Chapter Text
Lexi was many things, but she was not an art critic nor a lover of art. She could identify a Monet, she could recognise the Mona Lisa, maybe even dredge up a name or two from memory... but art had never been her strong suit. It had never appeased The Always and so she had never given it much time. This, Lexi had come to realise, put her at a disadvantage. Not just socially, but physically.
Her hand wrapped tighter around Sherlock's arm. He wasn't as toned as he used to be. Dr O'Connell and Dobhail had all but consumed him and their gym routine had disappeared along with everything else resembling self-care. Lexi made a silent note: when this job was over, they'd both do better.
If Sherlock noticed her grip, he didn't show it. Instead, the dark-haired detective guided the woman through the throng toward the far end of the atrium. As they moved, Lexi took in her surroundings: pale stone floors, high ceilings that seemed to float. Waiters drifted among the guests, faces hidden by white masks, trays of champagne balanced effortlessly like extensions of their gloved hands. It was evident the staff were not to be identified - they were not Ilmin's usual staff. Hired, most likely, for the auction.
Light from the glass doors spilled across the whitewashed walls, catching on flutes and polished shoes, a world of high-end crime hiding in plain sight, just a few steps from the rush of Sejong-daero outside. There were no bold colours in the gallery, only white interrupted now and then by soft wood and the slow flicker of movement in the large glass windows. The air smelled of polish and sandalwood. Lexi breathed it in, noting whoever was running the auction had gone to a great deal of trouble to mask the smell of brewed coffee that usually punctuated the air. It was faint, but the bitter earthiness still seeped through - a trace of the everyday.
Through the atrium doors, the pale stone staircase swept upward in a curve. Sherlock moved first, his stride measured but unhurried. Lexi wondered if he had been here before, or if he'd studied blueprints she hadn't seen. Their presence had only been confirmed through word of mouth as far as she knew. A small part of her realised he had been working on this without her, she mentally flicked away the irritation that threw itself forward. Not the time. Lexi followed Sherlock, the click of her heels echoing up the stone staircase.
Green eyes looked back, from this height the atrium looked pristine. Whoever had designed the museum had mastered the art of hiding crime behind elegance. Lexi ignored the gazes that lingered on her as she climbed.
The main gallery opened out in front of them as they ascended the stairs. It followed the atrium's design: wide and bright. Rows of chairs faced a low stage which housed a podium and microphone. It didn't look like the place an altered strain of Ebola would be housed. But then again, how many viruses were sold at black market auctions in central Seoul?
Sherlock leaned close to her ear, his soft voice rasping and sending slight shivers across her neck and spine.
"It won't be in any old glass case," he murmured, "they'll have it in a pressurised stable environment. Somewhere a thief wouldn't be able to get to."
His voice was calm, as if he had done this a million times before, Lexi arched an eyebrow.
"Oh good, wouldn't want this job to be too easy would we?" she muttered rhetorically.
Sherlock tilted his head, giving a small unreadable smile.
There were countless faces beginning to take their places - not long before the auction would start, which meant they also didn't have long. Collectors, dealers, a few politicians pretending they weren't public figures. No one looked like a terrorist or a bioweapons connoisseur, she supposed they never did.
Voices murmured in a cacophony of languages - English, Mandarin, Korean, Arabic. It was almost a polite dissonance and one hell of a juxtaposition for the reason they were all here. Security stood near exits, faces covered by black masks and, Lexi noted, suits which poorly hid their guns through bulged side pockets and waistbands.
Sherlock led her to two chairs, where they would take their seats. She was about to ask him if he had a plan for finding his way to the off-limits areas of the museum when he turned towards her, standing up. A small, puzzled frown knitted into Lexi's brow.
"What--" she'd started to ask before she was interrupted by Sherlock.
"Wait here," he instructed, his hand brushing hers before disappearing.
The woman watched him leave, his body obscured by a new group entering into the auction. Where had he gone? Why was she not included in the plan? Why again was she left to work things out herself? Once more the irritation filtered up into her chest. Eyes wandered the room again. Was she shite going to sit and watch the auction. She was better than that. She was better than him. And yet...
She watched the staff flow in and out of a side door to the immediate right of her. Her head tilted as if she were adjusting her earring, getting a better glimpse into the corridor beyond the frosted door. A narrow hallway beyond, with closed doors and in the distance she was sure she caught a flash of the detective's brown hair and tall stature.
Standing up and moving to the wall near the door, Lexi leaned forward as if to adjust the back of her heel, no one paid her small frame any attention. She was just another face in the criminal crowd to the security team. She waited near the door, watching the masked staff flow in and out. When one of the staff pushed through the door, she slipped in behind them before it closed again.
The air changed immediately: sharper, laced with metal and disinfectant.
Lexi moved quickly, following the route she was sure the detective had taken and being careful not to let her heels sound on the stone floor. The corridor shifted to the left and she noted the storage boxes and numbered cases lining the walls. The woman followed the smell of disinfectant down the corridor, it grew stronger the further down she'd go until she reached a locked door, her eyes studied the door. Magnetic lock, key fob entry. Above the door Lexi noticed Korean writing, it took her a split second to decipher: Kitchen.
If Lexi was a betting woman, she was sure that this room had been repurposed for the event. There were no other doors at the end of the corridor, so where had Sherl--
A gun cocked behind her.
Her stomach dropped. She turned slowly, her hands instinctively rising. The man in front of her had a red mask. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she scoffed at the masks absurdity - different tiers of mask? Sounded like a bad video game.
Then the butt of the gun met the side of her cheek.
Stars exploded across her vision. The corridor spun.
Then darkness consumed her.