The middle of the Gendarmenmarkt, Berlin. A steady rain had fallen all day, the old pavement capturing scoops of reflected light from the tower of the French Cathedral, prisms scattered everywhere. Berlin had been bombed quite heavily during the second world war. Architects in the ensuing years had restored much of the Gendarmenmarkt to its original glory, but every now and then the rain brought the smell of gunpowder and ruin seeping from between the cracks in the pavement. The city perspired its history.
Sherlock Holmes, formerly of London, formerly of the living, stood on the steps of the great concert house at the center of the square and allowed the city to set into his bones. He had been in Berlin for exactly sixteen hours, arriving first by way of Ingolstadt, and before that a series of inexplicably consonant-heavy burgs throughout Austria and Slovakia. It had been essential that he launder his location through as many different countries as possible, the idea being that a man -- even a dead one -- was harder to trace if he was constantly moving. Mycroft had been integral when it had come to obtaining the false documents that would allow him to travel in and out of countries.
There was just one problem: Berlin had not been on the list.
Vitsyebsk had been. Sherlock had been provided with a perfectly authentic Belarusian passport, a cover identity, and a set of strict instructions from Mycroft that he was not to deviate from the plan in any way, shape, or form. He had used those precise words: "Sherlock Holmes, do not, under any circumstances, deviate from the plan in any way, shape, or form." A multitude of potential threats for violation had followed, most of which involved grievous harm to the multitude of monographs, papers, and articles he had been forced to leave at Baker Street.
So. Vitsyebsk it was to be. Right.
Sherlock breathed deep the acrid smell of smoke and the city of Berlin, folding himself into the crowd of concert-goers as they emerged from the warm yellow light of the Konzerthaus, one dark drop of wool among the glittered and bejeweled. He had good reason for being in Berlin. He did not, however, have a German passport or cover identity, and it occurred to him that this might be an obstacle as he proceeded. He was six hours past his scheduled check-in with his brother. It would not be long before he was missed. He imagined Mycroft with a cell phone wedged between his neck and shoulder, waving a lighter over a pile of tobacco monographs.
It didn't matter. Sherlock had long ago digitized all of his scholarly publications.
He moved through the crowd like a shark over a reef, cutting past foot traffic, the lights of the Deutscher Dom splashing across his narrow features. No. There was nothing for it: a new identity was essential if he was to move on. Going to Mycroft was out of the question (who needed all of that nagging?), and though he had resources of his own, they did not extend all the way to Berlin.
Unless...
The Schlosshotel Im Grunewald was a great jewel box of a building, an enclave for the super-rich and well-connected. Sherlock Holmes entered the lobby and shook the rainwater off of his coat. A few patrons congregated in a lushly-appointed parlor, sipping drinks beside a fire whose grate was large enough to contain a small car. He caught his reflection in a wall of mirrors and shoved a hand up into his hairline, disrupting a rain of droplets. He had not altered his appearance since leaving London, and it occurred to him that he might have to do so once his business here was finished.
He climbed the great staircase to the third floor. His footsteps were hushed by the Moroccan runners that licked down the hallways like elaborate forked tongues. A door.
If he could not rely upon his brother to deliver the documents he needed, then he would have to depend upon the talents of the second-best forger he knew; a wunderkind of rotating identities: Irene Adler.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2014-04-07 05:27 pm (UTC)Sherlock Holmes, formerly of London, formerly of the living, stood on the steps of the great concert house at the center of the square and allowed the city to set into his bones. He had been in Berlin for exactly sixteen hours, arriving first by way of Ingolstadt, and before that a series of inexplicably consonant-heavy burgs throughout Austria and Slovakia. It had been essential that he launder his location through as many different countries as possible, the idea being that a man -- even a dead one -- was harder to trace if he was constantly moving. Mycroft had been integral when it had come to obtaining the false documents that would allow him to travel in and out of countries.
There was just one problem: Berlin had not been on the list.
Vitsyebsk had been. Sherlock had been provided with a perfectly authentic Belarusian passport, a cover identity, and a set of strict instructions from Mycroft that he was not to deviate from the plan in any way, shape, or form. He had used those precise words: "Sherlock Holmes, do not, under any circumstances, deviate from the plan in any way, shape, or form." A multitude of potential threats for violation had followed, most of which involved grievous harm to the multitude of monographs, papers, and articles he had been forced to leave at Baker Street.
So. Vitsyebsk it was to be. Right.
Sherlock breathed deep the acrid smell of smoke and the city of Berlin, folding himself into the crowd of concert-goers as they emerged from the warm yellow light of the Konzerthaus, one dark drop of wool among the glittered and bejeweled. He had good reason for being in Berlin. He did not, however, have a German passport or cover identity, and it occurred to him that this might be an obstacle as he proceeded. He was six hours past his scheduled check-in with his brother. It would not be long before he was missed. He imagined Mycroft with a cell phone wedged between his neck and shoulder, waving a lighter over a pile of tobacco monographs.
It didn't matter. Sherlock had long ago digitized all of his scholarly publications.
He moved through the crowd like a shark over a reef, cutting past foot traffic, the lights of the Deutscher Dom splashing across his narrow features. No. There was nothing for it: a new identity was essential if he was to move on. Going to Mycroft was out of the question (who needed all of that nagging?), and though he had resources of his own, they did not extend all the way to Berlin.
Unless...
The Schlosshotel Im Grunewald was a great jewel box of a building, an enclave for the super-rich and well-connected. Sherlock Holmes entered the lobby and shook the rainwater off of his coat. A few patrons congregated in a lushly-appointed parlor, sipping drinks beside a fire whose grate was large enough to contain a small car. He caught his reflection in a wall of mirrors and shoved a hand up into his hairline, disrupting a rain of droplets. He had not altered his appearance since leaving London, and it occurred to him that he might have to do so once his business here was finished.
He climbed the great staircase to the third floor. His footsteps were hushed by the Moroccan runners that licked down the hallways like elaborate forked tongues. A door.
If he could not rely upon his brother to deliver the documents he needed, then he would have to depend upon the talents of the second-best forger he knew; a wunderkind of rotating identities: Irene Adler.
The Woman.
He knocked.