious?" John asked.
Molly nodded. She turned to the room to get their attention. "I'm sorry to call you all in like this, but this is about Cypress Hare, or as a lot of you call him, the Decapitated Man."
He didn't bother excusing himself, and no one seemed to mind. As he shut the door, he heard Molly say, "What I need is... well, errr... to see your hands."
Someone followed him. He turned around to see Officer Stephen Davidson, part of the security detail Lestrade assigned.
"You okay?" Davidson asked.
"Yeah, fine, you don't need to babysit me."
Davidson backed away but didn't return to the room. John took a deep breath and willed his bad mood to pass.
Footsteps caught his attention. A man passed the room warily, not taking much notice of John or Davidson. There was something familiar to his face.
"You here for the meeting?" John asked.
"Just on my break," the man replied.
His voice and pace remained the same, which gave John the impression that he was telling the truth, but something was off. Did he answer the question too quickly? No. He had answered the question, but he hadn't spoken to anyone in particular. No eye contact, no thinking before speaking, just a knee-jerk denial.
"Sorry, do I know you?" John asked.
The man suddenly broke into a run. Instinctively, John started after him, and Davidson followed.
"Stop him!" John shouted to the guards as they passed through the halls. "That man there! Stop him!"
But confusion slowed everything down. The man was well-acquainted with Bart's, as he traversed the maze-like hallways with no trouble. John was already running out of breath when the man darted up the stairs to the medical floors.
"You can't be serious!" he huffed.
"Stop! Watson!" Davidson called.
"Call for backup! Just stop that man!" he replied before racing up the stairs himself.
He kept telling himself, 'One more flight, just one more flight!' to keep his energy up. He could still see the man's coat rippling behind him, just one flight ahead. The stitch in his side was growing, and he wasn't sure how many more stairs he could take -
CRASH! Shriek!
Just as John reached the top of the stairs, a door swung open abruptly, and he couldn't avoid it. He crashed and bounced toward the railing before hitting the ground. The two people who had thrown the door open mid-kiss screamed as they yanked the door shut.
John tried to stand, but a profound vertigo prevented him.
"Doctor Watson," Davidson said, breathless from the run. "Are you all right?"
"Go after him," John said. "Go on, go!"
But Davidson wouldn't budge.
John wasn't sure how long it all took. Davidson wouldn't take him to the emergency room because it was too public and too chaotic. He refused to get on a gurney, so an orderly brought him to the nearest doctor's lounge, where an oncologist did a preliminary exam to assess trauma.
"I told you, I'm fine. Just banged up is all," he repeated over and over again, until Davidson finally escorted him back to Molly's office.
"There you are," she said. "What happened?"
"I chased someone off - pretty sure he was on the list but didn't come in," John said. "He ran when I tried to talk to him, so I followed."
"He crashed into a door," Davidson added. "Wouldn't let anyone check him properly for concussions and the like."
"I'm a doctor. Molly's a doctor. Mrs. Hudson has those herbal soothers. I'm fine, really," John replied.
Davidson left the office, shaking his head.
"They've arrested Doctor Greenberg," she replied. "They got him trying to slip out one of the staff doors in the hospital."
"Was he the one I chased?"
"Must be, he was the only one who checked in but didn't come into the meeting."
"He checked in? Why would he do that if he didn't mean to go to the meeting?"
Molly smiled. "Honestly, he must've thought it was his lucky day. Greenberg was suspended along with the others pending the investigation. No privileges at all. The only way he was getting into Saint Bart's morgue was in his own body bag."
"He came in for access?" John asked. "To what?"
"While you were out, Davidson checked surveillance. He saw Greenberg take something from a closet into the medical waste area and throw it into the incinerator."
"Did they get it out?" John asked.
"They tried," she replied.
"That doesn't make any sense. If he managed to succeed in burning evidence, why'd he run when I tried to speak with him?"
"Dunno. I dunno what he burned or why, but now we've got pictures of his hands. Sherlock's certain he's the killer."
"But if he burned the evidence, what can we do?" John asked. "Whatever Sherlock sees in his hands won't likely prove anything to a jury."
"As he insists," Molly began, "putting him away wasn't the goal."
"It wasn't?" John asked. "What's the point of finding criminals then?"
Officer Lacey Honeycutt, the other member of their security team, entered the room.
"I could ask you the same thing," Honeycutt said. "Chasing after murderers when you're in protective custody. Something must be wrong in your head."
"Did they find anything on Doctor Greenberg?" Molly asked.
Honeycutt replied, "Not yet, but they took him in for questioning since he ditched the meeting. I asked Saint Bart's for his emergency contact, figuring I could do the guy a favor with a phone call."
"That's kind of you," Molly said.
"It would've done had the contact been alive," Honeycutt replied.
"His contact died?" John asked.
"Been dead four years now, a guy named Colonel Lysander Stark," Honeycutt replied. "His uncle or cousin or something like that."
"Four years?" Molly repeated. "Doctor Greenberg just started a few months ago. Why would he fill out his paperwork with a contact that's already dead?"
"Dunno, maybe he's just sentimental," Honeycutt said. "As for you two, the constable wants your statements before we bring you home."
The sudden thrill John had deflated. They were going to be here for a while.
Mycroft Holmes had always enjoyed his brother's company. Part of the reason was his intellect; there were few people who possessed his level of ability and even fewer who had the courage to use it. Without Sherlock, Mycroft would have become a complete recluse, handling his affairs via mobile or electronic mail to avoid the dull drivel of the common man. Somehow, his younger brother found nuggets of curiosity in people and made everything so... interesting.
But ever since his faux-death, Sherlock had been nothing but an entrenched boar, more stubborn and obsessive than ever. Nevertheless, Mycroft went to 221 B under the guise of tea with Mrs. Hudson, even though he had a strong suspicion that this particular brotherly chat would not go well.
"Oh, Mycroft, good to see you," Mrs. Hudson said as she led him into the kitchen. "He's set up in the basement. All the windows boarded up, so you might need a torch."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."
The torch turned out to be spot on. Sherlock had taken the liberty of pointing every light source at elaborate corkboards that filled the room. Apparently his younger brother had no need to see anything else.
"My, my, this is quite the... establishment," Mycroft commented.
CRACK!
It had happened so swiftly that Mycroft heard it before he felt it: a hard left hook across his jaw that knocked him into the wall.
"Ah, as expected," he said mildly as he returned to his feet. "I assumed you'd be upset."
"Upset?" Sherlock repeated. "For withholding vital information from me? For sending me off to review data in a warehouse so you could have time between lies? Do be specific here. What do you believe I'm 'upset' about, brother?"
"Don't tell me you're surprised."
"Hardly. Why wouldn't you protect a woman who nearly killed me on more than one occasion?"
"Don't be so dramatic. Besides, I'm not protecting her, I'm protecting you," Mycroft replied. "Your obsession isn't just unhealthy in the proverbial sense. There is a reason this woman has remained in the shadows for so long, and here comes Sherlock Holmes, without any consideration for the complexities around him, ready to shine a spotlight on The Engineer."
"Need I remind you that she chose me," Sherlock said. "She targeted me in no small part because of you. Meanwhile, you dole out half-truths and redacted files and send me around in circles, knowing that I can't use the Science of Deduction in this case! And for what? What is she, Mycroft? A lover? An asset? What?"
"Oh, please, a lover," Mycroft said with ample distain in his voice.
"Projects like Dollhouse and Pileus can only be set in motion by someone in your position, and your love of bureaucracy dictates that only certain scenarios qualify. Would you like me to deduct the likelihoods here? Because frankly I've had enough tedium for your sake."
"You do realize that Pileus was executed when I was twenty, before my career began, before I had an ear in such matters."
"Irrelevant."
"I know Pileus is related to a British asset, code name Driftwood. Although after the events of Pileus he disappeared for some time until he resurfaced under the mantel of The Architect."
"I need the names - the real names - for everyone in the Pileus files, including this Driftwood spy. And, of course, the murderer responsible, an odd fact to omit from an investigation."
"Not when the case is unsolved."
That captured Sherlock's attention.
Mycroft continued, "The killer was named as the Right Arm of the Ringleader of a criminal enterprise. The investigation failed to identify either party. That's why every name has a substitution. The case is still open."
"Government efficiency all over. Investigators fail to identify the culprits. Decades pass, and by then, no one can take on the investigation because everything documented is fabricated!"
"Yes, yes, that's rather the point, isn't it? Because the redactions are to prevent actions against assets and associations, not to solve cases. You must be superbly sleep-deprived, Sherlock."
"So you're hiding behind that ruse? I never thought you'd sink so low," Sherlock said.
"Now, now, it's no time to resort to name-calling. I have, how shall we say, set things in motion, but these things take time. And no amount of ad hominem arguments on your part will expedite that."
Sherlock abruptly changed the subject. "Doctor Brentin Greenberg," he said.
"One of Doctor Hooper's coworkers," Mycroft added.
"His listed emergency contact was Colonel Lysander Stark, likely because the man was his benefactor. Interesting man, Stark, with tangential links to Mortiarty and Moran. With all the data at that warehouse, Stark's name is oddly absent, save for his abduction, torture, and murder."
"His kidnapping shared similarities with some of The Engineer's known activities," Mycroft said. "But we never had reason to suspect she and Stark crossed paths, which makes her an unlikely candidate for his kidnapper."
"I am absolutely certain that they crossed paths, which means his abduction and six-month captivity were likely her doing."
"During his abduction, we have reason to believe she was in France, and, forgive me for pointing out the obvious, but the woman in question is prone to practical, even utilitarian, violence. Stark's captivity, as you've called it, included rather merciless torture for months on end."
"Did you suspect him in the Pileus murders? Of being the Right Arm that you mentioned?" Sherlock asked. "I've heard that slaughtering the entirety of a person's family can lead that person to excess violence, apparently it's one of those nasty byproducts of sentiment."
"We never had any reason to suspect Stark in the Pileus murder."
"Except now we know that Doctor Brentin Greenberg murdered the Decapitated Man," Sherlock said. "A man with no known criminal activity, who has never been suspected of any crime, kills a stranger in cold blood. His only criminal connection is Stark, and years after his death, Greenberg turns out to be in the employ of Sebastian Moran."
"Very astute."
"Mycroft!" Sherlock said loudly. "You must've considered the possibility that Stark was a part of a criminal organization and his possible role in Pileus."
"Yes to the former, and as for the latter, well, I didn't consider it until Doctor Hooper inquired about other projects similar to Dollhouse. His death makes confirmation difficult to say the least."
"Who did he work for?" Sherlock demanded.
"I've no idea. And, yes, that is the truth."
"I don't believe you."
"Then, by all means, believe your own deductions. Consider The Engineer's scenario."
Sherlock took a moment. "She seeks out the individual responsible for the death of her family."
Mycroft continued, "And let's assume, for simplicity's sake, that Stark was the hand that pulled the trigger."
"Somehow she managed to do what the whole of British intelligence could not," Sherlock said. "Typical. Then she kept and tortured the man so he'd give up his employer. Once he did, she disposed of him."
"Stark was murdered four years ago," Mycroft pointed out. "Seems an awfully long time for her to wait for revenge."
Silence fell as Sherlock considered the facts. If Stark failed to reveal who ordered her family murdered, then why wouldn't she continue to keep him? Torture may fail, but many other methods of extracting information existed. On the other hand, had she gotten a name or lead on the ringleader, why bother recruiting Sherlock to begin with?
He had been too aggravated with his brother to realize that Doctor Brentin Greenberg and Colonel Lysander Stark were both dead ends. That irritated Sherlock to no end.
"This woman has friends. No, no, she has connections," Sherlock said. "Not to mention your spy. What I need now is behavioral data, and for that I need associates, minions, devotees, anyone who knows her beyond a single alias. And don't tell me you haven't bothered with a list!"
"I assure you, there is one, but it is rather short, I'm afraid."
Lestrade waved Donovan in from the bullpen while he finished with the CO19 unit request. He hung up just before she got into his office.
"Sorry, we haven't gotten Ragland yet," she said.
"We just got a tip. Moran was sighted at an abandoned warehouse in London six minutes ago."
"How's this different from the hundred other places Moran was spotted at?"
"Because the tip came in a little after reports of shots fired in the same area. I've already called an Armed Response Unit in," he replied. "What about you? You have your coat?"
Donovan smiled, "Let's go then, boss."
They drove to the warehouse and waited for the CO19 unit to sweep the area. It felt like a short eternity.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" an officer said. "Constable Evans. We're sweeping again just in case, but so far, no people and no bodies, but you should get forensics down here."
Evans then returned to his commanding officer.
"You reckon we should take a peek? For the sake of due diligence?" Donovan suggested.
Lestrade nodded. With the wave of a hand, armed coppers flanked them and followed them into the warehouse.
"Blimey," Lestrade said.
"He said no bodies, didn't he?" Donovan asked.
Her question wasn't out of place. The smell of gunpowder and blood, of ash and iron, permeated the air. Blood spattered the walls and pooled on the ground. There were shoe impressions and drag marks. Whatever happened here was brutal and unexpected, and whoever did it took the bodies with them.
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Part Six: In Triplicate
Primary Post: Four Elizabeths - Series 3, Episode 4
Primary Post: Unfinished Business, or Series 3 (s03ff)
Title: Four Elizabeths
Subtitle: Wounds
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word count: 4,758
Rating: R
Warnings: violence, language, deception
Molly Hooper had broken Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock said something about The Engineer being murdered when she was three. His next few sentences were spoken too quickly. All she heard was 'outliers,' 'spy craft,' and 'Mycroft'; thereafter, he diminished into incomprehensible muttering with sudden bursts of shouting. She couldn't hear a proper word of any of it. Then he fell silent.
It was the silence that was getting to her.
As he paced back and forth, she could still see it in his eyes, his wheels ferociously turning.
"She makes a lot of trouble for a dead person," Molly whispered to John.
"Almost as much as Sherlock."
"What are you reading?"
"Take a look," he said, pushing a few pages across the table to her. "When I tried to show this to Sherlock earlier, he yelled at me, but after what he said about - "
"This is The Baker," Molly interrupted.
"What? No, it's not."
"Isn't that why you thought it was important?"
"No, no, I - where do you see The Baker?"
"Autopsy report on two bodies, total of thirteen bullets," she replied.
"Bullets? For the little girl who called the police to report her own murder?"
"Maybe the papers are mixed up or something. This report is for two people, husband and wife by the looks of it, no child mentioned... what do you reckon?" she asked as she laid out the autopsy diagrams. "Mindy and Gerald Cassidy."
"Hang on, these're Americans, aren't they? The case - called the Ghost Caller Case - or at least the bit I read, took place in America, and it was about a little girl, not two adults. Here it is."
He produced another stack of papers that had come loose from the original folder, but Molly was too ingrained in her own reading.
"Thing is, I read Interpol's profile on The Baker, and I don't remember anything about him traveling to America. He was only ever active in Europe and Africa," John said. "No mention of The Baker in the file, either. Before his time, do you think?"
"The Baker's first known hit was in 1978," Sherlock said, abruptly entering the conversation. "The second in 1984 but not identified as such until 1998 when two more victims were discovered and thus a pattern identified. Given the time frame between known victims, it's probable that other victims exist but have not yet been attributed to him."
Molly exhaled in relief. It had been nearly four hours since Sherlock had completed a sentence or acknowledged that they were in the room. His sudden return to brisk annoyance proved that she hadn't broken him after all.
"Man shot six times, woman seven times. The last two shots were post-mortem," Sherlock read aloud. "Why didn't you mention this before?"
"Why? Why? Oh, I dunno Sherlock," John said. "I did show you this case, and you told me I was being idiotic!"
Sherlock ignored him. "Where's the rest of this file? It's missing the name of the child, and yes, a child was involved, it's the only possible explanation!"
"Err, explanation of what, exactly?" Molly asked.
"The last two bullets!" Sherlock exclaimed. He took a moment before he began his latest detective concerto. "The Baker's shots are always perimortem. The Cassidys were hardly his first victims, so why did Mrs. Cassidy receive two shots postmortem? This killer's method requires obsessive planning. If he were hired to murder multiple targets, the order of elimination would be key to success. This translates to a simple formula: the higher threat of the victim, the more bullets allotted to ensure their demise. Both the Cassidys have been trained in some kind of martial art to a fairly high proficiency level, so both had the capacity to defend, fight, or run. Five bullets to Mrs. Cassidy, six to Mr. Cassidy. Why would someone so numerically focused neglect two bullets? He wouldn't. There was a third victim and whoever it must've been considered very low risk. A child, obviously, and almost certainly their child. For some reason, he failed on the third target. With an obsessive personality like his, he couldn't simply leave two shots unfired. He had to spend the two excess bullets, even though it was nearly an hour after his victims had died. Obviously The Baker and clearly a key case. Now, I'll ask again: where is the rest of this file?"
John asked, "How did you...? It doesn't say anything about martial arts - "
Molly interrupted him, "Gerald's sister, Lily, provided a witness statement about it, and there're many common indicators of martial arts training in both autopsies."
"Shannon Cassidy, age ten," Sherlock read out loud.
"The daughter of Mindy and Gerald?" John prompted.
"Don't be ridiculous, of course she's not," Sherlock replied. "Shannon Cassidy was her first false name."
"Hang on, no, you've lost me," John said.
"Amy McDonald," Molly corrected. "According to the Pileus file, her name was Amy McDonald."
"Who are we talking about?" John asked.
"The Engineer, obviously. Pileus records the investigation, but the names of everyone involved have been altered," Sherlock said. "I highly doubt every member of the McDonald family had the same initials and that not one of them had a middle name."
"So, where does that leave us, if our only record points to a false name?" Molly asked. "That just leaves us with Shannon Cassidy, doesn't it?"
"Ah, at least somebody is paying attention. As for the false name, I assume that my dear brother could have that sorted should he choose to answer his mobile."
After a few minutes of quiet, Sherlock added, "Something went wrong with one of The Baker's revolvers."
"He shot thirteen times," Molly replied. "Seems in order to me."
"But his usual hits have fallen into a rough pattern of six bullets from one revolver, seven from another. Obviously he has to reload one of them mid-kill, but this time he had to reload one gun three times. Eleven bullets fired from an unspecified revolver, possibly an FN Barracuda or Minebea, but only two from a confirmed Smith and Wesson revolver. Most probably an older Model 19, though the crime lab that tested the bullets failed to clarify the model. In any case, none of his later murders ever involved this revolver or any other model from Smith and Wesson, but all his previously known kills did. The only reason this would happen is if something went wrong with the weapon during this assassination. It failed, was damaged, or was lost, which makes this a very unusual case for The Baker."
Sherlock then began moving around the room, gathering materials.
"Sherlock, what're you doing?" John called after him.
"Isn't it obvious?"
Molly and John shared an incredulous look.
"You wishing he'd go back to muttering as much as I am?" John asked her.
Sherlock returned to pile his collection into a large box.
"Sherlock?" he asked.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" Sherlock snapped. He continued in his mocking voice, "It appears as if I'm moving papers into what appears to be squared cardboard."
"That's it, I'm leaving!" John blurted. "You can sod off!"
"John, wait!" Molly said.
"Molly's right, John, the car won't be here for at least another twenty minutes."
"You called a car? To go where?" John asked.
"The flat."
"The flat? You mean mine and Molly's flat?"
"Now you're just being tedious. I mean Baker Street, John."
"Baker Street?" Molly asked. "Is that a good idea? I mean, can you do that? Without people learning you're not dead?"
"He has done," John replied.
"No, we can't!" she said rather loudly. "I spoke with Lestrade after I called Mycroft. He had news, and it's not good."
"We already knew that, didn't we? A madman wants to find Sherlock and thinks the best way to do that through you and me."
"He escaped," she said.
"Why is it that you speak at length about dribble and absolute nonsense like your opinions or daily routine, yet when you are in possession of valuable information, you become terse to the point of obfuscation?" Sherlock asked. "Who escaped, and from where?"
"Moran. He broke out of prison."
"And you, what? Just didn't bother mentioning it?" John asked.
"That's...that is correct."
"Perfectly sensible," Sherlock said.
"Sorry, what?" John asked. "What?"
"Until quite recently Molly believed that the whole of our time would be spent in this facility focused on The Engineer. It was quite reasonable of her to delay the delivery of irrelevant information," he said with an odd expression. Was it satisfaction? Or perhaps pride? "On the other hand, providing me with this information at once would have been far more efficient. Finding The Engineer with a years-old homicide will be monotonous and time consuming. It will be much easier to use more recent crimes: the Decapitated Man, the Wendells, Sebastian Moran. Now that we know The Baker attempted to kill her when she was ten. The Baker is connected to Sebastian Moran; thus we can connect Moran and The Engineer."
"Well, then, back to Baker Street it is," Molly said to fill the billowing, awkward silence.
"On the plus side, crime is down," Donovan said. "Perfect time to clear out some paperwork."
"You're telling me that no one - not one informant - has come in with anything?" Lestrade asked. "Largest jailbreak from Woodhill, and we've got nothing?"
"Actually, that assessment isn't quite right," Anderson said from the door.
"Blimey, Philip! Don't you knock?" Lestrade barked.
"The door was open," Anderson replied.
"What do you have?" Donovan asked.
"I just finished going through the reports and results from the Waverly crime scene with the bust," Anderson said. "DNA, which I haven't run, and partial prints, enough for a match."
"Don't keep us waiting," Donovan said.
"Craig Ragland. Extensive criminal record with a current address here in London."
"Excellent work, Anderson!" Lestrade said. "I'll put out a warrant for his arrest."
"Oh, and one more thing," Anderson said. "I had someone track the inventory of the Wilder Shoppe to the bust's most recent owner, Pamela Leavitt. She and her brother handled some distant relative's estate and decided to sell it. Anthony Wilder had no idea that Pamela added about a dozen or so items she'd inherited from someone else."
"Why not just sell them?" Donovan asked. "If she inherited them before, she's already paid the tax."
"Can't be sure," Anderson replied. "But IT forensics dug up a name on the unwanted inheritance: Richard Brook."
"Richard Brook?" Lestrade repeated. "Please tell me you don't mean - "
"Moriarty," Anderson interrupted. "That's exactly who I mean. And it gets worse. The hacker who broke into the Wilder Shoppe, Hacksaw, he did a job covering it all up, trying to make it look like Brook's items were part of the Stanley estate. Leavitt's lawyer confirmed it, but he insists his clients weren't responsible."
"So the Burnsiders abducted Anthony to question him about a bust he sold to John Watson, which apparently belonged to Pamela Leavitt after Richard Brook, aka James Moriarty, died," Lestrade summarized. "And all of this coincides with the largest escape from Woodhill Prison."
"Technically, John didn't purchase the bust," Anderson corrected.
Donovan asked, "Leavitt... Where do I know that name from?"
"You probably don't. The brother's some bigwig out in Derbyshire," Anderson replied.
"Derbyshire?" Lestrade repeated. "Didn't we speak with his assistant or something like that over the not-dead murdered man at Saint Bart's?"
"The Decapitated Man," Anderson corrected. "John titled it, even if he didn't put it on his blog."
"So this bust is connected to James Moriarty and at least one kidnapping and one murder," Lestrade said.
"Add Sebastian Moran to that list," Donovan said with a frown on her face. "We know he's involved in the decapitation case somehow."
"So we find Craig Ragland, maybe we find Sebastian Moran?" Lestrade asked. "Better bring him in now. Oh, and put a call into protective custody. I need to arrange a meeting with Indigo Kendall Berwyn."
Saint Bart's seemed unnecessarily gloomy. Not that John ever expected the morgue to be a cheery place, but it usually wasn't so hostile. Granted, he was sitting in a room full of inconvenienced staff members, including the distraught Barry Thomas and Molly's traumatized assistant, Samuel Rountree.
Molly returned with a look on her face that was both sad and annoyed. John felt a twinge of guilt. He had been so frustrated with Sherlock these past few days that he refused to wear the camera and ear bud required to allow the consulting detective access to "real time data" as he called it. That left Molly to act as his surrogate.
She walked over to him and leaned in for a whisper. "He told me to tell you that you need to say you're off to the toilet and then wait outside the door. The first one out there leaving in a hurry should be stopped."
"You serious?" John asked.
Molly nodded. She turned to the room to get their attention. "I'm sorry to call you all in like this, but this is about Cypress Hare, or as a lot of you call him, the Decapitated Man."
He didn't bother excusing himself, and no one seemed to mind. As he shut the door, he heard Molly say, "What I need is... well, errr... to see your hands."
Someone followed him. He turned around to see Officer Stephen Davidson, part of the security detail Lestrade assigned.
"You okay?" Davidson asked.
"Yeah, fine, you don't need to babysit me."
Davidson backed away but didn't return to the room. John took a deep breath and willed his bad mood to pass.
Footsteps caught his attention. A man passed the room warily, not taking much notice of John or Davidson. There was something familiar to his face.
"You here for the meeting?" John asked.
"Just on my break," the man replied.
His voice and pace remained the same, which gave John the impression that he was telling the truth, but something was off. Did he answer the question too quickly? No. He had answered the question, but he hadn't spoken to anyone in particular. No eye contact, no thinking before speaking, just a knee-jerk denial.
"Sorry, do I know you?" John asked.
The man suddenly broke into a run. Instinctively, John started after him, and Davidson followed.
"Stop him!" John shouted to the guards as they passed through the halls. "That man there! Stop him!"
But confusion slowed everything down. The man was well-acquainted with Bart's, as he traversed the maze-like hallways with no trouble. John was already running out of breath when the man darted up the stairs to the medical floors.
"You can't be serious!" he huffed.
"Stop! Watson!" Davidson called.
"Call for backup! Just stop that man!" he replied before racing up the stairs himself.
He kept telling himself, 'One more flight, just one more flight!' to keep his energy up. He could still see the man's coat rippling behind him, just one flight ahead. The stitch in his side was growing, and he wasn't sure how many more stairs he could take -
CRASH! Shriek!
Just as John reached the top of the stairs, a door swung open abruptly, and he couldn't avoid it. He crashed and bounced toward the railing before hitting the ground. The two people who had thrown the door open mid-kiss screamed as they yanked the door shut.
John tried to stand, but a profound vertigo prevented him.
"Doctor Watson," Davidson said, breathless from the run. "Are you all right?"
"Go after him," John said. "Go on, go!"
But Davidson wouldn't budge.
John wasn't sure how long it all took. Davidson wouldn't take him to the emergency room because it was too public and too chaotic. He refused to get on a gurney, so an orderly brought him to the nearest doctor's lounge, where an oncologist did a preliminary exam to assess trauma.
"I told you, I'm fine. Just banged up is all," he repeated over and over again, until Davidson finally escorted him back to Molly's office.
"There you are," she said. "What happened?"
"I chased someone off - pretty sure he was on the list but didn't come in," John said. "He ran when I tried to talk to him, so I followed."
"He crashed into a door," Davidson added. "Wouldn't let anyone check him properly for concussions and the like."
"I'm a doctor. Molly's a doctor. Mrs. Hudson has those herbal soothers. I'm fine, really," John replied.
Davidson left the office, shaking his head.
"They've arrested Doctor Greenberg," she replied. "They got him trying to slip out one of the staff doors in the hospital."
"Was he the one I chased?"
"Must be, he was the only one who checked in but didn't come into the meeting."
"He checked in? Why would he do that if he didn't mean to go to the meeting?"
Molly smiled. "Honestly, he must've thought it was his lucky day. Greenberg was suspended along with the others pending the investigation. No privileges at all. The only way he was getting into Saint Bart's morgue was in his own body bag."
"He came in for access?" John asked. "To what?"
"While you were out, Davidson checked surveillance. He saw Greenberg take something from a closet into the medical waste area and throw it into the incinerator."
"Did they get it out?" John asked.
"They tried," she replied.
"That doesn't make any sense. If he managed to succeed in burning evidence, why'd he run when I tried to speak with him?"
"Dunno. I dunno what he burned or why, but now we've got pictures of his hands. Sherlock's certain he's the killer."
"But if he burned the evidence, what can we do?" John asked. "Whatever Sherlock sees in his hands won't likely prove anything to a jury."
"As he insists," Molly began, "putting him away wasn't the goal."
"It wasn't?" John asked. "What's the point of finding criminals then?"
Officer Lacey Honeycutt, the other member of their security team, entered the room.
"I could ask you the same thing," Honeycutt said. "Chasing after murderers when you're in protective custody. Something must be wrong in your head."
"Did they find anything on Doctor Greenberg?" Molly asked.
Honeycutt replied, "Not yet, but they took him in for questioning since he ditched the meeting. I asked Saint Bart's for his emergency contact, figuring I could do the guy a favor with a phone call."
"That's kind of you," Molly said.
"It would've done had the contact been alive," Honeycutt replied.
"His contact died?" John asked.
"Been dead four years now, a guy named Colonel Lysander Stark," Honeycutt replied. "His uncle or cousin or something like that."
"Four years?" Molly repeated. "Doctor Greenberg just started a few months ago. Why would he fill out his paperwork with a contact that's already dead?"
"Dunno, maybe he's just sentimental," Honeycutt said. "As for you two, the constable wants your statements before we bring you home."
The sudden thrill John had deflated. They were going to be here for a while.
Mycroft Holmes had always enjoyed his brother's company. Part of the reason was his intellect; there were few people who possessed his level of ability and even fewer who had the courage to use it. Without Sherlock, Mycroft would have become a complete recluse, handling his affairs via mobile or electronic mail to avoid the dull drivel of the common man. Somehow, his younger brother found nuggets of curiosity in people and made everything so... interesting.
But ever since his faux-death, Sherlock had been nothing but an entrenched boar, more stubborn and obsessive than ever. Nevertheless, Mycroft went to 221 B under the guise of tea with Mrs. Hudson, even though he had a strong suspicion that this particular brotherly chat would not go well.
"Oh, Mycroft, good to see you," Mrs. Hudson said as she led him into the kitchen. "He's set up in the basement. All the windows boarded up, so you might need a torch."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."
The torch turned out to be spot on. Sherlock had taken the liberty of pointing every light source at elaborate corkboards that filled the room. Apparently his younger brother had no need to see anything else.
"My, my, this is quite the... establishment," Mycroft commented.
CRACK!
It had happened so swiftly that Mycroft heard it before he felt it: a hard left hook across his jaw that knocked him into the wall.
"Ah, as expected," he said mildly as he returned to his feet. "I assumed you'd be upset."
"Upset?" Sherlock repeated. "For withholding vital information from me? For sending me off to review data in a warehouse so you could have time between lies? Do be specific here. What do you believe I'm 'upset' about, brother?"
"Don't tell me you're surprised."
"Hardly. Why wouldn't you protect a woman who nearly killed me on more than one occasion?"
"Don't be so dramatic. Besides, I'm not protecting her, I'm protecting you," Mycroft replied. "Your obsession isn't just unhealthy in the proverbial sense. There is a reason this woman has remained in the shadows for so long, and here comes Sherlock Holmes, without any consideration for the complexities around him, ready to shine a spotlight on The Engineer."
"Need I remind you that she chose me," Sherlock said. "She targeted me in no small part because of you. Meanwhile, you dole out half-truths and redacted files and send me around in circles, knowing that I can't use the Science of Deduction in this case! And for what? What is she, Mycroft? A lover? An asset? What?"
"Oh, please, a lover," Mycroft said with ample distain in his voice.
"Projects like Dollhouse and Pileus can only be set in motion by someone in your position, and your love of bureaucracy dictates that only certain scenarios qualify. Would you like me to deduct the likelihoods here? Because frankly I've had enough tedium for your sake."
"You do realize that Pileus was executed when I was twenty, before my career began, before I had an ear in such matters."
"Irrelevant."
"I know Pileus is related to a British asset, code name Driftwood. Although after the events of Pileus he disappeared for some time until he resurfaced under the mantel of The Architect."
"I need the names - the real names - for everyone in the Pileus files, including this Driftwood spy. And, of course, the murderer responsible, an odd fact to omit from an investigation."
"Not when the case is unsolved."
That captured Sherlock's attention.
Mycroft continued, "The killer was named as the Right Arm of the Ringleader of a criminal enterprise. The investigation failed to identify either party. That's why every name has a substitution. The case is still open."
"Government efficiency all over. Investigators fail to identify the culprits. Decades pass, and by then, no one can take on the investigation because everything documented is fabricated!"
"Yes, yes, that's rather the point, isn't it? Because the redactions are to prevent actions against assets and associations, not to solve cases. You must be superbly sleep-deprived, Sherlock."
"So you're hiding behind that ruse? I never thought you'd sink so low," Sherlock said.
"Now, now, it's no time to resort to name-calling. I have, how shall we say, set things in motion, but these things take time. And no amount of ad hominem arguments on your part will expedite that."
Sherlock abruptly changed the subject. "Doctor Brentin Greenberg," he said.
"One of Doctor Hooper's coworkers," Mycroft added.
"His listed emergency contact was Colonel Lysander Stark, likely because the man was his benefactor. Interesting man, Stark, with tangential links to Mortiarty and Moran. With all the data at that warehouse, Stark's name is oddly absent, save for his abduction, torture, and murder."
"His kidnapping shared similarities with some of The Engineer's known activities," Mycroft said. "But we never had reason to suspect she and Stark crossed paths, which makes her an unlikely candidate for his kidnapper."
"I am absolutely certain that they crossed paths, which means his abduction and six-month captivity were likely her doing."
"During his abduction, we have reason to believe she was in France, and, forgive me for pointing out the obvious, but the woman in question is prone to practical, even utilitarian, violence. Stark's captivity, as you've called it, included rather merciless torture for months on end."
"Did you suspect him in the Pileus murders? Of being the Right Arm that you mentioned?" Sherlock asked. "I've heard that slaughtering the entirety of a person's family can lead that person to excess violence, apparently it's one of those nasty byproducts of sentiment."
"We never had any reason to suspect Stark in the Pileus murder."
"Except now we know that Doctor Brentin Greenberg murdered the Decapitated Man," Sherlock said. "A man with no known criminal activity, who has never been suspected of any crime, kills a stranger in cold blood. His only criminal connection is Stark, and years after his death, Greenberg turns out to be in the employ of Sebastian Moran."
"Very astute."
"Mycroft!" Sherlock said loudly. "You must've considered the possibility that Stark was a part of a criminal organization and his possible role in Pileus."
"Yes to the former, and as for the latter, well, I didn't consider it until Doctor Hooper inquired about other projects similar to Dollhouse. His death makes confirmation difficult to say the least."
"Who did he work for?" Sherlock demanded.
"I've no idea. And, yes, that is the truth."
"I don't believe you."
"Then, by all means, believe your own deductions. Consider The Engineer's scenario."
Sherlock took a moment. "She seeks out the individual responsible for the death of her family."
Mycroft continued, "And let's assume, for simplicity's sake, that Stark was the hand that pulled the trigger."
"Somehow she managed to do what the whole of British intelligence could not," Sherlock said. "Typical. Then she kept and tortured the man so he'd give up his employer. Once he did, she disposed of him."
"Stark was murdered four years ago," Mycroft pointed out. "Seems an awfully long time for her to wait for revenge."
Silence fell as Sherlock considered the facts. If Stark failed to reveal who ordered her family murdered, then why wouldn't she continue to keep him? Torture may fail, but many other methods of extracting information existed. On the other hand, had she gotten a name or lead on the ringleader, why bother recruiting Sherlock to begin with?
He had been too aggravated with his brother to realize that Doctor Brentin Greenberg and Colonel Lysander Stark were both dead ends. That irritated Sherlock to no end.
"This woman has friends. No, no, she has connections," Sherlock said. "Not to mention your spy. What I need now is behavioral data, and for that I need associates, minions, devotees, anyone who knows her beyond a single alias. And don't tell me you haven't bothered with a list!"
"I assure you, there is one, but it is rather short, I'm afraid."
Lestrade waved Donovan in from the bullpen while he finished with the CO19 unit request. He hung up just before she got into his office.
"Sorry, we haven't gotten Ragland yet," she said.
"We just got a tip. Moran was sighted at an abandoned warehouse in London six minutes ago."
"How's this different from the hundred other places Moran was spotted at?"
"Because the tip came in a little after reports of shots fired in the same area. I've already called an Armed Response Unit in," he replied. "What about you? You have your coat?"
Donovan smiled, "Let's go then, boss."
They drove to the warehouse and waited for the CO19 unit to sweep the area. It felt like a short eternity.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" an officer said. "Constable Evans. We're sweeping again just in case, but so far, no people and no bodies, but you should get forensics down here."
Evans then returned to his commanding officer.
"You reckon we should take a peek? For the sake of due diligence?" Donovan suggested.
Lestrade nodded. With the wave of a hand, armed coppers flanked them and followed them into the warehouse.
"Blimey," Lestrade said.
"He said no bodies, didn't he?" Donovan asked.
Her question wasn't out of place. The smell of gunpowder and blood, of ash and iron, permeated the air. Blood spattered the walls and pooled on the ground. There were shoe impressions and drag marks. Whatever happened here was brutal and unexpected, and whoever did it took the bodies with them.
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