An Afternoon Drive Down Lambeth
Nov. 7th, 2013 08:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jimmyhkim21Title: An Afternoon Drive Down Lambeth, Part II
Rating: R for language and violence
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes(BBC)
Summary: John bit back a laugh at his friend’s Olivier-worthy antics. The morning was chilly but also sunny enough that he was about to leave the flat himself, as the day was open and John had nothing on schedule. Then, remembering the refrigerator bereft of food, John decided to go shopping first. The next day, John would blame that single act for the ensuing mayhem. That and an old acquaintance named James Bond.
Disclaimer: Seriously, does anyone NOT know Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?
Notes: Gen, but can be read with slash goggles. Also posted on AO3
John was so exhausted he found himself yawning around another yawn. Rubbing his eyes, he stumbled down the stairs to the main floor. As he suspected Sherlock had fallen asleep on the sofa, curled around the Union Jack pillow like a cat.
John made two cups of hot tea and trudged over to Sherlock. A lean arm shot up from the sofa and wiggled its fingers. John handed the tea over and nestled into his armchair.
“How are you feeling?” he asked hoarsely. “I drank maybe a finger of whisky but I swear I feel like I chucked the entire bar!”
Sherlock sat up, took a sip of his tea and said, “It was the tension. We were in Buckingham Palace and planning to break into one of its rooms.”
“And there is that,” John agreed easily. “You think Mycroft has figured out what we were doing there last night?”
“Actually, no,” Sherlock grinned. “Seeley has ways of blinding him that I envy.”
“Well, let’s hope he thinks we were helping Lestrade. Otherwise, I get the feeling we’ll be a guest in her Majesty’s care whether we like it or not.”
Sherlock grunted and looked at the kitchen. “Is there toast?”
“No, because you used the last of the bread for your knuckle sandwich experiment, which, by the way, was disgusting.”
“I was bored.”
“Yes, I got that. But testing colloquialisms like that was completely unnecessary. All you have to do is look it up on the internet…”
“Oh, yes, because the internet never lies.”
John had to agree with Sherlock on that point, but he wasn’t going to be deterred. “Nevertheless, if I find another experiment that has absolutely no scientific value whatsoever, I’m either going to bin it or serve is as supper.
“Understood?”
“Do you think it’s actually possible to eat a knuckle sandwich?”
“For the love of…” John opted to laugh as dealing with Sherlock while he was in this mood was impossible. “I’m going to Speedy’s to get some breakfast. Want any?”
“Their croissants are serviceable, I suppose.”
“Ta, by the way it’s your turn to buy.”
Sherlock didn’t say another word. Instead, he trudged to his room and came back with a tenner. “Get something for lunch, too. The last thing I want is to eat at MI6.”
“Why? They have very good food, which should be a requirement considering what their people do for a living.”
“Probably sprinkled with irradiated powder so they can keep track of their agents no matter where they are.”
John narrowed his eyes. “So why didn’t you say something when I ate a salad there yesterday?”
“You seemed to enjoy your food, and the company.”
John wondered when the subject of James would come up. “He’s a good man.”
“He’s most certainly not,” Sherlock sharply disagreed. “He’s a competent agent, which means he’s a cold-blooded killer. He has no remorse and wouldn’t hesitate to walk away from a dying child if ordered.”
“All right, then,” John said, yanking his coat from the hanger. “I’ll be back in five.”
Sherlock knew he’d successfully made his point, so he had no idea why he felt like he’d lost the argument as he listened to John clump down the stairs.
They finished the morning pastries cool silence. Not another single unpleasantness was exchanged. So, when Seeley called Sherlock was only too glad for the interruption. And from the alacrity John showed as he got dressed, he wasn’t the only one feeling the uncomfortable atmosphere.
Seeley saw the tension between his cousin and flatmate and wisely decided not to comment. The last thing he needed was Sherlock to go off, especially since Seeley suspected 007 was the cause of the rift.
James, to his credit, kept a cool distance too, though he seemed to be exchanging some wordless soldier-talk with John when he first entered. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to have placed himself in some sort of mental lockdown. The detective’s usual mobile face was expressionless as marble and his hands hung limply by his side.
Sherlock looks like a boy chastised by his favorite tutor, Seeley noted. And Dr. Watson does look like an aggrieved tutor.
As if reading his mind, Dr. Watson looked directly into Seeley’s eyes. The quiet warning was enough, and Seeley turned on the main screen.
“It seems we have a problem,” he stated calmly.
John rubbed his face, “Dare I ask what kind?”
“The kind where Mycroft and MI6 get involved,” Sherlock said, his voice almost dreamy as he studied the data scrolling across the main screen.
John looked at his friend. “That sounds quite horrible, actually. Worse than your family’s Christmas fetes.”
Seeley winced. He’d successfully avoided Holmes’ family tradition since he’d run away from Eton. And that was almost two decades ago. It seemed certain things didn’t improve with age.
“What do you mean by that?” Bond asked as his attention was also drawn to the screen.
“It’s an EMP,” Sherlock said as he peered closer. His eyebrows shot up and his voice went deeper with respect. “The smallest I’ve ever seen. Is this thing even viable?”
“The blast radius is only few hundred feet,” Seeley answered. “But within that range – it’s quite effective.”
“So this is a weapon, then,” John said flatly. “Something that could knock out any communication device? A farm of mobile towers? Or a military base in the middle of hostile territory?”
James narrowed his eyes. “That might be the endgame but this is strange. Look at the design. Does that look martial to you?”
Seeley agreed readily, “No, and that is what worries me. This thing was obviously created to piggyback on some other device – one that wouldn’t attract any kind of attention.”
“What was Baskerville doing, exactly?” Sherlock asked. “You must agree, it’s time we made a visit.”
“I’m sure you’d love to, Sherlock, but the truth is we’re not sure who was exactly responsible. After this was leaked, all traces of its origins were wiped. And I did a very thorough digging.”
“It almost looks like a toy,” John said. “Like one of those … Transformer things.”
James laughed softly. “A genuine Decepticon?”
“Another one of your pop culture references?” Sherlock asked coolly.
“A movie you deemed complete and utter trash ten minutes after it started,” John said. “But I found it entertaining, especially since it was right after that gruesome murder in Manchester.”
“Well, the two sequels were quite asinine,” Seeley said.
“And yet you sat through them all,” Sherlock deduced with a tight smile. “I wonder why.”
“I know why,” John said with a grin.
Seeley felt the blush roll down his face and into his dress shirt. But there was no harm in John’s teasing. If anything there was a kind solidarity there, one that Seeley had rarely been given. And it was offered with no ulterior motives attached.
Ahh … there it is. The reason why one of the most brilliant and abrasive human beings on earth would want to stand so close to you and drive others away.
“Seriously, though, does anyone else think it looks like a toy?” John asked.
Sherlock blinked slowly then turned to John. “You never cease to amaze me.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” John said, not missing a beat. “Would you like to share with the rest of us, please?”
James looked at Sherlock with avid interest. Seeley noted that this was the first time Sherlock was in full detective mode that James had actually witnessed. Yes, the agent had heard of Sherlock’s brilliance many times, but it was a different animal to witness firsthand.
“A toy,” Sherlock said. “Something that would look as you’d said, deceptive. One that a child could carry and no one would think twice. Like a remote control car.”
“Bloody hell,” John whispered. “The tyre we found.”
“It’s masked as a toy, John. And I believe its carrier has no idea what he or she has. You can give this to anyone who has children and turn them into a bomber.”
James blinked at that assessment. “How in hell can we find this thing if it’s so easily hidden?”
“The moment it’s switched on it will emit an energy signature,” Seeley explained. “One that is easily traceable.”
“But the problem is we have to wait,” James countered. “Lovely.”
“And it could be anywhere,” John added. “Can you actually detect it … anywhere?”
Sherlock gave an inelegant snort. “He’s capable of detecting things not on this planet. Let’s just say Mycroft’s love of snooping is not a singular trait in our side of the family.”
Seeley peered over his glasses but said nothing. He risked a glance at John to find the doctor studying the main screen. And though it was filled with nothing but what would look like gibberish to an educated layman, the doctor was actually trying to make a sense of it.
James elbowed John before whispering, “Don’t try. You’ll only end up with a nosebleed.”
“Which I get almost on a daily basis, if not at work then following Sherlock,” John replied in equally hushed tone. “That … that’s beautiful, don’t you think?”
Seeley felt his blush return but steadily looked down at his workstation as if he weren’t privy to the conversation.
“Beautiful?” James echoed.
“Look at all that … it was all created by Q,” John explained. “I can’t even begin to make sense of it. But it’s all so gorgeous; I wish I had a hundredth of his ability. Then maybe my blog wouldn’t look like such shite.”
Seeley mentally noted to check on Dr. Watson’s blog more often. It was bad enough that Sherlock got his fingers on it whenever he felt like it, it wouldn’t at all surprise Q if Mycroft decided to play around with Watson’s writing too.
Seeley looked at Sherlock who seemed entertained by John’s romantic notions and mentally checked another box to make sure Sherlock would be kept busy for the next few days. It wouldn’t do for the detective to needle the doctor about his opinion.
Yes, Dr. Watson’s notions might be luddite-inspired, but it was actually quite flattering. The man’s blog had amply demonstrated his skills as a writer for the masses, but there was something to be said for the inclusion of the majority and the ability to please them.
Q’s wandering thoughts dissipated the moment he heard a familiar beep. He typed in few commands which changed the main screen to a map of London.
“It’s live,” Seeley announced.
James peered closer. “Bloody hell…”
“It’s in London?” John asked. “It went active here?”
“We need to chase it down, now,” Seeley said as he watched the small green blip move at an accelerated rate down a crowded road. “You should be able to spot it easily.”
James escorted the two men to the main garage. John’s gasp was audible and surprising to both James and Sherlock.
“Sorry,” John said, blushing furiously. “Just … these are lovely.”
James laughed softly while Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Remind me to take you to the family’s garage if we ever visit my mother.”
“Really?”
Sherlock looked at James. “I’m sure his has one too.”
“No, my ancestral estate was burned down by a psychotic madman two years back,” James answered. “He used rockets. Pretty much leveled the estate and half the valley.”
Sherlock really had no comeback for that so wisely remained silent. It took him another ten seconds but the detective saw the car he wanted and made a beeline for it.
When James saw his choice, he couldn’t stop blurting out, “You must be joking.”
John felt a headache encroach his sanity when he saw Sherlock’s shark-like smile.
Seeley didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as the four-door Saab tore out of the bunkers.
What in bloody buggering fuck are you doing, Sherlock? Seeley thought as he monitored the Saab dodging cabs while speeding down Lambeth Road, horn screaming energetically.
“I don’t know how it’s moving so quickly,” Seeley said. “It must be causing traffic accidents left and right.”
He then accessed all the CCTV cameras available and caught the maniacal smile on Sherlock’s face.
“Bloody fuck,” Seeley hissed. He hit the communication lines and called John who mercifully answered. “Put me on speaker!”
Seeley took a single breath before hollering, “Sherlock! What are you doing?!”
“I know where it’s going!” was the triumphant answer.
“Wait a minute…” Seeley mentally compared the map with the one he had memorized. “Oh, damn.”
“Oh damn, yes,” Sherlock said. “You have a listening station near St. Paul’s, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Seeley said. “And aren’t you glad I’m not asking you how you came by that piece of information?”
“It’s going to bomb one of our listening posts?” James asked.
“Care to fill me in as to what the hell is going on?” John barked.
“Our government, ever a glutton for intelligence, has set up listening stations throughout the country to spy on its citizens and anyone within these fair shores. That includes allies as well as enemies.”
“So … if this EMP succeeds…” John guessed, “we’re going to lose a lot of data?”
“No, not just lose,” Seeley said. “The EMP is going to unveil the station. Anyone within five blocks of it who is talking on a phone might be able to pick up on the monitored channels…”
“And cause an international crisis that could very well bring down the government,” Sherlock concluded. “I believe this is less of a terrorist attack and more of an anarchist’s goal.”
“Either way, we can’t let it happen,” James said.
Seeley heard more than one gun being prepped for fire. “I’m guessing Dr. Watson has brought his illegal firearm?”
“Not illegal,” John said cheerfully. “Mycroft made sure of that.”
“Bless the British Government,” Seeley said sourly. “Does DI Lestrade know?”
“Of course not,” John answered. “The last thing he needs is more paperwork on his desk.”
It took a moment for Seeley to realize that the doctor wasn’t being sarcastic, at all.
“There’s something strange,” James piped in. “The traffic is bloody slow but there aren’t any accidents.”
Seeley frowned. “That can’t be. The EMP is moving at least forty miles per hour, and…”
“Well, shite,” John snarled. “It’s a bloody toy car. It doesn’t need traffic lights. It’ll be able to go on the bloody kerb if it felt like it.”
“How big do you think it is?” James asked.
“Oh, roughly the size of a bread box,” Seeley answered as he caught the damned thing weaving through cars.
He forwarded the video to John’s phone. There were sounds of amazement and annoyance.
“A bloody Range Rover?” John asked indignantly. “We’re chasing a Range Rover?!”
“There’s no way we’re going to catch up…” James never finished his statement.
“Brace yourself!” Sherlock roared as he suddenly peeled the Saab onto oncoming traffic, which was admittedly great deal lighter.
“Fuck!” John swore as he was tossed violently to the left since his lap belt was more of an afterthought than a safety device.
James who didn’t even bother to use a seatbelt found himself looking up at the roof of the Saab and noted the hideous orange color, not to mention the satin-like fabric. Screaming horns told him the near misses as Sherlock seemed to have become completely deranged behind the wheel.
“Sir?” Donovan said.
Lestrade knew that ‘sir’. He knew it meant Sherlock and a really awful way to end the day.
“What?” he asked tersely, refusing to look up from the folder he was reading.
“We got news that Sherlock and John are driving down Lambeth, against traffic. And that they have a male hostage in the car.”
“Bloody Holmes,” Lestrade barked as he shot up out of his chair. “Get the helo on them.”
“Do you think they’ve cracked?”
“Of course not, and the hostage is probably some madman holding John or Sherlock or both prisoners so his lunatic schemes could work!’
“Not everyone’s a Moriarty.”
“No, but Sherlock has the tendency to attract the worst of the lot.”
Donovan couldn’t argue with that. And as insane as Lestrade’s interpretation may be, she was too good a cop to dismiss the idea that the Freak and the doctor were, in some convoluted way, being forced to act like stunt drivers.
Mycroft was just finishing a conference call when his assistant came in. From the rapid clicking of her heels on the parquet floor, he knew she was agitated.
Sherlock.
Without a word Audrey took control of his keyboard and typed furiously. She was the only one in the entire building who could invade Mycroft Holmes’ personal space and not end up either dead or unemployed by the end of the day.
Mycroft took one look at the multiple shots. “Lambeth.”
“Yes, and the man in the car has been identified as a Double-0.”
“Dear brother, exactly what are you up to?” Mycroft whispered.
He looked at few more CCTV shots and then said, “Get me a car. We need to go to MI6 now. And contact Mallory. Between the two of us, we should be able to unravel Sherlock's puzzling behaviour.”
Mallory, ever the soldier, tersely asked, “What in hell is happening?”
Mycroft dryly answered, “I’m afraid it’s my brother.”
Mallory’s eyes widened, his voice raspy with unquenchable horror, “There are more of you?”
Seeley longingly eyed the keyboard. He could grab it, duck underneath the main console and work from there, as he’d installed a small screen right under the desk. No one in his division laughed at him while he set it up because they all knew there would come a time when they would have to take cover and somehow still manage to do their jobs, bullets notwithstanding.
“Yes, there are more,” Mycroft smiled, all teeth and little grace. “Would you like to come to our Christmas dinner? Mummy makes fantastic game bird dishes.”
The noise emanating from the screen suddenly changed, grabbing the attention of everyone in the room.
“It’s going over Blackfriars,” Seeley stated. “Definitely towards St. Paul’s station.”
“Can we cycle them down before the EMP hits?” Mallory asked.
“No, we’d need twenty minutes at least,” Seeley answered. “Otherwise, we’ll attract too much attention.”
“Where’s Sherlock?” Mycroft asked.
“Three cars behind,” Seeley answered. “Mercifully, the traffic over the bridge is thin right now.”
The Saab came into view, still on the wrong side of the road and zooming even more madly, as it chased the Range Rover. Seeley could have sworn he heard a strange noise emanating from Mycroft, but the chaos on the screen had his attention.
“Where is the Met?” Mallory asked.
Seeley enlarged the video to reveal an entourage of police vehicles gaining with terrific speed.
“Is there a helo?”
“Just the one,” Seeley answered laconically.
“Do I dare to hope it’s ours?” Mallory asked, voice brittle and not a little surly.
“No, it’s the Met’s.”
Mycroft winced as the Saab suddenly swerved and crammed itself between a DHL truck and an Opal.
“At least he’s driving on the right side now,” Seeley said.
As if taunting him, Sherlock jerked the car back to the wrong lane, careening through a BMW and an ancient Vauxhall that seemed to have come from George Smiley’s garage.
However, from the energetic and obscene gestures the Vauxhall driver was displaying, it was probably Smiley’s great-grandson behind the wheels.
“What is your brother doing, exactly?” Mallory asked.
“He’s setting the road,” Mycroft explained.
“Ohh,” Seeley muttered. “Of course. But is that wise for an urban area?”
“Does he have much choice?” Mycroft shot back elegantly.
“Will one of you bloody geniuses tell me what he’s doing?” Mallory all but exploded as he gestured at the screen.
“Sherlock’s dodging traffic, as it were, to clear the road ahead,” Mycroft explained. “Each driver reacts in set pattern due to similar driving experiences and lessons. So, he’s creating a cascading effect, ensuring a path ahead of them by forcing the cars into a predictable behavior.”
Mallory blinked rapidly. “Is that even possible?”
“Yes, sheep dogs perform the same feat on herd animals, which though unattractive as the analogy may sound, is what a group of drivers are when they’re stuck on the same stretch of road.”
“Sherlock is behaving like the sheep dog,” Seeley added.
“Yes, I got that he is behaving somewhat oddly,” Mallory sniped. “But what I don’t understand is what makes him think the blasted … toy car is going to behave in the same manner!”
“Yes, that is a problem,” Mycroft agreed. “But I believe he is correct in assuming that the person driving or maneuvering the Range Rover has similar experience driving in London.”
“They’re five blocks…”
Seeley’s announcement died by a hail of gunfire from the screen.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Mallory hissed as he watched his agent and Doctor Watson coolly shooting at the Range Rover, while hanging out of the car windows.
“I … wasn’t expecting that,” Mycroft confessed, his eyes slightly wide in surprise.
Seeley would have taken the time to enjoy such a rare occasion had the chaos unfolding on the screen not taken all his attention.
“We won’t be able to catch up,” Sherlock shouted, equally annoyed and worried.
“I guess then it’s up to us, Commander,” John said in a light tone.
James grinned and looked for the control buttons, only to realize the Saab was ancient enough that he had to crank down the window.
He shot a dark look at the driver before leaning out of the car. Ignoring Sherlock’s bark of surprise, he began shooting. To his amusement, John’s shots soon syncing with his, so they weren’t shooting at the same time.
Best way not to waste bullets, James thought as he loaded another clip. He heard the roar of sirens not to mention the helo overhead, but he studiously ignored them in favor of continuing to chase down his target.
John finally managed to hit the Rover on the hood, forcing it to wobble dangerously. That was all James needed. He put no less than four bullets in the damn thing, making it come to a halt.
“Finally!” John shouted.
James popped out of the car and scooped the toy into his arms. Sherlock rolled down his window and said,
“It doesn’t look too damaged. Q will be able to…”
The lorry driver was too busy texting to spot the car parked in his path. And Sherlock noticed it too late to even shout of warning before it smashed into the back of the Saab, forcing it to completely spin around. James was able to throw himself out of its path as a parked motorcycle stopped its momentum.
John was still halfway out of the car, so the moment the Saab stopped he was hurled outwards, dangling out of the car by the back of his knees. Thus trapped, he couldn’t do anything as he smashed headfirst onto the sidewalk: not even to scream in pain.
“Bloody fuck,” Seeley whispered hoarsely as he watched Sherlock trying to figure out how badly his friend was injured.
“Get our medics out there now,” Mallory said, his eyes riveted onto the screen.
“I’ll contact Lestrade and keep the Met occupied,” Mycroft announced, already dialing. Audrey was herself busy, doing only heaven knows what.
But none of them could look away from the screen featuring the sidewalk where a pool of blood slowly fanned out from John’s body.
“Thank you, I know this was not how you wanted your day to end,” Mycroft said as he handed over a thick pile of documents which would undoubtedly join the towers that had currently taken hostage of Lestrade’s desk.
Lestrade flipped through the paperwork while taking a sip of a brutally hot tea that Mycroft had thoughtfully provided. “It was a bomb?”
“Yes, and they really had no choice. Contact anyone at the Met and the bomb was to be detonated. Make a call on their phones, and the results would have been catastrophic.”
“St. Paul's? Yeah, that would have been.”
Lestrade took personal pride in that great landmark. His great grandfather was a Hurricane pilot during the Battle of Britain until he was shot down. The stubborn git survived and couldn’t stay away from the excitement, so he became a volunteer fireman. Of course, this was when the Blitz really picked up. Lestrade had inherited a picture of St. Paul during one of the raids, surrounded by a halo of smoke and yet still standing in spite of the devastation raining down on its noble dome.
“Do you have any idea who is responsible?” Lestrade asked.
“I hate to say it, but we suspect the responsible party is homegrown.”
“Bloody fantastic.” Lestrade leaned slightly forward. “And John?”
“He is under the best medical care possible, but because of what had happened, we can’t reveal his location.”
“Just have Sherlock call me when he can.”
“I will.”
Mycroft had vacated his spot on the chair for only two minutes before Donovan came in and sat down.
“They’re really expecting us to buy that it was a bomb?”
“I know, but even if it wasn’t – Sherlock thought it was worth chasing down Lambeth while John and his army friend took turns trying to stop it by the way of bullets.”
“Any information on John?” Donovan asked.
Not for the first time the DI wondered if she held a soft spot for the doctor. “No, but Sherlock will probably call when John’s out of surgery.”
“That was a lot of blood,” Donovan whispered. “Did you get a chance to look at the footage?”
“Yeah, it was bad.”
“At least you got a look,” Donovan said. “All the videos that went public are now gone. Poof. No Youtube, no links anywhere.”
Lestrade paled a bit more. “Damn.”
“Yeah, looks like someone went into serious damage control,” Donovan said. “Which also means John’s really in a bad way.”
“How is he?” Sherlock asked without invitation as the head surgeon stepped out of the theatre.
“The cranial swelling was on its way down when he was admitted,” Doctor Kander answered. “The problem is the blood loss he’d suffered.”
“His shoulder…”
“Yes, there is that, also,” Dr. Kander said. “The scar tissue is definitely a problem. But, at the same time, it is what also saved his shoulder.”
“What do you mean?” Sherlock prompted.
“It had encased the nerve and was pressing on it, which accounts for the tremor Dr. Watson has been suffering. But, at the same time, it had acted like armour. So, when he’d smashed it on the sidewalk, there was no nerve damage.”
“You think you can restore his arm function?”
“Completely.” Dr. Kander smiled. “As for the rest, I believe Dr. Watson is a strong man. He’ll pull through, given enough time.”
Sherlock gave a nod of acknowledgement and sat down again. Mycroft walked with the doctor, the two discussing quietly.
He returned to find Sherlock staring at the wall across him. “That is good news.”
“Yes, it is,” Sherlock said softly. “John will be…”
“Shut it,” Mycroft said in such dulcet tones that it took Sherlock a moment to realize what his brother had said.
“What did you just say?”
“You’re thinking that once Dr. Watson regains his ability to perform surgery, he will meander out of your life and into a respectable practice somewhere in … Essex, maybe? Even Edinburgh?”
The dull flush on his brother’s face told Mycroft he had made a direct hit. “He’ll do nothing of the sort, Sherlock. If he wanted to, he would have left you after you were safely ensconced in 221B last year. If he’d stuck by you since then, he won’t change his mind now.”
“But he’s a surgeon, Mycroft. And from all reports, a damn good one. He’s doing locum work, which is so far beneath…”
“And from what I understand he is in very high demand,” Mycroft interrupted. “His pleasant attitude, attentiveness to even the most trying of patients, and ability to get on with others have made him a very welcomed figure in practically all London clinics.
“Did you know he was offered a job at Barts?”
Sherlock looked completely taken back.
“No, I didn’t think he’d tell you, and not because he didn’t want you to know. But because it wasn’t important enough to mention.” Mycroft looked at his brother. “You come first, Sherlock. You always have. Now, let’s ensure Dr. Watson will be released as soon as possible.
“If what I know is correct, doctors often make the worst kind of patients.”
Sherlock gave a rare smile at his brother’s quip. Then, a thoughtful look came over him. “Thank you, Mycroft.”
In the face of such gratitude Mycroft was rendered speechless, so he nodded instead.
“And the EMP?” Sherlock asked.
It took Mycroft a moment to gather his wits. “With Seeley who is gleefully tearing it apart as we speak. MI6 has gathered the group responsible.”
“Let me guess, a band of overeducated, misguided youths?”
“Better, one of them was Lord Malcolm’s illegitimate son.”
“Lord Malcolm was working for you, wasn’t he? After his mobile business died, he decided to get in bed with the government.”
“His products were top shelf, unlike his phones,” Mycroft said with genuine regret. “The EMP was one of his best.”
“The son stole it from him, and fearing for his child, Lord Malcolm didn’t say anything. He tried to get it back, but didn’t realize how dangerous his son’s friends were.”
“They already had the prototype. The plans showed them how to work the machine properly. And once they had that, they didn’t need Lord Malcolm any longer.”
“Does the boy realize what he’d done?”
“No, sang froid to the extreme. He hated his father. Blamed him for every slight, imagined and real.”
“The worst kind of offender – a true believer.”
“Exactly,” Mycroft said.
“The listening station’s been relocated, I hope.”
“Oh, dear brother, that was done hours ago.”
“Let me guess, they relocated to the abandoned one in St. James?”
“One of these days you are going to tell me how in hell you get that type of information.”
Sherlock’s smile grew. “Good night, Mycroft.”
“Good night, Sherlock.”
The corridor was empty for the rest of the night, save for the occasional visit by the night staff, one who had the foresight to bring Sherlock a more comfortable chair from the staff lounge. He dragged it into John’s room when his friend finally returned from the recovery ward.
In spite of looking pale, and shattered, John’s heartbeat was strong and unchanging: a comfortable lullaby as Sherlock finally succumbed to exhaustion.
Part I * Epilogue
Rating: R for language and violence
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes(BBC)
Summary: John bit back a laugh at his friend’s Olivier-worthy antics. The morning was chilly but also sunny enough that he was about to leave the flat himself, as the day was open and John had nothing on schedule. Then, remembering the refrigerator bereft of food, John decided to go shopping first. The next day, John would blame that single act for the ensuing mayhem. That and an old acquaintance named James Bond.
Disclaimer: Seriously, does anyone NOT know Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?
Notes: Gen, but can be read with slash goggles. Also posted on AO3
John was so exhausted he found himself yawning around another yawn. Rubbing his eyes, he stumbled down the stairs to the main floor. As he suspected Sherlock had fallen asleep on the sofa, curled around the Union Jack pillow like a cat.
John made two cups of hot tea and trudged over to Sherlock. A lean arm shot up from the sofa and wiggled its fingers. John handed the tea over and nestled into his armchair.
“How are you feeling?” he asked hoarsely. “I drank maybe a finger of whisky but I swear I feel like I chucked the entire bar!”
Sherlock sat up, took a sip of his tea and said, “It was the tension. We were in Buckingham Palace and planning to break into one of its rooms.”
“And there is that,” John agreed easily. “You think Mycroft has figured out what we were doing there last night?”
“Actually, no,” Sherlock grinned. “Seeley has ways of blinding him that I envy.”
“Well, let’s hope he thinks we were helping Lestrade. Otherwise, I get the feeling we’ll be a guest in her Majesty’s care whether we like it or not.”
Sherlock grunted and looked at the kitchen. “Is there toast?”
“No, because you used the last of the bread for your knuckle sandwich experiment, which, by the way, was disgusting.”
“I was bored.”
“Yes, I got that. But testing colloquialisms like that was completely unnecessary. All you have to do is look it up on the internet…”
“Oh, yes, because the internet never lies.”
John had to agree with Sherlock on that point, but he wasn’t going to be deterred. “Nevertheless, if I find another experiment that has absolutely no scientific value whatsoever, I’m either going to bin it or serve is as supper.
“Understood?”
“Do you think it’s actually possible to eat a knuckle sandwich?”
“For the love of…” John opted to laugh as dealing with Sherlock while he was in this mood was impossible. “I’m going to Speedy’s to get some breakfast. Want any?”
“Their croissants are serviceable, I suppose.”
“Ta, by the way it’s your turn to buy.”
Sherlock didn’t say another word. Instead, he trudged to his room and came back with a tenner. “Get something for lunch, too. The last thing I want is to eat at MI6.”
“Why? They have very good food, which should be a requirement considering what their people do for a living.”
“Probably sprinkled with irradiated powder so they can keep track of their agents no matter where they are.”
John narrowed his eyes. “So why didn’t you say something when I ate a salad there yesterday?”
“You seemed to enjoy your food, and the company.”
John wondered when the subject of James would come up. “He’s a good man.”
“He’s most certainly not,” Sherlock sharply disagreed. “He’s a competent agent, which means he’s a cold-blooded killer. He has no remorse and wouldn’t hesitate to walk away from a dying child if ordered.”
“All right, then,” John said, yanking his coat from the hanger. “I’ll be back in five.”
Sherlock knew he’d successfully made his point, so he had no idea why he felt like he’d lost the argument as he listened to John clump down the stairs.
They finished the morning pastries cool silence. Not another single unpleasantness was exchanged. So, when Seeley called Sherlock was only too glad for the interruption. And from the alacrity John showed as he got dressed, he wasn’t the only one feeling the uncomfortable atmosphere.
Seeley saw the tension between his cousin and flatmate and wisely decided not to comment. The last thing he needed was Sherlock to go off, especially since Seeley suspected 007 was the cause of the rift.
James, to his credit, kept a cool distance too, though he seemed to be exchanging some wordless soldier-talk with John when he first entered. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to have placed himself in some sort of mental lockdown. The detective’s usual mobile face was expressionless as marble and his hands hung limply by his side.
Sherlock looks like a boy chastised by his favorite tutor, Seeley noted. And Dr. Watson does look like an aggrieved tutor.
As if reading his mind, Dr. Watson looked directly into Seeley’s eyes. The quiet warning was enough, and Seeley turned on the main screen.
“It seems we have a problem,” he stated calmly.
John rubbed his face, “Dare I ask what kind?”
“The kind where Mycroft and MI6 get involved,” Sherlock said, his voice almost dreamy as he studied the data scrolling across the main screen.
John looked at his friend. “That sounds quite horrible, actually. Worse than your family’s Christmas fetes.”
Seeley winced. He’d successfully avoided Holmes’ family tradition since he’d run away from Eton. And that was almost two decades ago. It seemed certain things didn’t improve with age.
“What do you mean by that?” Bond asked as his attention was also drawn to the screen.
“It’s an EMP,” Sherlock said as he peered closer. His eyebrows shot up and his voice went deeper with respect. “The smallest I’ve ever seen. Is this thing even viable?”
“The blast radius is only few hundred feet,” Seeley answered. “But within that range – it’s quite effective.”
“So this is a weapon, then,” John said flatly. “Something that could knock out any communication device? A farm of mobile towers? Or a military base in the middle of hostile territory?”
James narrowed his eyes. “That might be the endgame but this is strange. Look at the design. Does that look martial to you?”
Seeley agreed readily, “No, and that is what worries me. This thing was obviously created to piggyback on some other device – one that wouldn’t attract any kind of attention.”
“What was Baskerville doing, exactly?” Sherlock asked. “You must agree, it’s time we made a visit.”
“I’m sure you’d love to, Sherlock, but the truth is we’re not sure who was exactly responsible. After this was leaked, all traces of its origins were wiped. And I did a very thorough digging.”
“It almost looks like a toy,” John said. “Like one of those … Transformer things.”
James laughed softly. “A genuine Decepticon?”
“Another one of your pop culture references?” Sherlock asked coolly.
“A movie you deemed complete and utter trash ten minutes after it started,” John said. “But I found it entertaining, especially since it was right after that gruesome murder in Manchester.”
“Well, the two sequels were quite asinine,” Seeley said.
“And yet you sat through them all,” Sherlock deduced with a tight smile. “I wonder why.”
“I know why,” John said with a grin.
Seeley felt the blush roll down his face and into his dress shirt. But there was no harm in John’s teasing. If anything there was a kind solidarity there, one that Seeley had rarely been given. And it was offered with no ulterior motives attached.
Ahh … there it is. The reason why one of the most brilliant and abrasive human beings on earth would want to stand so close to you and drive others away.
“Seriously, though, does anyone else think it looks like a toy?” John asked.
Sherlock blinked slowly then turned to John. “You never cease to amaze me.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” John said, not missing a beat. “Would you like to share with the rest of us, please?”
James looked at Sherlock with avid interest. Seeley noted that this was the first time Sherlock was in full detective mode that James had actually witnessed. Yes, the agent had heard of Sherlock’s brilliance many times, but it was a different animal to witness firsthand.
“A toy,” Sherlock said. “Something that would look as you’d said, deceptive. One that a child could carry and no one would think twice. Like a remote control car.”
“Bloody hell,” John whispered. “The tyre we found.”
“It’s masked as a toy, John. And I believe its carrier has no idea what he or she has. You can give this to anyone who has children and turn them into a bomber.”
James blinked at that assessment. “How in hell can we find this thing if it’s so easily hidden?”
“The moment it’s switched on it will emit an energy signature,” Seeley explained. “One that is easily traceable.”
“But the problem is we have to wait,” James countered. “Lovely.”
“And it could be anywhere,” John added. “Can you actually detect it … anywhere?”
Sherlock gave an inelegant snort. “He’s capable of detecting things not on this planet. Let’s just say Mycroft’s love of snooping is not a singular trait in our side of the family.”
Seeley peered over his glasses but said nothing. He risked a glance at John to find the doctor studying the main screen. And though it was filled with nothing but what would look like gibberish to an educated layman, the doctor was actually trying to make a sense of it.
James elbowed John before whispering, “Don’t try. You’ll only end up with a nosebleed.”
“Which I get almost on a daily basis, if not at work then following Sherlock,” John replied in equally hushed tone. “That … that’s beautiful, don’t you think?”
Seeley felt his blush return but steadily looked down at his workstation as if he weren’t privy to the conversation.
“Beautiful?” James echoed.
“Look at all that … it was all created by Q,” John explained. “I can’t even begin to make sense of it. But it’s all so gorgeous; I wish I had a hundredth of his ability. Then maybe my blog wouldn’t look like such shite.”
Seeley mentally noted to check on Dr. Watson’s blog more often. It was bad enough that Sherlock got his fingers on it whenever he felt like it, it wouldn’t at all surprise Q if Mycroft decided to play around with Watson’s writing too.
Seeley looked at Sherlock who seemed entertained by John’s romantic notions and mentally checked another box to make sure Sherlock would be kept busy for the next few days. It wouldn’t do for the detective to needle the doctor about his opinion.
Yes, Dr. Watson’s notions might be luddite-inspired, but it was actually quite flattering. The man’s blog had amply demonstrated his skills as a writer for the masses, but there was something to be said for the inclusion of the majority and the ability to please them.
Q’s wandering thoughts dissipated the moment he heard a familiar beep. He typed in few commands which changed the main screen to a map of London.
“It’s live,” Seeley announced.
James peered closer. “Bloody hell…”
“It’s in London?” John asked. “It went active here?”
“We need to chase it down, now,” Seeley said as he watched the small green blip move at an accelerated rate down a crowded road. “You should be able to spot it easily.”
James escorted the two men to the main garage. John’s gasp was audible and surprising to both James and Sherlock.
“Sorry,” John said, blushing furiously. “Just … these are lovely.”
James laughed softly while Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Remind me to take you to the family’s garage if we ever visit my mother.”
“Really?”
Sherlock looked at James. “I’m sure his has one too.”
“No, my ancestral estate was burned down by a psychotic madman two years back,” James answered. “He used rockets. Pretty much leveled the estate and half the valley.”
Sherlock really had no comeback for that so wisely remained silent. It took him another ten seconds but the detective saw the car he wanted and made a beeline for it.
When James saw his choice, he couldn’t stop blurting out, “You must be joking.”
John felt a headache encroach his sanity when he saw Sherlock’s shark-like smile.
Seeley didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as the four-door Saab tore out of the bunkers.
What in bloody buggering fuck are you doing, Sherlock? Seeley thought as he monitored the Saab dodging cabs while speeding down Lambeth Road, horn screaming energetically.
“I don’t know how it’s moving so quickly,” Seeley said. “It must be causing traffic accidents left and right.”
He then accessed all the CCTV cameras available and caught the maniacal smile on Sherlock’s face.
“Bloody fuck,” Seeley hissed. He hit the communication lines and called John who mercifully answered. “Put me on speaker!”
Seeley took a single breath before hollering, “Sherlock! What are you doing?!”
“I know where it’s going!” was the triumphant answer.
“Wait a minute…” Seeley mentally compared the map with the one he had memorized. “Oh, damn.”
“Oh damn, yes,” Sherlock said. “You have a listening station near St. Paul’s, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Seeley said. “And aren’t you glad I’m not asking you how you came by that piece of information?”
“It’s going to bomb one of our listening posts?” James asked.
“Care to fill me in as to what the hell is going on?” John barked.
“Our government, ever a glutton for intelligence, has set up listening stations throughout the country to spy on its citizens and anyone within these fair shores. That includes allies as well as enemies.”
“So … if this EMP succeeds…” John guessed, “we’re going to lose a lot of data?”
“No, not just lose,” Seeley said. “The EMP is going to unveil the station. Anyone within five blocks of it who is talking on a phone might be able to pick up on the monitored channels…”
“And cause an international crisis that could very well bring down the government,” Sherlock concluded. “I believe this is less of a terrorist attack and more of an anarchist’s goal.”
“Either way, we can’t let it happen,” James said.
Seeley heard more than one gun being prepped for fire. “I’m guessing Dr. Watson has brought his illegal firearm?”
“Not illegal,” John said cheerfully. “Mycroft made sure of that.”
“Bless the British Government,” Seeley said sourly. “Does DI Lestrade know?”
“Of course not,” John answered. “The last thing he needs is more paperwork on his desk.”
It took a moment for Seeley to realize that the doctor wasn’t being sarcastic, at all.
“There’s something strange,” James piped in. “The traffic is bloody slow but there aren’t any accidents.”
Seeley frowned. “That can’t be. The EMP is moving at least forty miles per hour, and…”
“Well, shite,” John snarled. “It’s a bloody toy car. It doesn’t need traffic lights. It’ll be able to go on the bloody kerb if it felt like it.”
“How big do you think it is?” James asked.
“Oh, roughly the size of a bread box,” Seeley answered as he caught the damned thing weaving through cars.
He forwarded the video to John’s phone. There were sounds of amazement and annoyance.
“A bloody Range Rover?” John asked indignantly. “We’re chasing a Range Rover?!”
“There’s no way we’re going to catch up…” James never finished his statement.
“Brace yourself!” Sherlock roared as he suddenly peeled the Saab onto oncoming traffic, which was admittedly great deal lighter.
“Fuck!” John swore as he was tossed violently to the left since his lap belt was more of an afterthought than a safety device.
James who didn’t even bother to use a seatbelt found himself looking up at the roof of the Saab and noted the hideous orange color, not to mention the satin-like fabric. Screaming horns told him the near misses as Sherlock seemed to have become completely deranged behind the wheel.
“Sir?” Donovan said.
Lestrade knew that ‘sir’. He knew it meant Sherlock and a really awful way to end the day.
“What?” he asked tersely, refusing to look up from the folder he was reading.
“We got news that Sherlock and John are driving down Lambeth, against traffic. And that they have a male hostage in the car.”
“Bloody Holmes,” Lestrade barked as he shot up out of his chair. “Get the helo on them.”
“Do you think they’ve cracked?”
“Of course not, and the hostage is probably some madman holding John or Sherlock or both prisoners so his lunatic schemes could work!’
“Not everyone’s a Moriarty.”
“No, but Sherlock has the tendency to attract the worst of the lot.”
Donovan couldn’t argue with that. And as insane as Lestrade’s interpretation may be, she was too good a cop to dismiss the idea that the Freak and the doctor were, in some convoluted way, being forced to act like stunt drivers.
Mycroft was just finishing a conference call when his assistant came in. From the rapid clicking of her heels on the parquet floor, he knew she was agitated.
Sherlock.
Without a word Audrey took control of his keyboard and typed furiously. She was the only one in the entire building who could invade Mycroft Holmes’ personal space and not end up either dead or unemployed by the end of the day.
Mycroft took one look at the multiple shots. “Lambeth.”
“Yes, and the man in the car has been identified as a Double-0.”
“Dear brother, exactly what are you up to?” Mycroft whispered.
He looked at few more CCTV shots and then said, “Get me a car. We need to go to MI6 now. And contact Mallory. Between the two of us, we should be able to unravel Sherlock's puzzling behaviour.”
Mallory, ever the soldier, tersely asked, “What in hell is happening?”
Mycroft dryly answered, “I’m afraid it’s my brother.”
Mallory’s eyes widened, his voice raspy with unquenchable horror, “There are more of you?”
Seeley longingly eyed the keyboard. He could grab it, duck underneath the main console and work from there, as he’d installed a small screen right under the desk. No one in his division laughed at him while he set it up because they all knew there would come a time when they would have to take cover and somehow still manage to do their jobs, bullets notwithstanding.
“Yes, there are more,” Mycroft smiled, all teeth and little grace. “Would you like to come to our Christmas dinner? Mummy makes fantastic game bird dishes.”
The noise emanating from the screen suddenly changed, grabbing the attention of everyone in the room.
“It’s going over Blackfriars,” Seeley stated. “Definitely towards St. Paul’s station.”
“Can we cycle them down before the EMP hits?” Mallory asked.
“No, we’d need twenty minutes at least,” Seeley answered. “Otherwise, we’ll attract too much attention.”
“Where’s Sherlock?” Mycroft asked.
“Three cars behind,” Seeley answered. “Mercifully, the traffic over the bridge is thin right now.”
The Saab came into view, still on the wrong side of the road and zooming even more madly, as it chased the Range Rover. Seeley could have sworn he heard a strange noise emanating from Mycroft, but the chaos on the screen had his attention.
“Where is the Met?” Mallory asked.
Seeley enlarged the video to reveal an entourage of police vehicles gaining with terrific speed.
“Is there a helo?”
“Just the one,” Seeley answered laconically.
“Do I dare to hope it’s ours?” Mallory asked, voice brittle and not a little surly.
“No, it’s the Met’s.”
Mycroft winced as the Saab suddenly swerved and crammed itself between a DHL truck and an Opal.
“At least he’s driving on the right side now,” Seeley said.
As if taunting him, Sherlock jerked the car back to the wrong lane, careening through a BMW and an ancient Vauxhall that seemed to have come from George Smiley’s garage.
However, from the energetic and obscene gestures the Vauxhall driver was displaying, it was probably Smiley’s great-grandson behind the wheels.
“What is your brother doing, exactly?” Mallory asked.
“He’s setting the road,” Mycroft explained.
“Ohh,” Seeley muttered. “Of course. But is that wise for an urban area?”
“Does he have much choice?” Mycroft shot back elegantly.
“Will one of you bloody geniuses tell me what he’s doing?” Mallory all but exploded as he gestured at the screen.
“Sherlock’s dodging traffic, as it were, to clear the road ahead,” Mycroft explained. “Each driver reacts in set pattern due to similar driving experiences and lessons. So, he’s creating a cascading effect, ensuring a path ahead of them by forcing the cars into a predictable behavior.”
Mallory blinked rapidly. “Is that even possible?”
“Yes, sheep dogs perform the same feat on herd animals, which though unattractive as the analogy may sound, is what a group of drivers are when they’re stuck on the same stretch of road.”
“Sherlock is behaving like the sheep dog,” Seeley added.
“Yes, I got that he is behaving somewhat oddly,” Mallory sniped. “But what I don’t understand is what makes him think the blasted … toy car is going to behave in the same manner!”
“Yes, that is a problem,” Mycroft agreed. “But I believe he is correct in assuming that the person driving or maneuvering the Range Rover has similar experience driving in London.”
“They’re five blocks…”
Seeley’s announcement died by a hail of gunfire from the screen.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Mallory hissed as he watched his agent and Doctor Watson coolly shooting at the Range Rover, while hanging out of the car windows.
“I … wasn’t expecting that,” Mycroft confessed, his eyes slightly wide in surprise.
Seeley would have taken the time to enjoy such a rare occasion had the chaos unfolding on the screen not taken all his attention.
“We won’t be able to catch up,” Sherlock shouted, equally annoyed and worried.
“I guess then it’s up to us, Commander,” John said in a light tone.
James grinned and looked for the control buttons, only to realize the Saab was ancient enough that he had to crank down the window.
He shot a dark look at the driver before leaning out of the car. Ignoring Sherlock’s bark of surprise, he began shooting. To his amusement, John’s shots soon syncing with his, so they weren’t shooting at the same time.
Best way not to waste bullets, James thought as he loaded another clip. He heard the roar of sirens not to mention the helo overhead, but he studiously ignored them in favor of continuing to chase down his target.
John finally managed to hit the Rover on the hood, forcing it to wobble dangerously. That was all James needed. He put no less than four bullets in the damn thing, making it come to a halt.
“Finally!” John shouted.
James popped out of the car and scooped the toy into his arms. Sherlock rolled down his window and said,
“It doesn’t look too damaged. Q will be able to…”
The lorry driver was too busy texting to spot the car parked in his path. And Sherlock noticed it too late to even shout of warning before it smashed into the back of the Saab, forcing it to completely spin around. James was able to throw himself out of its path as a parked motorcycle stopped its momentum.
John was still halfway out of the car, so the moment the Saab stopped he was hurled outwards, dangling out of the car by the back of his knees. Thus trapped, he couldn’t do anything as he smashed headfirst onto the sidewalk: not even to scream in pain.
“Bloody fuck,” Seeley whispered hoarsely as he watched Sherlock trying to figure out how badly his friend was injured.
“Get our medics out there now,” Mallory said, his eyes riveted onto the screen.
“I’ll contact Lestrade and keep the Met occupied,” Mycroft announced, already dialing. Audrey was herself busy, doing only heaven knows what.
But none of them could look away from the screen featuring the sidewalk where a pool of blood slowly fanned out from John’s body.
“Thank you, I know this was not how you wanted your day to end,” Mycroft said as he handed over a thick pile of documents which would undoubtedly join the towers that had currently taken hostage of Lestrade’s desk.
Lestrade flipped through the paperwork while taking a sip of a brutally hot tea that Mycroft had thoughtfully provided. “It was a bomb?”
“Yes, and they really had no choice. Contact anyone at the Met and the bomb was to be detonated. Make a call on their phones, and the results would have been catastrophic.”
“St. Paul's? Yeah, that would have been.”
Lestrade took personal pride in that great landmark. His great grandfather was a Hurricane pilot during the Battle of Britain until he was shot down. The stubborn git survived and couldn’t stay away from the excitement, so he became a volunteer fireman. Of course, this was when the Blitz really picked up. Lestrade had inherited a picture of St. Paul during one of the raids, surrounded by a halo of smoke and yet still standing in spite of the devastation raining down on its noble dome.
“Do you have any idea who is responsible?” Lestrade asked.
“I hate to say it, but we suspect the responsible party is homegrown.”
“Bloody fantastic.” Lestrade leaned slightly forward. “And John?”
“He is under the best medical care possible, but because of what had happened, we can’t reveal his location.”
“Just have Sherlock call me when he can.”
“I will.”
Mycroft had vacated his spot on the chair for only two minutes before Donovan came in and sat down.
“They’re really expecting us to buy that it was a bomb?”
“I know, but even if it wasn’t – Sherlock thought it was worth chasing down Lambeth while John and his army friend took turns trying to stop it by the way of bullets.”
“Any information on John?” Donovan asked.
Not for the first time the DI wondered if she held a soft spot for the doctor. “No, but Sherlock will probably call when John’s out of surgery.”
“That was a lot of blood,” Donovan whispered. “Did you get a chance to look at the footage?”
“Yeah, it was bad.”
“At least you got a look,” Donovan said. “All the videos that went public are now gone. Poof. No Youtube, no links anywhere.”
Lestrade paled a bit more. “Damn.”
“Yeah, looks like someone went into serious damage control,” Donovan said. “Which also means John’s really in a bad way.”
“How is he?” Sherlock asked without invitation as the head surgeon stepped out of the theatre.
“The cranial swelling was on its way down when he was admitted,” Doctor Kander answered. “The problem is the blood loss he’d suffered.”
“His shoulder…”
“Yes, there is that, also,” Dr. Kander said. “The scar tissue is definitely a problem. But, at the same time, it is what also saved his shoulder.”
“What do you mean?” Sherlock prompted.
“It had encased the nerve and was pressing on it, which accounts for the tremor Dr. Watson has been suffering. But, at the same time, it had acted like armour. So, when he’d smashed it on the sidewalk, there was no nerve damage.”
“You think you can restore his arm function?”
“Completely.” Dr. Kander smiled. “As for the rest, I believe Dr. Watson is a strong man. He’ll pull through, given enough time.”
Sherlock gave a nod of acknowledgement and sat down again. Mycroft walked with the doctor, the two discussing quietly.
He returned to find Sherlock staring at the wall across him. “That is good news.”
“Yes, it is,” Sherlock said softly. “John will be…”
“Shut it,” Mycroft said in such dulcet tones that it took Sherlock a moment to realize what his brother had said.
“What did you just say?”
“You’re thinking that once Dr. Watson regains his ability to perform surgery, he will meander out of your life and into a respectable practice somewhere in … Essex, maybe? Even Edinburgh?”
The dull flush on his brother’s face told Mycroft he had made a direct hit. “He’ll do nothing of the sort, Sherlock. If he wanted to, he would have left you after you were safely ensconced in 221B last year. If he’d stuck by you since then, he won’t change his mind now.”
“But he’s a surgeon, Mycroft. And from all reports, a damn good one. He’s doing locum work, which is so far beneath…”
“And from what I understand he is in very high demand,” Mycroft interrupted. “His pleasant attitude, attentiveness to even the most trying of patients, and ability to get on with others have made him a very welcomed figure in practically all London clinics.
“Did you know he was offered a job at Barts?”
Sherlock looked completely taken back.
“No, I didn’t think he’d tell you, and not because he didn’t want you to know. But because it wasn’t important enough to mention.” Mycroft looked at his brother. “You come first, Sherlock. You always have. Now, let’s ensure Dr. Watson will be released as soon as possible.
“If what I know is correct, doctors often make the worst kind of patients.”
Sherlock gave a rare smile at his brother’s quip. Then, a thoughtful look came over him. “Thank you, Mycroft.”
In the face of such gratitude Mycroft was rendered speechless, so he nodded instead.
“And the EMP?” Sherlock asked.
It took Mycroft a moment to gather his wits. “With Seeley who is gleefully tearing it apart as we speak. MI6 has gathered the group responsible.”
“Let me guess, a band of overeducated, misguided youths?”
“Better, one of them was Lord Malcolm’s illegitimate son.”
“Lord Malcolm was working for you, wasn’t he? After his mobile business died, he decided to get in bed with the government.”
“His products were top shelf, unlike his phones,” Mycroft said with genuine regret. “The EMP was one of his best.”
“The son stole it from him, and fearing for his child, Lord Malcolm didn’t say anything. He tried to get it back, but didn’t realize how dangerous his son’s friends were.”
“They already had the prototype. The plans showed them how to work the machine properly. And once they had that, they didn’t need Lord Malcolm any longer.”
“Does the boy realize what he’d done?”
“No, sang froid to the extreme. He hated his father. Blamed him for every slight, imagined and real.”
“The worst kind of offender – a true believer.”
“Exactly,” Mycroft said.
“The listening station’s been relocated, I hope.”
“Oh, dear brother, that was done hours ago.”
“Let me guess, they relocated to the abandoned one in St. James?”
“One of these days you are going to tell me how in hell you get that type of information.”
Sherlock’s smile grew. “Good night, Mycroft.”
“Good night, Sherlock.”
The corridor was empty for the rest of the night, save for the occasional visit by the night staff, one who had the foresight to bring Sherlock a more comfortable chair from the staff lounge. He dragged it into John’s room when his friend finally returned from the recovery ward.
In spite of looking pale, and shattered, John’s heartbeat was strong and unchanging: a comfortable lullaby as Sherlock finally succumbed to exhaustion.
Part I * Epilogue
