Clique of 221B

Chapter 12: Something Stupid

But finally the game is on, and – great that bloody catchphrase has caught on. You all follow Toby as he gallops along the streets and chases along loads of different roads. Some time later you're still walking along yet another road as Toby leads us, his nose down.
"Well? What do you make of it?" Sherlock asks.
"They were looking for something." Mary says.
"Yes, but it wasn't a burglar. They came specifically for that Thatcher bust. Why?"
You reach the Southwark area of London, and head into Borough Market, walk past the stalls until Toby finally slows down and stops. There's a large pool of blood on the ground and someone has thrown sawdust over it to soak some of it up. Nearby a door opens and a butcher walks out with a pig's carcass over his shoulder, a nice sight. Toby looks around as another butcher carries another carcass into the area the other man just left. As a third butcher with yet another carcass walks across the pool of blood, a street sweeper begins to brush the soaked sawdust into a heap ready to clean it up. Toby whines. Sherlock looks at the bloody sawdust.
"Clever," he says.
"Well, if you were wounded and you knew you were leaving a trail, where would you go?" Mary says.
"Like hiding a tree in a forest." John adds.
"Or blood in a butchers'." Sherlock says darkly. He bends down to Toby, "Never mind, Toby. Better luck next time?" He stands up and spins around looking at the market, "This is it, though. This is the one. I can feel it."
"Moriarty?" John asks.
"It has to be him. It's too bizarre, it's too baroque." He face lights up in excitement. "It's designed to beguile me, tease me, lure me in. At last – a noose for me to put my neck into." John, Mary and you exchange concerned looks. I doubt Mycroft would be happy if Sherlock's neck was anywhere near a noose. Then again neither would I.

You and Sherlock are at Craig's house. You don't want to be here but Mycroft's in an important meeting. So here you are stood next to Sherlock, behind Craig who's sat at his computer typing away.
"Have you heard of that thing, in Germany?" He asks Sherlock.
"You're going to have to be more specific, Craig." You smile at his response.
"'Ostalgie.' People who miss the old days under the Communists. People are weird, aren't they?" Sherlock hums in answer and you mutter,
"That's an understatement," to Sherlock. He smiles at this.
"According to this, there's quite a market for Cold War memorabilia – Thatcher, Reagan, Stalin. Time's a great leveller, innit? Thatcher's like – I dunno – Napoleon now." Sherlock leans closer,
"Yes, fascinating, irrelevant. Where exactly did they come from?"
"I've got into the records of the suppliers – Gelder & Co. Seems they're from Georgia."
"Where exactly?"
"Um, Tbilisi. Batch of six." Sherlock straightens at that, looking thoughtful. Craig begins to list the names and places. Sherlock's phone rings and he reaches into his coat to answer it.
"Lestrade, another one?" He asks. You hear Greg on the other end of the line sounding tired,
"Yeah."
"Harker or Sandeford?"
"Harker. And it's murder this time."
"Well, that perks things up a bit." He turns to leave, and you follow him without saying goodbye to Craig. You get into a taxi. You glance over at Sherlock and read off his phone. Something about that stupid pearl. Is that what Sherlock thinks they're looking for in these busts? Unlikely.

You, Sherlock, and Lestrade are stood together in Orrie Harker's back garden. We walk across the garden where her body lies face down in the grass. Forensic investigators are hovering around her body, taking photographs.
"Defensive wounds on her face and hands. Throat cut – sharp blade." Lestrade tells you.
"The same thing inside the house? The bust?" Sherlock asks him.
"Two of them this time."
"Interesting. That batch of statues was made in Tbilisi several years ago – limited edition of six."
"And now someone's wandering about destroying 'em all. Makes no sense. What's the point?"
"No, they're not destroying them. That's not what's happening."
"Yes it is."
"No, there's got to be a reason." You say. Sherlock nods,
"It is what's happening, but you're right it's not the point. I've been slow, far too slow."
"Well, I'm still being slow over here, so if you wouldn't mind..." Greg says.
"Slow but lucky - very lucky. And since they smashed both busts, our luck might just hold. Jack Sandeford of Reading is where I'm going next. Congratulations, by the way."
"I'm sorry?"
"Well, you're about to solve a big one." He turns and walks away.
"Yeah, until John publishes his blog."
"Yeah. 'Til then, basically. " Sherlock calls over his shoulder. After saying goodbye to Greg you run after Sherlock.
"You'd better not do something stupid, Sherlock." You tell him.
"Now when am I ever that, [Y/N]?" More often than you'd think Sherly.

Remember the "don't do anything stupid" conversation? Well he only went and broke into someone's house, wrestled a burglar who's actually an ex assassin in a swimming pool and confronted Mary about her past, where he then revealed that her old friend wanted her dead and she's now run off to who knows where.
You and Mycroft had been working through most of last night and then you were back in the office early this morning. Now we have this to deal with, I leave Sherlock alone one night and all this happens.
"Agra?" Mycroft asks. He's got his feet up on his desk. Hypocrite. "A city on the banks of the river Yamuna in the northern state of Uttar Pradesh, India. It is three hundred and seventy-eight kilometres west of the state capital, Lucknow..."
"What are you, Wikipedia?" Sherlock interrupts. He's sat in one of the chairs in front of Mycroft's desk. Mycroft smiles,
"Yes."
"AGRA is an acronym."
"Oh, good. I love an acronym. All the best secret societies have them."
"Team of agents, the best. But you know all that."
"Of course I do. Go on."
"One of them, Ajay, is looking for Mary, also one of the team."
"Indeed? Well, that's news to me." Yeah right.
"Is it?" Sherlock asks him. Mycroft smiles in a 'believe what you want' kind of way. "He's already killed looking for that memory stick. AGRA always worked for the highest bidder. I thought that might include you." From the side of the room you look at Mycroft who frowns at Sherlock,
"Me?"
"Well, I mean the British government or whatever government you're currently propping up."
"AGRA were very reliable, then came the Tbilisi incident. They were sent in to free the hostages but it all went horribly wrong. And that was that. We stopped using freelancers."
"Your initiative?"
"My initiative. Freelancers are too woolly, too messy. I don't like loose ends – not on my watch." Messy! I'll give him messy! He glances across and smiles sheepishly at you. You frown at him, since when did Mycroft get sheepish? Sherlock leans across the desk and pulls a notepad in front of him,
"There was something else. A detail, a code word." He writes on the notepad then turns the notebook around and drops it in front of Mycroft. You lean closer to look at it,
"Ammo?" You ask.
"It's all I've got."
"Little enough." Mycroft comments.
"Could you do some digging, as a favour?"
"You don't have many favours left."
"Then I'm calling them all in."
"And if you can find who's after her and neutralise them, what then? You think you can go on saving her forever?" Of course. What else can he do?
"Of course." See?
"Is that sentiment talking?"
"No. It's me."
"Difficult to tell the difference these days."
"I told you, I made a promise, a vow." Mycroft takes his feet off his desk,
"All right. I'll see what I can do." He leans forwards, clasping his fingers together, "But remember this, brother mine, agents like Mary tend not to reach retirement age. They get retired in a pretty permanent sort of way." It's true.
"Not on my watch." I hope so, Sherly.