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When I climbed the stairs and returned to the sitting room, I found my laptop being used at the table. By whom, I hardly need say.
"...Is yours in the bedroom again?"
"Remarkable, John. Brilliant observation."
"When it happens over and over again, even I learn eventually!"
I snatched it back, and the culprit—my flatmate Sherlock—looked up at me with an expression of genuine bewilderment. That look of 'Have I done something wrong?' like a child who genuinely cannot fathom what the problem might be. Though in his case, it wasn't so much a metaphor as a clinical possibility that he could recognise wrongdoing without actually understanding it.
"I changed the password. Properly this time."
"Yes, admirably done. You've set a new record. One minute twenty seconds."
He smiled with evident delight at my sarcasm—the expression purely that of a child. The one minute twenty seconds he mentioned would be the time it took him to crack my newly set password. I was beginning to suspect that his recent habit of commandeering my laptop at every opportunity had less to do with the lethargy of fetching his own from the bedroom and more to do with cracking John's latest password. This was a man who could treat criminal acts with hostages' lives at stake as a game; it would hardly surprise me if he found this whole routine as entertaining as the crossword in the morning paper. I was the dealer; he was the player. A simple, trivial little game where he guessed the word I'd chosen. Mind you, when we'd first started sharing the flat, he'd cracked my passwords instantly, so I supposed I'd improved enough to give him at least some trouble. I'd like to break the three-minute barrier, at the very least—but that wasn't the point.
Shutting down the laptop one-handed, I decided to ask him something I'd been wondering about for a while.
"Actually, I've been meaning to ask—how exactly do you deduce them? A computer doesn't make careless slips of the tongue, and surely the keyboard doesn't leave traces of just the password."
Sherlock, deprived of his favourite toy (an apt description, however reluctant I was to admit it), had relocated to his usual spot on the sofa and was reaching for his violin. He seemed thoroughly bored but not in a foul mood. I'd expected my question to be ignored, followed immediately by that melancholy melody he favoured, but what reached my ears instead was his voice—low and silken, produced by that pale throat of his.
"Password, letmein, qwerty, liverpool, arsenal, charlie, thomas, monkey."
"...Sorry, what?"
"And the most astonishing thing is that the most common of all is '123'—change the number of digits and you can access even more computers. Don't you see? Those are the top ten passwords used in the United Kingdom. Input any one of them, and you gain access to two per cent of all password-protected computers in the country."
Standing there clutching my powered-down laptop, I could only stare. Sherlock rested his long face against the chin rest of his violin and added, "That was the answer to your question." I had indeed asked him, but I'd never expected an actual response. After all, my question threatened the very continuation of the game he was so enjoying. Why would he reveal his hand when he was on such a winning streak...?
The thought trailed off, and I found myself laughing weakly.
"...You only listed nine."
"The number of people using sequential digits is staggering. '123' is first place; '123456' is fifth."
"I've never used any of the passwords you just mentioned."
"The tendency was identical. Setting aside the obvious—sequential numbers or keyboard patterns—there's one's own name, family members, romantic partners, pets, favourite football club, past addresses, profession, employer. Something like 'Let me in' might be unique in style but pedestrian in conception. If none of those work, one simply combines the subject's date of birth or telephone number. The impressive words or number sequences a person can recall at a moment's notice are remarkably limited." He paused. "That said, your latest effort was genuinely good. Your regimental number from your Army days combined with your garrison posting. A blind spot. Quite enjoyable."
No doubt about it. Hearing Sherlock's candid explanation, I was certain: he wanted more of a challenge from this game. What he sought wasn't extending his winning streak—the mere result—but the pure pleasure of the process of cracking the password. For that, he needed me to set something more difficult, something that would actually entertain him. That was precisely why he'd shown me his hand.
"That sounds rather like you're saying there's no password you can't crack."
"In theory, no uncrackable password exists."
My exasperation was met with complete seriousness.
"Without specialised encryption, one need only input every word in the dictionary by brute force—or, for a more primitive but reliable method, every combination from 0 to 9 and A to Z. Eventually, it will yield. The question is how long you can make someone spend reaching it. The quickest approach is a lengthy string of meaningless alphanumeric characters interspersed with upper and lower case letters and symbols. But since the user is human, they must be able to reliably remember it—which inevitably introduces personal quirks."
"So you're saying that because you know everything about me—my habits, my preferences, all of it—I can't possibly create a password that would give you trouble?"
"Don't misunderstand. I didn't say that at all. Quite the contrary—I'm very much looking forward to the next password you create with this knowledge in mind."
With a satisfied smile, Sherlock drew his bow across the strings. A light, cheerful melody—perfectly reflecting his current mood—filled the flat. Meanwhile, I could only stare at the laptop in my hands, my expression decidedly unconvinced.
"What a lovely tie you're wearing."
The day after Sherlock had saddled me with that peculiar expectation. I'd just finished my shift at the surgery and was heading back to the flat when she appeared—stepping out of a black saloon car that had materialised at the kerb like something from a spy film. Her name was—yes, Anthea. Despite knowing perfectly well who would be waiting behind her, I found myself climbing into her car moments later. Yes, I was fully aware it was idiotic, but when a woman that attractive addresses you from the back seat, it seems rather more dangerous not to follow. Of course, having lured me in with that suggestive remark, she proceeded to ignore me completely for the entire journey, eyes fixed on her BlackBerry, as per usual.
Several minutes later, looking around at where I'd been deposited, I finally understood why she'd commented on my attire. I was standing beside Green Park, in front of one of Piccadilly's most historic and prestigious hotels—a Royal Warrant establishment with strict dress codes enforced not only for guests but throughout all public spaces. As a liveried porter materialised to escort me inside, I found myself grateful that I happened to be wearing a jacket and tie. Then again, if I'd been in my usual jeans, they'd never have let me through the door, so perhaps my outfit had been rather more of a liability than a blessing. Through a lobby so grand it made me dizzy, along corridors clad in stately marble, I was led to a tea room where guests of every gender, age, and nationality were enjoying afternoon tea in elegant repose. The porter withdrew at the entrance, but I spotted my destination immediately: the table at the very back of the room, where Mycroft sat alone, partaking of afternoon tea.
"Won't you join me?"
As I approached, Mycroft addressed me without so much as glancing up, his fingers occupied with a sandwich.
"No, I've got dinner later... I have plans with Sherlock."
"How surprising. Dinner, you say. Well then, it can't be helped."
In truth, I had no such arrangement with Sherlock, but if I suggested we eat somewhere, he'd agree readily enough—provided we weren't mid-case—so it wasn't entirely a lie. Though if the lack of cases had soured his mood sufficiently, all bets were off. As if reading my thoughts (though surely he hadn't), Mycroft gestured with his fingers alone—sit—an unmistakable command. He may not have intended it as such, but I was neither his subordinate nor his pawn, and I was under no obligation to obey. Knowing it was petty stubbornness, I remained standing and continued.
"What can I do for you today?"
"For a pleasant tea, you seem remarkably eager to press forward."
Still not deigning to look up, Mycroft spread clotted cream on a scone as he spoke.
I'm not from the upper classes, unfortunately, nor am I of a station to receive invitations from persons of quality, so my knowledge of these rather formal tea rituals is somewhat lacking. Still, I'd gathered that the main course at such occasions wasn't the cake on the plate but rather the witty conversation flying across the table—gossip, social intelligence, that sort of thing. Neither of which I was equipped to provide, naturally. No... that wasn't what he expected of me. I scratched my head, then opened my mouth slowly, trying to keep my voice steady.
"You're right. Given the venue, I'll sit as you suggest. But I'm not here to take tea with you."
"I see. ...It seems I have been rather presumptuous."
Despite my impertinent reply, Mycroft showed no sign of offence. If anything, he nodded several times with evident satisfaction. And then, as if to signal his willingness to engage as equals, he turned his gaze toward me for the first time since I'd entered the tea room—with an expression that made no attempt to hide the fact that I'd been tested, practically announcing 'You've passed.'
"The reason I took the trouble of summoning you today is that I have a favour to ask. Entirely domestic. Nothing to do with the... minor fate of the free world."
"A personal favour... from me?"
He began speaking in measured tones once I'd taken my seat. Had I simply sat when first instructed, I'd have been treated as one of his underlings; had I put on airs and trotted out half-baked knowledge, he would have looked down on me with contempt and never broached a topic that required relying on me. I'd passed muster as his brother's flatmate—someone he could speak to as an equal. I'd grown rather accustomed to these underwater games of probing and manoeuvring, yet something about Mycroft's words set off a vague unease, and I repeated them back with undisguised suspicion. Naturally, Mycroft noticed, and he shook his head slowly, as if to say don't worry.
"There's no need to be on your guard. I simply want you to encourage Sherlock to accept a case from me. You see, a personal friend of mine has found himself in rather awkward circumstances abroad. Unfortunately, if I were to intervene directly, it would create... complications."
Before I could answer yes or no, Mycroft swiftly moved to the heart of the matter—knowing full well that once he did, I wouldn't be able to refuse. And indeed, I wasn't cold-blooded enough to ignore a decent person in trouble abroad (setting aside, for the moment, whether anyone capable of maintaining a friendship with the man before me could truly be called decent). Afghanistan had changed me in ways I didn't care to examine too closely, but I still possessed enough goodwill to lend a hand where I could. Whether he would feel the same, I couldn't say.
"I don't think Sherlock would listen just because I asked."
"He'll listen."
Mycroft's reply was instant, brooking no argument.
"If I were to invite my brother to dinner, he would never accept. In fact, even if I did something for him, I wouldn't expect so much as a thank you. If he tried to utter such a phrase, he'd likely be overcome by nausea before he finished the first syllable."
"I... don't think that's quite true..."
As I trailed off, a waiter in formal attire materialised silently at my elbow and began setting out a cup. Apparently I'd been registered as a new guest of the tea room. I hastily explained that I'd be leaving shortly, and the waiter withdrew with gracious apologies. Mycroft had merely observed this exchange without comment, but presently he nodded with evident satisfaction, as though something had been confirmed.
"I see. It's quite clear that you and my brother are getting along well."
I hadn't the faintest idea what in that exchange could have led him to such a conclusion, and I could only stand there in bewilderment. Mycroft offered nothing but that familiar, fathomless smile. Sherlock would have shown off, eagerly walking me through his reasoning—but expecting the same from the man before me was clearly futile.
"It appears my brother's boredom has been causing you some inconvenience?"
"No. As I've said before... I'm never bored."
After this exchange—an echo of one we'd had before—Mycroft held out a small card. I took it and examined the contents: a distinctly foreign name and a short passage written in what appeared to be Greek characters. Was this the awkward circumstance his friend had found himself in?
"I just show him this?"
"Yes. If it comes from your hand, he won't simply throw it away on sight. Once he reads it, he'll recognise immediately that it's precisely his sort of case."
Won't simply throw it away—which implied it had happened at least once before. Still, being dragged all the way here just to play messenger boy for a single card... I resolved to tell Sherlock later that even if a letter came from his unlikeable brother, he might at least glance at the contents before binning it.
"I apologise for the inconvenience. I'll have you driven home."
Mycroft raised one hand, and there, somehow already positioned behind me, stood Anthea.
"221B Baker Street?"
"...Yes, thanks."
She confirmed the address that had become so familiar to me, and I rose from my chair to follow her to the car. Two or three steps behind her navy-suited figure, I stopped abruptly.
"...Passwords."
"I beg your pardon?"
Mycroft paused, his hand hovering over a cake.
"Actually—just out of curiosity—how do you choose your passwords?"
At my sudden question (and yes, even I knew how bizarre it sounded), Mycroft raised one eyebrow.
"Were I to answer that question directly, I'd be obliged to raise your surveillance level rather considerably... though we are, regrettably, somewhat short-staffed at present."
"Ah—no, I didn't mean—"
The threat-laden reply made me realise, rather belatedly, that I'd made a decidedly unwise remark. Living alongside Sherlock, perpetually skirting danger and criminal activity, I'd resigned myself to a certain level of surveillance—but I'd rather not be further elevated to the status of potential threat. I was scrambling to clear up the misunderstanding when I finally noticed the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
"If an unrecognisable password is impossible, make it one that's physically repugnant to execute."
I looked up sharply. Mycroft was sipping his tea with unruffled elegance, as though nothing had happened.
"One more thing, by way of apology for troubling you. A skilled violinist, I'm told, can identify the precise pitch of even the slightest sound."
He smiled benevolently.
"Best of luck, Doctor Watson."
"Wait! What is this supposed to mean?! John!! What in God's name are you thinking?!"
The usual flat, the usual sitting room, the usual evening, and, as usual, Sherlock heckling the television. His commentary was so minutely critical that he might as well have been thoroughly enjoying the programme. Exasperated, I retrieved my laptop to type up a few case notes I'd neglected to add to my blog. Power on, ten-odd seconds, the familiar login screen appeared—and the moment I entered my password, Sherlock's shouting, previously directed at the television, swung violently toward me.
"What are you on about, Sherlock?! I was just trying to use my own laptop—"
"Your laptop! Your login password! Why that, of all possible combinations?!"
His outburst made it abundantly clear that he'd correctly identified the new password. I'd chosen it knowing this would be his reaction, so his fury was entirely expected. The question was how. Until that very moment, he'd been absorbed in the television, apparently giving no thought whatsoever to my password—which meant he hadn't known it. He hadn't seen me type.
My fingers froze over the keyboard. The answer hit me like a bullet.
He had heard it.
At the edge of my vision: his violin, resting against the arm of the sofa. And then Mycroft's final words connected in my mind.
"...What am I thinking? 'So you won't help yourself to it,' obviously. Whatever password I set, it's only a matter of time before you crack it—so I thought I'd at least make it something you'd have trouble typing."
"That man!"
Before I'd even finished speaking, Sherlock erupted—recoiling as though the very keystrokes had been nails on a blackboard to his ears. It was rare to see such raw emotion from him outside of a deduction gone wrong or a criminal slipping through his fingers. I'd deliberately omitted the fact that his brother had given me the hint, but my little subterfuge had clearly been utterly pointless. ...Then again, perhaps it had been rather too obvious.
"John! Change that repugnant password immediately!"
"No. Because if I do, you'll just go back to using my laptop without permission."
"I won't. I will never open your computer without consent again. So change it. Now!"
The terms Sherlock offered were precisely what I'd wanted—and since he virtually never conceded ground in such negotiations (or made a show of minor concessions whilst manoeuvring things exactly his way), his complete capitulation made my eyes widen in surprise.
"It's just a password. All I do is type it when I log in."
"Just a password?! Every time you open your computer and type that word, it makes me physically ill!"
"...You're probably the only person in the world who can identify passwords by the sound of keystrokes."
Indeed. This time, even the great Sherlock Holmes had failed to deduce my password. He'd fallen into precisely the trap he normally despised most: the assumption that surely it couldn't be that. And he was clearly, genuinely appalled by it. I gave an exaggerated shrug of oh, very well, struggling to contain my inward laughter. Partly because I'd got everything I wanted—but mostly because, for the first time, I'd won this game.
I opened the system settings and prepared to accept the terms of Sherlock's surrender.
[Change Password]
Please enter your current password:
Thankyou.Mr.Mycroft