Fic: The Adventure of the Orange Kaiko [3/3]
Title: The Adventure of the Orange Kaiko [3/3]
Word Count ~2,500
Rating: G for "Goddamnit where's the smut?"
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Verse: BBC
Warnings: None
A/N: Give it up once more for filthgoblin. She betas beautifully. I made some changes that she suggested but hasn't seen - those will be the places where all the SPAGs are hiding.
(Part one)
(Part two)
From the personal blog of Doctor John H. Watson
25th December 9.30pm
So now we’re back home. I’ve got cup of tea by my side, my new dressing gown on over my pyjamas and I’m looking back on one of the best Christmases I’ve ever known. And Mycroft: Sherlock may have an odd way of showing it, but I think yours was the best present he’s ever had.
Just after I finished the last blog entry, Sherlock swept into the kitchen. “Got you a present,” he announced, and dropped a gift-wrapped parcel on the table. “I don’t like your dressing gown. You don’t like your dressing gown. It’s a miserable thing. I got you a better one.”
I had a sudden, terrifying thought that he’d bought me one to match his. I stifled a laugh at the thought of what a complete prat I’d look dressed in blue silk. That was until I opened it. I’m wearing it now. It’s heavy green wool and it feels just like a cardi (it’s perfect, Sherlock, thank you).
Funny though - it probably means he hadn’t managed to deduce what I’d got him.
“You’ve already got your present,” I said. He looked genuinely puzzled. “You’re wearing it.” He looked even more puzzled, which made me very happy. “I like your dressing gown - you do too - but you’ve not been happy since you shot a hole through the pocket. I bought some matching material, snuck it up to my room yesterday evening, and repaired it.” He pulled it open and stared in amazement at the place where the hole used to be.
“You did this?”
“I’m a surgeon, Sherlock. One of the many things I can do is sew.”
I think he liked it. Once he got over the fact that he hadn’t noticed.
We drank tea while he talked. We’d neither of us had much sleep but, despite the fact that it was still dark, he was keen to get going again. By seven we were out of the door and on our way to Mycroft’s place in St James’s.
I’ve never seen central London so quiet: not a single bus, only a handful of cars and taxis. More than ever I felt like the city belonged to us.
Mycroft let us in at about quarter to eight. I think he’d been expecting us: there was a tray with breakfast things waiting in his dining room. I went through four rounds of toast and jam while Sherlock and his brother went off to his study. Half an hour later Sherlock came back with a sheaf of printouts, a smug looking Mycroft and a curt, “Come along, John.”
We bundled out into the street - Mycroft’s rooms are a bit imposing and we can never really get away fast enough to be honest. I started to walk left up Jermyn Street but I was pulled up short by Sherlock calling, “Come on, John,” from a couple of hundred yards in the other direction. Apparently we weren’t going home just yet.
I was glad of the breakfast as we more or less ran to Chinatown. I got a sinking feeling when I realised where we were going. Surely we’d put the business with General Shan behind us? Sherlock must have caught my worried expression because he said, “No John, we’re leaving aside the world of elaborate gangs and hackneyed stereotypes this time. I’m afraid it’s something more prosaic and all together more unhappy, if my suspicions are correct.”
He dragged me down a narrow alley to the skips at the back of a large Chinese grocery. In he vaulted and, before I knew what was going, on he shouted, “Here, catch,” and threw a large carton at me. It was heavier than I expected and, when I tugged open the folded top, I saw that it was full of those damned Orange Kaikos.
Sherlock was already out of the skip and banging at the service door. It was opened a fraction of an inch, and we heard a man’s voice, a very worried man by the sound of it, asking “Who are you? What do you want?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes and I believe I have something that you’re looking for,” he held out the toy, still slightly disassembled after having been so thoroughly deduced-from.
“Oh!” the door opened and the man stuck his head through the gap a fraction. He looked like someone had just thrown him a lifebelt after a day adrift, “Oh yes, please! What will you take for it?”
“I don't want your money. I’d just like to know what the numbers mean.”
The suspicion was back, “What numbers? There are no numbers. I just wanted the toy for my niece. I don’t want it any more. Please go away and don’t bother me any more.”
Sherlock’s foot was in the door before it could close.
“Pretty strange for a Chinese supermarket, to order a consignment of children’s toys isn’t it? Even stranger for you to throw them away when you could name your price if you sold them yesterday. Someone at the factory sent a batch to you, but there was a mix up. The ones you were supposed to get ended up at Hamley’s and, from there, they went into the Christmas stockings of dozens of children.”
I heard a terrified gasp from behind the door, but Sherlock pressed on, relentlessly.
“So what are the numbers? I’m pretty sure they aren’t a book code, because they’re obviously not paired. So a one time pad perhaps? Someone is sending a message, using these toys. Someone who doesn’t want to be caught. Someone who will be caught if the manufacturer hears about a suspicious batch. I can stop that happening - but only if you tell me the truth Mr. Yao. Who are you trying to protect?”
The man sighed.
“You had better come in.”
The door opened wide and we slipped inside a cold, white-walled stock room. Mr. Yao turned a couple of empty crates on end and motioned for us to sit down. He sat on another and fished in his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He lit up, offered us both a smoke. We shook our heads, and I decided to try to coax him along.
“Mr. Yao, Sherlock’s good at what he does. If he can help you, he will. But you need to start talking. Kids will be opening their presents soon - if we haven’t got them back by midnight tonight the toys will start talking and then…then it will be too late. That’s right isn’t it?”
Sherlock nodded.
“Okay,” said Mr. Yao at last. “I don’t know who to trust but I need help. Where should I start?”
“The beginning,” said Sherlock. Mr. Yao looked him straight in the eye and nodded.
“It is like this. My wife was a doctor. Is a doctor. She worked with people who were HIV positive. There were people that she tried to help. It was not…appreciated by our government.
“She was very brave, but bravery is sometimes a less than wise choice. We planned to leave together - we had visas, it was all completely official. I got a message at the airport saying she had taken an earlier flight, and that I should go immediately. It was only when I got to London that I realised they had lied.
“For months I tried to contact her, but there was no news. Then, about six months ago, a contact passed on a message from my wife’s sister telling me what had happened. Just as she was about to leave for the airport, my wife’s bosses decided that she needed an assessment. They said that she was mentally ill.
“They took her straight from her desk to a hospital - no word of warning. She has not been seen since. I want to get her out. We have a plan, my wife’s sister and I, but we cannot talk about such things openly - such behaviour on her part would also be taken for insanity, I’m sure.”
He smiled tightly, defying us to pity him.
“It took us months to find a way of organising a code, but we did it. They are very clever people, my wife’s family. My wife’s niece took a job at the factory where these toys are made. My wife’s nephew works at a factory that makes stationery. He sent us all a one time pad, hidden in a batch of calendars. She sent us the means to receive the key - those silly toys. But something went wrong, and now my niece will be suspect. And I have no way of getting news, of finding out if my wife is even... ”
He sagged, dragging deeply on the cigarette.
“Do you have the numbers?” he asked.
“I do,” answered Sherlock, handing over a slip of paper, “and your toy. I also have a way of getting the other toys back without the manufacturer ever knowing,” he tapped the sheaf of printouts that Mycroft had given him, “but if I could take that box of them that you threw out, that would make it much easier.”
“Certainly. But how can I repay you?”
“No need. The solution is its own reward. Good luck with…” he paused, considering something. “Actually, you could do one other thing. Here,” he fished in his pocket, “That’s my brother’s card. Tell him he owes me a Christmas present, and that I’d like him to introduce you to the Lincolnshire Poacher. As a favour to me. He’ll know what you mean.
“And you’re right,” he went on, “your wife’s family is very clever. Hang on to that card in case any of them ever need a job.”
As we left, carrying the box of toys, Sherlock was humming a tune under his breath, obviously incredibly pleased with himself.
“What was all that about?” I asked, “I mean, I get the gist but…”
“My dear John, must you always try so hard to be the audience proxy? Tell me what you know about Sig Int instead.”
“Right,” I straightened my shoulders, adopted my best ‘briefing the brass’ voice. I mean, if I was going to get to do the exposition for a change I wanted to make the most of it. “Sig Int is the interception of enemy communications with a view to knowing what they’re thinking. If something’s sent in cleartext it’s probably guff or chaff - not worth knowing at best, or deliberately misleading at worst. It’s the encrypted stuff that’s really interesting.
“Most crypto’s based on an algorithm,” I went on. “A set of steps. Like a recipe. Not a good metaphor for you maybe, but I can see you follow me. Easy to break if you can prise open the weak link - which can involve anything from reverse engineering a cipher if you’re good with the big numbers, to getting some obliging Private in the Royal Corps of Signals rat-arsed and seeing what he'll let you get away with.”
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at that. I blushed but ploughed on.
“The one time pad is uncrackable, used right,” I was really getting into my stride. “There’s no algorithm - each cipher is generated randomly so there has to be two copies, one at the transmitting end and one at the receiving end, right? Pretty insecure? Wrong - because the one time pad is exactly what it says on the tin. A stack of ciphers, each one only to be used once. And the way you know which cipher in the pad to use is? All together…”
“By having someone else send both parties the key.”
We grinned at each other.
“Yes, I knew all that, but I love watching you explain.”
“So the Lincolnshire Poacher? Are you making Mycroft take Mr. Yao out for a pub lunch or something?”
He stared at me, “Do they teach you nothing in the Army, John? The Lincolnshire Poacher was a numbers station. It essentially did what those Orange Kaikos were doing, but on a massive scale and for the British Secret Service. It broadcast for over 30 years, five times a day: two bars of the folk song “The Lincolnshire Poacher” then a string of numbers. Essential listening for deep operatives during the Cold War, but I can’t even begin to tell you how much Mycroft hates that tune these days. I once set it as his ringtone…”
“And?”
“Every single mention of me had vanished from the Internet 30 minutes later. He had it all put back eventually, but the message was clear enough. I don’t think he’ll mind this one reminder though. We have other stations these days and I know one of them will be of use to Mr. Yao.”
Just then my phone rang. I tugged it out of my pocket expecting it to be Harry, calling to say Happy Christmas. Instead it was the man himself, Mycroft Holmes.
“Hello Mycroft. That’s a coincidence we were just… ah. Not a coincidence?”
“Well done, John. Tell my brother I hope he enjoyed the Christmas present.”
“The Twenty Questions thing? Um…yes. Hardly stopped talking about it.”
“Not that. That was just to get you to the right place at the right time. I meant the case.”
“You did this?”
“No. Mr. Yao’s sister-in-law and her children did this. I merely spotted a few…interesting patterns in some data and subtly nudged my brother towards them. Can you imagine how bored he would have been today otherwise? Now he gets that wonderful sense of achievement he so enjoys, and he gets to spend the afternoon deploying his considerably theatrical abilities in order to persuade two dozen children to swap their new toy with the complete stranger on their doorstep. I do hope a few of them have seen Aladdin - that should add considerably to the challenge.”
“And what about me? I’m not sure I can stand the walking for a start.”
“Don’t worry, John. I’ve brought the car.”
And there, behind us, was an anonymous, black, government-issue estate car, with Mycroft sitting in the back looking as smug as only a Holmes can.
Sherlock might not need sleep but I do, so I had them drop me off when our route took us close to Baker Street. They were doing well though: Sherlock managing to persuade people to swap the toys by using his slightly sinister charm and Mycroft by just being sinister.
We’ve not done badly this Christmas - Sherlock got his mystery, Mycroft got to interfere help, I got to spend time with my friends, the kids are getting toys that work and Mr Yao got… well I’m still not entirely sure what he got but I think it has something to do with this.
They’ll be back soon and I said I’d sort out Christmas dinner. Duck, I think. Now I just have to decide which is more festive: Cantonese duck from the Wok Inn or Duck Xacuti from the Light of India.
Merry Christmas from Sherlock, Mycroft and me. We’ll be back next year.
A.N. On a sad note -Chinese HIV/AIDS activists are genuinely at risk of harassment, detention and even torture. I don’t feel like my own country has an unblemished record on human rights (28 days detention without charge, anyone?) but it’s worth pointing out that Mr Yao’s wife is based on real people. And that Amnesty International is one of several organisations trying to do something about it.
On a happier note, it’s worth following John’s link - the history of Numbers Stations is fascinating. You can even hear the ringtone Sherlock put on Mycroft’s phone, which should give you a bit more sympathy for the elder Holmes!
Word Count ~2,500
Rating: G for "Goddamnit where's the smut?"
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Verse: BBC
Warnings: None
A/N: Give it up once more for filthgoblin. She betas beautifully. I made some changes that she suggested but hasn't seen - those will be the places where all the SPAGs are hiding.
(Part one)
(Part two)
From the personal blog of Doctor John H. Watson
25th December 9.30pm
So now we’re back home. I’ve got cup of tea by my side, my new dressing gown on over my pyjamas and I’m looking back on one of the best Christmases I’ve ever known. And Mycroft: Sherlock may have an odd way of showing it, but I think yours was the best present he’s ever had.
Just after I finished the last blog entry, Sherlock swept into the kitchen. “Got you a present,” he announced, and dropped a gift-wrapped parcel on the table. “I don’t like your dressing gown. You don’t like your dressing gown. It’s a miserable thing. I got you a better one.”
I had a sudden, terrifying thought that he’d bought me one to match his. I stifled a laugh at the thought of what a complete prat I’d look dressed in blue silk. That was until I opened it. I’m wearing it now. It’s heavy green wool and it feels just like a cardi (it’s perfect, Sherlock, thank you).
Funny though - it probably means he hadn’t managed to deduce what I’d got him.
“You’ve already got your present,” I said. He looked genuinely puzzled. “You’re wearing it.” He looked even more puzzled, which made me very happy. “I like your dressing gown - you do too - but you’ve not been happy since you shot a hole through the pocket. I bought some matching material, snuck it up to my room yesterday evening, and repaired it.” He pulled it open and stared in amazement at the place where the hole used to be.
“You did this?”
“I’m a surgeon, Sherlock. One of the many things I can do is sew.”
I think he liked it. Once he got over the fact that he hadn’t noticed.
We drank tea while he talked. We’d neither of us had much sleep but, despite the fact that it was still dark, he was keen to get going again. By seven we were out of the door and on our way to Mycroft’s place in St James’s.
I’ve never seen central London so quiet: not a single bus, only a handful of cars and taxis. More than ever I felt like the city belonged to us.
Mycroft let us in at about quarter to eight. I think he’d been expecting us: there was a tray with breakfast things waiting in his dining room. I went through four rounds of toast and jam while Sherlock and his brother went off to his study. Half an hour later Sherlock came back with a sheaf of printouts, a smug looking Mycroft and a curt, “Come along, John.”
We bundled out into the street - Mycroft’s rooms are a bit imposing and we can never really get away fast enough to be honest. I started to walk left up Jermyn Street but I was pulled up short by Sherlock calling, “Come on, John,” from a couple of hundred yards in the other direction. Apparently we weren’t going home just yet.
I was glad of the breakfast as we more or less ran to Chinatown. I got a sinking feeling when I realised where we were going. Surely we’d put the business with General Shan behind us? Sherlock must have caught my worried expression because he said, “No John, we’re leaving aside the world of elaborate gangs and hackneyed stereotypes this time. I’m afraid it’s something more prosaic and all together more unhappy, if my suspicions are correct.”
He dragged me down a narrow alley to the skips at the back of a large Chinese grocery. In he vaulted and, before I knew what was going, on he shouted, “Here, catch,” and threw a large carton at me. It was heavier than I expected and, when I tugged open the folded top, I saw that it was full of those damned Orange Kaikos.
Sherlock was already out of the skip and banging at the service door. It was opened a fraction of an inch, and we heard a man’s voice, a very worried man by the sound of it, asking “Who are you? What do you want?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes and I believe I have something that you’re looking for,” he held out the toy, still slightly disassembled after having been so thoroughly deduced-from.
“Oh!” the door opened and the man stuck his head through the gap a fraction. He looked like someone had just thrown him a lifebelt after a day adrift, “Oh yes, please! What will you take for it?”
“I don't want your money. I’d just like to know what the numbers mean.”
The suspicion was back, “What numbers? There are no numbers. I just wanted the toy for my niece. I don’t want it any more. Please go away and don’t bother me any more.”
Sherlock’s foot was in the door before it could close.
“Pretty strange for a Chinese supermarket, to order a consignment of children’s toys isn’t it? Even stranger for you to throw them away when you could name your price if you sold them yesterday. Someone at the factory sent a batch to you, but there was a mix up. The ones you were supposed to get ended up at Hamley’s and, from there, they went into the Christmas stockings of dozens of children.”
I heard a terrified gasp from behind the door, but Sherlock pressed on, relentlessly.
“So what are the numbers? I’m pretty sure they aren’t a book code, because they’re obviously not paired. So a one time pad perhaps? Someone is sending a message, using these toys. Someone who doesn’t want to be caught. Someone who will be caught if the manufacturer hears about a suspicious batch. I can stop that happening - but only if you tell me the truth Mr. Yao. Who are you trying to protect?”
The man sighed.
“You had better come in.”
The door opened wide and we slipped inside a cold, white-walled stock room. Mr. Yao turned a couple of empty crates on end and motioned for us to sit down. He sat on another and fished in his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He lit up, offered us both a smoke. We shook our heads, and I decided to try to coax him along.
“Mr. Yao, Sherlock’s good at what he does. If he can help you, he will. But you need to start talking. Kids will be opening their presents soon - if we haven’t got them back by midnight tonight the toys will start talking and then…then it will be too late. That’s right isn’t it?”
Sherlock nodded.
“Okay,” said Mr. Yao at last. “I don’t know who to trust but I need help. Where should I start?”
“The beginning,” said Sherlock. Mr. Yao looked him straight in the eye and nodded.
“It is like this. My wife was a doctor. Is a doctor. She worked with people who were HIV positive. There were people that she tried to help. It was not…appreciated by our government.
“She was very brave, but bravery is sometimes a less than wise choice. We planned to leave together - we had visas, it was all completely official. I got a message at the airport saying she had taken an earlier flight, and that I should go immediately. It was only when I got to London that I realised they had lied.
“For months I tried to contact her, but there was no news. Then, about six months ago, a contact passed on a message from my wife’s sister telling me what had happened. Just as she was about to leave for the airport, my wife’s bosses decided that she needed an assessment. They said that she was mentally ill.
“They took her straight from her desk to a hospital - no word of warning. She has not been seen since. I want to get her out. We have a plan, my wife’s sister and I, but we cannot talk about such things openly - such behaviour on her part would also be taken for insanity, I’m sure.”
He smiled tightly, defying us to pity him.
“It took us months to find a way of organising a code, but we did it. They are very clever people, my wife’s family. My wife’s niece took a job at the factory where these toys are made. My wife’s nephew works at a factory that makes stationery. He sent us all a one time pad, hidden in a batch of calendars. She sent us the means to receive the key - those silly toys. But something went wrong, and now my niece will be suspect. And I have no way of getting news, of finding out if my wife is even... ”
He sagged, dragging deeply on the cigarette.
“Do you have the numbers?” he asked.
“I do,” answered Sherlock, handing over a slip of paper, “and your toy. I also have a way of getting the other toys back without the manufacturer ever knowing,” he tapped the sheaf of printouts that Mycroft had given him, “but if I could take that box of them that you threw out, that would make it much easier.”
“Certainly. But how can I repay you?”
“No need. The solution is its own reward. Good luck with…” he paused, considering something. “Actually, you could do one other thing. Here,” he fished in his pocket, “That’s my brother’s card. Tell him he owes me a Christmas present, and that I’d like him to introduce you to the Lincolnshire Poacher. As a favour to me. He’ll know what you mean.
“And you’re right,” he went on, “your wife’s family is very clever. Hang on to that card in case any of them ever need a job.”
As we left, carrying the box of toys, Sherlock was humming a tune under his breath, obviously incredibly pleased with himself.
“What was all that about?” I asked, “I mean, I get the gist but…”
“My dear John, must you always try so hard to be the audience proxy? Tell me what you know about Sig Int instead.”
“Right,” I straightened my shoulders, adopted my best ‘briefing the brass’ voice. I mean, if I was going to get to do the exposition for a change I wanted to make the most of it. “Sig Int is the interception of enemy communications with a view to knowing what they’re thinking. If something’s sent in cleartext it’s probably guff or chaff - not worth knowing at best, or deliberately misleading at worst. It’s the encrypted stuff that’s really interesting.
“Most crypto’s based on an algorithm,” I went on. “A set of steps. Like a recipe. Not a good metaphor for you maybe, but I can see you follow me. Easy to break if you can prise open the weak link - which can involve anything from reverse engineering a cipher if you’re good with the big numbers, to getting some obliging Private in the Royal Corps of Signals rat-arsed and seeing what he'll let you get away with.”
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at that. I blushed but ploughed on.
“The one time pad is uncrackable, used right,” I was really getting into my stride. “There’s no algorithm - each cipher is generated randomly so there has to be two copies, one at the transmitting end and one at the receiving end, right? Pretty insecure? Wrong - because the one time pad is exactly what it says on the tin. A stack of ciphers, each one only to be used once. And the way you know which cipher in the pad to use is? All together…”
“By having someone else send both parties the key.”
We grinned at each other.
“Yes, I knew all that, but I love watching you explain.”
“So the Lincolnshire Poacher? Are you making Mycroft take Mr. Yao out for a pub lunch or something?”
He stared at me, “Do they teach you nothing in the Army, John? The Lincolnshire Poacher was a numbers station. It essentially did what those Orange Kaikos were doing, but on a massive scale and for the British Secret Service. It broadcast for over 30 years, five times a day: two bars of the folk song “The Lincolnshire Poacher” then a string of numbers. Essential listening for deep operatives during the Cold War, but I can’t even begin to tell you how much Mycroft hates that tune these days. I once set it as his ringtone…”
“And?”
“Every single mention of me had vanished from the Internet 30 minutes later. He had it all put back eventually, but the message was clear enough. I don’t think he’ll mind this one reminder though. We have other stations these days and I know one of them will be of use to Mr. Yao.”
Just then my phone rang. I tugged it out of my pocket expecting it to be Harry, calling to say Happy Christmas. Instead it was the man himself, Mycroft Holmes.
“Hello Mycroft. That’s a coincidence we were just… ah. Not a coincidence?”
“Well done, John. Tell my brother I hope he enjoyed the Christmas present.”
“The Twenty Questions thing? Um…yes. Hardly stopped talking about it.”
“Not that. That was just to get you to the right place at the right time. I meant the case.”
“You did this?”
“No. Mr. Yao’s sister-in-law and her children did this. I merely spotted a few…interesting patterns in some data and subtly nudged my brother towards them. Can you imagine how bored he would have been today otherwise? Now he gets that wonderful sense of achievement he so enjoys, and he gets to spend the afternoon deploying his considerably theatrical abilities in order to persuade two dozen children to swap their new toy with the complete stranger on their doorstep. I do hope a few of them have seen Aladdin - that should add considerably to the challenge.”
“And what about me? I’m not sure I can stand the walking for a start.”
“Don’t worry, John. I’ve brought the car.”
And there, behind us, was an anonymous, black, government-issue estate car, with Mycroft sitting in the back looking as smug as only a Holmes can.
Sherlock might not need sleep but I do, so I had them drop me off when our route took us close to Baker Street. They were doing well though: Sherlock managing to persuade people to swap the toys by using his slightly sinister charm and Mycroft by just being sinister.
We’ve not done badly this Christmas - Sherlock got his mystery, Mycroft got to interfere help, I got to spend time with my friends, the kids are getting toys that work and Mr Yao got… well I’m still not entirely sure what he got but I think it has something to do with this.
They’ll be back soon and I said I’d sort out Christmas dinner. Duck, I think. Now I just have to decide which is more festive: Cantonese duck from the Wok Inn or Duck Xacuti from the Light of India.
Merry Christmas from Sherlock, Mycroft and me. We’ll be back next year.
A.N. On a sad note -Chinese HIV/AIDS activists are genuinely at risk of harassment, detention and even torture. I don’t feel like my own country has an unblemished record on human rights (28 days detention without charge, anyone?) but it’s worth pointing out that Mr Yao’s wife is based on real people. And that Amnesty International is one of several organisations trying to do something about it.
On a happier note, it’s worth following John’s link - the history of Numbers Stations is fascinating. You can even hear the ringtone Sherlock put on Mycroft’s phone, which should give you a bit more sympathy for the elder Holmes!