“It’s just papers.”

“Papers?” Watson looked at her and then past her to all the boxes loaded up onto shelves. “Just papers?”

“That’s what I said.” She put two hands on her hips. “What did you think it was? A dead man’s treasure? Gold coins? Erotic drawings of the most reprehensible sort?”

Watson and Sherlock glanced at one another.

“Like I didn’t hear that one of our biggest clients of the season was dead. Mr Lotheby is not pleased.” She sighed.

The pair had gone straight to the next name that had been on Saville’s schedule several times, and that was Lotheby’s Auction House. Saville had made several trips there in the past few weeks. Sherlock noted the workers hauling new boxes in.

“What do you mean papers, Madam?” There was a loud crash as one of the workers dropped a box, spilling papers everywhere. The woman cursed. She stalked over to the worker and loomed over him like an ancient Greek goddess scorned.

“You drop one more thing I’ll drag you to the themes myself and throw you in. You and your entire family, you hear me?” She pointed to the papers. “Each of these documents are more valuable than you could possibly imagine. And if you damage just one, a single one, mind you, I will chase you to the farthest reaches of the known world until you are too tired to go any further.” she leaned in, her voice a menacing whisper. Sherlock and Watson leaned in to hear.

“I will stand there at the end of the world and I will ensure that you go first.” She held the man’s gaze for a few moments. “Understood?”

He swallowed.

“Understood?” She pressed again.

He nodded.

“Good.” She reached out and patted him on the head like one would a dog that had just done a trick. Then she turned back to Sherlock and Watson.

“It’s not madam.”

“What?” Watson was once again confused.

“It’s Ms. Elizabeth. And I run this branch of Lotheby’s.” And pardon the mess. She gestured around her. “We’ve been so busy ever since the fire.”

“The fire?” Watson looked around as if he expected to see the flames themselves licking around the corner shelf. Sherlock sighed.

“You mean the fire reported a few days ago?” Sherlock glanced once again at the boxes the men were loading into the warehouse. “That was one of your warehouses, wasn’t it?””

She nodded. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess,” Sherlock smiled. “I don’t suppose that fire took with it Mr. Gregory Saville’s items?”

“Uh…” she blinked. “Yes. It did. Lost a lot of them, actually. We saved some, but not everything made it. A black eye on Lotheby’s for sure if you ask me.”

“A lot of what?” Watson had the notepad back out and was scribbling furiously.

“Family papers. Historical documents. Letters.” Ms. Elizabeth swept her hand toward the boxes. “A lot of them. We were supposed to auction off the entire lot, going back several generations. Mr. Saville suggested it would raise a lot of money, but wanted us to handle everything.”

Watson nodded. “You must have told him about it? Was he upset?”

“Actually he wasn’t.” She walked open to one of the boxes that had already been shelved and tore it open. She beckoned them to come over. “These are all originals, you can see for yourselves. But when I told him which boxes had been burned, he just laughed and said he was lucky to have put a copy in, instead of the original. And that was that.”

“A copy of what?” Watson asked.

“That’s what I wanted to know.” She pointed at the box. “We certify all the documents are original. That they are not reproductions. And yet…” She handed Sherlock a small pile of papers, “If he had stuck a copy in, we might not have noticed right away. But he said he intended to produce the original at auction.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Sherlock rolled the idea over in his mind as he reached for one of the papers. It was old and yellowed, a sheaf of papers that looked well worn. He glanced at the date in the lower. HIs eyes widened.

“These papers are nearly 200 years old.”

Ms. Elizabeth nodded. “Yes. Those are the personal diaries of Captain Robert White.”

“I thought the family name was Saville?” Watson leaned over to take a look at the paper Sherlock was holding.

“Yes, but Mr. Saville’s ancestor’s brother was Captain Robert White. His sister, Margaret, married into the Saville family. Most of these are his personal diaries.”

Watson nodded as if that settled the matter.

But Sherlock looked at the name. “Captain Robert White.” He mumbled it under his breath.

“What?” Watson looked at him. “Sherlock, you’re getting that look again.”

But Sherlock wasn’t paying attention. The initials floated up to the top of his mind. C. R. W. And in a flash, it all settled into place. The documents. The murder. The fires. All of it. And now, the copy.

“We must go at once.”

“But—” Watson began, but Sherlock put his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Now, friend.”

Watson simply nodded. He probably had a million questions right now but in this one moment, he simply nodded. Sherlock turned to Ms. Elizabeth.

“We must be off.”

Sherlock practically dashed out of the warehouse, sending workers sprawling. Watson followed after as they burst outside. The sun’s light was just beginning to fade into the evening, a hint of pink at the edges. Sherlock hailed a cab and practically leapt into the passenger seats before the man could slow down. He gave the driver the address and leaned in to be heard above the noise of the street.

“Double your fee if you get there with great haste.”

The man nodded and cracked the reins. The wind whipped around them. Faces and other horses blurred past. Watson leaned in close to Sherlock, his voice loud.

“What’s all this about Sherlock?”

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s too fantastical to believe Watson. But it’s real. And someone is trying to destroy it. We have a motive. And, coincidentally, a motive for the recent warehouse fires too.” He pointed. “And it looks like we are a little late.”

Smoke rose in small tendrils as they pulled up to Saville’s manor. Flames had already begun licking through a few of the windows on the lower level. The driver looked back at the two of them with a worried look on his face.

“Still want to be dropped off here?”

Sherlock handed over the doubled fee. “Yes, absolutely.” He leapt out and ran toward the front gate. Watson followed.

“Sorry about your house.” The driver called.

“Not our house.” Watson called back. As he rushed to follow his friend.

Sherlock had already pushed open the front gate. Watson saw the look on Sherlock’s face.

“You can’t go in there.”

“I must, Watson.”

“Wait for the fire brigade at least.”

“I suspect what we are looking for will be long gone by then, burned to embers by the same person who set fire to those warehouses. Who realizes the value of what Mr. Saville was trying to sell.”

“And what was that?”

“I think I’m about to find out.”

Sherlock dashed toward the house. He glanced behind him to see Watson following. He burst through the front door and raced up the stairs to Saville’s Study, the same room where he had been strangled just the night before. The fire was already spreading from the other side of the house, and the smoke was thick in the air. Sherlock reached for the handle and pulled back at the last moment.

“It’s too hot,” Sherlock yelled at Watson. “Do something.”

Watson sighed and leaned back, bringing his right heel up and kicking it at the door. It flew open on its hinges and they both stumbled into the room, coughing and gasping for air. Saville’s body had been removed, but the room seemed largely untouched since they had been there this morning. Sherlock was over at the bookcase, his fingers thumbing through the reading materials there.

“We don’t have time for a story, Sherlock,” Watson yelled as he lifted up the smaller chair in the corner.

Sherlock turned, a grin on his face and two books in his hand. “I have them. We can go now.” He looked toward the hallway and saw the flames had begun to lick at the door. Then he turned back to Watson. “I presume you have a way out?”

Watson nodded and threw the chair at the window, shattering the glass and sending bits flying everywhere. Watson used his coat to break away the remaining fragments and gestured to Sherlock, who pulled himself through the opening and out onto the small roof that led to the garden. The two of them half-stumbled, half ran toward the edge, then simply jumped the remaining 12 feet, landing with a pair of groans and grunts. The two limped toward the front gate as they heard the sound of the fire brigade.

Unfortunately they had arrived just in time for the roof to give way. The collapse sent sparks and a fresh, bright gout of flame into the sky, and the two stared at it for a moment. Men from the brigade were already trying to spray water on the house but it was clear the fire would easily win that battle. It was too fast, too out of control. Sherlock and Watson stood and watched the fire.

“Well you two sure have gone and made a mess of things.”

Sherlock turned around and scowled at the newcomer. He had a hat on, most likely to shield his balding head from outside observation. But beyond that, he looked a lot like Sherlock himself. And what would anyone expect, considering they shared the same branch of the family tree.

“Ahh yes, I was wondering when you would come, Mycroft.”

Watson started. Upon recognizing the man, he glared while muttering under his breath.

“Balls.”