221B

Chapter 12 - The Great Game

The three of us sit in the back of a taxi, Sherlock looks at the pink phone in frustration.

"Why hasn't he phoned? He's broken his pattern. Why?" Sherlock asks. Then, a second later, he suddenly leans forward towards the taxi driver. "Waterloo Bridge."

"Where now? The Gallery?" John asks.

"In a bit." Sherlock answers.

"The Hickman's contemporary art, isn't it? Why have they got hold of an Old Master?" John asks.

"Dunno. Dangerous to jump to conclusions. Need data." Sherlock replies. He takes his notebook from his pocket and writes something down on a page of it and tears it out, folding a bank note inside it. He puts the paper in his pocket, then calls out to the drive a few seconds later. "Stop!"

The cab pulls over to the side of the road.

"You wait here." He says to us. "I won't be a moment." He gets out, then goes over to the railings at the edge of the pavement and vaults over them with ease.

"Oh Jesus, Sherlock..." I say as John and I both get out of the cab. "Hold on a moment." I say to the driver before walking over to Sherlock.

As Sherlock walks off, John signs in exasperation, then scrambles over the railings and follows him. John stops and waits for me, but I simply grab the railing with one hand and simply vault over it. John and I continue to follow Sherlock, who trots up some steps to where a homeless young women sits on a bench under Waterloo Bridge.

She has a large bag next to her with a handwritten cardboard sign poking out of the top. The first two words I see on the sign are "HUNGRY AND". The next word is covered up by some of her possessions.

"Change? Any change?" The girl asks.

"What for?" Sherlock asks.

"Cup of tea, of course."

"Here you go-fifty." Sherlock says, handing her the piece of paper that he put in his pocket.

"Thanks." She says, smiling.

Sherlock immediately turns and walks away again. John looks at him in bewilderment before we both turn and follow him.

"What are you doing?" John asks Sherlock.

"Investing." Sherlock replies, going over to the railings and easily leaping over the railing again. He opens the door to the cab. "Now we go to the Gallery."

He stops and looks back at John and I. "Have you got any cash?"

"Yeah." I say, nodding.

Sherlock gets into the cab and John and I climb in after him.

The taxi pulls up to Hickman Gallery and Sherlock steps out. John and I are about to get out but Sherlock stops us.

"No. I need you to find out all you can about the gallery attendant. Lestrade will give you instructions."

"Both of us or just one of us?" John asks.

"Just John."

"So I'm coming with you." I say.

"Yes."

"Okay then." I say, and get out of the cab. The cab pulls away and Sherlock and I turn and walk towards the gallery.

 "Don't you have something to do?" A woman with an Eastern European accent speaks up. We turn and see her, elegantly dressed. We're standing in a large, white-painted room which displays the Vermeer Painting. No other artwork or furniture is in the room, but free-standing posts are roped together to form a path to the picture.

"Just admiring the view." Sherlock replies, wearing a black jacket and cap. We stand in front of the painting, our backs to her.

"Yes. Lovely. Now get back to work you two. We open tonight."

Sherlock and I both look over our shoulders and walk towards her.

"Doesn't it bother you?" Sherlock asks.

"What?"

"That the painting's a fake."

"What?" She asks angrily.

"It's a fake. It has to be. It's the only possible explanation." Sherlock answers, getting closer to her. I notice him look at her I.D. badge. "You are in charge, aren't you, Miss Wenceslas?"

"Who are you?" She asks, looking from him to me and back again.

"Alex Woodbridge knew that the painting was a fake," Sherlock says, getting into her face and staring into her eyes. "So somebody sent the Golem to take care of him. Was it you?"

"Golem? What the hell are you talking about?"

He's talking about the Gollum from Lord of the Rings or one of those creepy statues.

No, he's talking about an assassin! The Golem's obviously a person-Sherlock did reference him as a person, he's not a bloody machine.

But I do see why she's so surprised at this. It's not like someone gets in your face and begins to ask you questions about a recent murder everyday.

"Or are you working for someone else?" Sherlock asks. "Did you fake it for them?"

"It's not a fake."

"It is a fake. Don't know why, but there's something wrong with it. There has to be."

"What the hell are you on about? You know, I could have sacked you on the spot." She says, then glances at me. "Both of you. You're not even wearing your complete uniform!" She says to me, gesturing to my clothes, which were just dark jeans, boots, and a black security guard jacket thrown over my dark navy blue long sleeved shirt-my black trench coat is bundled up neatly and tucked into the security guard jacket. My hair is tied up in a ponytail with a black baseball cap on-I'd nicked the jacket and hat from a seat I'd found nearby in the gallery.

"Well, it wouldn't have been a problem." I comment.

"No?" She asks, giving me a questioning look.

"No." I confirm. "We don't work here."

"Just popped in to give you a bit of friendly advice." Sherlock adds.

"How did you get in?" She asks.

"Please." He says scornfully.

"I want to know."

"The art of disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight." Sherlock says, then turns and starts to walk away, lightly brushing my shoulder, indicating it's time to leave. I turn and follow him, both of us taking off our caps.

"Who are you?" She asks.

"Sherlock Holmes and Katherine Harrison." Sherlock answers as I shrug the security guard jacket off and swiftly trade it with my black trenchcoat. Both of us simultaneously drop our caps onto one of the railing posts.

"Am I supposed to be impressed?" She asks us.

"You should be." Sherlock answers, taking off his security guard jacket. He looks round at Miss Wenceslas as he deliberately drops the jacket onto the floor. We reach the doors, and he shoves open one of the doors in a rather flamboyant way. He almost dances out of the room and I follow him.

"Have a nice day!" He calls as the door slowly closes, squeaking loudly as it does.