“The painting is a fake. It’s a fake. That’s why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed […] Oh, come on. Proving it’s just the detail. The painting is a fake. I’ve solved it. I’ve figured it out. It’s a fake! That’s the answer. That’s why they were killed […] Okay, I’ll prove it. Give me time. Will you give me time?”
To cut a bizarre story short, the photo led to a dead body on the Thames, who turned out to be a security guard for a museum. But because nothing is ever mundane, he didn’t just die. The life was literally squeezed out of him by a giant assassin known as the Golem (not the Lord of the Rings character, I asked).
We went to his flat and there was a voicemail on his answering machine from a Professor in response to him having discovered that something, somewhere was wrong, and also found out he was into astronomy. Miraculously, Sherlock worked out that the Golem had killed the guy because this Lost Vermeer painting was a fake.
So we rushed over to the planetarium where this professor worked but we were too late. The Golem had got her too. It feels like tragedy is following us at the moment, I can’t wait for something good to happen at some point. We need it.
Then, out of nowhere, the Golem attacked Sherlock! Now Sherlock is (apparently) trained in some obscure Japanese martial art but he was nothing compared to this literal giant. He looked like a child next to him. I don’t think I’ve actually seen Sherlock scared before. Me, I was bricking it! I’d seen horror in Afghanistan but this man was barely human. He was really a monster!
I managed to rescue Sherlock (by whacking the Golem with my gun - I never said I was subtle) but the creature got away. What a way to spend a morning! At least the solemn feeling of last night is gone. Sherlock looks determined, now. We’re going to find whoever is doing this, and we’re going to stop them!
After a little while your phone rang. You noticed it was Sherlock calling, which was strange because he usually prefers to text. You answered it and Sherlock immediately began talking.
“It’s me. Have you found anything on the South Bank between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge?” He spoke fast.
“Um, let me check.” I said, before asking Lestrade the same question. He flipped through some papers before answering.
“A body’s just washed up.” He said. Grabbing his things to leave, you followed. Sherlock must have heard Lestrade because he hung up.
Once you arrived to where the body was, Sherlock and John showed up no more than five minutes after.
“Do you reckon this is connected then, the bomber?” Lestrade asked Sherlock.
“Must be, odd though, he hasn’t been in touch.” Sherlock answered.
“Then we must assume that some poor bugger’s primed to explode, yeah?” Lestrade asked again.
“Yes.” Sherlock said.
“Any ideas?” Lestrade asked.
“Seven, so far.” Sherlock smirked, bending down to examine the body.
“Seven?” Lestrade said, amazed. Sherlock finished looking around, stood back up and pulled out his phone. John then bent down to look at the body as well.
“He’s dead about 24 hours. Maybe a bit longer. Did he drown?” He asked.
“Asphyxiated.” You said.
“There’s quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth. More bruises here and here.” He pointed.
“Fingertips.” Sherlock suddenly said.
“I’d say mid thirties, and he’s not in the best condition.” John continued.
“He’s been in the river a long while. The water’s destroyed most of the data.” Sherlock spoke. He then suddenly smirked. “But I’ll tell you one thing. That lost Vermeer painting’s a fake.”
“What?” Lestrade asked, lost.
“We need to identify the corpse find out about his friends and…” Sherlock said before Lestrade cut him off.
“Wait, wait, wait, wait. What painting? What are you on about?” Lestrade asked.
“It’s all over the place, haven’t you seen the posters? Dutch old master, supposed to be destroyed centuries ago. Now it’s turned up, worth £30 million.” Sherlock explained.
“Okay, so what has that got to do with the stiff?” Lestrade asked.
“Everything. Have you ever heard of the Golem?” Sherlock asked.
“The Jewish folk story or the assassin?” You asked.
“Oscar Dzundza, one of the deadliest assassins in the world. That is his trademark style.” Sherlock said, pointing to the body.
“So this is a hit.” Lestrade said.
“Definitely.” Sherlock said.
“The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands.” You explained.
“But what has this got to do with that painting?” Lestrade asked, still lost. Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked up to you, asking you to explain. You nodded slightly.
“The killers only left us with the shirt and pants. Cheap, and too big for him so standard-issue uniform. So he was going to work. There’s a hook on his belt for a walkie-talkie.” You began.
“Tube driver?” Lestrade asked.
“More likely a security guard.” Sherlock said, urging you to continue.
“You’d think he led a sedentary life but his feet and legs show otherwise. So a lot of walking and a lot of sitting around. Security guards looking good. His watch showed he did regular night shifts, the buttons are stiff so he set it a long time ago and his routine never varied. There was some sort of badge or logo ripped off the of the shirt front, so it must have been something recognizable. Wad of ticket stubs in his pocket so probably a museum gallery.” You said.
“I did a quick check, the Hickman gallery has reported one of its attendants is missing. Alex Woodbridge. Tonight, they unveil the rediscovered masterpiece. Now, why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? Inference, the dead man knew something about it, something that would stop the owner getting paid £30 million. The pictures are fake.” Sherlock said, wrapping it up.
“I better get my feelers out for this Golem character.” Lestrade stated.
“Pointless, you’ll never find him, but I know a man who can.” Sherlock returned.
“Who?” Lestrade asked.
“Me.” Sherlock smirked. You shook your head smiling. Lestrade went back to the office, and as you were apparently Sherlock’s handler you got in a cab with him and John.
“Why hasn’t he phoned? He’s broken his pattern. Why?” Sherlock said, talking to himself. The question was simple enough but the answer was complex. The numerous possibilities each frightened you. The bomber wasn’t just sitting and watching us now, he was planning something. His end game. He’s clearly not afraid to rack up a boy count. He also isn’t going to allow himself to be caught by authorities, this was about him and Sherlock. They had to share some sort of connection. Every single case so far had been about him. Car Powers was his first case, the shoes were found in his bloody flat. The rest of the cases were tests, trying to find out just what makes him tick.
“The Hickman is contemporary art. Why have they got hold of an old master?” John asked, breaking your trance.
“Don’t know. It’s dangerous to jump to conclusions. Need data.” Sherlock said, jotting something down in his notebook and ripping out the page. He then pulled out 50 pounds and wrapped it around the note. He suddenly yelled at the cabby to stop and asked him to wait. Sherlock jumped out of the cab and gave the money to a homeless person. Must have been someone in his homeless network.
When we arrived outside of the gallery Sherlock stepped out of the cab, he helped you out and then stopped John before he could exit.
“No, I need you to find out all you can about the gallery attendant. Lestrade will give you the address.” Sherlock said.
“Okay.” John said annoyed.
“You know Mycroft is going to get upset the longer you wait to solve his case. If I keep ignoring his texts he’s just going to trick John into looking into it.” You told Sherlock as you were walking to the gallery together.
Once inside, you went to talk to some of the other security guards to see if Alex Woodbridge had told them anything about the painting. Sherlock on the other hand grabbed a hat and jacket out of the security office and slipped off his long coat. He handed it to you and you folded it over your arm, parting ways. You wondered what he had planned, but he walked off before you could ask.
After about twenty minutes you met Sherlock back outside of the gallery. He stalked towards you in just his suit, it was odd seeing him without his large coat. It was as if that coat protected him, not just from the cold but from reality. The coat was his security blanket in a way, it made him safe, comfortable, and at home. You stuck it out to him as he approached, he smiled and took it from your hands. He slipped it on and flipped up the collar as usual. The two of you began the 30 minute walk back to Baker Street. As you were nearing the door you noticed the same homeless woman from earlier leaning against the fence.
“Any spare change?” She asked repeatedly.
John’s cab pulled up and he informed us that Alex Woodbridge knew nothing about art, but he was an amateur astronomer. Sherlock told him to hold the cab as he approached the homeless woman.
“Spare change, sir?” She asked.
“Don’t mind if I do.” He said, receiving a slip of paper from the woman.
“Vauxhall Arches.” Was all it said. The three of you hopped back in the cab. You checked your phone and ignored three more texts from Mycroft. You texted Lestrade quickly that there was still no word from the bomber.
The cab ride was surprisingly silent. By the time you got there it was about 10 o’clock at night. You could see the stars overhead.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Sherlock said, when he noticed where you were looking.
“I thought you didn’t care about…” John began before Sherlock cut him off.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it.” Sherlock said. You hopped the two of them wouldn’t get back into the ‘earth goes round the sun’ fight again.
“Listen, Alex Woodbridge had a message on the answerphone at his flat. A Professor Cairns.” John began. The three of you continued into the arches, they were covered in filth. The only people who come down here were homeless people trying to sleep out of the rain.
“Nice. Nice part of town.” John said, looking around. You took a step closer to Sherlock, nervous of what might pop out of the shadows. You pulled your coat closer around your body.
“Uh, any time you want to explain?” John asked Sherlock.
“Homeless network. Really is indispensable.” Sherlock stated.
“Homeless network?” John asked, confused.
“My eyes and ears all over the city.” Sherlock explained.
“Ah, that’s… clever. So you scratch their backs, and…” John said, looking around.
“Yes, and I disinfect myself.” Sherlock said with a smile.
You moved deeper into the tunnels, the only light now was coming from your flash lights. You noticed homeless people curled up against the walls and surrounded by piles of belongings. You turned around as you noticed Sherlock staring at a large shadow emerging down the tunnel, he quickly pulled you behind a wall, out of view of who you assumed was the assassin you were looking for.
“What’s he doing sleeping rough?” John whispered.
“Well he has a very distinctive look. He has to hide somewhere where tongues won’t wag… Much.” Sherlock whispered back. You pulled out your gun as Sherlock pulled one out of his coat and handed it to John just as he was about to say he’d wish he’d brought his gun.
Oscar Dzundza began to run down the tunnel, we turned on our heels and chased him. He jumped into a car at the clearing and ran off. Where ever he was heading, he seemed to be in a hurry.
“No! No! No! It’ll take us weeks to find him again!” Sherlock shouted angrily.
“Or not. I have an idea where he might be going.” John said.
“What?” Sherlock asked him, surprised.
“I told you. Someone left Alex Woodbridge a message. There can’t be that many Professor Cairns in the book. Come on.” John said, we followed him. He was right, there was only one, she worked as an astrology professor at Roland Kerr Further Education College. We hurried there and once we arrived we saw the car that Oscar Dzundza sped off in parked behind the Astrology Auditorium. We rushed into the building before it was too late.
You ran into the room, gun at the ready.
“Golem!” Sherlock shouted as you saw the tall man squeezing the life out of the woman that had to be Professor Cairns. You heard her neck snap and the lights cut out of the room as her hand slipped down the control board.
“Pro koho pracuješ pro tuto dobu, Dzundza?” You yelled in his native language. Who are you working for this time, Dzundza? The lights acted almost in strobes. One moment they flashed on, the next was complete darkness. In the momentary lightness, you saw him perk up at the sound of his native language, Czech. The lights cut out for what seemed like minutes this time, and when they came back on you noticed him standing behind Sherlock. In a moments notice he had his hands over his face, restricting his breathing. You cocked your gun up and pressed the cold metal against his head.
“Já bych ho nechal jít, kdybych byl tebou.” You muttered fiercely. I’d let him go if I were you. He removed his hands from Sherlock, who let in a sharp breath. Dzundza towered over you as the lights cut out again, before you knew it he had thrown your body into the first row of seats. You landed with a thump and let out a groan. You stood up as fast as your body would allow and searched for your gun. When you found it and turned around, Sherlock was on the ground. The Golem was above him with his hands over his face again, but John was on his back, trying to pull the Golem off Sherlock.
You tried to stand but couldn’t. When the lights cut back in you saw the Golem throw John off his back and began to run out the door. You fired three shots at him, one seemed to clip his arm, but he continued running.
By now it had to be nearly morning but you had to get back to the museum before the painting premiered.
“We’ve got ourselves a serial killer. I love those.” (ASiP)
“I love the brilliant ones.” (ASiP)
“Love is a much more vicious motivator.” (ASiP)
“This is beautiful. I love this.” (TGG)
“I imagine John Watson thinks love is a mystery to me but the chemistry is incredibly simple, and very destructive.” (ASiB)
“I’ve always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage.” (ASiB)
“All emotion, and in particular love, stand opposed to the pure cold reason I hold above all things.” (TSoT)
“The two people who love you most in all this world.” (TSoT)
“I love dancing. I’ve always love it.” (TSoT)
“Like I said - human error.” (HLV)
“I love you.”
This is Sherlock talking about love, from the beginning to the S4 trailer. These quotes perfectly reflect his journey so far.
In series 1 he applies the word love either to his work - serial killers, brilliant criminals, clever plots like the lost Vermeer - or talks about it in a negative or derisive manner. To him, the love for the work is good even if some people may find his preferences morally dubious, while he despises or questions love as an emotion directed at other people.
In series 2 he applies the word not just to his work anymore but to emotions directed at other people although he still refuses to give in to such feelings and holds on to his brother’s ideas about caring not being an advantage. In the first quote, however, he mentions John which - as has been discussed in detail more than once - does only make sense as long as he subconsciously associates John Watson with love.
In series 3 Sherlock admits for the first time that he loves another human being. Sure, it is indirect, him talking about John, not to him, but as we all know for him it has been an enormous step forward. He publicly admits that he is able and willing to feel love for another human being.
The first quote is nothing more than a recourse to his old convictions and serves as a contrast to the confession that follows.
The quote about dancing is interesting as well because so far his love for things other than human beings has been directed at crimes and serial killers, to matters connected to his work. Now, for the first time, Sherlock confesses loving something just for its beauty and elegance, for its own sake.
The last quote from HLV - well, another recourse but this is about Janine who he does not love and who does not really love him back. And it is a Canon nod so I think it does not reflect his true feelings about love as such. Sherlock is inexperienced where love for another human being is concerned and his love is directed at John and John alone. There is no place for Janine.
True, we have no idea if this is MP, if Sherlock is forced to say it, if it is directed at both John and Mycroft, if he quotes someone else, if this is a sudden realisation - but in the end it does not matter. He says “I love you”, something he has never said to anyone before, something Canon Holmes has never said to my knowledge. Whatever the context, this is big. Look at the long way Sherlock had to go to arrive at these three simple words. A story about a detective, not a detective story. From great man to good man. Snowcapped mountain and volcano. Insane wish fulfillment.
“I found a little old man in Argentina. Genius. I mean, really: brushwork immaculate, could fool anyone. But I didn’t know how to go about convincing the world the picture was genuine. It was just an idea – a spark which he blew into a flame…”
Here’s a larger picture of the Lost Vermeer charm from the bracelet I posted last night. It’s porbably not spectacular but 1: It’s tiny, 2: It would never look like the actual painting, and 3: I couldn’t find a good screencap or anything of the painting. Even pausing my DVD, Sherlock was always in the way! XD
By the way, that is actually a small piece of canvas that I cut to paint on. So only the frame is made of clay. X3
Guys, so, in The Great Game, there’s posters of the Vermeer exhibition hanging on walls and stuff. Does anybody know the exact time of when there’s a poster on screen or has a screenshot? I’d need to know what they looked like exactly.
I think I remember there being some antique frame and just ‘the lost vermeer’ scribbled inside that frame, but I’d be curious about the exact font they used. So, anybody help me?
Hello, BBCSherlockPickupLines! I don't have a pickup line for you, but I wanted to relay an important message to you. You see, I don't have a tumblr, but I wanted to communicate this to the Sherlock blog community, so I've chosen to do so through you, because I love your blog so much! So, regarding that new photo of Benedict and Martin-- Of course it's photoshopped, look at the turn-ups on his jeans-- I meeean, look at Benedict's shoulder! The lost Vermeer painting-- I mean, the photo is a fake!