Concertos and Blackmail, part 2
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Part Two
It’s over two hours before John hears from Sherlock again. His mobile beeps as he drops a plate into the sink after lunch, planning to get Sherlock to clean it for him if the bastard ever reappears.
“‘Highest priority’ my arse,” he mumbles, pulling out his phone.
Senate House Library, University of London. Require assistance.
S
John sighs and rolls his eyes, pressing ‘Reply’.
‘Bring the gun’ assistance or ‘does this look weird to you’ assistance
He gets the reply not a minute later as he rummages around the desk for his keys.
‘Help me look through these archives for Brackwell’s articles’ assistance. The Yarders aren’t the only ones who have to endure mindless paperwork.
With a long-suffering groan, John pockets his phone, checks his wallet, and heads out for the Tube. Sherlock may be able to afford taking cabs everywhere, but John certainly can’t. He’s halfway to Euston Square when his phone rings; predictably, it’s Sherlock.
“Christ, Sherlock, I’m almost there,” he says by way of greeting, “stop being so impatient.”
“Oh, are you taking the Tube?” Sherlock replies - an observation, not a question. “I’ll meet you at Euston Square. We need to talk, and I’d rather not do it in a library. Anyone could be listening.”
“And no one is on the street?” John asks, straight-faced.
“Of course not, don’t be stupid,” says Sherlock dismissively. “I’ll see you there. Tell the man sitting next to you he should probably see a doctor about that cough.”
Sherlock hangs up and John takes a deep breath, clenching one fist on his knee and resisting the urge to send Sherlock a text informing him that, despite the detective’s low opinion of him, John is not, in fact, an entirely incompetent doctor, and can recognise a man with suspected whooping cough sitting right next to him on the Tube, it’s just that he, unlike some, would rather keep his nose out of other people’s business.
He’s barely out of Euston Square Station before Sherlock appears at his side, falling seamlessly into step with him. He slips his fingers into the crook of John’s right elbow, directing them both down Gower Street.
“Accessing the archives is easy enough,” he says, keeping his voice just low enough to be a meaningless drone to unsuspecting passers-by.
“Yet it took you two hours?” John asks with a raised eyebrow.
Sherlock glares. “It took me two hours to make sure that the old Marxist Society publications are, in fact, in the archives, and haven’t yet been made electronic; that they should contain duplicate copies of every issue of Alternative from its first publication in 1993 to its last in 2001; and finally, to gain a list of everyone who accessed that part of the archives in the last three months.”
“And?”
Frustration and disappointment sour Sherlock’s expression as he steers John around passing strangers and lampposts. “As I feared,” he growls - “the admittance records are hardly specific, and there are too many entries for it to be a viable path of investigation. On top of that, we have no confirmation as to when the articles were found - someone could have brought them to Milverton’s attention years ago and he only waited till now to use them.”
“Why wait, though?” asks John. “Wouldn’t he want to get it over with quickly in case the police came round?”
Sherlock’s fingers tighten on John’s arm. “He’s a professional, John,” he says with a withering glance down at his friend. “That’s really the least of his worries.”
John purses his lips. “You’re still not going to tell me who he is, are you?”
Sherlock says nothing.
“Right then.” John clears his throat and adjusts Sherlock’s hand on his elbow. A small frown creases his brow. “Eva said both her articles were published in ‘96…” he starts.
“And Alternative was only published monthly,” Sherlock finishes for him. “You’re thinking I could probably have done without you.”
“I wouldn’t have thought twelve issues of a uni magazine were much of a challenge for the great mind of Sherlock Holmes,” John deadpans.
“They wouldn’t be, had they been properly archived,” says Sherlock with a scowl. “I was directed to two filing cabinets and wished ‘good luck’. I figured I could use some -”
“Assistance?” John smirks.
“Exactly.” Mirth tugs at the edges of Sherlock’s mouth, but he suppresses it and pulls John around the corner onto Torrington Place.
As Sherlock had said, getting into the archives isn’t a challenge, particularly under the all-encompassing guise of ‘research’; the two mismatched filing cabinets, however, are. They commandeer a reading room, joining the desks into one long line to form a timeline in which to organise the magazines. Then, taking a drawer each to being with, they start filing.
It’s dull work. The room fills with the sound of breathing and the crackling rustle of old paper, punctuated by occasional footsteps as one or the other of them leaves to retrieve another drawer. Slowly but steadily, they make their way through the cabinets, the magazine timeline filling up - two copies for each month from September 1993 to December 2001. John more or less organises them; Sherlock seems content to look for the 1996 publications and ignore the rest. After an hour and a half, they’ve gone through both cabinets and picked out every copy from 1996: twenty-two papers, spread out in the centre of their line of tables.
“Twenty-two…” Sherlock mutters under his breath. “One missing from -” he scans the papers before them - “August, and one from…”
“Here.” John points. “February.”
“Milverton’s gone straight to the source, then,” says Sherlock, his expression curiously blank. “Well obviously he didn’t - got some lackey to do it, or whoever told him about the articles... Still, he’s clearly kept up his standards. He’ll have the originals, as well as physical and digital photocopies.”
John stares at Sherlock, then sighs in annoyance. “You know, you’re definitely not helping the ‘not telling me who he is’ thing by dropping all these stupid hints,” he says, irritation snapping in his voice. “You could just tell me, then this whole business would be a lot -”
Sherlock cuts him off, eyes still on the papers in front of them “He’s the worst man in London. That’s all you need to know.”
There’s a pause in which John stares first at him, then at the tables. He purses his lips, and sighs.
“Here -” Sherlock snaps, tossing John the remaining February issue of Alternative and grabbing the August for himself. “Find Brackwell’s article, read it, then we’ll swap.”
“I get this feeling she wouldn’t want both of us reading the articles being used to blackmail her,” says John, flipping open the magazine regardless.
“I’m not arguing with you too, John,” Sherlock replies, settling back into a chair. “This case requires full confidentiality, between all parties. Either both of us read them, or neither of us do - and we have to know their contents to be able to negotiate with Milverton properly.”
“So we are negotiating with him,” says John, but Sherlock’s buried himself in the magazine and doesn’t seem likely to resurface just to clarify the exact nature of their investigation. John shakes his head, pulls out a chair, and starts reading.
Eva had been more or less accurate in her description of the articles. They’re very well argued, and it’s clear that she’s meant for politics - John finds himself almost agreeing with the theories before kicking himself and remembering that there’s no way they would actually work in the real world. They’re idealistic and a little bit ignorant, but show clear support of a Western Communist revolution - a true revolution, violence, class overthrow and all. It wouldn’t matter whether or not Eva still holds the same views - were they to be exposed to the political world, her career would be over.
John and Sherlock swap articles after a few minutes, and when they’ve both finished reading, they set down the papers and sit back. John glances at Sherlock, but his expression is shuttered and calculating - he clearly isn’t going to be revealing his thoughts anytime soon.
“Should we make copies of them?” John asks, trying not to disturb the detective’s thoughts.
Sherlock shakes his head just once. “No,” he murmurs. “The fewer copies of these in the world, the better. Put them away.”
As Sherlock curls himself into the confines of his little plastic chair, John starts filing away the magazines, trying to keep his tread soft as he walks between the reading room and the archives, storing the old papers in far better order than they’d found them. It takes fifteen minutes for them all to be painstakingly filed, but John feels the success of a job well done just as Sherlock seems to decide on a course of action. He springs to his feet and sweeps off, John following at his heels with a final, guilty glance back at the room, tables and chairs left in haphazard disorder.
“No need to thank us,” Sherlock calls as he strides past reception on his way out onto the street, heedless of the stares of the young woman seated behind the desk.
“So where to now?” asks John, hurrying to keep up.
“Home,” says Sherlock, the terse command in his voice unmistakeable. “I need to review Brackwell’s financials.”
“And then?”
Sherlock’s reply is flat and detached. “There’s nothing we can do until Milverton contacts us.”
“Wait - until he contacts us?” John’s eyebrows shoot up.
“He’ll have put Eva under basic surveillance,” Sherlock replies, far too nonchalant about the matter for John’s liking. “He’ll know she’s consulted me.”
John frowns, but Sherlock ignores him, hurrying forward to hail a cab.
They make one stop on the way home, and, true to his word, Sherlock buys milk. (“Only you could take four hours to get the milk,” John grumbles, significantly more fond than annoyed.) When they make it back home, Sherlock drops down in front of his laptop; John doesn’t bother asking whether or not he’s going to eat. As Sherlock researches and calculates and deduces, John settles in his armchair with a book and tries to concentrate on the words in front of him. He’s continually distracted, though, by thoughts of the mysterious Charles Milverton. It’s clear that Sherlock’s faced him before, and it’s even more obvious that, however Sherlock tries to compose himself, Milverton must be one antagonistic bastard. For someone like Sherlock - scourge of London murderers and well-acquainted with a certain consulting criminal - to call him “the worst man in London”… John shudders to think what they’re up against.
In the end, he gives up on his book and decides to make dinner, cooking bolognaise for two and putting half straight in the fridge. When he goes to bed, Sherlock is still coiled in front of his laptop, staring at the screen, his fingertips tapping impatiently under his nose.
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