formersurgeon | Vanished

Vanished

Sherlock had been getting used to having Malcolm in Watson's life, and, consequently, in his own. The profiler had more than proven his worth as an investigator, even if Sherlock still maintained his doubts about profilers as a group. And Sherlock had come to accept the relationship between Malcolm and his partner. It was clear she loved him. The notion that Watson would soon be moving out of the Brownstone and into another home with Malcolm was still difficult to accept, but he was starting to get used to the idea, however grudgingly.

However, there was still doubt. Doubt about this man. He had a tendency to run into danger, and was sufficiently volatile that the FBI expelled him. Was he dangerous to Watson? Would he, wittingly or unwittingly, bring harm to her, or allow her to be harmed? Sherlock still wondered. Still worried.

So when he comes back to his computer with a cup of tea and sees an alert on the screen, his worries kick into fear. Back after Watson was kidnapped by French terrorists and nearly killed, Sherlock installed a tracking device on her phone so that if it ever happened again, he and the police would be able to find her. The device would work even if the phone was powered down. Even if the SIM card was removed. Even in water. Even underground. The tracker would have to be either physically destroyed or placed in a lead bag for it to fail.

The red box flashing on Sherlock's screen tells him that the unthinkable has happened. The signal had ended half an hour ago.

Sherlock grabs his phone and tries calling Watson. It goes instantly to voicemail. He leaves a terse message. Then he stares at his phone. Watson had been on her way to meet with Malcolm, had some vital information for a case he was working, something that involved very dangerous people.

What has he gotten her into?

Sherlock hears the door open upstairs, and immediately heads up, hoping it's Watson.

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Malcolm raises an eyebrow when Sherlock looks at him and answers whatever question Gregson asked. He steps out of the room to talk to Gil, then call an agent he knows at the New York office. Voicemail. Malcolm leaves a message for now, then returns to Sherlock.

"Okay, my team is on it, your team is on it. I left a message with a contact at the Bureau. I don't know about you, but I have to know that Joan is safe before we start working this case."

She may be with the FBI, but Malcolm doesn't trust them for obvious reasons.

Sherlock doesn't trust the FBI as far as he can spit them.

"In this, Mr. Bright," he says, "we are in complete agreement."

***

"Mr. Bright didn't tell you who the go-between was?"

"I didn't need to know," Joan says with a completely straight face. She's lying, of course...she knows who the contact is, but she's certain now that this agent is dirty. That if she gives him the name, that person will wind up with a bullet in the head, just like Marcus Wright.

She glances away to hide any suggestion of distress at the thought of Marcus Wright. It wasn't the first time she'd witnessed a death. Nor the first time she had been certain she was in the crosshairs. She's suspecting that the reason she's still alive is because they still don't know who hooked Bright up with Marcus. It also means her continued existence hinged on her perceived usefulness.

"I've been here for a while," she says calmly, with a hint of weariness that was absolutely genuine. "Could I have a cup of coffee?"

He looks at her. She looks back with perfect (tired) calm.

"Sure," he says.

He leaves the room, the door locking behind him.

When he returns with a cup of coffee Joan is up and stretching. "I appreciate it," she says, coming to retrieve the coffee.

She catches her hip on the corner of the table and stumbles right into him, sending coffee all over his front.

"Oh god, I'm sorry!" she says, trying to regain her footing and extricate herself from him, her hands looking for purchase while he swears at the hot coffee all over his shirt and pants. He pushes her away and rushes out the door again, slamming it behind him.

Joan, also covered in coffee, sits down.

And pulls out the phone she pickpocketed from Agent Skerritt.

In a few quick actions she wipes the phone to its factory settings, which included the text program. She shoots off a quick text to Malcolm:

It's me. Loc unknwn. FBI compromised. Skerritt wrkng 4 senator.

She sent the message then deleted it from the phone's memory. She dropped the phone into the puddle of coffee on the floor and stomped on it for good measure before quickly returning to her seat and focusing on her ruined clothing.

Malcolm's phone suddenly pings with a text from an unknown number. "Shit." He shows Sherlock the text. "We need to tread very carefully." As much as he wants to storm that office and get Joan back, if they've got a compromised agent, Joan could end up dead.

"We... we need a plan." It's unlike him to say that, but Joan's life hangs in the balance. If he got seriously injured saving her, he probably wouldn't care, but Malcolm wants Joan out of there without a scratch on her. She means everything to him, and he wouldn't be able to live with himself if she got hurt.

Sherlock's jaw tightens and his hands curl into fists when he sees the text.

"We need to find out where she is," he says, his voice rasping with the considerable effort he is expending to maintain his cool when he is near-vibrating with anger and fear for the one person in the world he loves more than anything. "Then we need to infiltrate." He looks up at Bright. "Can your contacts tell you where she is? Preferably without alerting the compromised party to our involvement?"

***

Joan is unhappily tugging at her coffee-soaked shirt when the door opens and Skerritt enters with a handful of paper towels.

"Here, I got..."

Crunch.

He looks down and takes his foot off of the phone he's just stepped on.

"What the...how..."

"What?" Joan looks over at the destroyed phone and grimaces. "God, I'm sorry. That sucks."

The agent stoops down and collects the destroyed phone. He puts the paper towels on the table. "I'll...be right back."

"Okay. Oh...can you get me a top? This is really uncomfortable."

"Sure...I'll see what I can do..." With that he exits again.

Joan looks around. They took her lockpicks when they took her into custody, but Sherlock trained her well, and she knew how to construct lockpicks from all sorts of things.

She spots a glint of metal shoved under the rubber wall base, and quickly crouches down to dig it out.

A paperclip. It's a start.

"I'll do my best."

Malcolm puts in another call. He talks briefly to his contact, who agrees to see what he can find out. Malcolm returns to Sherlock, feeling agitated and helpless.

"She's probably at the local field office. We need to go get her." His calm demeanor is starting to slip as he gets more and more worried about Joan. "We need to get in there. Maybe a ruse somehow?"

Something. He doesn't trust her with the FBI anyway, and he especially doesn't trust her with a corrupt FBI agent.

Edited 2021-06-26 00:39 (UTC)

Sherlock notes how Malcolm is starting to fray. He finds he can't blame the younger man, even if Sherlock himself know panic is counterproductive.

"Perhaps," Sherlock says, his voice quiet and tightly controlled, "what we need is for the building in which she is being held to be evacuated."

He turns and begins to walk briskly toward the stairs.

Malcolm is prone to panic, unfortunately. He usually hides it well, but this is a dire situation. The woman he loves is in danger, and he's prone to do something rash.

Sherlock is surprisingly grounding. Malcolm follows him down the stairs.

"Do you think they'll evacuate her or try to take her somewhere else?" he asks. "It needs to be something relatively innocuous or Skerritt will see through the ruse. No bomb threats." That would be an obvious ploy.

Malcolm pulls out his phone again. "I'm going to get my team to work on finding everything they can about Agent Skerritt. I need to be able to profile him."

"A bomb threat is indeed too pedestrian," Sherlock says, going through the kitchen and into his room, making a beeline for his closet. "We would need something immediate, physical, and requiring the intervention of professionals in identity-obscuring equipment."

He pulls out a plastic bag containing a white powder and holds it out to Malcolm.

"Anthrax," he says.

His eyes widen and he jumps back a little when Sherlock identifies the white powder in the bag. Sherlock would have anthrax just lying around.

"I feel like that's still too extreme," Malcolm says. "They'll suspect something's up. Plus I don't want to use anything that might actually hurt someone." He eyes the bag in Sherlock's hands. He's handling it pretty casually. Maybe it's just flour? "Maybe we can force some kind of required fire drill? Or at the very least make the fire alarm go off?"

Sherlock shakes his head at Malcolm's reaction to the item.

"Do you truly believe I would have anthrax in my home?" He lifts the plastic-wrapped powder. "Baby laxative. Used by unscrupulous cocaine dealers and federal agents conducting test runs of biological warfare protocols."

He steps closer, lowering his voice slightly, his tone urgent.

"It would be easy enough to ignore a fire drill. And pulling an alarm will be useless if there is no actual fire." He holds up the "anthrax." "The physical presence of a white powder substance in a federal building will not be dismissed. Anthrax acts quickly and is one of the worst ways to die. What is more, it will take time to test the substance to determine it is not actually anthrax. How we proceed would depend on whether we want the building evacuated or want the occupants to shelter in place. If we arrange for a letter containing anthrax to be found in a mail room, the building would be evacuated, and we would monitor the exits. If there were to be an envelope accidentally ripped open in the lobby of the building, the occupants will shelter in place. Then you and I enter in hazmat suits and find Watson."

"I believe Joan wouldn't have anthrax in her home," Malcolm replies truthfully. Sherlock might be crazy enough. Malcolm's toed that line of crazy too.

He has to admit, Sherlock's plan is a good one. He kind of hates that he didn't come up with it himself, but his brain feels like a scrambled egg right now.

"Fine. You work on setting it up. I'm going to see what information I can get on Skerritt. You get us in there and I'll be able to take him down."

"Work your contacts," Sherlock says, going back into the closet and rummaging around. He emerges with a burner phone in his hand. "And I'll work mine."

Sherlock works quickly. He arranges for one if his street urchins to deliver a package to the field office and accidentally rip the envelope, spilling the powder in the lobby. He then calls in a major favor with a member of the NYPD hazmat unit, and gets the promise of two hazmat suits and an in with the team when everything goes down. He considers calling Gregson to alert him of the plan, but decides the Captain would probably rather not know for the sake of plausible deniability.

Sherlock then takes the battery and card out of the phone and breaks it in two for good measure.

"The trap is set," Sherlock says as he comes to Malcolm having put the plan in place. "We are to meet my contact in half an hour. Have you had any luck?"

While Sherlock sets up their plan, Malcolm does everything he can to learn more about Skerritt. He sets his team to digging up any information that they can while Malcolm calls in another favor from someone at the FBI. He's sent Skerritt's file, which contains a wealth of information. Malcolm learns that he's a man very devoted to law and order and not the sort to easily admit that he's wrong. Based on the financial records that his team is able to pull, he's also wildly in debt. Malcolm takes notes, forming a quick profile and determining how he needs to approach him. He may only have one shot.

"Yes," Malcolm replies when he and Sherlock reconvene. "I've got a basic profile that's workable for now."

Sherlock is still not a fan of profiling, but in this case he is truly hoping that Malcolm's field is not merely arrogant posturing.

"Let's go get our girl," he says.

***

Joan has bent the paper clip into a serviceable lock pick by the time Skerritt comes back, and she hides it as he returns, slipping it into her pocket.

"Here," he says, holding out a tshirt that says FBI on it. "All I could find."

"It will work, thanks," she says, standing up. "Can I go into the bathroom to change?"

"That's okay, I'll step out."

He does, and she hears the door lock behind him. She wonders if the other agents even know she's still there, if he's keeping her hidden. She pulls off her coffee-stained shirt and pulls on the tshirt. It's a little big, but comfortable enough. She thinks of trying the lockpick out, but decides against it, sure that Skerritt is probably right outside. So she waits.

Not that he thinks he's ever arrogantly posturing, but he definitely wouldn't be doing that with Joan's life potentially hanging in the balance.

With a nod, the two of them head out of the brownstone. "Where are we getting the hazmat suits from?" he asks.

"I have an acquaintance in New York City's bioterrorism squad," Sherlock says as they leave the brownstone and stride toward the nearest cross street to hail a cab. "He is, in addition to being one of the premiere analysts in his field, something of a collector when it comes to molds. I grew a rare toxic mold sample for him. Both very difficult and very illegal. He owes me a rather large favor for that."

"And my mother thinks I'm weird for collecting weapons," Malcolm quips as they cross the street. He's still anxious about this plan, even if it's the kind of wacky thing he'd try to pull. It's different when it's someone else's life on the line, especially Joan's. There's no room for error here. If Joan gets hurt, Malcolm will be devastated.

They settle into the back seat of a cab. "Skerritt has been an agent for 15 years. He's very devoted to his job and to doing things by the book. He's also several hundred thousand dollars in debt."

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