Invisible Bonds - Chapter 6
Title: Invisible Bonds - Chapter 6
Length: 3,849 this chapter
Pairing: Sherlock/John, currently one-sided and purely platonic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: AU world/OCs are mine, but I (sadly) do not own the world of BBC Sherlock in which this fic blatantly plays.
Summary: In a world where myth, mystery, and the supernatural flourish beneath the veneer of modern civilization, Sherlock is a master of magic as well as science and deduction. But there are some things that he cannot see, riddles he cannot unravel, even when they walk right beside him in the form of one John Watson…
Beta: Many thanks to non_canonical for her friendship, brilliant advice and Brit picking! :D No beta on this chapter, sorry!
Special thanks go out to abundantlyqueer. If it wasn't for her initial encouragement, I wouldn't be writing at all.
Notes: This is the second story in the Fallen series. One should read Fallen first, otherwise this probably won't make much sense. ;) This is also a WIP, but I'm VERY committed to finishing it! This should be my last "late" chapter (crossing fingers) as we are finally catching up to all the writing I did over two months ago! 42,000 words written so far!
Invisible Bonds: Chapter 6
Climbing up the stairs to their flat John stares bemusedly at his fingertips, rubbing them together, faint hints of ink still trapped in the whorls from when he was fingerprinted at the police station.
“Ahhh, good, you’re finally back.”
Glancing up, John finds Sherlock staring at a wall, photographs from the crime scenes and of the ciphers tacked up on it. No apologies, no concern. He doesn’t even have the decency to turn around when he speaks.
John’s voice is a trifle sharp as he offers in turn, “Yes, well, it was a bit difficult, explaining to the police how I don’t actually own a dog, how it was my flatmate’s dog, but no, that doesn’t work because it was my flatmate’s pooka, except for the part where you can’t own a pooka, where they’re a mythological creature that can’t exist, but putting that aside it’s the pooka that my flatmate made a deal with, only he didn’t think to cover my arse as well as his own when he made said deal and then didn’t even have the decency to stick around and help his only friend out, oh no, he just buggered off to the morgue because a dead body that isn’t going anywhere is so much more important than the wellbeing of said friend.”
“Don’t be ridiculous John. The pooka never would have agreed to help me if you weren’t up for grabs. It was always implicit that you were part of the deal. How did you think I got off so easily? Filet mignon once a month for a year? Not nearly enough to entice it to help.”
For a moment he just stares, comprehension dawning over him slowly, Watson’s ire gathering up like a storm brewing, just waiting to blow. “Wait. Are you telling me…? Are you telling me that I was part of your deal with the pooka?! You gave him implied permission to… to have his way with me in order to garner a favor??”
Sherlock’s mouth opens to answer, but John’s hand shoots up in reply. “No, no. You know what? I don’t want to know, because if I know then I’ll have to punch you.” Glaring, John grumbles, “Well, now I have to go back in to court on Tuesday. They’re giving me an ASBO. Me! An ASBO!”
“That’s nice…” is the distracted reply of his flatmate, who apparently has already dismissed the conversation as irrelevant or redundant. Likely both.
Of course, Sherlock couldn’t possibly understand just how embarrassing this is. There hasn’t been an angel in all of history that has gotten an ASBO. Not exactly the legacy John was expecting, but then again, he is Fallen. Others who have Fallen have gone on to do far worse.
Sighing softly, John rubs his fingers together again before forcing his hands to drop down to his side, grousing, “I seriously doubt that I’ll be able to get the pooka to come to court and testify that he was solely responsible for destroying the West Kensington Library and… what is that?!” Staring at the wall, John takes a step forward before sputtering, “Did you? Did you actually rip pages out of that book? Sherlock that is a library book and you defaced it.”
Turning for the first time since John entered the room, Sherlock blinks almost languidly before rumbling, “I don’t see what you’re so upset about. You destroyed a whole library.” As the look on John’s face becomes more outraged, Sherlock counters blithely, “Oh, don’t be tedious, it’s just the front page. Nobody reads the front page. There isn’t anything even written on the front page.”
“Still, Sherlock, it’s vandalism. And I didn’t destroy the library! The pooka did!”
“It’s your word against the pooka’s. Really John, who do you think they’re going to believe? Now, focus on what’s important, will you?”
With a soft sigh, John concedes the point and swallows his annoyance, drawing closer. “Right. Fine. So, what do we know? What have I missed?”
Turning to face John, a gleeful grin slowly curls the corners of Sherlock’s lips. “Oh, John, you won’t believe it. It’s positively wonderful.”
“Two people are dead and it’s wonderful?”
“No,” he corrects firmly, “two people are dead, but it’s the way that they were killed that is wonderful.” Pulling out his phone, Sherlock flicks through the images on it before reaching the relevant shot and showing it to John.
It takes Watson a moment before he can understand what he’s seeing, John’s voice faint as he replies, “That… was a heart.”
“Yes, yes it was. Quite specifically Lukis’ heart, though it turns out that if Van Coon hadn’t had a congenitive heart defect, it would have been what was left of his heart as well.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Someone, or something, crushed these hearts. There are only a few ways that one can magically do something like that. Thaumaturgy, like voodoo for example. Get something from the victim, a strand of hair, a fingernail clipping, bind it to a representational fetish and voila. Or, an incantation of some kind. But that would be complicated. It would have to be handcrafted, personally designed, and crafting magic from whole cloth is no easy feat.” Sherlock rocks back and forth on his heels speculatively. “Whoever killed these men was very powerful.”
“Voodoo?” A slight frission of anxiety trickles up John’s spine as he considers his interaction with Eshu. Could the trickster god be involved in this? One of his followers? No, no that’s just paranoid. “As in a voodoo doll?”
“Yes. But I think we can safely rule that option out.”
“Why?”
“Because the killer was present at the scene of the crime. Voodoo is an excellent option for harming from a safe distance. But the fact that both apartments were torn apart indicates that this was done up close and personal. Of course, one can use it in close proximity, but we can rule out voodoo because of the handprints.”
“The what?”
“Handprints.” Sherlock’s hands waft through the air expressively, illustrating his point. “Each heart shows direct lines of pressure from where a hand was wrapped around them and squeezed. Small hands to be sure, but hands nonetheless, human in shape. If a voodoo fetish doll, or something of that ilk, had been used, it would have been too small for a hand to wrap around the heart placed within it. They still could have simulated crushing the heart, but the heart would not have actual handprints on it as a result, it would have simply been crushed.” His head tilts to one side and he corrects, “In fact, voodoo would have been a more effective way of killing them if that was the point, and less easily traced. Far less suspicious. The power needed to create such actual physical damage would have been immense. They could have just as easily crushed the fetish heart between their fingers and the actual heart would have simply arrested in response. No, this was far more vicious, far more personal.” His head turns, pale eyes boring into John’s intently. “Whoever killed these men wanted them to suffer. He wanted them to feel pain, terror. I suspect he took his time. This wasn’t simply murder. This was torture that ended in murder.”
“So that leaves us with some sort of spell?”
“Most likely.”
“Doesn’t really help us narrow down the field, does it?”
Sherlock’s eyes narrow upon John before he replies, “Yes, and no. There are not a great many Adepts with the power to reach into a man’s chest and crush his heart without affecting anything but the heart. But then there are quite a few Adepts who keep their existence secret from others of their own kind. It’s one line of inquiry but at this juncture I think our best option is the cipher. Only the cipher can tell us why they died, John, which is currently more important than knowing who or how.”
Both men stare at the yellow designs before Sherlock reaches up and tears the images from the wall. “Right, time for us to consult with an expert.”
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
Rolling his eyes, Sherlock retorts, “I’m not repeating myself.”
“An expert. You need to consult? An expert?” A small grin starts to curl John’s lips.
Sighing with annoyance as he wraps his scarf about his throat, Sherlock rumbles, “On painting, yes, I need an expert…”
*****
“When you said you needed a painting expert I have to confess, I thought we would be going to the Museum of Art…”
“Not that kind of art,” Sherlock offers without explanation.
Course, by this point, he doesn’t have to. It’s clear to John what sort of artist they’re looking for.
Between running after Sherlock all morning, running afoul of the pooka, and his run in with the police in the afternoon, the last thing John had been looking forward to was a tour through East London, talking on occasion to some of Sherlock’s homeless network, searching for this ‘expert’ painter. They wind their way along Brick Lane and Old Street, heading toward Shoreditch and Hoxton, checking every backstreet and alleyway along their way. John is tired, sore and hungry, limping slightly now but doggedly following after Sherlock. He tries to focus on the case, rather than the complaints of his all too human body.
“Right, well, how exactly are you planning to crack the cipher then?”
Glancing over at John, Sherlock notes, “This isn’t a modern form of cryptography. We won’t crack this code using computers and current electronic cipher methods. This is something older, harkening back to when the art of cryptography was simpler. Something along the lines of a substitution or transposition cipher. Perhaps something more akin to the Choctaw code talkers used by the United States in WWI or the Navaho code talkers in WWII. We need to take an older approach here.”
Turning a corner they come upon a young man dressed in cargo pants and a sweatshirt, a bag of paint cans by his trainer clad feet, a can in his hand, rattling as he shakes it before applying a smooth, flawless line to his current masterpiece. He barely gives them a glance.
“Heard you were looking for me. What can I do you for?” His eyes remain focused, studying the concrete wall before him intently before thickening a section of the outline of his piece. John turns to study the work, brow creasing at the malicious red eyes and sharp teeth of a cop lifting his baton to bring it down upon the head of a cowering victim at his feet. The hint of demonic bat wings makes it all too familiar an image, though, sadly, most humans don’t need to be possessed by a demon in order to commit such acts of violence and cruelty. Catching the direction of John’s gaze, the lad offers him an unrepentant grin and explains, “I call it… Urban Bloodlust Frenzy.” He lets out a low, mirthless sort of chuckle.
Sherlock’s gloved hand reaches out silently, offering the young man his mobile. Tossing the can of paint to John, he takes the device and begins to shift through the images there.
“Recognize the author?”
There’s a slight shake of his head to indicate not, but he replies instead, “I recognize the paint. Looks like Michigan, hard-core propellant. Probably zinc.”
“And the symbols? Do you recognize them?”
His youthful features crinkle as he retorts, “Don’t look like a proper language. Might be some tagger’s private style, but it’s crap if it is…”
“Unlikely, considering it’s connected to the murder of two men. I need to know what it means, Raz. Somebody must know something.”
Dark brown eyes flicker back and forth between Sherlock, John, and the mobile before he offers it back to Sherlock. “Bit thin to go on, but I’ll ask around. Keep my eyes open. Get back to you the usual way?”
“That’ll do. I’d appreciate it if you could move on it quickly,” Sherlock rumbles, reaching into his pocket to pull out a folded bill, slipping it into Raz’s hand. “There could be more lives at risk than we realize.”
*****
“Sherlock. Sherlock? Sherlock!”
“Hmmmm? What is it John, can’t you see that I’m thinking?”
“Where are we going?”
“Nowhere.”
“Yes, I gathered that, but could you be a little more specific?”
“I’m thinking John. Walking and thinking. Destination is of little consequence right now.”
Stopping dead, John waits till Sherlock realizes he’s not with him any longer, then waits till Sherlock finally turns around to stare at him, scowling slightly as he asks, “What?”
“It’s all well and good that you’re ‘thinking’, but if it’s all the same to you could we do this back at the flat or in a restaurant? I haven’t eaten in hours and I doubt you’ve eaten either. I’m completely knackered. I could do with a bit of a break.”
“No time, John,” Sherlock counters, moving on and forcing John to catch up. “We don’t have the time to lie about relaxing. There’s a killer out there, a powerful one, and there’s no telling where he might strike next.” He stops abruptly, John literally colliding against Sherlock’s back, both men stumbling slightly before Sherlock spins about, grasping John about the shoulders and guiding him down the street.
“What? Where are we going?”
“Not we, you. Time is of the essence. Divide and conquer. You, John, are going to go back to the police station. Ask Lestrade about the journalist. They should have his personal effects there by now. See if he had a journal or date book, anything that might have indicated his movements over the past week or so.”
“Alright…. Where are you going?”
“I’m going back to Van Coon’s office to do the same. I’m sure his PA will have some record of his appointments and activities. We know that China is the link between these two men. Now it’s time to see where their paths have bisected here in London.”
*****
His mind is awhirl as he examines the puzzle pieces gained in his latest visit to Sanderson Shad. It didn’t take him long. Van Coon’s secretary was clearly much more than that at one time, given by the expensive hand cream on her desk that matched the brand in Van Coon’s flat, the regret and grief in her eyes, but the stoic and slightly removed air about her. A woman who had been involved in an affair with her boss, but who got out of the relationship before she got in too deep. But she was not involved in his death. An arbitrary relationship, born of mutual attraction and opportunity, with a man possessing more money than sense. A man who believed that expensive gifts were sufficient to express his affections; that a diamond ring or an extravagant present equaled love. Clearly the woman felt differently, wanted something more. Something personal and intimate.
The receipts were more useful. A taxicab to arrive, the tube to depart, and a convenient bite to eat in between to inform Sherlock of exactly where Edward Van Coon went on the day of his death. The problem? The street in question is positively festooned with any number of gift shops, pawnshops, clothing stores, restaurants, apartment buildings, with no indicator of which one might have been his destination. There’s no telling where the cab dropped him, or what the distance was between his destination and the tube station. Close, most likely, but that still left potentially blocks upon blocks to search through with no clue to go on.
Turning about slowly, Sherlock studies the café and tries to determine from its position on the street which direction Van Coon would have come from, muttering under his breath. “Come on, come on… I know you came here with a package. Why else would you come via a cab and leave by the tube? You were carrying something. Something heavy, perhaps something fragile. You didn’t want to risk it on the tube, so a cab. So far, so obvious. You got a bite to eat here before getting on at Piccadilly, but where were you headed from? Where did the taxi drop…ooof!”
Spinning about to see who he’s collided with, one brow lifts in a second of surprise. It’s John. No, no of course it’s John, because this is it, the point of intersection, the second point by which these two utterly different men lives bisect one another’s. He barely even pauses, shifting his monolog into a dialog with John.
“Van Coon was here, delivering a package. Something that he brought back from China. I managed to figure out this location due to a scraps of information and receipts that he gave to his secretary but I don’t know where the drop off actually happened.”
“Sherlock….”
“It has to be nearby, within at least a three to five block radius, but that’s still easily 132 possible shops, 52 possible service businesses, 47 possible restaurants, and 158 possible apartment complexes and over-shop flats…”
“Sherlock…”
“So the question of course is, which one? I can potentially suggest that he must have been walking up the block on this side, unlikely he would cross the street for this restaurant as there’s a large skip that would have hidden it from view until he was past it if he had been walking on the other side of the street, but that still doesn’t explain where he…”
With a sharp huff of breath, John interjects, pointing across the way. “That shop, over there.”
Blinking, Sherlock halts in the middle of his diatribe to peer at John and then the indicated shop.
“How on earth did you deduce that?”
Lifting up his hand to reveal the small notebook gripped between his fingers, John points out, “Lukis’ diary. He wrote it down.”
Torn between relief at having the answer, and disappointment at the solution being so obvious, Sherlock can only offer a faint, “Oh…” before following John across the street to a garish little tourist trap.
They wander through the store, picking up this and studying that, not at all certain of what it is that they’re looking for. The Lucky Cat Emporium is clearly just a front, just a drop off point for the smuggled goods and therefore unlikely to have anything of use in their investigation.
“Sherlock,” John offers conversationally, trying to look more like an actual shopper than a detective’s assistant, “look at this. Maybe we should consider getting some new dishes for the flat…”
John gets ‘that look’ for his suggestion, one brow raising up defensively as he notes, “Well I, for one, am getting a little tired of having a completely mismatched set of dining ware just because you keep using various pieces of it in your experiments. Just come and look at this…”
“John, concentrate on what’s important.”
With a huff of annoyance, John turns the bowl in his hand over to examine the price and blinks.
“Sherlock…”
“John, really, this is pointless, we aren’t here to…”
“Sherlock. Look. At. This.”
With a huff of his own Sherlock comes to John’s side, his expression quickly shifting from irritation to cool speculation.
“Do you see….?”
“Yes, yes, John, I see. Come along.”
John offers the shop owner a polite nod of his head and a thank you before he is bustled out the door burbling, “It’s the same. It’s exactly the same as the cipher.”
“Yes, yes it is. How stupid of me! I just assumed it was an ancient symbol, a magical or arcane set of symbols, but this, this is far more logical…”
“You recognize it then?”
“Recognize is a strong word, look around you, John…”
They’ve stopped in front of a produce vendor, small signs with prices in English, and their cipher, abound.
“It’s an ancient number system from China. Suzhou mazi. Only street traders use it any more. Those weren’t words written on the wall of the bank. Not per se. They were numbers.”
Glancing about him, John points out each symbol now that they have a means to do so. “A fifteen. And the number one.” His elation, however, is short lived. “Right, okay, but what does it mean?”
*****
A short while later finds the pair in a restaurant. John doesn’t hesitate for a moment but orders something he knows can be delivered and eaten quickly. Hopefully before Sherlock finishes explaining everything to him. He waits while Sherlock silently mulls over the details and thanks the waitress when she places a piping hot bowl in front of him. He waits a moment longer, till she’s out of earshot, before lifting a spoonful of hot and sour soup halfway to his mouth, asking, “So… you think they were smugglers?”
Sherlock’s fingers stopping beating rhythmically against each other and fold before him, pressing lightly against the cupid’s bow of his lips. “So far, so obvious. We know that both Van Coon and Lukis went to China on a regular basis, they both brought something back with them, packed in their luggage, and they both delivered said something to the Lucky Cat Emporium. The question isn’t whether or not they were smugglers. The question is, what were they smuggling?”
John’s managed to get in a few bites by now, the bowl down by a quarter. He blows on his next spoonful of soup asking, “Drugs?”
“Drugs would be too risky. They wouldn’t chance carrying something like that in their luggage - dogs would sniff it out sooner or later and they both had successful careers in their own rights. No point in putting that at risk. So that leaves antiquities.”
Taking another bite, John’s brow creases. “I still don’t understand. If both men were smuggling goods in from China, and both of them dropped them off, why were they killed?”
“Think about it, John. They weren’t just killed. Their apartments were thoroughly and methodically searched.”
It only takes John another second to put the pieces together before his mouth opens into a small ‘o’ of comprehension. “One of them stole something…”
“Exactly. One of them must have gotten greedy and took something for themselves. And since it wasn’t known which one was responsible for the theft…”
“They were both killed and their flats ransacked.” John takes a moment, blinking before recalling, “But you said that the thief didn’t find what he was looking for at Lukis’ apartment, and if the stolen item had been at Van Coon’s apartment, then Lukis’ would have been innocent….”
“Correct. Which means, whatever was stolen is still out there and they’re still looking for it.”
“So there’s another player involved? Another smuggler?” John has forgotten his soup in the moment, spoon hovering between bowl and mouth.
“Difficult to say, but I think if we don’t move quickly, there’s going to be another body found in the same condition as both Van Coon and Lukis.” Rising up from his chair, Sherlock murmurs, “Come John,” before heading toward the door with purpose in his every step.
Staring down at his half finished bowl, John drops his spoon with a clink and sighs. Pulling out his wallet he puts down enough money to cover for the food, before hurrying to catch up before he’s left behind again. He can’t help but wonder if he’ll ever get to finish a meal out when Sherlock is on a case.
Once on the street again, they weave their way toward Charing Cross Road, Sherlock furiously typing upon his Blackberry.
“You know, I would have liked to have finished that,” John grouses.
Sherlock doesn’t even glance at him, asking mildly, “Finish what?” All he gets for a response is an exasperated sigh, which he dismisses as unimportant.
“Fine, where are we going?”
“I need to consult an expert.”
John stops dead in his tracks and after a few steps Sherlock seems to realize that he’s lost him and turns around, coat whirling in his wake. “What?”
John can’t stop the smug smile that is spreading his lips wider and wider. “Nothing, it’s just … two “experts”? In one day?? You’re slipping.”
Snorting in derision, Sherlock rumbles, “I can’t be an expert at everything John. I can’t be constantly filling up my brain with clutter.”
“Fine, fine, you’re only super-human, not omniscient. So where are we going?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock retorts. “To the British Museum.”
Length: 3,849 this chapter
Pairing: Sherlock/John, currently one-sided and purely platonic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: AU world/OCs are mine, but I (sadly) do not own the world of BBC Sherlock in which this fic blatantly plays.
Summary: In a world where myth, mystery, and the supernatural flourish beneath the veneer of modern civilization, Sherlock is a master of magic as well as science and deduction. But there are some things that he cannot see, riddles he cannot unravel, even when they walk right beside him in the form of one John Watson…
Beta: Many thanks to non_canonical for her friendship, brilliant advice and Brit picking! :D No beta on this chapter, sorry!
Special thanks go out to abundantlyqueer. If it wasn't for her initial encouragement, I wouldn't be writing at all.
Notes: This is the second story in the Fallen series. One should read Fallen first, otherwise this probably won't make much sense. ;) This is also a WIP, but I'm VERY committed to finishing it! This should be my last "late" chapter (crossing fingers) as we are finally catching up to all the writing I did over two months ago! 42,000 words written so far!
Invisible Bonds: Chapter 6
Climbing up the stairs to their flat John stares bemusedly at his fingertips, rubbing them together, faint hints of ink still trapped in the whorls from when he was fingerprinted at the police station.
“Ahhh, good, you’re finally back.”
Glancing up, John finds Sherlock staring at a wall, photographs from the crime scenes and of the ciphers tacked up on it. No apologies, no concern. He doesn’t even have the decency to turn around when he speaks.
John’s voice is a trifle sharp as he offers in turn, “Yes, well, it was a bit difficult, explaining to the police how I don’t actually own a dog, how it was my flatmate’s dog, but no, that doesn’t work because it was my flatmate’s pooka, except for the part where you can’t own a pooka, where they’re a mythological creature that can’t exist, but putting that aside it’s the pooka that my flatmate made a deal with, only he didn’t think to cover my arse as well as his own when he made said deal and then didn’t even have the decency to stick around and help his only friend out, oh no, he just buggered off to the morgue because a dead body that isn’t going anywhere is so much more important than the wellbeing of said friend.”
“Don’t be ridiculous John. The pooka never would have agreed to help me if you weren’t up for grabs. It was always implicit that you were part of the deal. How did you think I got off so easily? Filet mignon once a month for a year? Not nearly enough to entice it to help.”
For a moment he just stares, comprehension dawning over him slowly, Watson’s ire gathering up like a storm brewing, just waiting to blow. “Wait. Are you telling me…? Are you telling me that I was part of your deal with the pooka?! You gave him implied permission to… to have his way with me in order to garner a favor??”
Sherlock’s mouth opens to answer, but John’s hand shoots up in reply. “No, no. You know what? I don’t want to know, because if I know then I’ll have to punch you.” Glaring, John grumbles, “Well, now I have to go back in to court on Tuesday. They’re giving me an ASBO. Me! An ASBO!”
“That’s nice…” is the distracted reply of his flatmate, who apparently has already dismissed the conversation as irrelevant or redundant. Likely both.
Of course, Sherlock couldn’t possibly understand just how embarrassing this is. There hasn’t been an angel in all of history that has gotten an ASBO. Not exactly the legacy John was expecting, but then again, he is Fallen. Others who have Fallen have gone on to do far worse.
Sighing softly, John rubs his fingers together again before forcing his hands to drop down to his side, grousing, “I seriously doubt that I’ll be able to get the pooka to come to court and testify that he was solely responsible for destroying the West Kensington Library and… what is that?!” Staring at the wall, John takes a step forward before sputtering, “Did you? Did you actually rip pages out of that book? Sherlock that is a library book and you defaced it.”
Turning for the first time since John entered the room, Sherlock blinks almost languidly before rumbling, “I don’t see what you’re so upset about. You destroyed a whole library.” As the look on John’s face becomes more outraged, Sherlock counters blithely, “Oh, don’t be tedious, it’s just the front page. Nobody reads the front page. There isn’t anything even written on the front page.”
“Still, Sherlock, it’s vandalism. And I didn’t destroy the library! The pooka did!”
“It’s your word against the pooka’s. Really John, who do you think they’re going to believe? Now, focus on what’s important, will you?”
With a soft sigh, John concedes the point and swallows his annoyance, drawing closer. “Right. Fine. So, what do we know? What have I missed?”
Turning to face John, a gleeful grin slowly curls the corners of Sherlock’s lips. “Oh, John, you won’t believe it. It’s positively wonderful.”
“Two people are dead and it’s wonderful?”
“No,” he corrects firmly, “two people are dead, but it’s the way that they were killed that is wonderful.” Pulling out his phone, Sherlock flicks through the images on it before reaching the relevant shot and showing it to John.
It takes Watson a moment before he can understand what he’s seeing, John’s voice faint as he replies, “That… was a heart.”
“Yes, yes it was. Quite specifically Lukis’ heart, though it turns out that if Van Coon hadn’t had a congenitive heart defect, it would have been what was left of his heart as well.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Someone, or something, crushed these hearts. There are only a few ways that one can magically do something like that. Thaumaturgy, like voodoo for example. Get something from the victim, a strand of hair, a fingernail clipping, bind it to a representational fetish and voila. Or, an incantation of some kind. But that would be complicated. It would have to be handcrafted, personally designed, and crafting magic from whole cloth is no easy feat.” Sherlock rocks back and forth on his heels speculatively. “Whoever killed these men was very powerful.”
“Voodoo?” A slight frission of anxiety trickles up John’s spine as he considers his interaction with Eshu. Could the trickster god be involved in this? One of his followers? No, no that’s just paranoid. “As in a voodoo doll?”
“Yes. But I think we can safely rule that option out.”
“Why?”
“Because the killer was present at the scene of the crime. Voodoo is an excellent option for harming from a safe distance. But the fact that both apartments were torn apart indicates that this was done up close and personal. Of course, one can use it in close proximity, but we can rule out voodoo because of the handprints.”
“The what?”
“Handprints.” Sherlock’s hands waft through the air expressively, illustrating his point. “Each heart shows direct lines of pressure from where a hand was wrapped around them and squeezed. Small hands to be sure, but hands nonetheless, human in shape. If a voodoo fetish doll, or something of that ilk, had been used, it would have been too small for a hand to wrap around the heart placed within it. They still could have simulated crushing the heart, but the heart would not have actual handprints on it as a result, it would have simply been crushed.” His head tilts to one side and he corrects, “In fact, voodoo would have been a more effective way of killing them if that was the point, and less easily traced. Far less suspicious. The power needed to create such actual physical damage would have been immense. They could have just as easily crushed the fetish heart between their fingers and the actual heart would have simply arrested in response. No, this was far more vicious, far more personal.” His head turns, pale eyes boring into John’s intently. “Whoever killed these men wanted them to suffer. He wanted them to feel pain, terror. I suspect he took his time. This wasn’t simply murder. This was torture that ended in murder.”
“So that leaves us with some sort of spell?”
“Most likely.”
“Doesn’t really help us narrow down the field, does it?”
Sherlock’s eyes narrow upon John before he replies, “Yes, and no. There are not a great many Adepts with the power to reach into a man’s chest and crush his heart without affecting anything but the heart. But then there are quite a few Adepts who keep their existence secret from others of their own kind. It’s one line of inquiry but at this juncture I think our best option is the cipher. Only the cipher can tell us why they died, John, which is currently more important than knowing who or how.”
Both men stare at the yellow designs before Sherlock reaches up and tears the images from the wall. “Right, time for us to consult with an expert.”
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
Rolling his eyes, Sherlock retorts, “I’m not repeating myself.”
“An expert. You need to consult? An expert?” A small grin starts to curl John’s lips.
Sighing with annoyance as he wraps his scarf about his throat, Sherlock rumbles, “On painting, yes, I need an expert…”
*****
“When you said you needed a painting expert I have to confess, I thought we would be going to the Museum of Art…”
“Not that kind of art,” Sherlock offers without explanation.
Course, by this point, he doesn’t have to. It’s clear to John what sort of artist they’re looking for.
Between running after Sherlock all morning, running afoul of the pooka, and his run in with the police in the afternoon, the last thing John had been looking forward to was a tour through East London, talking on occasion to some of Sherlock’s homeless network, searching for this ‘expert’ painter. They wind their way along Brick Lane and Old Street, heading toward Shoreditch and Hoxton, checking every backstreet and alleyway along their way. John is tired, sore and hungry, limping slightly now but doggedly following after Sherlock. He tries to focus on the case, rather than the complaints of his all too human body.
“Right, well, how exactly are you planning to crack the cipher then?”
Glancing over at John, Sherlock notes, “This isn’t a modern form of cryptography. We won’t crack this code using computers and current electronic cipher methods. This is something older, harkening back to when the art of cryptography was simpler. Something along the lines of a substitution or transposition cipher. Perhaps something more akin to the Choctaw code talkers used by the United States in WWI or the Navaho code talkers in WWII. We need to take an older approach here.”
Turning a corner they come upon a young man dressed in cargo pants and a sweatshirt, a bag of paint cans by his trainer clad feet, a can in his hand, rattling as he shakes it before applying a smooth, flawless line to his current masterpiece. He barely gives them a glance.
“Heard you were looking for me. What can I do you for?” His eyes remain focused, studying the concrete wall before him intently before thickening a section of the outline of his piece. John turns to study the work, brow creasing at the malicious red eyes and sharp teeth of a cop lifting his baton to bring it down upon the head of a cowering victim at his feet. The hint of demonic bat wings makes it all too familiar an image, though, sadly, most humans don’t need to be possessed by a demon in order to commit such acts of violence and cruelty. Catching the direction of John’s gaze, the lad offers him an unrepentant grin and explains, “I call it… Urban Bloodlust Frenzy.” He lets out a low, mirthless sort of chuckle.
Sherlock’s gloved hand reaches out silently, offering the young man his mobile. Tossing the can of paint to John, he takes the device and begins to shift through the images there.
“Recognize the author?”
There’s a slight shake of his head to indicate not, but he replies instead, “I recognize the paint. Looks like Michigan, hard-core propellant. Probably zinc.”
“And the symbols? Do you recognize them?”
His youthful features crinkle as he retorts, “Don’t look like a proper language. Might be some tagger’s private style, but it’s crap if it is…”
“Unlikely, considering it’s connected to the murder of two men. I need to know what it means, Raz. Somebody must know something.”
Dark brown eyes flicker back and forth between Sherlock, John, and the mobile before he offers it back to Sherlock. “Bit thin to go on, but I’ll ask around. Keep my eyes open. Get back to you the usual way?”
“That’ll do. I’d appreciate it if you could move on it quickly,” Sherlock rumbles, reaching into his pocket to pull out a folded bill, slipping it into Raz’s hand. “There could be more lives at risk than we realize.”
*****
“Sherlock. Sherlock? Sherlock!”
“Hmmmm? What is it John, can’t you see that I’m thinking?”
“Where are we going?”
“Nowhere.”
“Yes, I gathered that, but could you be a little more specific?”
“I’m thinking John. Walking and thinking. Destination is of little consequence right now.”
Stopping dead, John waits till Sherlock realizes he’s not with him any longer, then waits till Sherlock finally turns around to stare at him, scowling slightly as he asks, “What?”
“It’s all well and good that you’re ‘thinking’, but if it’s all the same to you could we do this back at the flat or in a restaurant? I haven’t eaten in hours and I doubt you’ve eaten either. I’m completely knackered. I could do with a bit of a break.”
“No time, John,” Sherlock counters, moving on and forcing John to catch up. “We don’t have the time to lie about relaxing. There’s a killer out there, a powerful one, and there’s no telling where he might strike next.” He stops abruptly, John literally colliding against Sherlock’s back, both men stumbling slightly before Sherlock spins about, grasping John about the shoulders and guiding him down the street.
“What? Where are we going?”
“Not we, you. Time is of the essence. Divide and conquer. You, John, are going to go back to the police station. Ask Lestrade about the journalist. They should have his personal effects there by now. See if he had a journal or date book, anything that might have indicated his movements over the past week or so.”
“Alright…. Where are you going?”
“I’m going back to Van Coon’s office to do the same. I’m sure his PA will have some record of his appointments and activities. We know that China is the link between these two men. Now it’s time to see where their paths have bisected here in London.”
*****
His mind is awhirl as he examines the puzzle pieces gained in his latest visit to Sanderson Shad. It didn’t take him long. Van Coon’s secretary was clearly much more than that at one time, given by the expensive hand cream on her desk that matched the brand in Van Coon’s flat, the regret and grief in her eyes, but the stoic and slightly removed air about her. A woman who had been involved in an affair with her boss, but who got out of the relationship before she got in too deep. But she was not involved in his death. An arbitrary relationship, born of mutual attraction and opportunity, with a man possessing more money than sense. A man who believed that expensive gifts were sufficient to express his affections; that a diamond ring or an extravagant present equaled love. Clearly the woman felt differently, wanted something more. Something personal and intimate.
The receipts were more useful. A taxicab to arrive, the tube to depart, and a convenient bite to eat in between to inform Sherlock of exactly where Edward Van Coon went on the day of his death. The problem? The street in question is positively festooned with any number of gift shops, pawnshops, clothing stores, restaurants, apartment buildings, with no indicator of which one might have been his destination. There’s no telling where the cab dropped him, or what the distance was between his destination and the tube station. Close, most likely, but that still left potentially blocks upon blocks to search through with no clue to go on.
Turning about slowly, Sherlock studies the café and tries to determine from its position on the street which direction Van Coon would have come from, muttering under his breath. “Come on, come on… I know you came here with a package. Why else would you come via a cab and leave by the tube? You were carrying something. Something heavy, perhaps something fragile. You didn’t want to risk it on the tube, so a cab. So far, so obvious. You got a bite to eat here before getting on at Piccadilly, but where were you headed from? Where did the taxi drop…ooof!”
Spinning about to see who he’s collided with, one brow lifts in a second of surprise. It’s John. No, no of course it’s John, because this is it, the point of intersection, the second point by which these two utterly different men lives bisect one another’s. He barely even pauses, shifting his monolog into a dialog with John.
“Van Coon was here, delivering a package. Something that he brought back from China. I managed to figure out this location due to a scraps of information and receipts that he gave to his secretary but I don’t know where the drop off actually happened.”
“Sherlock….”
“It has to be nearby, within at least a three to five block radius, but that’s still easily 132 possible shops, 52 possible service businesses, 47 possible restaurants, and 158 possible apartment complexes and over-shop flats…”
“Sherlock…”
“So the question of course is, which one? I can potentially suggest that he must have been walking up the block on this side, unlikely he would cross the street for this restaurant as there’s a large skip that would have hidden it from view until he was past it if he had been walking on the other side of the street, but that still doesn’t explain where he…”
With a sharp huff of breath, John interjects, pointing across the way. “That shop, over there.”
Blinking, Sherlock halts in the middle of his diatribe to peer at John and then the indicated shop.
“How on earth did you deduce that?”
Lifting up his hand to reveal the small notebook gripped between his fingers, John points out, “Lukis’ diary. He wrote it down.”
Torn between relief at having the answer, and disappointment at the solution being so obvious, Sherlock can only offer a faint, “Oh…” before following John across the street to a garish little tourist trap.
They wander through the store, picking up this and studying that, not at all certain of what it is that they’re looking for. The Lucky Cat Emporium is clearly just a front, just a drop off point for the smuggled goods and therefore unlikely to have anything of use in their investigation.
“Sherlock,” John offers conversationally, trying to look more like an actual shopper than a detective’s assistant, “look at this. Maybe we should consider getting some new dishes for the flat…”
John gets ‘that look’ for his suggestion, one brow raising up defensively as he notes, “Well I, for one, am getting a little tired of having a completely mismatched set of dining ware just because you keep using various pieces of it in your experiments. Just come and look at this…”
“John, concentrate on what’s important.”
With a huff of annoyance, John turns the bowl in his hand over to examine the price and blinks.
“Sherlock…”
“John, really, this is pointless, we aren’t here to…”
“Sherlock. Look. At. This.”
With a huff of his own Sherlock comes to John’s side, his expression quickly shifting from irritation to cool speculation.
“Do you see….?”
“Yes, yes, John, I see. Come along.”
John offers the shop owner a polite nod of his head and a thank you before he is bustled out the door burbling, “It’s the same. It’s exactly the same as the cipher.”
“Yes, yes it is. How stupid of me! I just assumed it was an ancient symbol, a magical or arcane set of symbols, but this, this is far more logical…”
“You recognize it then?”
“Recognize is a strong word, look around you, John…”
They’ve stopped in front of a produce vendor, small signs with prices in English, and their cipher, abound.
“It’s an ancient number system from China. Suzhou mazi. Only street traders use it any more. Those weren’t words written on the wall of the bank. Not per se. They were numbers.”
Glancing about him, John points out each symbol now that they have a means to do so. “A fifteen. And the number one.” His elation, however, is short lived. “Right, okay, but what does it mean?”
*****
A short while later finds the pair in a restaurant. John doesn’t hesitate for a moment but orders something he knows can be delivered and eaten quickly. Hopefully before Sherlock finishes explaining everything to him. He waits while Sherlock silently mulls over the details and thanks the waitress when she places a piping hot bowl in front of him. He waits a moment longer, till she’s out of earshot, before lifting a spoonful of hot and sour soup halfway to his mouth, asking, “So… you think they were smugglers?”
Sherlock’s fingers stopping beating rhythmically against each other and fold before him, pressing lightly against the cupid’s bow of his lips. “So far, so obvious. We know that both Van Coon and Lukis went to China on a regular basis, they both brought something back with them, packed in their luggage, and they both delivered said something to the Lucky Cat Emporium. The question isn’t whether or not they were smugglers. The question is, what were they smuggling?”
John’s managed to get in a few bites by now, the bowl down by a quarter. He blows on his next spoonful of soup asking, “Drugs?”
“Drugs would be too risky. They wouldn’t chance carrying something like that in their luggage - dogs would sniff it out sooner or later and they both had successful careers in their own rights. No point in putting that at risk. So that leaves antiquities.”
Taking another bite, John’s brow creases. “I still don’t understand. If both men were smuggling goods in from China, and both of them dropped them off, why were they killed?”
“Think about it, John. They weren’t just killed. Their apartments were thoroughly and methodically searched.”
It only takes John another second to put the pieces together before his mouth opens into a small ‘o’ of comprehension. “One of them stole something…”
“Exactly. One of them must have gotten greedy and took something for themselves. And since it wasn’t known which one was responsible for the theft…”
“They were both killed and their flats ransacked.” John takes a moment, blinking before recalling, “But you said that the thief didn’t find what he was looking for at Lukis’ apartment, and if the stolen item had been at Van Coon’s apartment, then Lukis’ would have been innocent….”
“Correct. Which means, whatever was stolen is still out there and they’re still looking for it.”
“So there’s another player involved? Another smuggler?” John has forgotten his soup in the moment, spoon hovering between bowl and mouth.
“Difficult to say, but I think if we don’t move quickly, there’s going to be another body found in the same condition as both Van Coon and Lukis.” Rising up from his chair, Sherlock murmurs, “Come John,” before heading toward the door with purpose in his every step.
Staring down at his half finished bowl, John drops his spoon with a clink and sighs. Pulling out his wallet he puts down enough money to cover for the food, before hurrying to catch up before he’s left behind again. He can’t help but wonder if he’ll ever get to finish a meal out when Sherlock is on a case.
Once on the street again, they weave their way toward Charing Cross Road, Sherlock furiously typing upon his Blackberry.
“You know, I would have liked to have finished that,” John grouses.
Sherlock doesn’t even glance at him, asking mildly, “Finish what?” All he gets for a response is an exasperated sigh, which he dismisses as unimportant.
“Fine, where are we going?”
“I need to consult an expert.”
John stops dead in his tracks and after a few steps Sherlock seems to realize that he’s lost him and turns around, coat whirling in his wake. “What?”
John can’t stop the smug smile that is spreading his lips wider and wider. “Nothing, it’s just … two “experts”? In one day?? You’re slipping.”
Snorting in derision, Sherlock rumbles, “I can’t be an expert at everything John. I can’t be constantly filling up my brain with clutter.”
“Fine, fine, you’re only super-human, not omniscient. So where are we going?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock retorts. “To the British Museum.”