S3E4 - Four Elizabeths - Part Six: In Triplicate
Episode number: s03e04 of Series 3: Unfinished Business
Title: Four Elizabeths
Subtitle: In Triplicate
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word count: 4,020
Rating: R
Warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, graphic descriptions of forensic science, language, theft
"Where the hell is Anderson?" Lestrade demanded.
Donovan replied, "He'll be here when he's here. And if you don't mind, I've some information. They've identified some of the bloody fingerprints found on the scene: Sebastian Moran, Craig Ragland, and Duncan Ross. Other prints were lifted from around the warehouse could've been here for weeks or a few hours, hard to tell."
Finally, Anderson approached them.
"Tell me you have something," Lestrade said.
Anderson replied, "Nothing official, but Donovan convinced me that a preliminary walkthrough would be helpful. Follow me."
Donovan and Lestrade donned plastic booties, shower caps, and gloves before Anderson led them inside the warehouse to a blood-covered wall.
"See that window there?" he said. "If you take a peek outside, there's a bit of a lip that someone used as a perch. Probably in dark clothing. At night, nobody would've caught sight of him unless they pointed a torch right at him. Found scuffmarks out there but no prints. Must've been wearing gloves."
"So we have a witness but no way to find him?" Donovan asked.
"I don't think he's a witness. See the string?" Anderson asked, indicating a suspended string that ran from the window to a beam rafter, then down to the floor. "This is the trajectory of some kind of projectile, possibly from a zip-gun, silenced weapon, or hell, even a slingshot. The assailant ricocheted steel ball bearings off that beam and into two separate victims."
Donovan asked, "What's with the bouncing?"
Anderson replied, "Again, my best guess, but if your mate was hit suddenly, you'd look in the direction it came from, so the ricochet concealed his location, at least initially. Everything we've got so far says these were the first shots fired. After that, complete chaos."
He motioned for them to follow. As they walked, he narrated. "We've got indications of stabbings and gunshot wounds here, there, everywhere. All I can tell you right now is that it involved a lot of people, and most of them were injured. And these footprints we're following? They lead us outside."
Several techs had to step back as Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson exited the back door of the warehouse.
"The victim was around here when he was shot. Blood spatter suggests that the assailant fired from the warehouse roof. Sorry, we haven't set up a line for that yet."
"Could this be the zip-gun/slingshot assailant?" Lestrade asked.
"Difficult to say, but no matter who or what hit the victim, these bloody shoeprints here and these drag marks along here? They lead to a big, car-sized nothing. The depth of the shoe impressions and drag marks suggests the victim was a large, heavy man. The shoeprints tell us it took two men to get him just this short distance. I'd say that Sebastian moan would be a likely candidate, but it'll be a day at least before we have DNA confirmation."
An officer approached and interrupted, "Excuse me, Detective Inspector Lestrade? I'm Flannelly, sir. We've got something for you on surveillance."
"Thank you Anderson," Lestrade said before he and Donovan followed the officer.
Flannelly led them to a public phone booth, talking as they went. "We're working on getting the surveillance footage transferred to the Yard, but I already caught a look at it. A person comes into this booth right around the time of the shooting, dials nine nine nine, leaves the phone off the hook, then puts this up there."
Lestrade and Donovan awkwardly squeezed together to look at whatever Flannelly was pointing to. There was a message written out along the wall:
DR? DR? DR. WHO?
Donovan said, "Whoever it was probably came from a nearby convention."
"Not a convention I'd attend," Flannelly said quietly. "One of the forensics guys took a swab of it, told me it's written in blood."
Lestrade nodded. "Listen, our first order of business is to figure out who this guy is. Second order is keeping his image to ourselves. We wanna keep him and his message under our has for now."
"His message?" Donovan asked.
"We need every PC and Bobby out there to tap every kind of off-the-grid medical service."
"We've already got people out doing that," she said.
"Not just the black market or back alley surgeons. Moran has money, so any doctors with a dodgy history or a private facility could be involved. Doctors that cater to anyone who demands absolute privacy, politicians and media stars and whatnot, would have the means as well. This guy is trying to warn us."
"You think this guy's trying to help us? Why not just tell the responder that answered his nine nine nine call?"
"Dunno. Maybe he was injured, couldn't speak? Or maybe he was afraid someone would hear him or recognize his voice from the recording? We'll ask him when we find him, but right now, it's important no one else knows about him. I don't want Moran getting to him first."
John and Molly had made an unorthodox pit stop, and their security detail didn't like it.
"Follow my instructions precisely," Sherlock said through the ear buds. "You will have less than seven minutes. No mindless prattle. The Homeless Network will soon provide those officers with a diversion. Don't squander it."
Sure enough, a verbal altercation escalated to a knuckle brawl just moments later. The ruckus attracted quite a lot of attention, and a crowd moved in, pushing and shoving. Honeycutt called the fight in while Davidson attempted to steer Molly and John back to the car, but the swarm of people moved like a tidal wave.
Molly and John split and walked quickly so as not to attract attention. It took them two minutes to reach the British Library, leaving their protective detail in the throng of spectators.
"Proceed immediately to the Rare Books and Music section," Sherlock instructed. "One of you will have to distract the attendant. Molly is probably better suited."
"Oi, what does that mean?" John asked.
The attendant was a man in his thirties with olive skin. He smiled at Molly, but his light green eyes lit up when John approached.
"Ah, sorry Molly. It appears John's flirtations will be better received," Sherlock said
John couldn't wait until Sherlock was legally alive again; then he'd be physically present during investigations and therefore within punching distance.
"I'm Doctor John Watson," John said warmly.
"A doctor? Is that a PhD or MD?"
"MD."
"Well, I'm Edward Riley-Tailor, very pleased to meet you."
For the next three minutes, John actively ignored Sherlock's stream of instructions to Molly and continued to chat up the young Edward Riley-Tailor. They spoke about education mostly, and just as they began discussing medical clinics, Molly tapped John on the shoulder.
"Sorry, I've got to go, nice to meet you," he said before following the pathologist.
"Ah, they've found us," Molly warned.
Davidson and Honeycutt were staring daggers at them from the main entrance.
"Sorry, got lost in the crowd, figured this was a good a place as any," John said.
"And my name's Matilda," Davidson said. "Do us a favor, don't mention this to Lestrade, and we'll do the same."
Honeycutt and Davidson remained angry until they dropped them outside of 221 B.
"I feel badly," Molly said r.
"Me too," he replied. "You have any reason why Sherlock wanted to nick this whatever it is to begin with?"
"Not one."
Sherlock waited for them by the stairs.
"What took you so long?" he demanded. "Never mind. My dear brother finally provided relevant information. We've leads to pursue."
"But what about what we just pilfered from the British Library?" Molly asked as she held up her oversized handbag.
"Put that somewhere upstairs. We've not a moment to lose," Sherlock replied.
"No, Sherlock," she said. "We haven't been home for days, and now that we are, we've been running around London lying to everyone we meet! I've had it, Sherlock! So I'm staying in with this stupid statue that you asked me to nick!"
Before anyone could reply, Molly marched up the stairs and slammed her bedroom door shut.
"I guess it's just you and me, then," John said. "Bit awkward, isn't it? What with the police escorting me everywhere and you being dead."
"Oh, don't be so tedious, I've already made arrangements. We'll be leaving through the basement."
"So what are we doing now? Looking for The Engineer."
"Don't be ridiculous. We're going after The Medic and Hacksaw."
"Do we have their proper names?" John asked.
"Proper names? That'd be entirely too easy. Where would be the fun in that?"
Scotland Yard. Lestrade felt like he was going through a revolving door of interrogations. The Yard drummed up seven new medical facilities that worked in absolute silence, so long as the patient had enough money. Four of the doctors had top-of-the-line accommodations in their enterprise, and with all the equipment and staff required, it would take years to sort everything legally.
"Cheers to your specialized medical raids, it kicked up a lot of arrests," Donovan said. "Officers just brought in Vincent Spaulding and Jackson Clay, but Clay was pretty bad off so he's at the hospital. Spaulding had minor knife wounds, but he was cleared and is waiting for you in interview one."
"We brought in Grimesby Brown last night, so that leaves Sebastian Moran, Aaron Burnsider, and Erin Burnsider," Lestrade said. "Would you take another run at Brown?"
"You got it, boss."
Lestrade made his way to interview one to speak with Spaulding.
"Ah, nice to see you again Vincent," Lestrade said as he sat down at the interrogation table. "Or do you prefer Mr. Spaulding?"
"Just Spaulding," Vincent replied.
"Seems like we picked you up at a back alley facility. Any comment? No? Well, then, how about a statement on what happened at the warehouse? Didn't think so. Then let me ask you something - and this is really important, mind - do you know who this is?"
He produced a snapshot of the person in the phone booth. Even with the face obscured, Spaulding obviously recognized the individual, just like Brown.
"So you do know him. We figured this person was at the warehouse and might be a bit more talkative than you lot."
"I doubt it," Vincent replied. "In fact, I doubt that one will be a problem for anyone else. She - yeah ya can't tell from this but this is a woman - she got off yesterday at the warehouse just fine, but today was another story."
"Is that why Jackson Clay had two bullet wounds but didn't get treated until today?" Lestrade asked. "Your lot had another incident like the warehouse?"
"I'm not saying anything, except she got what she deserved, so go on and look for her. If she's not in the morgue, she will be soon. I'm done talking."
Lestrade left, doing his best not to react to the possibility that the tipster was dead. He'd have to make rounds on the hospitals, see if he could find her before Moran's other contacts got to her.
John Watson was dead on his feet. He and Sherlock had been out all night and into the next day, checking out various doctors at health clinics around London. Scotland Yard slowed their search considerably, as the police were scouting perimeters and interviewing staff members.
"You sure we can't look for this Hacksaw fellow?" John asked. "I hear most hackers are indoor-types. Much less moving around."
"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock replied. "The Homeless Network will be much better suited to identifying Hacksaw. The Medic is much easier to find, and whoever she is, we'll find her - or something that points to her - at one of these clinics."
"You reckon that from her work with The Engineer?"
"They must be able to meet somewhere, a real medical facility with the proper staff and tools, and these clinics cater to the right groups."
"Mycroft didn't have a real name? Or a guess?" John asked. "Seriously, this is the thirtieth place we've been."
"Happily, there are hundreds of locations."
They stepped inside yet another clinic. John was surprised when he saw only a few patients waiting. Then he glanced at his watch and saw it was half past ten in the morning.
"Don't you look lovely," Sherlock said to a passing doctor. "I'm Sean Holtz. Who might you be?"
The doctor flashed him a smile as she extended her hand. "Doctor Evelyn Lanser," she replied. "Usually we do introductions in the exam room."
"My apologies for not waiting, but you are just stunning."
"Really? It's just... I'm coming off my shift, and I've been here all night and was stuck in my office for hours with paper work waiting on my cell phone."
Sherlock interrupted with genuine awe. "Really? You'd never guess by the sight of you."
John couldn't believe his ears. Was Sherlock Holmes flirting with the doctor? Or had he fallen asleep and started on a truly bizarre dream?
After a few more sickly-sweet exchanges, the consulting detective shoved John out the side door.
"So you liked her?" John asked, intrigued.
"What? I know it's hard, but do at least try not to be so gullible."
They ended up a few blocks away under a purple-and-red awning outside a dodgy salon, where they waited for about ten minutes before an older woman in scruffy clothing bumped into Sherlock.
"Sorry about that, Swift," she said.
"Brambling," Sherlock replied quietly.
She left as noiselessly as she appeared, and Sherlock glanced at a napkin he didn't have a few moments before.
"We have a location," Sherlock said before he raced off. "Hurry up, we need to get there as soon as possible!"
When John caught up, Sherlock continued, "Doctor Evelyn Lanser has a fluttering accent and uses Americanism, such as 'cell phone.' Brambling tailed her to a promising location, and our immediate and unexpected arrival is critical."
"We're doing this because Doctor Lanser has an accent? That can't be right."
"The accent was just one factor. She said she was coming off a shift, but it was half past ten, who goes off a shift then? No one. Even with two hours of paperwork, the night shift gets off at seven. Why would anyone lie about that? Either she's a sociopath - and it takes one to know one, and I can assure you she's not - or she's hiding something, almost certainly something to do with her working hours. I imagine she's still clocked in, and if anyone asked, more than one staff member would insist she was at the clinic attending to patients as we speak. In addition, she has a similar facial structure to this woman," Sherlock said as he produced a clipping from a newspaper from his coat pocket.
The clipping was old, but the picture did show someone who resembled Lanser standing in front of the American flag at a podium. The caption, headline, and article had all been cropped in favor of the image, but there was enough text for John to make out the year, 1991, and that the article was about a memorial service.
"Where did you get this?" he asked. "Seriously, did I fall asleep and miss all the investigating?"
"Sometimes I ask myself the same thing."
Before John could respond, Sherlock stopped abruptly in front of a residential building.
"Brambling left us a mode of egress," Sherlock said, indicating an open basement window.
"You've got to be kidding. I couldn't fit through that."
But the consulting detective had already started to wiggle inside. John reluctantly followed, after several unpleasant minutes squeezing through the frame, he dropped into the basement hallway.
"Shoot the lock," Sherlock demanded.
"What? No."
"Why not?"
"For one, I don't have my gun. Can't you just pick it?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he opened the lock with minimal effort. He pushed the door opened, and Lanser jumped back with a start, dropping an instrument tray.
"Ah, good to see you again, Doctor Lanser," Sherlock said. "We might be breaking and entering, but you seem to be setting up an illegal medical facility."
"It's not what you think," she replied.
"Isn't it?" John asked.
"Get inside and shut the door."
Sherlock and John obliged.
"Apparently, I need a better locksmith. Why are you here?"
"Why do you have this place when you've got a stocked clinic a few blocks away?" John asked.
"My flat is upstairs, on the third floor. Treating people in your basement is quite convenient."
"You should really practice that lie in the mirror more," John said.
She said, "It's for illegal immigrants. People who've lost their status or got into the country illegally. They won't go to a hospital or a clinic, no matter how many times you say they're not in danger."
"Another lie," Sherlock commented.
"What're you? Reporters? Fine. This is scandal central. Whenever there's someone who needs medical aid but doesn't want a file with their name on it, they come here. Politicians with STDs from their affairs, that kind of thing. That what you're after?"
"Not really," John replied. "We're only interested in one woman. She'd definitely want to keep her name off medical records."
"And who is that?" Lanser asked.
"She has many names: Indigo Kendall Berwyn, Shannon Cassidy, Elena Wilhelm-Glass," Sherlock replied. "Though for the sake of simplicity, we call her The Engineer."
"I don't know what you two are on about, but I can't help you."
"You'd rather us report your facility to the police?" Sherlock asked. "They'll investigate. You may well lose your license, possibly go to jail."
"She helped you, didn't she?" John asked. "The Engineer. She helped us, to, after a fashion. And then she sort of... put us on a cold case. We've gotten far enough that we need to find her again."
"And how can I believe that?" she demanded.
"What would it take?" John asked. "You keep up with the news? Sherlock Holmes. First a consulting detective, then a fraud, then his name cleared. She did that last bit, clearing his name. Oh, and if anyone asked, he's dead."
"Doesn't that make you his blogger?" she asked John.
"John Watson, and no, I'm not looking to blog about her. We're just looking for a way to contact her."
"She needed my help, but if she caught sight of you - which I'm sure she did - she wouldn't come here. I can't contact her. She contacts me. You understand?"
Sherlock replied, "You seem willing to risk much to protect her. Foolish and likely the result of her aid in the past."
"It is, but I've no reason to explain myself to you," she replied. Lanser hesitated for a moment, sizing up her two uninvited guests. "If she has helped you, either of you, then you should know, she has a standing mutually assured destruction policy. Anything happens to her and evidence starts appearing. Secrets are revealed. Enemies are contacted. That kind of thing."
"That'd explain how she managed to stay hidden and alive while looking into people like Moran and Moriarty," John said. "Did she mention why she needed your help?"
"No, but she'll contact me if she needs medical treatment. Stitches, infections, that kind of thing."
"If your right that your patient won't be arriving, that gives us time to chat," Sherlock said brightly.
Scotland Yard. Lestrade thought his day might never end. It had been a good one, no doubt, what with three fugitives returned to custody, but it had taken its toll. He had scoured hospitals and tapped every snitch, but no one had seen the tipster. No one would give up her name. Lestrade feared that Spaulding was right; she was dead and eventually would turn up in a morgue.
"We got Craig Ragland pulled in on that weird bust case. Told the officers that brought him in that he broken in and smashed it because it was too ugly to leave as-is," Donovan said from the door.
"Seriously?"
"We're still looking for Duncan Ross and Moran, but our last lead on either of them was the warehouse. I'm headed home."
"Good night, Sally."
Sherlock led John back into 221 via the basement flat. After hours of provoking Lanser, she failed to provide them with anything more than scraps of information. They were able to confirm that The Engineer created relationships by debt or blackmail, though she dubbed it 'mutually assured destruction' because she didn't keep secrets and evidence to levy money, only security.
The scheme was rather clever in its own right, as any enemy she had information against was given incentive to keep her from harm from all her other enemies. That meant that she had the means to contain more volatile arrangements without straining her own resources.
If Sherlock had to choose, he'd rather fake his own death than be in her situation, but should choice not be an option, the eternal gridlock of enemies-turned-allies would be marginally acceptable, at least until Sherlock was able to destroy them all.
John had asked - multiple times - if The Engineer was related to the Holmes family. Of course that would be his conclusion, but as the consulting detective pointed out,
utilitarian relationships were not a genetic trait, just a sign of intelligence.
"Oh, you're both all right!" Mrs. Hudson sobbed, interrupting his train of thought. "When Molly asked for that errand, I just assumed... oh, never mind!"
"You've been over-indulging in herbal soothers," Sherlock replied. "You should go to bed."
"Good night, Mrs. Hudson," John said politely.
They trudged up to the flat. Halfway up the stairs, they saw it: a blood trail, leading to Molly's room.
John bolted, and Sherlock wasn't far behind him. They found Molly on the floor, unconscious. As John checked her vitals, Sherlock waited.
Who would dare hurt his pathologist?
"She's alive. No signs of head trauma," he said. "She might've been sedated, but she seems fine. Sherlock?"
"We have a message," he said, indicating her computer. "Shall we?"
He pressed play.
The silhouette of a young woman appeared on the screen. Her face was barely visible, but John recognized her features. Elena Wilhelm-Glass, Indigo Kendall Berwyn, The Engineer.
"Sorry about the mess, but since you decided to tie up my doctor this morning, I thought you wouldn't mind if I borrowed yours. She's quite lovely, but you already know that, don't you? While I'm at it, I should also apologize for deleting the security footage from 221 B for the past twelve hours. I'm not terribly photogenic.
"I bet you're looking for that knickknack you stole, that bust of Elizabeth the First, or more importantly, its contents. I meant to take it from the library myself, but since you acquired it before me, I thought I'd take care of two birds. I'm going to offer you a trade. A fair one. You get me the info about that case I put you onto - and I mean everything about it, real names, real dates - and I'll give you the bust contents, all of them.
"If you're not sure if that's a good trade, I'll describe the USB sticks that were hidden inside those statues. There are four, and you need all four to decrypt them. They are property of four interesting individuals: Kate W. Shine, Gulf Towell, Valori Tanalit, and Dagger Bane.
"Don't worry about Doctor Hooper, she'll be fine. I gave her a sedative, nothing dangerous. Think about my offer, then come find me. We'll have a nice chat soon, I'm sure."
The message ended, and Sherlock replayed it, pausing at the four names. He let himself sink into his mind palace. The names were too odd to be real, which meant they must be some kind of code, so he imagined the letters of each name floating, moving, rearranging.
Anagrams. The names were all anagrams. He let each name form new words and patterns.
VALORI TANALIT became VALIANT TAILOR.
KATE W. SHRINE transformed into WHITE SNAKE.
GULF TOWELL shifted into WOLF GULLET.
DAGGER BANES respelled into GINGERBREAD.
"Names and themes from Grimm's Fairy Tales," Sherlock muttered. "Moriarty."
<<< Previous Part:
Part Five: Wounds
Next Part: >>>
Part Seven: Amalgamation
Primary Post: Four Elizabeths - Series 3, Episode 4
Primary Post: Unfinished Business, or Series 3 (s03ff)
Title: Four Elizabeths
Subtitle: In Triplicate
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word count: 4,020
Rating: R
Warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, graphic descriptions of forensic science, language, theft
"Where the hell is Anderson?" Lestrade demanded.
Donovan replied, "He'll be here when he's here. And if you don't mind, I've some information. They've identified some of the bloody fingerprints found on the scene: Sebastian Moran, Craig Ragland, and Duncan Ross. Other prints were lifted from around the warehouse could've been here for weeks or a few hours, hard to tell."
Finally, Anderson approached them.
"Tell me you have something," Lestrade said.
Anderson replied, "Nothing official, but Donovan convinced me that a preliminary walkthrough would be helpful. Follow me."
Donovan and Lestrade donned plastic booties, shower caps, and gloves before Anderson led them inside the warehouse to a blood-covered wall.
"See that window there?" he said. "If you take a peek outside, there's a bit of a lip that someone used as a perch. Probably in dark clothing. At night, nobody would've caught sight of him unless they pointed a torch right at him. Found scuffmarks out there but no prints. Must've been wearing gloves."
"So we have a witness but no way to find him?" Donovan asked.
"I don't think he's a witness. See the string?" Anderson asked, indicating a suspended string that ran from the window to a beam rafter, then down to the floor. "This is the trajectory of some kind of projectile, possibly from a zip-gun, silenced weapon, or hell, even a slingshot. The assailant ricocheted steel ball bearings off that beam and into two separate victims."
Donovan asked, "What's with the bouncing?"
Anderson replied, "Again, my best guess, but if your mate was hit suddenly, you'd look in the direction it came from, so the ricochet concealed his location, at least initially. Everything we've got so far says these were the first shots fired. After that, complete chaos."
He motioned for them to follow. As they walked, he narrated. "We've got indications of stabbings and gunshot wounds here, there, everywhere. All I can tell you right now is that it involved a lot of people, and most of them were injured. And these footprints we're following? They lead us outside."
Several techs had to step back as Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson exited the back door of the warehouse.
"The victim was around here when he was shot. Blood spatter suggests that the assailant fired from the warehouse roof. Sorry, we haven't set up a line for that yet."
"Could this be the zip-gun/slingshot assailant?" Lestrade asked.
"Difficult to say, but no matter who or what hit the victim, these bloody shoeprints here and these drag marks along here? They lead to a big, car-sized nothing. The depth of the shoe impressions and drag marks suggests the victim was a large, heavy man. The shoeprints tell us it took two men to get him just this short distance. I'd say that Sebastian moan would be a likely candidate, but it'll be a day at least before we have DNA confirmation."
An officer approached and interrupted, "Excuse me, Detective Inspector Lestrade? I'm Flannelly, sir. We've got something for you on surveillance."
"Thank you Anderson," Lestrade said before he and Donovan followed the officer.
Flannelly led them to a public phone booth, talking as they went. "We're working on getting the surveillance footage transferred to the Yard, but I already caught a look at it. A person comes into this booth right around the time of the shooting, dials nine nine nine, leaves the phone off the hook, then puts this up there."
Lestrade and Donovan awkwardly squeezed together to look at whatever Flannelly was pointing to. There was a message written out along the wall:
DR? DR? DR. WHO?
Donovan said, "Whoever it was probably came from a nearby convention."
"Not a convention I'd attend," Flannelly said quietly. "One of the forensics guys took a swab of it, told me it's written in blood."
Lestrade nodded. "Listen, our first order of business is to figure out who this guy is. Second order is keeping his image to ourselves. We wanna keep him and his message under our has for now."
"His message?" Donovan asked.
"We need every PC and Bobby out there to tap every kind of off-the-grid medical service."
"We've already got people out doing that," she said.
"Not just the black market or back alley surgeons. Moran has money, so any doctors with a dodgy history or a private facility could be involved. Doctors that cater to anyone who demands absolute privacy, politicians and media stars and whatnot, would have the means as well. This guy is trying to warn us."
"You think this guy's trying to help us? Why not just tell the responder that answered his nine nine nine call?"
"Dunno. Maybe he was injured, couldn't speak? Or maybe he was afraid someone would hear him or recognize his voice from the recording? We'll ask him when we find him, but right now, it's important no one else knows about him. I don't want Moran getting to him first."
John and Molly had made an unorthodox pit stop, and their security detail didn't like it.
"Follow my instructions precisely," Sherlock said through the ear buds. "You will have less than seven minutes. No mindless prattle. The Homeless Network will soon provide those officers with a diversion. Don't squander it."
Sure enough, a verbal altercation escalated to a knuckle brawl just moments later. The ruckus attracted quite a lot of attention, and a crowd moved in, pushing and shoving. Honeycutt called the fight in while Davidson attempted to steer Molly and John back to the car, but the swarm of people moved like a tidal wave.
Molly and John split and walked quickly so as not to attract attention. It took them two minutes to reach the British Library, leaving their protective detail in the throng of spectators.
"Proceed immediately to the Rare Books and Music section," Sherlock instructed. "One of you will have to distract the attendant. Molly is probably better suited."
"Oi, what does that mean?" John asked.
The attendant was a man in his thirties with olive skin. He smiled at Molly, but his light green eyes lit up when John approached.
"Ah, sorry Molly. It appears John's flirtations will be better received," Sherlock said
John couldn't wait until Sherlock was legally alive again; then he'd be physically present during investigations and therefore within punching distance.
"I'm Doctor John Watson," John said warmly.
"A doctor? Is that a PhD or MD?"
"MD."
"Well, I'm Edward Riley-Tailor, very pleased to meet you."
For the next three minutes, John actively ignored Sherlock's stream of instructions to Molly and continued to chat up the young Edward Riley-Tailor. They spoke about education mostly, and just as they began discussing medical clinics, Molly tapped John on the shoulder.
"Sorry, I've got to go, nice to meet you," he said before following the pathologist.
"Ah, they've found us," Molly warned.
Davidson and Honeycutt were staring daggers at them from the main entrance.
"Sorry, got lost in the crowd, figured this was a good a place as any," John said.
"And my name's Matilda," Davidson said. "Do us a favor, don't mention this to Lestrade, and we'll do the same."
Honeycutt and Davidson remained angry until they dropped them outside of 221 B.
"I feel badly," Molly said r.
"Me too," he replied. "You have any reason why Sherlock wanted to nick this whatever it is to begin with?"
"Not one."
Sherlock waited for them by the stairs.
"What took you so long?" he demanded. "Never mind. My dear brother finally provided relevant information. We've leads to pursue."
"But what about what we just pilfered from the British Library?" Molly asked as she held up her oversized handbag.
"Put that somewhere upstairs. We've not a moment to lose," Sherlock replied.
"No, Sherlock," she said. "We haven't been home for days, and now that we are, we've been running around London lying to everyone we meet! I've had it, Sherlock! So I'm staying in with this stupid statue that you asked me to nick!"
Before anyone could reply, Molly marched up the stairs and slammed her bedroom door shut.
"I guess it's just you and me, then," John said. "Bit awkward, isn't it? What with the police escorting me everywhere and you being dead."
"Oh, don't be so tedious, I've already made arrangements. We'll be leaving through the basement."
"So what are we doing now? Looking for The Engineer."
"Don't be ridiculous. We're going after The Medic and Hacksaw."
"Do we have their proper names?" John asked.
"Proper names? That'd be entirely too easy. Where would be the fun in that?"
Scotland Yard. Lestrade felt like he was going through a revolving door of interrogations. The Yard drummed up seven new medical facilities that worked in absolute silence, so long as the patient had enough money. Four of the doctors had top-of-the-line accommodations in their enterprise, and with all the equipment and staff required, it would take years to sort everything legally.
"Cheers to your specialized medical raids, it kicked up a lot of arrests," Donovan said. "Officers just brought in Vincent Spaulding and Jackson Clay, but Clay was pretty bad off so he's at the hospital. Spaulding had minor knife wounds, but he was cleared and is waiting for you in interview one."
"We brought in Grimesby Brown last night, so that leaves Sebastian Moran, Aaron Burnsider, and Erin Burnsider," Lestrade said. "Would you take another run at Brown?"
"You got it, boss."
Lestrade made his way to interview one to speak with Spaulding.
"Ah, nice to see you again Vincent," Lestrade said as he sat down at the interrogation table. "Or do you prefer Mr. Spaulding?"
"Just Spaulding," Vincent replied.
"Seems like we picked you up at a back alley facility. Any comment? No? Well, then, how about a statement on what happened at the warehouse? Didn't think so. Then let me ask you something - and this is really important, mind - do you know who this is?"
He produced a snapshot of the person in the phone booth. Even with the face obscured, Spaulding obviously recognized the individual, just like Brown.
"So you do know him. We figured this person was at the warehouse and might be a bit more talkative than you lot."
"I doubt it," Vincent replied. "In fact, I doubt that one will be a problem for anyone else. She - yeah ya can't tell from this but this is a woman - she got off yesterday at the warehouse just fine, but today was another story."
"Is that why Jackson Clay had two bullet wounds but didn't get treated until today?" Lestrade asked. "Your lot had another incident like the warehouse?"
"I'm not saying anything, except she got what she deserved, so go on and look for her. If she's not in the morgue, she will be soon. I'm done talking."
Lestrade left, doing his best not to react to the possibility that the tipster was dead. He'd have to make rounds on the hospitals, see if he could find her before Moran's other contacts got to her.
John Watson was dead on his feet. He and Sherlock had been out all night and into the next day, checking out various doctors at health clinics around London. Scotland Yard slowed their search considerably, as the police were scouting perimeters and interviewing staff members.
"You sure we can't look for this Hacksaw fellow?" John asked. "I hear most hackers are indoor-types. Much less moving around."
"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock replied. "The Homeless Network will be much better suited to identifying Hacksaw. The Medic is much easier to find, and whoever she is, we'll find her - or something that points to her - at one of these clinics."
"You reckon that from her work with The Engineer?"
"They must be able to meet somewhere, a real medical facility with the proper staff and tools, and these clinics cater to the right groups."
"Mycroft didn't have a real name? Or a guess?" John asked. "Seriously, this is the thirtieth place we've been."
"Happily, there are hundreds of locations."
They stepped inside yet another clinic. John was surprised when he saw only a few patients waiting. Then he glanced at his watch and saw it was half past ten in the morning.
"Don't you look lovely," Sherlock said to a passing doctor. "I'm Sean Holtz. Who might you be?"
The doctor flashed him a smile as she extended her hand. "Doctor Evelyn Lanser," she replied. "Usually we do introductions in the exam room."
"My apologies for not waiting, but you are just stunning."
"Really? It's just... I'm coming off my shift, and I've been here all night and was stuck in my office for hours with paper work waiting on my cell phone."
Sherlock interrupted with genuine awe. "Really? You'd never guess by the sight of you."
John couldn't believe his ears. Was Sherlock Holmes flirting with the doctor? Or had he fallen asleep and started on a truly bizarre dream?
After a few more sickly-sweet exchanges, the consulting detective shoved John out the side door.
"So you liked her?" John asked, intrigued.
"What? I know it's hard, but do at least try not to be so gullible."
They ended up a few blocks away under a purple-and-red awning outside a dodgy salon, where they waited for about ten minutes before an older woman in scruffy clothing bumped into Sherlock.
"Sorry about that, Swift," she said.
"Brambling," Sherlock replied quietly.
She left as noiselessly as she appeared, and Sherlock glanced at a napkin he didn't have a few moments before.
"We have a location," Sherlock said before he raced off. "Hurry up, we need to get there as soon as possible!"
When John caught up, Sherlock continued, "Doctor Evelyn Lanser has a fluttering accent and uses Americanism, such as 'cell phone.' Brambling tailed her to a promising location, and our immediate and unexpected arrival is critical."
"We're doing this because Doctor Lanser has an accent? That can't be right."
"The accent was just one factor. She said she was coming off a shift, but it was half past ten, who goes off a shift then? No one. Even with two hours of paperwork, the night shift gets off at seven. Why would anyone lie about that? Either she's a sociopath - and it takes one to know one, and I can assure you she's not - or she's hiding something, almost certainly something to do with her working hours. I imagine she's still clocked in, and if anyone asked, more than one staff member would insist she was at the clinic attending to patients as we speak. In addition, she has a similar facial structure to this woman," Sherlock said as he produced a clipping from a newspaper from his coat pocket.
The clipping was old, but the picture did show someone who resembled Lanser standing in front of the American flag at a podium. The caption, headline, and article had all been cropped in favor of the image, but there was enough text for John to make out the year, 1991, and that the article was about a memorial service.
"Where did you get this?" he asked. "Seriously, did I fall asleep and miss all the investigating?"
"Sometimes I ask myself the same thing."
Before John could respond, Sherlock stopped abruptly in front of a residential building.
"Brambling left us a mode of egress," Sherlock said, indicating an open basement window.
"You've got to be kidding. I couldn't fit through that."
But the consulting detective had already started to wiggle inside. John reluctantly followed, after several unpleasant minutes squeezing through the frame, he dropped into the basement hallway.
"Shoot the lock," Sherlock demanded.
"What? No."
"Why not?"
"For one, I don't have my gun. Can't you just pick it?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he opened the lock with minimal effort. He pushed the door opened, and Lanser jumped back with a start, dropping an instrument tray.
"Ah, good to see you again, Doctor Lanser," Sherlock said. "We might be breaking and entering, but you seem to be setting up an illegal medical facility."
"It's not what you think," she replied.
"Isn't it?" John asked.
"Get inside and shut the door."
Sherlock and John obliged.
"Apparently, I need a better locksmith. Why are you here?"
"Why do you have this place when you've got a stocked clinic a few blocks away?" John asked.
"My flat is upstairs, on the third floor. Treating people in your basement is quite convenient."
"You should really practice that lie in the mirror more," John said.
She said, "It's for illegal immigrants. People who've lost their status or got into the country illegally. They won't go to a hospital or a clinic, no matter how many times you say they're not in danger."
"Another lie," Sherlock commented.
"What're you? Reporters? Fine. This is scandal central. Whenever there's someone who needs medical aid but doesn't want a file with their name on it, they come here. Politicians with STDs from their affairs, that kind of thing. That what you're after?"
"Not really," John replied. "We're only interested in one woman. She'd definitely want to keep her name off medical records."
"And who is that?" Lanser asked.
"She has many names: Indigo Kendall Berwyn, Shannon Cassidy, Elena Wilhelm-Glass," Sherlock replied. "Though for the sake of simplicity, we call her The Engineer."
"I don't know what you two are on about, but I can't help you."
"You'd rather us report your facility to the police?" Sherlock asked. "They'll investigate. You may well lose your license, possibly go to jail."
"She helped you, didn't she?" John asked. "The Engineer. She helped us, to, after a fashion. And then she sort of... put us on a cold case. We've gotten far enough that we need to find her again."
"And how can I believe that?" she demanded.
"What would it take?" John asked. "You keep up with the news? Sherlock Holmes. First a consulting detective, then a fraud, then his name cleared. She did that last bit, clearing his name. Oh, and if anyone asked, he's dead."
"Doesn't that make you his blogger?" she asked John.
"John Watson, and no, I'm not looking to blog about her. We're just looking for a way to contact her."
"She needed my help, but if she caught sight of you - which I'm sure she did - she wouldn't come here. I can't contact her. She contacts me. You understand?"
Sherlock replied, "You seem willing to risk much to protect her. Foolish and likely the result of her aid in the past."
"It is, but I've no reason to explain myself to you," she replied. Lanser hesitated for a moment, sizing up her two uninvited guests. "If she has helped you, either of you, then you should know, she has a standing mutually assured destruction policy. Anything happens to her and evidence starts appearing. Secrets are revealed. Enemies are contacted. That kind of thing."
"That'd explain how she managed to stay hidden and alive while looking into people like Moran and Moriarty," John said. "Did she mention why she needed your help?"
"No, but she'll contact me if she needs medical treatment. Stitches, infections, that kind of thing."
"If your right that your patient won't be arriving, that gives us time to chat," Sherlock said brightly.
Scotland Yard. Lestrade thought his day might never end. It had been a good one, no doubt, what with three fugitives returned to custody, but it had taken its toll. He had scoured hospitals and tapped every snitch, but no one had seen the tipster. No one would give up her name. Lestrade feared that Spaulding was right; she was dead and eventually would turn up in a morgue.
"We got Craig Ragland pulled in on that weird bust case. Told the officers that brought him in that he broken in and smashed it because it was too ugly to leave as-is," Donovan said from the door.
"Seriously?"
"We're still looking for Duncan Ross and Moran, but our last lead on either of them was the warehouse. I'm headed home."
"Good night, Sally."
Sherlock led John back into 221 via the basement flat. After hours of provoking Lanser, she failed to provide them with anything more than scraps of information. They were able to confirm that The Engineer created relationships by debt or blackmail, though she dubbed it 'mutually assured destruction' because she didn't keep secrets and evidence to levy money, only security.
The scheme was rather clever in its own right, as any enemy she had information against was given incentive to keep her from harm from all her other enemies. That meant that she had the means to contain more volatile arrangements without straining her own resources.
If Sherlock had to choose, he'd rather fake his own death than be in her situation, but should choice not be an option, the eternal gridlock of enemies-turned-allies would be marginally acceptable, at least until Sherlock was able to destroy them all.
John had asked - multiple times - if The Engineer was related to the Holmes family. Of course that would be his conclusion, but as the consulting detective pointed out,
utilitarian relationships were not a genetic trait, just a sign of intelligence.
"Oh, you're both all right!" Mrs. Hudson sobbed, interrupting his train of thought. "When Molly asked for that errand, I just assumed... oh, never mind!"
"You've been over-indulging in herbal soothers," Sherlock replied. "You should go to bed."
"Good night, Mrs. Hudson," John said politely.
They trudged up to the flat. Halfway up the stairs, they saw it: a blood trail, leading to Molly's room.
John bolted, and Sherlock wasn't far behind him. They found Molly on the floor, unconscious. As John checked her vitals, Sherlock waited.
Who would dare hurt his pathologist?
"She's alive. No signs of head trauma," he said. "She might've been sedated, but she seems fine. Sherlock?"
"We have a message," he said, indicating her computer. "Shall we?"
He pressed play.
The silhouette of a young woman appeared on the screen. Her face was barely visible, but John recognized her features. Elena Wilhelm-Glass, Indigo Kendall Berwyn, The Engineer.
"Sorry about the mess, but since you decided to tie up my doctor this morning, I thought you wouldn't mind if I borrowed yours. She's quite lovely, but you already know that, don't you? While I'm at it, I should also apologize for deleting the security footage from 221 B for the past twelve hours. I'm not terribly photogenic.
"I bet you're looking for that knickknack you stole, that bust of Elizabeth the First, or more importantly, its contents. I meant to take it from the library myself, but since you acquired it before me, I thought I'd take care of two birds. I'm going to offer you a trade. A fair one. You get me the info about that case I put you onto - and I mean everything about it, real names, real dates - and I'll give you the bust contents, all of them.
"If you're not sure if that's a good trade, I'll describe the USB sticks that were hidden inside those statues. There are four, and you need all four to decrypt them. They are property of four interesting individuals: Kate W. Shine, Gulf Towell, Valori Tanalit, and Dagger Bane.
"Don't worry about Doctor Hooper, she'll be fine. I gave her a sedative, nothing dangerous. Think about my offer, then come find me. We'll have a nice chat soon, I'm sure."
The message ended, and Sherlock replayed it, pausing at the four names. He let himself sink into his mind palace. The names were too odd to be real, which meant they must be some kind of code, so he imagined the letters of each name floating, moving, rearranging.
Anagrams. The names were all anagrams. He let each name form new words and patterns.
VALORI TANALIT became VALIANT TAILOR.
KATE W. SHRINE transformed into WHITE SNAKE.
GULF TOWELL shifted into WOLF GULLET.
DAGGER BANES respelled into GINGERBREAD.
"Names and themes from Grimm's Fairy Tales," Sherlock muttered. "Moriarty."
<<< Previous Part:
Part Five: Wounds
Next Part: >>>
Part Seven: Amalgamation
Primary Post: Four Elizabeths - Series 3, Episode 4
Primary Post: Unfinished Business, or Series 3 (s03ff)