Consulting Pineapples (Psychlock)

Chapter Twelve--Covent Gardens

Even before the cab stopped, Sherlock was out of the vehicle and inside the hospital. “Do keep up.” He snapped over his shoulder at Shawn.

    Shawn rolled his eyes but quickened his pace.

    Sherlock took the stairs two at a time, not looking back. There were only six hours, and he didn’t intend to let Molly be harmed in any way. Quickly, he threw open the door to the lab, flicking on the light. There was indeed a note, stuck to the side of his microscope, with a bag of salt sitting next to it. He grabbed the note, reading it rapidly and then shoving it at Shawn.

    “Congratulations on figuring it out. I presume I am addressing both Mr Spencer and Mr Holmes. You now know that we have both Miss O’Hara and Miss Hooper. They are still alive. Still unharmed, though not for much longer.

    “I suppose you want the second half of your clue now.

    “Zero dot one two two eight. Best wishes, Sherlock and Shawn.”

    Sherlock was silent, trying to figure out the clue. Eventually, he went to the small whiteboard and wrote the two numbers next to each other, in several different orders. “Ideas?” He finally asked Shawn.

    Shawn stared at the numbers for a second before closing his eyes. “Remember that airplane?” he asked simply.

    “What?” Sherlock asked irritably, not appreciating the interruption.

    “‘Secret compartment in the suitcase. You’re welcome.’ It was me. Remember what it was made out of?” Shawn had stood up and was now pacing the room.

    “A map of London.” Sherlock answered automatically, glancing at the whiteboard coated in the same numbers over and over again.

    Shawn walked over to the whiteboard and picked up a marker. “What if they’re coordinates?” he asked, writing it out. “Fifty one degrees five one two zero north. Zero degrees one two two eight west. Do you know off the top of your head where that would be?” Shawn turned to Sherlock expectantly.

    Sherlock gave a half-smile and pocketed the bag of salt left next to his microscope. “Covent Gardens.”

    The American frowned. “Isn’t that rated one of the most dangerous streets in London?”

    “Irrelevant. We should hurry.” Sherlock popped up his coat collar.

    Shawn looked pointedly at him. “One: I don’t have a gun. I never get a gun. ‘You’re a civilian,’ they tell me. If we’re going to one of the most dangerous streets in London, I want a gun. Or some kind of weapon.” Here he scowled. “Two: do you just do that to look cool?”

    “Oh, please.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I am unarmed. John took my pistol.” He pulled his collar up slightly more and turned to leave. “And it keeps me warm. Nothing else.”

    Shawn raised an eyebrow. “Riiiight. So, um, in that case, shall we get going?”

    “Indeed.” Sherlock swept out of the room and down the two flights of stairs.

    Shawn hurried to keep up. “Why did they give us so long to find two notes? Something’s not right.”

    The British detective raised an eyebrow slightly. “You’re right. And, my most sincere apologies”--he paused dramatically--“But you are not going to be carrying a gun.”

    Shawn shot him a sideways glance. “We already established this, I thought. You’ve already crushed my hopes and dreams,” he said slightly sarcastically.