Fanfic - The Great Puzzle 2/3 [Sherlock BBC: John/Sherlock]
Once again, divided into two posts because LJ's size limit can't handle the chapter in one post. Are my chapters maybe a little too long? *ponders*
Also, a shout-out and fervent thanks to the lovely folk over at little_details, who were able to help me with - well, some little details in this chapter that eventually changed the course of the fic. For the better, I think!
Chapter One - Part One
Chapter One - Part Two
two:
six impossible things
Sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast. - Through the Looking Glass, Lewis Carroll
John never stays out past three in the morning, at the absolute latest. Just to be certain, Sherlock waits until eight before he accepts that John will not be returning.
Now what?
Sherlock goes up the stairs to John’s room. It’s normally off-limits, per John’s request. Sherlock hasn’t seen fit to break his word thus far - it’s so much more interesting working things out without any help from John’s belongings. But John had said he wouldn’t do anything stupid, and he’s clearly broken that promise, so Sherlock feels no compunctions about opening the door and slipping in quietly.
John’s room is neat and organised, the mark of a military man clearly evident in the perfect corners of the sheets. The wardrobe offers little but confirmation of John’s habits. Sherlock turns on the laptop, cracks the password in a minute, then waits for it to boot up.
Nothing interesting in the browser history. Doesn’t appear to have been specifically cleared, either, so John hadn’t felt the need to hide anything. Hm. He does have a blog, but there’s practically nothing on it, just a brief biography, and a couple of inconsequential entries. Sherlock checks each one, just in case. Only a few people have left comments.
Harry Watson. Obvious who she is, equally obvious that she’ll know just about nothing useful. Ella. Who’s this Ella that John writes of, who insists on John keeping a blog? 25th January is interesting, though. Sherlock knew that John had played rugby as a youth, though not that he’d kept up with his teammates. Doubtful that they’d know any more than Harry, but it’s a possibility that Sherlock cannot rule out just yet. John must have been meeting someone at the pub all this while, and his rugby friends are a far likelier choice than an alcoholic sister.
None of them mentioned my leg, reads the last line of the entry. What about John’s leg? There was nothing wrong with it. The only physical problem he might have been self-conscious about was his arm. Of course, this was before Sherlock had met John. Might John have had some trouble with his leg as well, that had healed by the time he met Sherlock? In that case, might the E Thompson who’s left a comment about a missed appointment, be a physiotherapist of some sort? But no, there’s the matter of the mysterious Ella. He will presume for now that Ella is E Thompson. Ella wants John to keep up a blog, and to meet her for apparently regular appointments. The former means she can’t be a physiotherapist - likely just a therapist. It’s possible. The war still haunts John, as is evident from the sporadic nightmares that drives John downstairs at unreasonable hours.
Very well, then. John has been seeing a therapist. She’s another person Sherlock might be able to talk to. Clearly, it will take some work to get any information from her. If she is at all ethical, she will not discuss her patients with anyone. Not without clear evidence that John is in danger, and that her notes could help save him.
Or without Mycroft. Sherlock pushes the possibility into the very back of his mind.
One more entry. Bill Murray. Had saved John’s life?
Sherlock’s struck with the sudden desire to thank a man he’s never even met. He firmly ignores it. Few helpful clues here, other than another name for Sherlock to track down.
The blog entries end there. Sherlock thinks back to when he’d met John. The day after this last entry, surely? John hasn’t been writing in his blog since he’d met Sherlock. That may or may not be significant.
A thorough search of the computer turns up nothing else that’s interesting. There are some photos of John in his younger years, in his army uniform, with his family, with his army mates, in London and in Afghanistan. Sherlock might have gotten slightly distracted by the carefree expression John wears in the majority of those photos, but he eventually concedes that there is nothing more to be found on the laptop.
Rest of the room, then.
The desk is Sherlock’s next stop. It once rested next to the door, as is apparent from the deep marks on the rug. John has moved it to the front of the small window instead. Apparently he prefers natural light to a desk lamp. Clearly, he works there. On the laptop? No, the angle at which he’s placed the desk would actually be inconvenient, with his laptop - the light would cause a glare off the screen. Something else, then. Written work? Does he read here?
Drawers. The top drawer is empty. Sherlock studies it carefully, but there are no marks to indicate what might have been stored there. The laptop, possibly? He leans closer and sniffs. Peculiar smell, almost faded. Something like alcohol. And bananas. Hm. Ah, dark spots on the table, as if a liquid had stained the wood. What could cause that staining, and why would John have it with him? Same smell as from the drawer, very faint. Sherlock runs his finger over the stains. They’ve soaked well in, but there’s a very thin layer of oil on his finger now. The depth of staining suggests that it occurred a while ago; the fact that there’s still oil on his fingers tells him that John had splashed a little more of the liquid on the desk recently, and it hasn’t had time to fully soak in. Yesterday, before leaving? The timeline does fit.
He turns back to the laptop and does a quick search online to confirm his suspicions about the source of the smell. Then he thinks back to John’s hands. His callouses still haven’t even begun to fade.
All right. John has a gun. No wonder he’d been eager for there never to be any more fake drugs busts. He’s taken the gun and everything he needs to maintain it with him. What else? Second drawer holds two novels and a medical textbook. Nothing noteworthy in the novels. Probably not the textbook, either.
Except it’s not a textbook. It’s a journal, its hard covers enclosed in a dust jacket from a similarly-sized textbook. The entries begin from the day that Sherlock had met John. Had John decided to start using this journal instead of his blog? Why conceal it thus? To hide it from Sherlock’s inquisitive eyes? Well - with good reason, perhaps, given what Sherlock is doing now.
Just had the most peculiar dream, the first entry begins. That, or I’ve finally gone round the bend. My leg doesn’t hurt anymore, though. Is it possible to get over a psychosomatic limp because of something that happens in a dream?
It was, at any rate, a very realistic dream. I almost expected to wake up there. Instead, here I am in this quiet bedsit I haven’t thought of in almost three months. It was three months in my dream. I’ve never dreamed such a long period of time, and so many events, in one night before.
I miss it. I want to wake up and know what became of the absolutely mad people I got to know in my dream. Or just one in particular. I don’t much care about the others. I want to know what happened to him, and if he made it out all right. Clearly I did. I woke up. But part of me can’t help but feel like he’s trapped there still, in my dream, and that he’ll die because I’m not there with him.
Ridiculous, of course. Ella would have a field day with me if I told her any of this. But I won’t. I won’t put it in the blog, either. I can’t say I think much of it. I did work on my blog, in my dream, and maybe it helped a little. I don’t think I could do it now, though, not after the dream. And yet writing seems to help, or it did in the dream, and so I’ve gone out and bought this journal and I shall put my thoughts down here.
1400
The clinic just called. I missed my appointment. Ella’s not happy, given I missed my previous one, too. I just forgot, though. I’d already stopped going, in my dream. And it was so real. I’d forgotten I had an appointment today.
Still no limp.
Arm hurts like hell though.
I’m going to go out for a walk. It’s pathetic, I know, but I want to go to Barts. In the dream, I met an old friend in the park beside the hospital, and through a coincidence, he introduced me to the most fascinating man I have ever known.
I know it won’t happen this time. I still want to go. It’s more than a little pathetic, but here I am.
1830
I don’t think it was a dream.
I don’t know what it was.
I’m meeting Sherlock tomorrow, to go look at 221B Baker Street. I’ll take it, of course I will. And I’ll see if anything else happens the way it did in my dream.
This makes no sense.
No one called “Jim” in the IT department yet though. I checked before leaving Barts.
Sherlock ponders the entry for a time before moving on to the next one. It’s dated the 3rd of February.
1300
Here I am, in 221B Baker Street, cohabiting with Sherlock. Even now, I can hear him clattering in the kitchen. He’s got some sort of experiment going. I saw bits of meat that I sincerely hope aren’t human. Must have a talk with him about keeping his experiments separate from the food. He might not care to eat much, but I certainly do!
God, I can’t believe this is real. I pinch myself quite frequently, willing myself to wake up. I feel the pain, but the scenery never changes. Then again, I went through quite a bit of pain in my dream, so who’s to say I’d wake up from a pinch?
The thing is, I can’t stop thinking about what if it was real. Because if it is, then Sherlock has three months left to live. Well, so do I, but that’s only if I stay with Sherlock. If I just left, I imagine I wouldn’t be nearly as interesting to “Jim.” He wouldn’t be able to use me to get to Sherlock. It might even be safer for Sherlock. That’s what I thought at first, but then I realised that no, it wouldn’t be. He’s an idiot, and he’ll put himself right in the firing line just to prove he’s right. Just so he won’t be bored.
I don’t know what to do. I live with one of the smartest men in the world, but I certainly can’t go to him for advice. He’d think me mad. I think me mad.
But the cabbie did turn out to be the killer. How could I have known that? I dreamed it, I dreamed what he did. But how could I possibly have seen the truth in my dream?
They haven’t found out the whole truth about him though. He didn’t tell them about the game he played. Choose a pill, one or the other. They take the one they choose; he takes the other. 50-50 chance of surviving. Or a gun to the face. The gun was the right choice, but none of those poor sods realised it. But right now, the coppers think that he just threatened them at gunpoint to take the poison. They don’t know about the game. I suppose it doesn’t make much difference, in the long run.
They don’t know about his brain aneurysm either. I wonder how long he’ll last? I hope he makes it to trial. I want to see what will happen this time around, since he’s alive.
I don’t regret shooting him in my dream. It was like being back in Afghanistan, seeing Sherlock bringing that pill to his mouth. You kill to save a friend. So I did. I’d known this man for a day at that point, and I shot to save him. He’d shown me my limp was psychosomatic. He’d shown me I could be more than I was allowing myself to be. And in his way, I think he cared. I don’t know that for certain, because he’d never tell me as such, and of course I can’t read him the way he can me. But I think he did. I like to imagine he did.
I have nothing of the same history with this Sherlock. In my dream, he saved me, and then I saved him, all in a day. You can’t help but get along, in that case. We don’t have that here. I don’t know what he thinks about me. I know that he’s not the same as the Sherlock in my dream, but I can’t help but still think of him the same way. He probably doesn’t think very much of me at all, but I’d be happy to throw myself between him and a bullet. He has no idea the power he has over me. Or perhaps he does. I wouldn’t put it past him.
He’s absolutely mad, mad, mad. He’s also charming. God help me, I don’t know how to leave him.
I really think I am going mad. At least I am in good company.
Sherlock takes a deep breath and expels it slowly. He needs a nicotine patch. He examines the rest of the room, discovering a few receipts from various shops he will have to investigate. There’s little else of import though, and so he takes the journal with him and retires to the sofa.
Three nicotine patches. He has a feeling he’ll need them. Then he opens up the journal again. The fading pattern of the ink, as well as the wear and tear of the book in general suggests that John has indeed been writing in it constantly. This isn’t a recent idea cooked up to explain the oddities of yesterday. It doesn’t rule out the fact that it was an idea cooked up at least a month ago, which John has been gradually implementing.
Sherlock rubs his chest absently. It’s feeling a little tight. Perhaps he ought to get some tea in him.
Later. First, the journal.
04/02/2011
2045
It occurs to me that certain aspects of my dream are easily verifiable.
Off to the museum tomorrow. I need to see what she has to say.
05/02/2011
2000
All right, so at least some parts of this are true. She was worried enough about how much I knew, to take me at my word when I said she was in danger. I don’t know if it will be enough to save her life. But she’s intelligent. With any luck…
Given today, I think I’m seriously going to have to put some thought towards the Problem. I can hardly walk up to a man and shoot him in the head, then claim I saw in a dream that he was a criminal mastermind. Well, I could, but I don’t fancy spending time in prison. And there’s still that niggling question of what if I’m wrong?
So information-gathering it is.
I hope to god Sherlock doesn’t figure out what I’m up to. The only way to lie to him is to tell him the truth. That’s what I’m going to do - tell him I’m going to the pub and meet some friends. I just won’t tell him who exactly, or what I’m planning on doing there.
This could all go very, very wrong. I wish Sherlock was with me.
07/02/2011
0135
Lucked out tonight (yesterday night?) when I met O’Malley. He was happy to introduce me to some of his friends. They don’t trust me yet, of course. But they will. I haven’t forgotten how to get myself in with that group.
Just hope I don’t have to prove myself.
09/02/2011
- cabbie’s death
- pink phone?
- no mention of name
- death of widower?
- conversation with SL
- find out more about him
- organisation?
- INFORMATION
If I can find proof, I needn’t explain how I came to know of his existence.
11/02/2011
1930
Stew’s on the stove. I’m going to try and convince Sherlock to eat today. He’s been on a case the past two days, which means of course that he hasn’t eaten anything in that time. I wish he’d realise it’s just not healthy. Or more to the point, I wish he’d care that it’s terrible for his body. He has a tendency to cherry-pick biological facts as they suit him. Yes, of course digestion does slow you down a little. That’s the point; to give your body time to convert the nutrients you need and send it into your blood and cells. Sherlock refuses to give his body that chance. He claims it allows him to divert all his energies towards thinking. Problem is that he’s not giving his brain the nutrition it needs to keep going - but just try and tell him that! I really do worry about the long-term effects on his health. He has giddy spells he pretends don’t exist. It’s one reason I don’t protest his demands for tea. At least it gives me a chance to get something into him. The sugar might be a temporary respite, but it’s better than nothing at all.
In other news, my “work” is going decently. It’s stalled a little, but I’ve put out some feelers. There’s actually an astoundingly high rate of veterans who wind up in prison. Technically, we’re decently provided for. In reality, some of us do wind up with a lot of red tape to get through. And in the interim, what are we meant to do with no money? I’m a little better off than some of my peers; I’ve got a decent amount squirrelled away. But then there’s loans and the cost of living in London, and so my savings are dwindling. I got lucky with the amount I was granted. Others don’t get even as much as I do. With all the trouble you can have getting your pension regularly, not to mention the pittance some wind up with - it’s really not surprising. Especially when you’re thrown out on disability. Many of us don’t get treated very well by the country we gave health, limbs and lives for. It’s been easy convincing people I’m a down-on-my-luck veteran with a good deal of bitterness and anger against the government system.
I hope to god I can maintain the charade.
19/02/2011
0800
I was asked yesterday if I’d like to do a small job for someone. A friend of a friend. Perfectly simple, just running a little package over to someone. I did, and I was introduced to a Sebastian Moran. He was scouting me, I think, to join the organisation. I think this might be it. I have no doubt that it will start off small. That they won’t trust me with much. But it’s the little people who go overlooked, and I’m counting on that to allow me to gather the information I need.
I need to figure out a safe way to communicate with Sherlock and Mycroft. I like Lestrade well enough, but this is rather beyond his usual job scope. I wouldn’t trust anyone but Sherlock to deal with this, and Mycroft’s resources can only be helpful to him. I hope Sherlock isn’t too proud to ask Mycroft for help, when the time comes.
I hate what I’m doing. I hate knowing I’m delivering drugs. I hate being undercover when no one knows I’m undercover.
I want this to be over.
24/02/2011
Moran is his second-in-command. He’s a vet himself, I can tell. I think he might be scouting me for “security” work. He knows a soldier when he sees one, too.
This one’s intelligent. I’ll have to be on my guard around him.
So far, I am certain that the organisation has branches here, in Ireland, in Russia (no specifics yet), in France, in Italy and in Germany. They do not have any hold over the Americas (USA, Canada, Mexico, the various South American countries which I’ll no doubt be unable to list in their entirety). They are currently looking to expand further into the continent.
They run drugs (primarily cocaine, heroin and methamphetamines) - that is the only specific crime they engage in, and I suspect it’s to maintain a steady source of revenue between cases. He’s a little more… grandiose than Sherlock is. The rest of the operations are dedicated to helping people carry out their perfect crimes. All the teams here? They’re for him to send out when it’s necessary to help someone “relocate,” or bring someone into the country illegally, or commit a perfect murder.
The organisation is very tightly controlled. He knows just about everything that happens in it.
So close. But no proof yet.
28/02/2011
Moran wants me to join a “security detail.”
If I’m asked to kill someone, I’ll have to get out as soon as possible. I can’t
03/03/2011
I wonder what Sherlock would do?
It’s been dangerous, sneaking around and trying to get information. At least I haven’t been asked to kill someone yet. And yet those drugs. I feel like I have killed people. More blood on my hands. Innocents. Like that boy back then. Sometimes I can still see his blood on my hands. He couldn’t have been more than seven. Seven, and hoping for me to save him, but what could I do with injuries that severe? It only took a minute.
I hate this.
My only respite is Sherlock. Being with him keeps me sane. People would probably tell me that’s an odd statement, given the random bits of bodies in the fridge, and all that. But he does. I’m so glad they haven’t asked me to move away yet. They’re still testing me. I hope they don’t know about my sneaking around. Part of me thinks they do, and they’re waiting to see what my agenda is. The rest of me is sure they haven’t figured it out yet. I’m not quite important enough at the moment.
I am considering letting Sherlock’s name slip. Orchestrating some scenario whereby I’ll be asked to go somewhere at an odd time, and I can say that I can’t, since I live with a very observant detective, and I don’t want to give him any reason to suspect me. If I do let Sherlock’s name slip, no doubt he will take an interest. I wonder if he’s been watching Sherlock all this time, ever since the Carl Powers case, ever since Sherlock came so close to solving what he must have thought was the perfect murder. It scares me how obsessed he is with Sherlock. It scares me what Sherlock might think of him. A perfect nemesis? Will he want to take him down if it means losing an “interesting” situation?
In my dream (?), I knew that Sherlock had decided losing me wasn’t an equable trade. I don’t know if this Sherlock would think the same way. If he would prefer to let this genius enemy go, just to ensure he’ll have interesting cases to solve in the future.
He’ll have to get involved soon though; the man’s already demonstrated he’s going to go ahead with it. I don’t know what the catalyst will be this time, but he’s definitely planning his games. That horrid secret message he sent to Sherlock’s website. Two more on the way, soon, and then he’ll set his games into play.
I’m not about to let him.
04/03/2011
0200
Have not been sleeping well lately. Every time I close my eyes, I see the bomb go off, I see Sherlock die.
I had a mildly terrifying thought earlier. There were three of us there, when the bomb went off. I know Sherlock died, the angle of his neck was obvious enough. I blacked out (and then woke up three months ago). I don’t know what happened to him, though - what if he went through whatever I went through?
And then I realise I’m thinking we - what, shared a dream? Or that this is Groundhog Day for me? It’s ridiculous, but at one in the morning, everything seems plausible to an insomniac.
I can’t stop worrying whether he knows. And even if he doesn’t, I can’t stop worrying that he’ll realise I’m not who I claim to be.
I hear Sherlock puttering about downstairs. He doesn’t have a case at the moment, so he must just be being his usual nocturnal self. I think I’ll go see if he won’t agree to play a spot of violin. He’s massively talented, when he isn’t mimicking the sounds of a cat being tortured.
0900
He played for me. I fell asleep in my armchair. I don’t know how long he kept playing, but when I woke up, there was an afghan tucked around me. I can’t believe people keep accusing him of being heartless.
Six hours of the best sleep I’ve had in days.
06/03/2011
2345
Moran’s making noise about giving me another job. I think I acquitted myself well enough on the last. I’m not sure that’s a good thing. It’s difficult undermining ops without letting them fail entirely, or having suspicion come to bear on me.
I may have failed in the latter. I don’t know. I find myself more and more resigned to the fact that I probably won’t
08/03/2011
My dearest Sherlock,
Sherlock starts violently. His heart’s racing, for some reason. Numbly, he places the book aside, then gets up and heads for the kitchen. PG Tips. He hates it, but it’s cheap and that’s what John chooses to buy. Cheap. Because he has debts, and lives in London, and has not nearly enough money.
While the tea steeps, Sherlock opens the refrigerator. A jar of eyeballs stares out at him, and he looks back contemplatively. Then he plucks out a carton of leftover spring rolls, plates the food, and puts it in the microwave. John worries about his eating habits. Why does John worry?
The spring rolls take just a minute, and Sherlock pours the tea out while the food cools slightly. The tea is milky and sweet and he can’t quite remember what he’s supposed to do with it.
His brain’s so full.
Nicotine patches. He’s lost track of time. He rips the patches off, folds them up, wraps them, and throws them away. Then he goes to the sink to scrub his hands. A while later, he realises that his skin is red and raw. He turns the water off, picks up his plate and cup, and returns to the sofa.
John is either mad, clairvoyant, or a time-traveller.
Whichever the truth, Sherlock has not seen it coming at all.
He finishes the spring rolls and lingers over the tea. The journal sits next to him on the sofa, innocuously pretending to be a textbook on neurology.
Time passes. Finally, he picks up the journal again, turning to the page he’d stopped at.
My dearest Sherlock, it reads,
I am not really sure how to begin this letter, or even what exactly to say to you. By this time, you probably think me mad. To have dreamed the events of three months - of meeting you, of working with you, of (a word was heavily blacked out here, and Sherlock could not make out what it had been) coming to know you… of dying with you - I know it seems the story of a madman. Even now, I am not quite certain what the dream is. What came before, or what I am living now? Either way, I find I am not willing to risk your life on the assumption that what I have “lived” was merely an invention of a fevered brain.
Therefore, I set out to verify certain aspects of my dream. If you choose to wait, you might find that near the end of the month, an old university acquaintance of yours contacts you regarding a vandalism case. His name is Sebastian Wilkes. The vandalism case will turn into a murder case, and then into an international smuggling case.
Or it may not. I have already been to speak to Soo Lin Yao at the National Antiquities Museum, where she served as an expert on Chinese antiques. I did not tell her that my information comes from my dreams, but my knowledge of the Chinese crime syndicate she is hiding from was enough to convince her to flee. This may change some of the events I feel I lived through. I am fairly sure that at least two of the murders will still occur, though.
What happened in my dream was this: there is a crime syndicate called the Black Lotus Tong. Soo Lin was conscripted as a child, alongside her brother. She quickly grew disillusioned with them and eventually fled the country. Her brother, on the other hand, believed every word of their rhetoric, and grew to become one of their most skilled assassins.
Two parallel crimes: one, the murders of Edward Van Coon and Brian Lukis. Both encountered apparently random graffiti before they died. (This graffiti is what will prompt Wilkes to contact you - there is no clue as to how the vandal got into the office. When I tell you that Soo Lin’s brother’s nickname is “the spider,” you will no doubt understand how it was carried out.) The graffiti was in fact a code - a book code, to be precise. The symbols were actually ancient Chinese numerals, and each pair of numbers stood for a word: page number, then word number. The book used was the London A-Z. The graffiti both men encountered read “Deadman.”
They were both smugglers, working for the Black Lotus. One of them stole a tiny jade hairpin, thinking it would not be missed. Unfortunately for him, it actually cost nine million pounds. Naturally, the Black Lotus came after him. They didn’t know if it was Van Coon or Lukis, so they threatened and killed them both. Sadly for them, they were still unable to recover the pin. Van Coon had given it as a gift to his secretary, with whom he’d been in a relationship.
While here, the Black Lotus also went after Soo Lin. Given that they smuggled antiquities, her usefulness to them will be apparent to you. She was murdered for failing to cooperate. Hopefully, my warning will allow her to survive. I could think of nothing to do for Van Coon or Lukis. You might have more success. Or you might choose to let things play out, to see if any of what I claim, comes to pass. I certainly will not blame you if you do; it is exactly what I did at first. It was only when I realised that you might be in danger, that I began trying to change things.
There you are, then. It’s about all I can offer in the way of proof, as regards my dream.
Proof about Moriarty, on the other hand, is a little more concrete.
James Moriarty set himself up as a “consulting criminal” - your antithesis. I think he’s been interested in you from a very early age. What he said while he was holding me hostage makes me think that Carl Powers was his very first kill. He’d thought it perfect, and he was astounded to realise that someone had seen something amiss. That someone was you. He kept an eye on you and your career thereafter, especially after you set yourself up as a consulting detective. I don’t know if he got the idea for his career choice from you or not, but what he does is, he tells people how to commit the perfect crime. For a price, he’ll plan out a murder that will never be pinned on you. You’ll have to carry it out yourself; he never gets his own hands dirty. For a little extra money, he’ll provide you with any help you might need.
Janus Cars is one of his fronts, according to my dream. My current research has also backed that up. In my research, you’ll find other fronts.
It’s up to you what you will do with the information.
As for me, it should be obvious from the previous entries in this journal that I have managed to join his organisation. (I was about to write “infiltrate” but that seems far too much like a spy movie.) I was able to gather some information. It may be enough to give you a place to start. I’d like, of course, to see his organisation brought down.
If you choose to ignore all that I have written here, that’s fine. I plan to obtain whatever information I can get, and put it in the usual place. It’ll be there waiting, whatever you decide to do with it - proclaim it to the world or burn it, I don’t care.
As for where the information is - I don’t know if you’ve discovered this yet. (Somehow, I doubt it, given the state of your bedroom.) In the first drawer of your bedside table, taped to the top, is a key-card. I’m sure that you or Mycroft can locate the safety deposit box that it opens. You have access to it. All the information I’ve gathered is stored there. I thought about making backups, but I honestly haven’t the faintest where I could conceivably store them. I just hope that no one else gets to the information before you do.
My goal is to kill Moriarty. It’s said that you have to cut off the head of the snake to truly kill it. I honestly don’t know if killing him will result in the fall of his organisation. I hope it will. If it doesn’t - well, that’s up to you.
Watch out for Sebastian Moran. He’s as amoral as his employer, and only marginally less ruthless.
As I write this, I’m planning to whet your curiosity tomorrow. It’s a fine line I’ll have to walk - getting you curious enough that you’ll go snooping when I don’t return, but not so much that you refuse to let me leave. I know the flimsy disguise this journal wears won’t fool you for long. It’s been enough all this while (you never did invade my room unless to call me out for a case… and thank you for that, for respecting that boundary when I asked it of you), but once you’ve set your mind to things… well. I wish I knew what you’ll think once you’ve read all this.
Casey Sullivan (that’s the one I report to directly) has requested me on a “security detail” tomorrow. I know what that means. I also happen to know that Moriarty will be nearby. When the time comes, I will do my utmost to kill Moriarty, and give the target a chance to get away.
I don’t know what will happen to me then, or even if I’ll be successful in killing Moriarty. There’s also Moran to contend with, of course - he’s never far from his master - and I highly doubt I’ll have time to take out both of them. I rather suspect that even if I do kill Moriarty, I won’t see or hear Moran’s bullet coming.
Whatever does happen, I’ve come to terms with it. My only regret is that I didn’t have longer with you.
Please know that I have the sincerest regard for you. It has been my privilege to know you, and be granted a glimpse into your mind and heart. You are both a great man, and a good one. Don’t let anyone - including yourself - tell you otherwise.
Yours,
John
Sherlock gently closes the journal, sets it on his lap, then stares at nothing for a very long time.
Presently, he rouses himself off the sofa. He retrieves his phone, opens up a new text message to Lestrade, then types I need to speak to Jefferson Hope. SH
Now. Carl Powers. He has certainly never spoken of that first case to John before. There are a number of ways in which John might have come to know of it. Establishing the truth behind any of those reasons would entail measures Sherlock does not want to resort to just yet. There are, however, ways in which he can discover other truths.
There is indeed a key-card taped to the top of his drawer. It takes little time to track down the corresponding facility. Not one of the best, but probably the best John could afford. Sherlock discovers, upon his arrival there, that he is already listed on the paperwork as being approved to access the safety-deposit box. Inside are sheaves of paper - photocopies of receipts, notes, and some extremely incriminating documents.
There is still a minute possibility that these may have been forged. A thorough examination back at the flat turns up no indications of a forgery, so if they are in fact fake, they’re high-quality fakes. John has had neither the time to create them, nor the money to buy them. Either he’s been provided with them by someone else, or they’re real.
Sherlock curls up at the head of John’s bed and thinks.
There’s also another journal, this one detailing members of the supposed organisation that John has personally encountered. There’s no way to confirm their real names or identities, of course, but John has set down every last bit of identifying information he could remember. Some of it is telling, even if John has clearly not drawn the logical conclusions - this man once worked as a plumber, this one in the navy. Without names, fingerprints or DNA samples, there’s still little to start with. Sherlock nonetheless commits the trivial details to memory.
He checks his phone when it vibrates. Lestrade. The serial suicides guy? In remand, don’t think you’ll be allowed.
What would it take? SH, Sherlock texts back.
Won’t happen unless you’ve got him on a different charge, Lestrade replies immediately.
Sherlock considers that, then sets his phone aside. John has procured some telling records, which Sherlock proceeds to memorise. Perhaps he should start with some of these fronts. Janus Cars, Apate Construction, Safe and Co-
His phone vibrates. Lestrade again. Why do you ask?
Apate Construction. Where’s John’s laptop? On the desk; bother. Sherlock stretches out and manoeuvres it closer without moving from the bed, finally catching it by the side and lifting it towards himself. Apate Construction. Google first. It has its uses. Company website. Quite professional in appearance, well laid-out and organised. There’s a history section; it’s a sixteen-year-old company, owned by a Sheldon Bartley. He has a partial resume on the site, detailing his work experience. Sherlock takes down the pertinent identifying information. There’s enough there for him to check out Bartley’s true history. What else?
Ask him if he’ll speak to me off the record. SH
Sherlock breathes in deeply. The room smells like the cheap soap and shampoo John uses, like the lavender freshener Mrs Hudson has installed in every room, like the faint musk of a male body, like John. John. What is he doing now? Has he already been found out? Is any of what he has written true?
Is he alive?
Sherlock’s phone rings. Lestrade. Sherlock lets it ring out, then picks it up when it vibrates with a new message.
Pick up! What’s going on?
The phone rings again. Sherlock bites his lip and answers. “I’m not quite certain right now,” he says.
“That’s almost definitely not going to get you in,” Lestrade says. “Look, the thing is, right now you’re on standby as a witness - they’re hardly going to let you in and potentially compromise things.”
“I think he might be dying,” Sherlock says. “Brain aneurysm. You should have that checked out.” He hangs up. He doesn’t have time for this. Lestrade won’t be able to help with this one. Mycroft will, but Sherlock isn’t sure he’s quite that desperate yet. Except, John had written that, hadn’t he, he’d written how he hoped that Sherlock wouldn’t be too stubborn to go to Mycroft. And why, if this was a grand plot targeting Sherlock, would anyone willingly draw Mycroft into the game?
Options? That it’s a double-bluff, that by mentioning Mycroft as being possibly necessary, he’d harden Sherlock’s resolve not to call in his loathsome older brother. That the plot includes Mycroft, in which case Mycroft’s many governmental shenanigans will have to be taken into consideration. That the plot is solely targeting Mycroft, and Sherlock is being used to get to him. That John is telling the truth, and needs help.
Sherlock breathes in (lavender and musk, musk and lavender) and out. He holds his breath for a few seconds, then picks up his phone and makes a call.
Chapter Two - Part Two
Also, a shout-out and fervent thanks to the lovely folk over at little_details, who were able to help me with - well, some little details in this chapter that eventually changed the course of the fic. For the better, I think!
Chapter One - Part One
Chapter One - Part Two
two:
six impossible things
Sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast. - Through the Looking Glass, Lewis Carroll
John never stays out past three in the morning, at the absolute latest. Just to be certain, Sherlock waits until eight before he accepts that John will not be returning.
Now what?
Sherlock goes up the stairs to John’s room. It’s normally off-limits, per John’s request. Sherlock hasn’t seen fit to break his word thus far - it’s so much more interesting working things out without any help from John’s belongings. But John had said he wouldn’t do anything stupid, and he’s clearly broken that promise, so Sherlock feels no compunctions about opening the door and slipping in quietly.
John’s room is neat and organised, the mark of a military man clearly evident in the perfect corners of the sheets. The wardrobe offers little but confirmation of John’s habits. Sherlock turns on the laptop, cracks the password in a minute, then waits for it to boot up.
Nothing interesting in the browser history. Doesn’t appear to have been specifically cleared, either, so John hadn’t felt the need to hide anything. Hm. He does have a blog, but there’s practically nothing on it, just a brief biography, and a couple of inconsequential entries. Sherlock checks each one, just in case. Only a few people have left comments.
Harry Watson. Obvious who she is, equally obvious that she’ll know just about nothing useful. Ella. Who’s this Ella that John writes of, who insists on John keeping a blog? 25th January is interesting, though. Sherlock knew that John had played rugby as a youth, though not that he’d kept up with his teammates. Doubtful that they’d know any more than Harry, but it’s a possibility that Sherlock cannot rule out just yet. John must have been meeting someone at the pub all this while, and his rugby friends are a far likelier choice than an alcoholic sister.
None of them mentioned my leg, reads the last line of the entry. What about John’s leg? There was nothing wrong with it. The only physical problem he might have been self-conscious about was his arm. Of course, this was before Sherlock had met John. Might John have had some trouble with his leg as well, that had healed by the time he met Sherlock? In that case, might the E Thompson who’s left a comment about a missed appointment, be a physiotherapist of some sort? But no, there’s the matter of the mysterious Ella. He will presume for now that Ella is E Thompson. Ella wants John to keep up a blog, and to meet her for apparently regular appointments. The former means she can’t be a physiotherapist - likely just a therapist. It’s possible. The war still haunts John, as is evident from the sporadic nightmares that drives John downstairs at unreasonable hours.
Very well, then. John has been seeing a therapist. She’s another person Sherlock might be able to talk to. Clearly, it will take some work to get any information from her. If she is at all ethical, she will not discuss her patients with anyone. Not without clear evidence that John is in danger, and that her notes could help save him.
Or without Mycroft. Sherlock pushes the possibility into the very back of his mind.
One more entry. Bill Murray. Had saved John’s life?
Sherlock’s struck with the sudden desire to thank a man he’s never even met. He firmly ignores it. Few helpful clues here, other than another name for Sherlock to track down.
The blog entries end there. Sherlock thinks back to when he’d met John. The day after this last entry, surely? John hasn’t been writing in his blog since he’d met Sherlock. That may or may not be significant.
A thorough search of the computer turns up nothing else that’s interesting. There are some photos of John in his younger years, in his army uniform, with his family, with his army mates, in London and in Afghanistan. Sherlock might have gotten slightly distracted by the carefree expression John wears in the majority of those photos, but he eventually concedes that there is nothing more to be found on the laptop.
Rest of the room, then.
The desk is Sherlock’s next stop. It once rested next to the door, as is apparent from the deep marks on the rug. John has moved it to the front of the small window instead. Apparently he prefers natural light to a desk lamp. Clearly, he works there. On the laptop? No, the angle at which he’s placed the desk would actually be inconvenient, with his laptop - the light would cause a glare off the screen. Something else, then. Written work? Does he read here?
Drawers. The top drawer is empty. Sherlock studies it carefully, but there are no marks to indicate what might have been stored there. The laptop, possibly? He leans closer and sniffs. Peculiar smell, almost faded. Something like alcohol. And bananas. Hm. Ah, dark spots on the table, as if a liquid had stained the wood. What could cause that staining, and why would John have it with him? Same smell as from the drawer, very faint. Sherlock runs his finger over the stains. They’ve soaked well in, but there’s a very thin layer of oil on his finger now. The depth of staining suggests that it occurred a while ago; the fact that there’s still oil on his fingers tells him that John had splashed a little more of the liquid on the desk recently, and it hasn’t had time to fully soak in. Yesterday, before leaving? The timeline does fit.
He turns back to the laptop and does a quick search online to confirm his suspicions about the source of the smell. Then he thinks back to John’s hands. His callouses still haven’t even begun to fade.
All right. John has a gun. No wonder he’d been eager for there never to be any more fake drugs busts. He’s taken the gun and everything he needs to maintain it with him. What else? Second drawer holds two novels and a medical textbook. Nothing noteworthy in the novels. Probably not the textbook, either.
Except it’s not a textbook. It’s a journal, its hard covers enclosed in a dust jacket from a similarly-sized textbook. The entries begin from the day that Sherlock had met John. Had John decided to start using this journal instead of his blog? Why conceal it thus? To hide it from Sherlock’s inquisitive eyes? Well - with good reason, perhaps, given what Sherlock is doing now.
Just had the most peculiar dream, the first entry begins. That, or I’ve finally gone round the bend. My leg doesn’t hurt anymore, though. Is it possible to get over a psychosomatic limp because of something that happens in a dream?
It was, at any rate, a very realistic dream. I almost expected to wake up there. Instead, here I am in this quiet bedsit I haven’t thought of in almost three months. It was three months in my dream. I’ve never dreamed such a long period of time, and so many events, in one night before.
I miss it. I want to wake up and know what became of the absolutely mad people I got to know in my dream. Or just one in particular. I don’t much care about the others. I want to know what happened to him, and if he made it out all right. Clearly I did. I woke up. But part of me can’t help but feel like he’s trapped there still, in my dream, and that he’ll die because I’m not there with him.
Ridiculous, of course. Ella would have a field day with me if I told her any of this. But I won’t. I won’t put it in the blog, either. I can’t say I think much of it. I did work on my blog, in my dream, and maybe it helped a little. I don’t think I could do it now, though, not after the dream. And yet writing seems to help, or it did in the dream, and so I’ve gone out and bought this journal and I shall put my thoughts down here.
1400
The clinic just called. I missed my appointment. Ella’s not happy, given I missed my previous one, too. I just forgot, though. I’d already stopped going, in my dream. And it was so real. I’d forgotten I had an appointment today.
Still no limp.
Arm hurts like hell though.
I’m going to go out for a walk. It’s pathetic, I know, but I want to go to Barts. In the dream, I met an old friend in the park beside the hospital, and through a coincidence, he introduced me to the most fascinating man I have ever known.
I know it won’t happen this time. I still want to go. It’s more than a little pathetic, but here I am.
1830
I don’t think it was a dream.
I don’t know what it was.
I’m meeting Sherlock tomorrow, to go look at 221B Baker Street. I’ll take it, of course I will. And I’ll see if anything else happens the way it did in my dream.
This makes no sense.
No one called “Jim” in the IT department yet though. I checked before leaving Barts.
Sherlock ponders the entry for a time before moving on to the next one. It’s dated the 3rd of February.
1300
Here I am, in 221B Baker Street, cohabiting with Sherlock. Even now, I can hear him clattering in the kitchen. He’s got some sort of experiment going. I saw bits of meat that I sincerely hope aren’t human. Must have a talk with him about keeping his experiments separate from the food. He might not care to eat much, but I certainly do!
God, I can’t believe this is real. I pinch myself quite frequently, willing myself to wake up. I feel the pain, but the scenery never changes. Then again, I went through quite a bit of pain in my dream, so who’s to say I’d wake up from a pinch?
The thing is, I can’t stop thinking about what if it was real. Because if it is, then Sherlock has three months left to live. Well, so do I, but that’s only if I stay with Sherlock. If I just left, I imagine I wouldn’t be nearly as interesting to “Jim.” He wouldn’t be able to use me to get to Sherlock. It might even be safer for Sherlock. That’s what I thought at first, but then I realised that no, it wouldn’t be. He’s an idiot, and he’ll put himself right in the firing line just to prove he’s right. Just so he won’t be bored.
I don’t know what to do. I live with one of the smartest men in the world, but I certainly can’t go to him for advice. He’d think me mad. I think me mad.
But the cabbie did turn out to be the killer. How could I have known that? I dreamed it, I dreamed what he did. But how could I possibly have seen the truth in my dream?
They haven’t found out the whole truth about him though. He didn’t tell them about the game he played. Choose a pill, one or the other. They take the one they choose; he takes the other. 50-50 chance of surviving. Or a gun to the face. The gun was the right choice, but none of those poor sods realised it. But right now, the coppers think that he just threatened them at gunpoint to take the poison. They don’t know about the game. I suppose it doesn’t make much difference, in the long run.
They don’t know about his brain aneurysm either. I wonder how long he’ll last? I hope he makes it to trial. I want to see what will happen this time around, since he’s alive.
I don’t regret shooting him in my dream. It was like being back in Afghanistan, seeing Sherlock bringing that pill to his mouth. You kill to save a friend. So I did. I’d known this man for a day at that point, and I shot to save him. He’d shown me my limp was psychosomatic. He’d shown me I could be more than I was allowing myself to be. And in his way, I think he cared. I don’t know that for certain, because he’d never tell me as such, and of course I can’t read him the way he can me. But I think he did. I like to imagine he did.
I have nothing of the same history with this Sherlock. In my dream, he saved me, and then I saved him, all in a day. You can’t help but get along, in that case. We don’t have that here. I don’t know what he thinks about me. I know that he’s not the same as the Sherlock in my dream, but I can’t help but still think of him the same way. He probably doesn’t think very much of me at all, but I’d be happy to throw myself between him and a bullet. He has no idea the power he has over me. Or perhaps he does. I wouldn’t put it past him.
He’s absolutely mad, mad, mad. He’s also charming. God help me, I don’t know how to leave him.
I really think I am going mad. At least I am in good company.
Sherlock takes a deep breath and expels it slowly. He needs a nicotine patch. He examines the rest of the room, discovering a few receipts from various shops he will have to investigate. There’s little else of import though, and so he takes the journal with him and retires to the sofa.
Three nicotine patches. He has a feeling he’ll need them. Then he opens up the journal again. The fading pattern of the ink, as well as the wear and tear of the book in general suggests that John has indeed been writing in it constantly. This isn’t a recent idea cooked up to explain the oddities of yesterday. It doesn’t rule out the fact that it was an idea cooked up at least a month ago, which John has been gradually implementing.
Sherlock rubs his chest absently. It’s feeling a little tight. Perhaps he ought to get some tea in him.
Later. First, the journal.
04/02/2011
2045
It occurs to me that certain aspects of my dream are easily verifiable.
Off to the museum tomorrow. I need to see what she has to say.
05/02/2011
2000
All right, so at least some parts of this are true. She was worried enough about how much I knew, to take me at my word when I said she was in danger. I don’t know if it will be enough to save her life. But she’s intelligent. With any luck…
Given today, I think I’m seriously going to have to put some thought towards the Problem. I can hardly walk up to a man and shoot him in the head, then claim I saw in a dream that he was a criminal mastermind. Well, I could, but I don’t fancy spending time in prison. And there’s still that niggling question of what if I’m wrong?
So information-gathering it is.
I hope to god Sherlock doesn’t figure out what I’m up to. The only way to lie to him is to tell him the truth. That’s what I’m going to do - tell him I’m going to the pub and meet some friends. I just won’t tell him who exactly, or what I’m planning on doing there.
This could all go very, very wrong. I wish Sherlock was with me.
07/02/2011
0135
Lucked out tonight (yesterday night?) when I met O’Malley. He was happy to introduce me to some of his friends. They don’t trust me yet, of course. But they will. I haven’t forgotten how to get myself in with that group.
Just hope I don’t have to prove myself.
09/02/2011
- cabbie’s death
- pink phone?
- no mention of name
- death of widower?
- conversation with SL
- find out more about him
- organisation?
- INFORMATION
If I can find proof, I needn’t explain how I came to know of his existence.
11/02/2011
1930
Stew’s on the stove. I’m going to try and convince Sherlock to eat today. He’s been on a case the past two days, which means of course that he hasn’t eaten anything in that time. I wish he’d realise it’s just not healthy. Or more to the point, I wish he’d care that it’s terrible for his body. He has a tendency to cherry-pick biological facts as they suit him. Yes, of course digestion does slow you down a little. That’s the point; to give your body time to convert the nutrients you need and send it into your blood and cells. Sherlock refuses to give his body that chance. He claims it allows him to divert all his energies towards thinking. Problem is that he’s not giving his brain the nutrition it needs to keep going - but just try and tell him that! I really do worry about the long-term effects on his health. He has giddy spells he pretends don’t exist. It’s one reason I don’t protest his demands for tea. At least it gives me a chance to get something into him. The sugar might be a temporary respite, but it’s better than nothing at all.
In other news, my “work” is going decently. It’s stalled a little, but I’ve put out some feelers. There’s actually an astoundingly high rate of veterans who wind up in prison. Technically, we’re decently provided for. In reality, some of us do wind up with a lot of red tape to get through. And in the interim, what are we meant to do with no money? I’m a little better off than some of my peers; I’ve got a decent amount squirrelled away. But then there’s loans and the cost of living in London, and so my savings are dwindling. I got lucky with the amount I was granted. Others don’t get even as much as I do. With all the trouble you can have getting your pension regularly, not to mention the pittance some wind up with - it’s really not surprising. Especially when you’re thrown out on disability. Many of us don’t get treated very well by the country we gave health, limbs and lives for. It’s been easy convincing people I’m a down-on-my-luck veteran with a good deal of bitterness and anger against the government system.
I hope to god I can maintain the charade.
19/02/2011
0800
I was asked yesterday if I’d like to do a small job for someone. A friend of a friend. Perfectly simple, just running a little package over to someone. I did, and I was introduced to a Sebastian Moran. He was scouting me, I think, to join the organisation. I think this might be it. I have no doubt that it will start off small. That they won’t trust me with much. But it’s the little people who go overlooked, and I’m counting on that to allow me to gather the information I need.
I need to figure out a safe way to communicate with Sherlock and Mycroft. I like Lestrade well enough, but this is rather beyond his usual job scope. I wouldn’t trust anyone but Sherlock to deal with this, and Mycroft’s resources can only be helpful to him. I hope Sherlock isn’t too proud to ask Mycroft for help, when the time comes.
I hate what I’m doing. I hate knowing I’m delivering drugs. I hate being undercover when no one knows I’m undercover.
I want this to be over.
24/02/2011
Moran is his second-in-command. He’s a vet himself, I can tell. I think he might be scouting me for “security” work. He knows a soldier when he sees one, too.
This one’s intelligent. I’ll have to be on my guard around him.
So far, I am certain that the organisation has branches here, in Ireland, in Russia (no specifics yet), in France, in Italy and in Germany. They do not have any hold over the Americas (USA, Canada, Mexico, the various South American countries which I’ll no doubt be unable to list in their entirety). They are currently looking to expand further into the continent.
They run drugs (primarily cocaine, heroin and methamphetamines) - that is the only specific crime they engage in, and I suspect it’s to maintain a steady source of revenue between cases. He’s a little more… grandiose than Sherlock is. The rest of the operations are dedicated to helping people carry out their perfect crimes. All the teams here? They’re for him to send out when it’s necessary to help someone “relocate,” or bring someone into the country illegally, or commit a perfect murder.
The organisation is very tightly controlled. He knows just about everything that happens in it.
So close. But no proof yet.
28/02/2011
Moran wants me to join a “security detail.”
If I’m asked to kill someone, I’ll have to get out as soon as possible. I can’t
03/03/2011
I wonder what Sherlock would do?
It’s been dangerous, sneaking around and trying to get information. At least I haven’t been asked to kill someone yet. And yet those drugs. I feel like I have killed people. More blood on my hands. Innocents. Like that boy back then. Sometimes I can still see his blood on my hands. He couldn’t have been more than seven. Seven, and hoping for me to save him, but what could I do with injuries that severe? It only took a minute.
I hate this.
My only respite is Sherlock. Being with him keeps me sane. People would probably tell me that’s an odd statement, given the random bits of bodies in the fridge, and all that. But he does. I’m so glad they haven’t asked me to move away yet. They’re still testing me. I hope they don’t know about my sneaking around. Part of me thinks they do, and they’re waiting to see what my agenda is. The rest of me is sure they haven’t figured it out yet. I’m not quite important enough at the moment.
I am considering letting Sherlock’s name slip. Orchestrating some scenario whereby I’ll be asked to go somewhere at an odd time, and I can say that I can’t, since I live with a very observant detective, and I don’t want to give him any reason to suspect me. If I do let Sherlock’s name slip, no doubt he will take an interest. I wonder if he’s been watching Sherlock all this time, ever since the Carl Powers case, ever since Sherlock came so close to solving what he must have thought was the perfect murder. It scares me how obsessed he is with Sherlock. It scares me what Sherlock might think of him. A perfect nemesis? Will he want to take him down if it means losing an “interesting” situation?
In my dream (?), I knew that Sherlock had decided losing me wasn’t an equable trade. I don’t know if this Sherlock would think the same way. If he would prefer to let this genius enemy go, just to ensure he’ll have interesting cases to solve in the future.
He’ll have to get involved soon though; the man’s already demonstrated he’s going to go ahead with it. I don’t know what the catalyst will be this time, but he’s definitely planning his games. That horrid secret message he sent to Sherlock’s website. Two more on the way, soon, and then he’ll set his games into play.
I’m not about to let him.
04/03/2011
0200
Have not been sleeping well lately. Every time I close my eyes, I see the bomb go off, I see Sherlock die.
I had a mildly terrifying thought earlier. There were three of us there, when the bomb went off. I know Sherlock died, the angle of his neck was obvious enough. I blacked out (and then woke up three months ago). I don’t know what happened to him, though - what if he went through whatever I went through?
And then I realise I’m thinking we - what, shared a dream? Or that this is Groundhog Day for me? It’s ridiculous, but at one in the morning, everything seems plausible to an insomniac.
I can’t stop worrying whether he knows. And even if he doesn’t, I can’t stop worrying that he’ll realise I’m not who I claim to be.
I hear Sherlock puttering about downstairs. He doesn’t have a case at the moment, so he must just be being his usual nocturnal self. I think I’ll go see if he won’t agree to play a spot of violin. He’s massively talented, when he isn’t mimicking the sounds of a cat being tortured.
0900
He played for me. I fell asleep in my armchair. I don’t know how long he kept playing, but when I woke up, there was an afghan tucked around me. I can’t believe people keep accusing him of being heartless.
Six hours of the best sleep I’ve had in days.
06/03/2011
2345
Moran’s making noise about giving me another job. I think I acquitted myself well enough on the last. I’m not sure that’s a good thing. It’s difficult undermining ops without letting them fail entirely, or having suspicion come to bear on me.
I may have failed in the latter. I don’t know. I find myself more and more resigned to the fact that I probably won’t
08/03/2011
My dearest Sherlock,
Sherlock starts violently. His heart’s racing, for some reason. Numbly, he places the book aside, then gets up and heads for the kitchen. PG Tips. He hates it, but it’s cheap and that’s what John chooses to buy. Cheap. Because he has debts, and lives in London, and has not nearly enough money.
While the tea steeps, Sherlock opens the refrigerator. A jar of eyeballs stares out at him, and he looks back contemplatively. Then he plucks out a carton of leftover spring rolls, plates the food, and puts it in the microwave. John worries about his eating habits. Why does John worry?
The spring rolls take just a minute, and Sherlock pours the tea out while the food cools slightly. The tea is milky and sweet and he can’t quite remember what he’s supposed to do with it.
His brain’s so full.
Nicotine patches. He’s lost track of time. He rips the patches off, folds them up, wraps them, and throws them away. Then he goes to the sink to scrub his hands. A while later, he realises that his skin is red and raw. He turns the water off, picks up his plate and cup, and returns to the sofa.
John is either mad, clairvoyant, or a time-traveller.
Whichever the truth, Sherlock has not seen it coming at all.
He finishes the spring rolls and lingers over the tea. The journal sits next to him on the sofa, innocuously pretending to be a textbook on neurology.
Time passes. Finally, he picks up the journal again, turning to the page he’d stopped at.
My dearest Sherlock, it reads,
I am not really sure how to begin this letter, or even what exactly to say to you. By this time, you probably think me mad. To have dreamed the events of three months - of meeting you, of working with you, of (a word was heavily blacked out here, and Sherlock could not make out what it had been) coming to know you… of dying with you - I know it seems the story of a madman. Even now, I am not quite certain what the dream is. What came before, or what I am living now? Either way, I find I am not willing to risk your life on the assumption that what I have “lived” was merely an invention of a fevered brain.
Therefore, I set out to verify certain aspects of my dream. If you choose to wait, you might find that near the end of the month, an old university acquaintance of yours contacts you regarding a vandalism case. His name is Sebastian Wilkes. The vandalism case will turn into a murder case, and then into an international smuggling case.
Or it may not. I have already been to speak to Soo Lin Yao at the National Antiquities Museum, where she served as an expert on Chinese antiques. I did not tell her that my information comes from my dreams, but my knowledge of the Chinese crime syndicate she is hiding from was enough to convince her to flee. This may change some of the events I feel I lived through. I am fairly sure that at least two of the murders will still occur, though.
What happened in my dream was this: there is a crime syndicate called the Black Lotus Tong. Soo Lin was conscripted as a child, alongside her brother. She quickly grew disillusioned with them and eventually fled the country. Her brother, on the other hand, believed every word of their rhetoric, and grew to become one of their most skilled assassins.
Two parallel crimes: one, the murders of Edward Van Coon and Brian Lukis. Both encountered apparently random graffiti before they died. (This graffiti is what will prompt Wilkes to contact you - there is no clue as to how the vandal got into the office. When I tell you that Soo Lin’s brother’s nickname is “the spider,” you will no doubt understand how it was carried out.) The graffiti was in fact a code - a book code, to be precise. The symbols were actually ancient Chinese numerals, and each pair of numbers stood for a word: page number, then word number. The book used was the London A-Z. The graffiti both men encountered read “Deadman.”
They were both smugglers, working for the Black Lotus. One of them stole a tiny jade hairpin, thinking it would not be missed. Unfortunately for him, it actually cost nine million pounds. Naturally, the Black Lotus came after him. They didn’t know if it was Van Coon or Lukis, so they threatened and killed them both. Sadly for them, they were still unable to recover the pin. Van Coon had given it as a gift to his secretary, with whom he’d been in a relationship.
While here, the Black Lotus also went after Soo Lin. Given that they smuggled antiquities, her usefulness to them will be apparent to you. She was murdered for failing to cooperate. Hopefully, my warning will allow her to survive. I could think of nothing to do for Van Coon or Lukis. You might have more success. Or you might choose to let things play out, to see if any of what I claim, comes to pass. I certainly will not blame you if you do; it is exactly what I did at first. It was only when I realised that you might be in danger, that I began trying to change things.
There you are, then. It’s about all I can offer in the way of proof, as regards my dream.
Proof about Moriarty, on the other hand, is a little more concrete.
James Moriarty set himself up as a “consulting criminal” - your antithesis. I think he’s been interested in you from a very early age. What he said while he was holding me hostage makes me think that Carl Powers was his very first kill. He’d thought it perfect, and he was astounded to realise that someone had seen something amiss. That someone was you. He kept an eye on you and your career thereafter, especially after you set yourself up as a consulting detective. I don’t know if he got the idea for his career choice from you or not, but what he does is, he tells people how to commit the perfect crime. For a price, he’ll plan out a murder that will never be pinned on you. You’ll have to carry it out yourself; he never gets his own hands dirty. For a little extra money, he’ll provide you with any help you might need.
Janus Cars is one of his fronts, according to my dream. My current research has also backed that up. In my research, you’ll find other fronts.
It’s up to you what you will do with the information.
As for me, it should be obvious from the previous entries in this journal that I have managed to join his organisation. (I was about to write “infiltrate” but that seems far too much like a spy movie.) I was able to gather some information. It may be enough to give you a place to start. I’d like, of course, to see his organisation brought down.
If you choose to ignore all that I have written here, that’s fine. I plan to obtain whatever information I can get, and put it in the usual place. It’ll be there waiting, whatever you decide to do with it - proclaim it to the world or burn it, I don’t care.
As for where the information is - I don’t know if you’ve discovered this yet. (Somehow, I doubt it, given the state of your bedroom.) In the first drawer of your bedside table, taped to the top, is a key-card. I’m sure that you or Mycroft can locate the safety deposit box that it opens. You have access to it. All the information I’ve gathered is stored there. I thought about making backups, but I honestly haven’t the faintest where I could conceivably store them. I just hope that no one else gets to the information before you do.
My goal is to kill Moriarty. It’s said that you have to cut off the head of the snake to truly kill it. I honestly don’t know if killing him will result in the fall of his organisation. I hope it will. If it doesn’t - well, that’s up to you.
Watch out for Sebastian Moran. He’s as amoral as his employer, and only marginally less ruthless.
As I write this, I’m planning to whet your curiosity tomorrow. It’s a fine line I’ll have to walk - getting you curious enough that you’ll go snooping when I don’t return, but not so much that you refuse to let me leave. I know the flimsy disguise this journal wears won’t fool you for long. It’s been enough all this while (you never did invade my room unless to call me out for a case… and thank you for that, for respecting that boundary when I asked it of you), but once you’ve set your mind to things… well. I wish I knew what you’ll think once you’ve read all this.
Casey Sullivan (that’s the one I report to directly) has requested me on a “security detail” tomorrow. I know what that means. I also happen to know that Moriarty will be nearby. When the time comes, I will do my utmost to kill Moriarty, and give the target a chance to get away.
I don’t know what will happen to me then, or even if I’ll be successful in killing Moriarty. There’s also Moran to contend with, of course - he’s never far from his master - and I highly doubt I’ll have time to take out both of them. I rather suspect that even if I do kill Moriarty, I won’t see or hear Moran’s bullet coming.
Whatever does happen, I’ve come to terms with it. My only regret is that I didn’t have longer with you.
Please know that I have the sincerest regard for you. It has been my privilege to know you, and be granted a glimpse into your mind and heart. You are both a great man, and a good one. Don’t let anyone - including yourself - tell you otherwise.
Yours,
John
Sherlock gently closes the journal, sets it on his lap, then stares at nothing for a very long time.
Presently, he rouses himself off the sofa. He retrieves his phone, opens up a new text message to Lestrade, then types I need to speak to Jefferson Hope. SH
Now. Carl Powers. He has certainly never spoken of that first case to John before. There are a number of ways in which John might have come to know of it. Establishing the truth behind any of those reasons would entail measures Sherlock does not want to resort to just yet. There are, however, ways in which he can discover other truths.
There is indeed a key-card taped to the top of his drawer. It takes little time to track down the corresponding facility. Not one of the best, but probably the best John could afford. Sherlock discovers, upon his arrival there, that he is already listed on the paperwork as being approved to access the safety-deposit box. Inside are sheaves of paper - photocopies of receipts, notes, and some extremely incriminating documents.
There is still a minute possibility that these may have been forged. A thorough examination back at the flat turns up no indications of a forgery, so if they are in fact fake, they’re high-quality fakes. John has had neither the time to create them, nor the money to buy them. Either he’s been provided with them by someone else, or they’re real.
Sherlock curls up at the head of John’s bed and thinks.
There’s also another journal, this one detailing members of the supposed organisation that John has personally encountered. There’s no way to confirm their real names or identities, of course, but John has set down every last bit of identifying information he could remember. Some of it is telling, even if John has clearly not drawn the logical conclusions - this man once worked as a plumber, this one in the navy. Without names, fingerprints or DNA samples, there’s still little to start with. Sherlock nonetheless commits the trivial details to memory.
He checks his phone when it vibrates. Lestrade. The serial suicides guy? In remand, don’t think you’ll be allowed.
What would it take? SH, Sherlock texts back.
Won’t happen unless you’ve got him on a different charge, Lestrade replies immediately.
Sherlock considers that, then sets his phone aside. John has procured some telling records, which Sherlock proceeds to memorise. Perhaps he should start with some of these fronts. Janus Cars, Apate Construction, Safe and Co-
His phone vibrates. Lestrade again. Why do you ask?
Apate Construction. Where’s John’s laptop? On the desk; bother. Sherlock stretches out and manoeuvres it closer without moving from the bed, finally catching it by the side and lifting it towards himself. Apate Construction. Google first. It has its uses. Company website. Quite professional in appearance, well laid-out and organised. There’s a history section; it’s a sixteen-year-old company, owned by a Sheldon Bartley. He has a partial resume on the site, detailing his work experience. Sherlock takes down the pertinent identifying information. There’s enough there for him to check out Bartley’s true history. What else?
Ask him if he’ll speak to me off the record. SH
Sherlock breathes in deeply. The room smells like the cheap soap and shampoo John uses, like the lavender freshener Mrs Hudson has installed in every room, like the faint musk of a male body, like John. John. What is he doing now? Has he already been found out? Is any of what he has written true?
Is he alive?
Sherlock’s phone rings. Lestrade. Sherlock lets it ring out, then picks it up when it vibrates with a new message.
Pick up! What’s going on?
The phone rings again. Sherlock bites his lip and answers. “I’m not quite certain right now,” he says.
“That’s almost definitely not going to get you in,” Lestrade says. “Look, the thing is, right now you’re on standby as a witness - they’re hardly going to let you in and potentially compromise things.”
“I think he might be dying,” Sherlock says. “Brain aneurysm. You should have that checked out.” He hangs up. He doesn’t have time for this. Lestrade won’t be able to help with this one. Mycroft will, but Sherlock isn’t sure he’s quite that desperate yet. Except, John had written that, hadn’t he, he’d written how he hoped that Sherlock wouldn’t be too stubborn to go to Mycroft. And why, if this was a grand plot targeting Sherlock, would anyone willingly draw Mycroft into the game?
Options? That it’s a double-bluff, that by mentioning Mycroft as being possibly necessary, he’d harden Sherlock’s resolve not to call in his loathsome older brother. That the plot includes Mycroft, in which case Mycroft’s many governmental shenanigans will have to be taken into consideration. That the plot is solely targeting Mycroft, and Sherlock is being used to get to him. That John is telling the truth, and needs help.
Sherlock breathes in (lavender and musk, musk and lavender) and out. He holds his breath for a few seconds, then picks up his phone and makes a call.
Chapter Two - Part Two