Find Me (BBC Sherlock Fan Fiction)

Chapter 3

At length, Sherlock realised they were both waiting for an answer so he tried to focus on the last thing he could remember hearing. 'TripAdvisor? What's TripAdvisor?'

'He doesn't get out much,' explained John to their client, whom Sherlock had no recollection of ever seeing before. A large man, late forties, with the broken capillaries and bent nose... Ah. His memory caught up with what his mouth had been saying not ten minutes before.

'Just show him the code.'

Mr Cubitt was waving a smartphone at him, open to the page of some website on which was displayed a series of stick men waving various flags.

Sherlock took the phone, caressed the screen almost in awe as his mind checked through its databanks of ciphers and encryptions, already knowing that this was something entirely new.

John peered over his shoulder and tried to be helpful. 'TripAdvisor is a site where people leave reviews of the places they've been. Someone left a strange review about Mr Cubitt's hotel. It's semaphore isn't it? All those men with flags.'

Sherlock shook his head impatiently, 'It's not semaphore.'

'Morse Code then? Everything's always Morse Code. Every time someone gets stuck in a cellar or drifts out to sea they signal for help using Morse Code. They never remember to take a phone with them, but they always remember their Morse Code.'

'It's not Morse Code.'

'Then what is it? What does it say?'

Both John and Mr Cubitt were gazing at him with expectant faces.

'Have you had any more of these messages?' Sherlock asked, disguising the fact that he didn't currently have an answer.

'Yes, there was one sent by email to the address we use for bookings – it's here, I'll show you.'

The hotelier took his phone back and thumbed the screen for a few seconds, presenting Sherlock with a message he memorised on the spot. John dug around on the bookshelves for a minute and unearthed a blackboard, on which he slowly and laboriously chalked the figures, leaving a dash below in which to add the letters.

'Nor is it hangman,' Sherlock remarked, seeing the direction of his friend's thoughts. He considered the board for a minute then bent forward, fixing his client with his best piercing stare. 'And what about the one on the garage this morning?'

Cubitt started. 'How did you know?'

'You have a new car, its expensive and you've got the money so it must be parked in a garage. A strange email and a random review on WhipAdvisor could be written off as a phishing scam or some kind of cyber-attack but when the same message appears at your home you're going to be worried. Worried enough to get into your new car and drive all the way to London. Did you bring me the third message?'

Cubitt flushed slightly. 'I washed it off. I didn't want Elsie to see it.'

'Elise is Mr Cubitt's wife,' John offered before Sherlock had a chance to ask. 'Why not?'

Cubitt shifted uncomfortably on the hard chair. 'She has...a bit of a history. And it isn't entirely all sweet and innocent – I'm not ashamed of it, it's one of the things I love about her. Keeps life interesting, you know?'

John smiled, a sad wistful smile, resumed his seat. 'I think we can both understand the attraction of a woman with a past.' Sherlock didn't fail to note the quick glance that accompanied these words.

'She was an exotic dancer when I met her. In America. When we were married she wanted a new start and we agreed we'd never mention it again. She never had any English clients and when she moved over to live with me in the UK after the wedding, she promised that no one from her past would ever bother us. In fact, she changed her name, dyed her hair, put on some weight, dropped her accent and had no contact with anyone she knew from before at all. At first, I thought it was just because she was trying to forget her old life, but lately I've wondered if it isn't more than that.'

'Her behaviour is unusual?'

'She had a burglar alarm fitted throughout the hotel linked to the police station and she insisted that I install a panic room to go with it. She vets all the clients, checks them out before they arrive and says we're fully booked if she doesn't like the look of them. She locks up, personally, every night, won't let me do it and whenever we go out she's always looking over her shoulder.'

Sherlock sighed, disappointed that something potentially so interesting had turned out to be so domestic. 'Go home and talk to your wife, Mr Cubitt. This isn't a problem I can help you with.'

'But the code, have you cracked it? What does it say?'

'I don't know what it says. I'm sure your wife could tell you if you asked. It sounds very much like she has a stalker, someone from her past whom she knows quite well and who has finally tracked her down. I suggest you go home and ask her yourself.' He turned to his friend. 'Why don't people in relationships just talk to each other? That's what I don't understand. Why does everyone insist on keeping secrets rather than discussing their feelings openly like rational adults?'

John cocked his head to one side. 'When have you ever discussed your feelings like a rational adult?'

'I don't have 'feelings'' he retorted, complete with imaginary inverted commas.

'No. You have 'emotional context,'' corrected John, also with commas. 'That's the same thing.'

'But what about the code?' wailed Mr Cubitt.

'Are you still here? Go home. Talk to your wife. Goodbye.'

'No, I'm not leaving until you tell me what that message says,' Cubitt snapped back, his face red and his banana fingers curling in his lap.

Sherlock waved a hand at him. 'Irrelevant. Go away. I'm not getting involved in somebody else's marriage.'

'What my friend here meant to say,' cut in John in a practised fashion. 'Is that he can't currently translate your semaphore, but if you get any more messages please let him know.'

'Really? That's what he meant to say?'

Sherlock snorted and headed to the kitchen in search of tea.

'Almost certainly. Have a good day.'

The man's receding footsteps were camouflaged by the instant whine of the kettle.

John propped himself against the doorway, smirking. 'You've sent her a text, haven't you?'