Fic: The Adventure of the Dancing Men [3/3] - COMPLETE
Title: The Adventure of the Dancing Men [3/3] - Complete
Author: tueswmoriarty
Pairing: Sherlock/John pre-slash
Rating: R
Warnings: Character death, depictions of Bipolar I, violence, pre-slash.
Word Count: 4,894 this chapter. (Approximately 17,000 if you want to read the whole story at once.)
Notes: Many thanks to tehomet, who graciously edited and Brit-picked this for me. See chapter end for more.
Disclaimer: Not mine, and I'm not making a penny.
Summary: Our heroes have decided to stop living their lives like Moriarty will attack at any minute, which is of course exactly when Moriarty decides to attack.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Our relief was short lived.
Taking advantage of Sherlock’s improved mood, I decided we would go out for lunch. This served the twin purposes of getting us out of the flat and forcing my friend to eat a good meal. We chose a sushi restaurant up the road, in honor of the country where Sherlock hoped Amir Khani would eventually settle. It was an elegant place, a bit beyond our usual price range if the muted colour scheme and low slung tables were anything to go by. We even had to leave our shoes on a little bamboo mat by the door.
“Trying too hard for authenticity,” Sherlock commented as he folded himself elegantly onto a cushion beside the table. “The owners are Pakistani, not Japanese. And the sushi chefs are Korean, as are most of the staff.”
Be that as it may, the food was delicious. I was halfway through my eel avocado roll when my phone vibrated.
From: Lestrade
Where are you? Where’s Sherlock? He isn’t answering me.
I quickly fired off a text telling Lestrade our location.
From: Lestrade
I’m coming to pick you up. Do NOT move until I arrive.
Sherlock looked at me enquiringly. “What does Lestrade want?”
“Lord knows. I think something must have happened. He said to stay put until he gets here.” I shrugged, trying to appear unruffled. “Why aren’t you answering your phone?”
“Must have switched it off.” He reached across the table to steal one of my rolls.
“Hey!” I hit my chopsticks against his but didn’t stop him. “Well turn your phone back on, you bizarre impostor. I want to see what Lestrade had to say to the real Sherlock Holmes.”
Sherlock retrieved his phone from his pocket, chewing thoughtfully. “I don’t see how you can eat this, John. It’s disgusting.” He scrolled through his texts for a moment, reading. “Hmmm.”
“Let me see.” He passed me the phone. There were three missed calls and five text messages, all from DI Lestrade.
From: Lestrade
Please tell me John’s not at Barts.
From: Lestrade
Answer your phone you petulant child!
From: Lestrade
Right, I’m coming over.
From: Lestrade
Where are you? You better not have gone running off to Barts as soon as I mentioned the place.
From: Lestrade
Never mind. John’s got better manners than you, thank God. STAY PUT.
“Something’s happened at Barts.”
“Obviously.” I was unsurprised to see Sherlock already scouring the web on my phone. I hadn’t even felt him nick it. “Nothing on any of the wire services. Whatever it is, they’re keeping it quiet.”
“Or it’s something too minor to make the news,” I said.
“No. Lestrade doesn’t flinch at shadows.”
I disagreed a bit; Lestrade’s desire to put me into protective custody was still fresh in my memory.
With that, Sherlock’s phone vibrated. Seeing that my friend was still occupied by the internet, I felt free to read the incoming text.
From: Unknown Caller
Johnny isn’t the only doctor you care about, is he my dear? Xoxo
Well, fuck.
“Sherlock,” I swallowed heavily. “Sherlock, I think you should see this.” His eyes went wide at the way my hand trembled as I passed him his mobile. I hated how often it had been doing that lately. I told myself it was due to the adrenaline wearing off after my fight with Amir Khani, not how helpless I felt. Sherlock grabbed at the phone, then at my hand, pushing it somewhat violently down as though he could force steadiness into me. My forearm banged uncomfortably against the table’s edge.
“Barts,” he murmured as he read.
“Barts,” I agreed.
Suddenly Sherlock’s hand was gone and his gaze ran along the ceiling and the skirting boards looking for cameras or sensors. He scrutinised the waiters and waitresses, trying to identify suspicious activity. I could see him counting the windows and calculating possible bullet trajectories.
He leapt to his feet and stood directly at my right shoulder, facing one of the windows. “John, pass me your gun.”
“No.” The gun wasn’t licensed to Sherlock. “Tell me what you see and I’ll do the shooting.”
“Stay where you are!” he snapped. He took a deep breath. “There’s nothing to shoot at, but if he had a sniper he would be on the second floor of the building across the road." His eyes narrowed. "Probably at the third window from the left.”
“Right, let’s move out of the way of the window then. Kitchen?” I knew mentioning that I was distinctly not being threatened at the moment was a lost cause. Sherlock’s newly discovered protective streak had only found one outlet so far, and this was it.
He nodded. “Kitchen.” I stood and we padded slowly to the swinging kitchen doors in our stocking feet, Sherlock’s body carefully interposed between me and the window the entire way.
Sherlock wilted a little once we were out of range, and I was left to answer the questions and demands of the staff.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry, we’ll be out of your hair in just a minute. No, no that won’t be necessary. Terribly sorry to be such a bother. The police are on the way. There’s no need to call anyone.” I dearly wished I had taken some of Mycroft’s government dispensations with me to flash at everyone.
Fortunately the restaurant wasn’t far from Baker Street, and Lestrade burst in in time to save us from further indignity. He scanned the dining area and looked a bit upset when he couldn’t find us.
“Lestrade! We’re in here!” I called. He heard and came charging in to the kitchen. This time it was his turn to make excuses, holding up his badge for inspection.
“Detective Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard. These men are with me.” He caught sight of Sherlock, who still looked deflated. “You all right?”
“We’re fine,” I answered. “We just had a text from Moriarty. What’s happening at Barts?”
“Terrorist threat. Thought it might be connected; guess I was right. Come with me and I’ll take you down to the Yard.”
“No,” Sherlock said.
“No?” I was confused. Surely Sherlock wasn’t going to refuse to ride in a police car at a time like this. We needed to be briefed.
“We’re going to Barts.”
“You’re an idiot. That’s what Moriarty wants!”
Sherlock huffed in irritation. “Exactly. If I’m there, maybe I can stop him. Even if I can’t, I’m sure he’ll hold off killing anyone until I arrive.”
I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “And what if he’s just luring us to Barts to finish what he started at the pool?”
“It’s a game, John. As long as I play along, it’s a game. If I stop playing along, that’s when Moriarty becomes a personal threat to me.”
Lestrade nodded tightly. “All right. To Barts.”
***
Sherlock sat in the front of the car, next to Lestrade. I still didn’t know what his aversion was to police vehicles, but the passenger seat seemed fine.
“A bomb threat was phoned in just over an hour ago," Lestrade said. "We’re working on evacuating the building and the bomb squad is doing a sweep, but beyond that there isn’t much to report.”
“So you didn’t even know it was Moriarty until we got the text?” I leaned forward, hoping I could be heard through the security partition.
“Mad bomber? Hospital full of doctors? It seemed like his MO and it fit with his last message. Thought I ought to check in on you before anything leaked to the press.”
“So this wasn’t about a single person at all?” I asked Sherlock. He didn’t answer. “This was a threat against any and all doctors in your life. Anyone you’ve had contact with.”
“Doctors. At work,” he intoned. “If there’s a bomb in Barts it serves two purposes. It hurts people,” the that I care about went unsaid, “and it takes away my laboratory, which will hinder my work. This is a brilliant opening move for him.”
I was sickened by the thought that this was all an elaborate game with Sherlock’s entire network -- restaurateurs, the police, doctors, the homeless -- as potential pawns. For the first time I could see that this idea upset Sherlock almost as much as it intrigued him. It was as if he could wrap his brain around the concept of a threat against a single person, just like he could conceive of caring about a single person, but when that threat was writ large he faltered. This wasn’t about random bystanders. This was about everyone Sherlock knew; everyone who knew Sherlock.
He stared blankly out the window, looking troubled and so, so young. I wished I could lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, but the security partition prevented any contact between us.
The scene that greeted us outside of St Bart's was not any less unsettling than the one unfolding in Lestrade’s car. If anything it was worse. The evacuation was well under way, but the sheer number of people and vehicles crammed onto every available surface surrounding the hospital made things seem quite chaotic.
Gaunt patients were being led between the ambulances and police cars that were covering the narrow road and pavement. Doctors and nurses were escorting people outside and as far away from the building as was prudent, but the crowds were so dense and the other buildings so close that their task was a challenging one. Some of the more critical cases were being transferred to nearby hospitals. I spotted Mike Stamford pushing a fragile looking bald woman in a wheelchair. Several orderlies helped a surgeon and his team load a middle-aged man into a waiting ambulance. The patient had been patched up a bit for transportation, but it was clear from his bandages and the monitoring equipment that accompanied him that he had been having heart surgery when the evacuation was ordered. St Bart's has no A&E so there were few bumps and bruises and minor ailments. The patients being evacuated were well and truly ill.
Though I was acquainted with several of the doctors I saw, I didn’t recognise the majority of the Yarders working that afternoon. Sherlock and I dealt exclusively with the Criminal Investigation Department, and then mostly with the teams led by DIs Lestrade, Gregson, and Dimmock. A bomb threat of this magnitude seemed like more of an 'all hands on deck' style affair, though there wasn’t much for those hands to do besides maintain the perimeter that had been set up. Some were guiding evacuees while others seemed to be keeping out of the way, waiting for something to happen. I was torn between helping and staying out from underfoot myself.
“You aren’t going inside,” Sherlock told me sternly. “They’re almost fully evacuated so your foolish heroism would be wasted. Come.” He grabbed my forearm and pulled me after him in Lestrade’s wake.
Lestrade spotted his quarry leaning on a squad car parked near the City & Guild Skills Centre in Giltspur Street. He was a beefy, red-faced man with pale, fluffy hair. His rumpled suit belied how rapidly he had scrambled to get dressed and to the scene. Saturday must have been his day off.
“Do you think you’re far enough away from the hospital?” Lestrade called. The man waved away his concern.
“This your boy, Lestrade? Bit stringy. Easier ways to kill him than all these messy bombs.”
Sherlock visibly bristled at the man’s teasing tone, but Lestrade ignored the jibe. “Gentlemen this is Detective Chief Inspector Peterson.” He gave Sherlock a serious look. “My boss.”
“John Watson,” I said, shaking DCI Peterson’s hand. “And this is...”
“Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes, yes I know,” Peterson interrupted. “Your reputation precedes you, et cetera et cetera. First the Hurlstone Housing Estate, then Boscombe Pool, now St Bartholomew’s Hospital. Well?” He looked at Sherlock expectantly.
“Well, what?” Sherlock snapped. “It can’t have escaped your notice that I’m not the one blowing things up.”
“You’re also not trapped inside a building rigged with explosives, which is the part I find curious. Now I confess I’ve only followed you career peripherally over the years, but ever since this Moriarty business my men,” Lestrade grunted, causing Peterson to correct himself, “and women have been working with you more often than not. I understand you’re his target?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Hence my puzzlement at the fact that you don’t seem to be in danger.”
“He’s going about it in a... round-about fashion.”
“I should say so! Pretty round-about if you’re outside and the bomb’s in there. Do you reckon this Moriarty chap realises you're not in your office today, as it were?”
Sherlock’s opinion of Peterson’s intelligence could not have been written on his face any more clearly.
“While I sometimes borrow the laboratory here, I do not have and never have had an office. Moreover Moriarty is a criminal genius who has masterminded hundreds of murders, orchestrated untold numbers of forgeries and robberies, including yesterday’s theft of the international prototype of the kilogram in Paris - yes, Lestrade, you heard me, that was him -- and managed to kidnap Doctor Watson while he was walking down the street, no mean feat as John is a former army doctor and highly skilled at both armed and hand-to-hand combat. He has a large, anonymous, and well-placed network of informers, and I have it on good authority that he has the technical expertise to hack into the Met's CCTV system. What do you think, Chief Inspector? Do you reckon this Moriarty chap realises I’m outside the building?”
Lestrade and I shared a look and I felt pity for the DI. It was one thing to make excuses for Sherlock to your team but another entirely to have to make them to your boss.
Fortunately, Peterson was a jocular man who just laughed and clapped Lestrade on the shoulder. “Between this one and Anderson I’d say you’re a saint.”
“Anderson’s not really...” Lestrade tried to protest. Anderson wasn’t really a part of his team. But then neither was Sherlock.
“Ah! Sergeant Donovan!” Peterson interrupted, waving over a lost-looking Sally. She threaded through the crowd to join us.
“There you are,” she said to Lestrade, relieved. “I saw the car but I couldn’t find you. Jones is going batty without someone to take orders from.”
“He’ll live,” Lestrade said.
“He’s latched onto Gregson.” She smirked. Gregory Lestrade and Lester Gregson had been friendly rivals since their training programme. Something about their similar names had drawn them together and they had been attempting to one-up each other ever since. Unfortunately for Sally, the gravity of our situation meant Lestrade wasn’t about to be provoked.
“Has the bomb squad found anything?”
“No, nothing to report. The evacuation is complete, though.”
“Good,” Peterson said. “Now we can focus on moving people outside the perimeter.” He reached for the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt. “Bradstreet? I want everybody at least 500 feet from the building.” We were barely that far away ourselves. There simply wasn’t anywhere to go. “Start moving people out.”
“Will do.” Bradstreet’s voice crackled out of the walkie-talkie. “Oh and Chief Inspector? Some of the hospital staff say they’re missing someone. A Doctor Molly Hooper? Works in the morgue apparently; seems she knew the bomber from last month. They’re worried he could target her if he's the one behind this. She hasn’t been seen in a few hours so she may have gone home, but she’s not answering her mobile.”
Peterson looked at us. “Ring any bells?”
My heart leaped into my throat. Sherlock, who had already been deflating following his evisceration of Peterson, looked alert again.
“Yes, we know her.” I turned to Sherlock. “Call her. She’ll answer for you.” If she’s alive. We knew Moriarty was the bomber, which meant Molly really could be in danger and not just taking a half-holiday.
Sherlock nodded and made the call. She answered almost immediately. “Ah, hello Molly. How are you this afternoon?”
“Put her on speaker, Sherlock,” I hissed.
“Wonderful. Just a moment, Molly. John would like to hear your dulcet tones as well.” He lowered the phone and flicked a button. I leaned in to hear over the ambient sounds of the evacuation.
“Hello, Johnny,” came Molly’s sweet voice from the speakers. I looked up at Sherlock in alarm. Johnny wasn’t Molly’s name for me; she called me Doctor Watson when she remembered my name at all. The keen look in my friend’s eyes showed me he had noticed this anomaly as well, but he merely nodded for me to respond.
“Afternoon, Molly. Listen, you might have heard there’s been a bit of a scare at Barts and some of your colleagues are worried about you. Would you mind telling us where you are?” My mind was filling with images of Molly wearing an earpiece and strapped to a Semtex vest, somewhere in the bowels of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital.
Molly just laughed. “Don’t you worry, Johnny. I’m as safe as houses. Now this hospital, on the other hand... that might be a bit less safe.”
Sherlock’s grip tightened on the phone. Watching him become sure made me sure; Molly was speaking for Moriarty.
“You have ten minutes,” she said sweetly, and ended the call.
“Shit.”
“Eloquently put, Lestrade, but hardly helpful,” Sherlock snapped. “Your men missed something, send them back inside.”
“You heard her, Sherlock! The bomb is going off in ten minutes. I’m not authorising another sweep with such a small window.”
“That’s not up to you, is it?” DCI Peterson said. Lestrade coloured slightly. “I’ll radio Forbes but,” he added kindly, “I think he might be in agreement with you.”
“This is ridiculous,” Sherlock muttered. “Bureaucracy is ridiculous.” Neither Lestrade nor Peterson were listening to him; they were attempting to coordinate the police response.
Sherlock tugged at his hair in frustration, causing Sally to look at him oddly. Her expression was half judgement and half puzzlement. I stepped between them in an attempt to shield him from her view.
“Hey,” I said softly. “Stop that.” I pulled his hands down. “There’s got to be something more productive to do.”
“You’re right. I’m going inside.” Sherlock started towards the hospital, but he underestimated my reflexes. He had barely moved more than an inch before I snatched at his wrist and held him fast.
“Idiot! That wasn’t what I meant at all. Why not give her another call? Maybe you can deduce her location from her responses.” I cleared my throat. “His responses,” I hastily corrected myself. I refused to presume Molly was anything other than an innocent victim, evidence be damned.
Sherlock peered at me curiously and I could tell that he was intrigued enough that he wasn’t an immediate flight risk. I released his wrist. He passed me his phone.
“Sherlock!” Molly gave a tinkling laugh far more winning than any I’d ever heard her utter in person. “I knew you’d call back.”
I unclenched my jaw enough to respond. “Not Sherlock, no.”
“Oh.” Molly was disappointed. “Is your master at home?”
Sherlock and I shared a look.
“I’m listening, Moriarty,” Sherlock put in.
“Oh good,” Molly exhaled in relief. “I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before, but you really could do better.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock drawled, plucking the phone from my hand.
Molly giggled again, a bit hysterically. “Of course you don’t, darling. Johnny’s charming really, very obedient, but you will get bored with him.”
Everyone shuffled uncomfortably at that, including Lestrade and Peterson who had concluded their communiqués and were shifting closer to hear. I clamped down on the urge to deny that Sherlock and I were together and instead focused on a clump of grass pushing its way between the cracks in the pavement.
“I’m already bored. With you,” Sherlock said coldly.
“No, you’re not. Just look around! Isn’t it exciting? All of this could be gone at any moment. Poof! Nothing left but dust and rubble.”
“But you let us get the patients out in time. Why?”
“Why not? Why would I kill them? It would be so inelegant, don’t you think? Just look at them; most of them are dying anyway. No, death is so much more meaningful when it comes for the young. For those full of promise. Quiet, and brilliant in their own way.” Molly’s voice cracked. “Perhaps beneath your notice, but certainly not beneath mine.”
I looked up from the ground and into Sherlock’s panicked eyes. All doubt was wiped from my mind, and I think that was the moment it was wiped from his as well. Molly's was a stolen voice, albeit one afflicted with Stockholm Syndrome . And she was in very real danger.
“I see,” Sherlock murmured, his voice as cold and controlled as I'd ever heard it. “The bomb threat was only to get me here. So who was the poem about if not the doctors at the hospital?”
“Oh, I’m already bored with my pet. I was just--” Molly’s voice hitched, and the rest of the sentence came out in a desperate whine, “I was just about to put her down.”
Everyone snapped to attention at that. Sherlock’s fingers gripped the phone tightly
“We aren’t going to let that happen, Molly.” Sherlock’s voice was steady and calm. He was talking to Molly directly now, not to Moriarty through her. “Tell us where you are and we’ll be in to get you in a minute. Put him off as best as you can.” He was already striding towards the hospital with Lestrade, Donovan, and myself close behind. Peterson stayed where he was, but I could hear him radioing for armed backup.
There was no response other than a stifled sob.
“Can you hear me, Molly? Say something. We’re coming.” We jogged steadily through the crowd as we neared the building. Somewhere in the back of my mind I worried that Molly was being used as bait and that we were walking into a trap, but I pushed those thoughts down. Even if it was a trap there was no way I was going to let Sherlock enter it alone. I was impressed that Lestrade and Donovan had followed as well.
“I don’t think you’re going to make it in time, my dear.” Moriarty’s hated Irish lilt had replaced Molly’s voice. Were we rushing towards Moriarty, as well as a bomb? It seemed likely, though he was an expert hacker so I held out hope that he had merely hacked into Molly’s phone.
“Haven’t you hurt her enough?” Sherlock growled.
“Secure the exits,” Lestrade barked into his phone as we ducked beneath the police tape strung across the entrance. “The bomber is in the building.”
“I certainly have!” Moriarty laughed, then the line went dead.
The inside of the hospital was eerily quiet. “Should we split up?” I asked. “So we can search more thoroughly?”
“No,” Sherlock stated fiercely. “We’re going to Molly’s place of work.”
Of course. The poem. Toil.
“Should we wait...?” Donovan’s enquiry was shut down with a look from Lestrade. There wasn’t time to wait for backup.
Our footsteps echoed loudly as we hurried down the hall and pounded down the stairs to the basement morgue. Most of the lights had been turned out, presumably to provide the bomb squad with a visual overview of which areas had been searched. It made the atmosphere even more threatening than it already was.
“Stop,” I hissed as we paused outside of the morgue door. I took out my gun and clicked off the safety. “I go first.”
Lestrade and Donovan looked flabbergasted, but Sherlock smirked as he got into position immediately behind me. “Don’t look so put out, Lestrade; you won’t have to arrest him. John’s a ‘double-o’.”
Lestrade shook his head, presumably filing that away under 'Ridiculous Facts About Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, Dear God Help Us All.'
I toed open the morgue door and looked inside. The room seemed empty in what little light there was. I swiftly stepped inside, holding out my gun to cover us. Sherlock’s hand darted out behind my shoulder to press the switch. For a moment the room was filled with flickering as the fluorescent lights came on.
We inched forward into the room.
“Hello?” Donovan called softly, earning a glare from Sherlock. There was no reply.
Gradually we worked our way around the perimeter of the room. There was no sign of Molly, Moriarty, or a bomb in any of the corners or beneath any of the tables. More significantly there was no sign of a struggle.
Sherlock turned to me. “Office,” he said, before loping off in that direction. Molly had a small office that overlooked the morgue through a tiny window. I followed close behind, covering Sherlock all the way, but the office turned out to be empty too.
Sherlock leaned against the wall with a sigh. I lowered my gun and leaned next to him. “Where else can we look? Where else did Molly work?”
“She had access to several of the labs but rarely went to them. Far easier to have someone else do the blood analysis.”
I snorted. “That sounds more like you than like Molly. Come on, let’s try them.”
When we reentered the morgue, Lestrade and Donovan were still turning it upside down. They had both pulled on gloves and were opening drawers and the doors of the morgue refrigerators.
“Just dead bodies,” Sally said, reading a toe tag before closing one refrigerator door and opening another.
Sherlock swallowed. “Make sure none of them are her. Molly Hooper. Be thorough.” He began opening refrigerators too, working from the left hand side of the morgue while Sally worked from the right. He called out, “Molly, if you’re in here and you can still move, bang something!”
A metallic clanging came from the bottommost refrigerator in the middle. All of us rushed towards it, but none of us rushed as quickly as Sherlock. In a flash he had the door open and the gurney pulled out.
It was empty.
“What made the noise?” I asked stupidly, stunned.
Sherlock dropped to his hands and knees, stuck his head into the unit, and peered around. When he looked up, he had blanched.
“What is it?” Lestrade asked.
“Up above. A hand...” Sherlock trailed off. “It’s covered in blood.”
Donovan and I sprang for the unit above him and wrenched the door open simultaneously.
“Oh God.” Donovan clapped her hand to her mouth, Lestrade radioed for a medical team, and Sherlock scrambled to his feet. Molly Hooper was lying there, eyes closed, mouth open. She was almost translucent due to blood loss. Dark blood was pooled all around her, drenching her clothes and her hair. I could tell it had come from a wound on her torso.
I went to work immediately, paying little heed to the way her dangling hand caught against the refrigerator door as I tugged the gurney out. I checked her vitals and performed CPR. If the morgue had been equipped with a defibrillator I would have utilised it, even though I already knew it was hopeless. With the amount of blood Molly had lost she would have had very little chance of survival even in the controlled environment of an operating room.
“She’s gone.”
“She was stabbed,” Sherlock stated as he passed me a paper towel so I could clean my bloody hands. It wasn’t a question. Even he looked queasy, despite having seen dead bodies dozens of times before. I doubted he had ever been at a crime scene where he had known the deceased.
“Most likely,” I agreed, though I resisted the impulse to begin investigating myself. A stab wound would explain both the absence of a gunshot and the presence of trauma massive enough to cause her to bleed out in minutes.
He nodded, then turned to Lestrade. “We won’t catch him.”
Lestrade held up his hands in supplication. “I didn’t say anything!”
“You were thinking it. He’s gone, if he was ever the one with her at all. And he knew exactly how long it would take us to find her. But what made the noise?”
Sherlock dropped to his knees again and began feeling around the interior of the bottom refrigerator.
“Aha! She must have dropped it or knocked it aside during her death throes.” He held up his discovery.
It was a blood-splattered pink phone, identical to the one Moriarty had given Sherlock before. I took it from him. On the screen was a text message.
From: Unknown Caller
That’s one admirer eliminated. Or two?
N 51 31.427 W 000 09.502
Notes: Sincere apologies are due to the Metropolitan Police, who would certainly handle the evacuation of a hospital in a safer and more intelligent manner than I’ve depicted here. Likewise, apologies are due to medical professionals, especially those trained to handle massive trauma in warzones. I’m sure they would acquit themselves more ablely than John did here, though of course his failings are entirely my own fault!
Lord knows when the next part of this will be up. This one took me about three months to write, though at least half of that time was spent procrastinating and trying to avoid writing Molly’s death. I like Molly!
Next Part: A Vision of Skulls
Author: tueswmoriarty
Pairing: Sherlock/John pre-slash
Rating: R
Warnings: Character death, depictions of Bipolar I, violence, pre-slash.
Word Count: 4,894 this chapter. (Approximately 17,000 if you want to read the whole story at once.)
Notes: Many thanks to tehomet, who graciously edited and Brit-picked this for me. See chapter end for more.
Disclaimer: Not mine, and I'm not making a penny.
Summary: Our heroes have decided to stop living their lives like Moriarty will attack at any minute, which is of course exactly when Moriarty decides to attack.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Our relief was short lived.
Taking advantage of Sherlock’s improved mood, I decided we would go out for lunch. This served the twin purposes of getting us out of the flat and forcing my friend to eat a good meal. We chose a sushi restaurant up the road, in honor of the country where Sherlock hoped Amir Khani would eventually settle. It was an elegant place, a bit beyond our usual price range if the muted colour scheme and low slung tables were anything to go by. We even had to leave our shoes on a little bamboo mat by the door.
“Trying too hard for authenticity,” Sherlock commented as he folded himself elegantly onto a cushion beside the table. “The owners are Pakistani, not Japanese. And the sushi chefs are Korean, as are most of the staff.”
Be that as it may, the food was delicious. I was halfway through my eel avocado roll when my phone vibrated.
From: Lestrade
Where are you? Where’s Sherlock? He isn’t answering me.
I quickly fired off a text telling Lestrade our location.
From: Lestrade
I’m coming to pick you up. Do NOT move until I arrive.
Sherlock looked at me enquiringly. “What does Lestrade want?”
“Lord knows. I think something must have happened. He said to stay put until he gets here.” I shrugged, trying to appear unruffled. “Why aren’t you answering your phone?”
“Must have switched it off.” He reached across the table to steal one of my rolls.
“Hey!” I hit my chopsticks against his but didn’t stop him. “Well turn your phone back on, you bizarre impostor. I want to see what Lestrade had to say to the real Sherlock Holmes.”
Sherlock retrieved his phone from his pocket, chewing thoughtfully. “I don’t see how you can eat this, John. It’s disgusting.” He scrolled through his texts for a moment, reading. “Hmmm.”
“Let me see.” He passed me the phone. There were three missed calls and five text messages, all from DI Lestrade.
From: Lestrade
Please tell me John’s not at Barts.
From: Lestrade
Answer your phone you petulant child!
From: Lestrade
Right, I’m coming over.
From: Lestrade
Where are you? You better not have gone running off to Barts as soon as I mentioned the place.
From: Lestrade
Never mind. John’s got better manners than you, thank God. STAY PUT.
“Something’s happened at Barts.”
“Obviously.” I was unsurprised to see Sherlock already scouring the web on my phone. I hadn’t even felt him nick it. “Nothing on any of the wire services. Whatever it is, they’re keeping it quiet.”
“Or it’s something too minor to make the news,” I said.
“No. Lestrade doesn’t flinch at shadows.”
I disagreed a bit; Lestrade’s desire to put me into protective custody was still fresh in my memory.
With that, Sherlock’s phone vibrated. Seeing that my friend was still occupied by the internet, I felt free to read the incoming text.
From: Unknown Caller
Johnny isn’t the only doctor you care about, is he my dear? Xoxo
Well, fuck.
“Sherlock,” I swallowed heavily. “Sherlock, I think you should see this.” His eyes went wide at the way my hand trembled as I passed him his mobile. I hated how often it had been doing that lately. I told myself it was due to the adrenaline wearing off after my fight with Amir Khani, not how helpless I felt. Sherlock grabbed at the phone, then at my hand, pushing it somewhat violently down as though he could force steadiness into me. My forearm banged uncomfortably against the table’s edge.
“Barts,” he murmured as he read.
“Barts,” I agreed.
Suddenly Sherlock’s hand was gone and his gaze ran along the ceiling and the skirting boards looking for cameras or sensors. He scrutinised the waiters and waitresses, trying to identify suspicious activity. I could see him counting the windows and calculating possible bullet trajectories.
He leapt to his feet and stood directly at my right shoulder, facing one of the windows. “John, pass me your gun.”
“No.” The gun wasn’t licensed to Sherlock. “Tell me what you see and I’ll do the shooting.”
“Stay where you are!” he snapped. He took a deep breath. “There’s nothing to shoot at, but if he had a sniper he would be on the second floor of the building across the road." His eyes narrowed. "Probably at the third window from the left.”
“Right, let’s move out of the way of the window then. Kitchen?” I knew mentioning that I was distinctly not being threatened at the moment was a lost cause. Sherlock’s newly discovered protective streak had only found one outlet so far, and this was it.
He nodded. “Kitchen.” I stood and we padded slowly to the swinging kitchen doors in our stocking feet, Sherlock’s body carefully interposed between me and the window the entire way.
Sherlock wilted a little once we were out of range, and I was left to answer the questions and demands of the staff.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry, we’ll be out of your hair in just a minute. No, no that won’t be necessary. Terribly sorry to be such a bother. The police are on the way. There’s no need to call anyone.” I dearly wished I had taken some of Mycroft’s government dispensations with me to flash at everyone.
Fortunately the restaurant wasn’t far from Baker Street, and Lestrade burst in in time to save us from further indignity. He scanned the dining area and looked a bit upset when he couldn’t find us.
“Lestrade! We’re in here!” I called. He heard and came charging in to the kitchen. This time it was his turn to make excuses, holding up his badge for inspection.
“Detective Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard. These men are with me.” He caught sight of Sherlock, who still looked deflated. “You all right?”
“We’re fine,” I answered. “We just had a text from Moriarty. What’s happening at Barts?”
“Terrorist threat. Thought it might be connected; guess I was right. Come with me and I’ll take you down to the Yard.”
“No,” Sherlock said.
“No?” I was confused. Surely Sherlock wasn’t going to refuse to ride in a police car at a time like this. We needed to be briefed.
“We’re going to Barts.”
“You’re an idiot. That’s what Moriarty wants!”
Sherlock huffed in irritation. “Exactly. If I’m there, maybe I can stop him. Even if I can’t, I’m sure he’ll hold off killing anyone until I arrive.”
I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “And what if he’s just luring us to Barts to finish what he started at the pool?”
“It’s a game, John. As long as I play along, it’s a game. If I stop playing along, that’s when Moriarty becomes a personal threat to me.”
Lestrade nodded tightly. “All right. To Barts.”
***
Sherlock sat in the front of the car, next to Lestrade. I still didn’t know what his aversion was to police vehicles, but the passenger seat seemed fine.
“A bomb threat was phoned in just over an hour ago," Lestrade said. "We’re working on evacuating the building and the bomb squad is doing a sweep, but beyond that there isn’t much to report.”
“So you didn’t even know it was Moriarty until we got the text?” I leaned forward, hoping I could be heard through the security partition.
“Mad bomber? Hospital full of doctors? It seemed like his MO and it fit with his last message. Thought I ought to check in on you before anything leaked to the press.”
“So this wasn’t about a single person at all?” I asked Sherlock. He didn’t answer. “This was a threat against any and all doctors in your life. Anyone you’ve had contact with.”
“Doctors. At work,” he intoned. “If there’s a bomb in Barts it serves two purposes. It hurts people,” the that I care about went unsaid, “and it takes away my laboratory, which will hinder my work. This is a brilliant opening move for him.”
I was sickened by the thought that this was all an elaborate game with Sherlock’s entire network -- restaurateurs, the police, doctors, the homeless -- as potential pawns. For the first time I could see that this idea upset Sherlock almost as much as it intrigued him. It was as if he could wrap his brain around the concept of a threat against a single person, just like he could conceive of caring about a single person, but when that threat was writ large he faltered. This wasn’t about random bystanders. This was about everyone Sherlock knew; everyone who knew Sherlock.
He stared blankly out the window, looking troubled and so, so young. I wished I could lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, but the security partition prevented any contact between us.
The scene that greeted us outside of St Bart's was not any less unsettling than the one unfolding in Lestrade’s car. If anything it was worse. The evacuation was well under way, but the sheer number of people and vehicles crammed onto every available surface surrounding the hospital made things seem quite chaotic.
Gaunt patients were being led between the ambulances and police cars that were covering the narrow road and pavement. Doctors and nurses were escorting people outside and as far away from the building as was prudent, but the crowds were so dense and the other buildings so close that their task was a challenging one. Some of the more critical cases were being transferred to nearby hospitals. I spotted Mike Stamford pushing a fragile looking bald woman in a wheelchair. Several orderlies helped a surgeon and his team load a middle-aged man into a waiting ambulance. The patient had been patched up a bit for transportation, but it was clear from his bandages and the monitoring equipment that accompanied him that he had been having heart surgery when the evacuation was ordered. St Bart's has no A&E so there were few bumps and bruises and minor ailments. The patients being evacuated were well and truly ill.
Though I was acquainted with several of the doctors I saw, I didn’t recognise the majority of the Yarders working that afternoon. Sherlock and I dealt exclusively with the Criminal Investigation Department, and then mostly with the teams led by DIs Lestrade, Gregson, and Dimmock. A bomb threat of this magnitude seemed like more of an 'all hands on deck' style affair, though there wasn’t much for those hands to do besides maintain the perimeter that had been set up. Some were guiding evacuees while others seemed to be keeping out of the way, waiting for something to happen. I was torn between helping and staying out from underfoot myself.
“You aren’t going inside,” Sherlock told me sternly. “They’re almost fully evacuated so your foolish heroism would be wasted. Come.” He grabbed my forearm and pulled me after him in Lestrade’s wake.
Lestrade spotted his quarry leaning on a squad car parked near the City & Guild Skills Centre in Giltspur Street. He was a beefy, red-faced man with pale, fluffy hair. His rumpled suit belied how rapidly he had scrambled to get dressed and to the scene. Saturday must have been his day off.
“Do you think you’re far enough away from the hospital?” Lestrade called. The man waved away his concern.
“This your boy, Lestrade? Bit stringy. Easier ways to kill him than all these messy bombs.”
Sherlock visibly bristled at the man’s teasing tone, but Lestrade ignored the jibe. “Gentlemen this is Detective Chief Inspector Peterson.” He gave Sherlock a serious look. “My boss.”
“John Watson,” I said, shaking DCI Peterson’s hand. “And this is...”
“Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes, yes I know,” Peterson interrupted. “Your reputation precedes you, et cetera et cetera. First the Hurlstone Housing Estate, then Boscombe Pool, now St Bartholomew’s Hospital. Well?” He looked at Sherlock expectantly.
“Well, what?” Sherlock snapped. “It can’t have escaped your notice that I’m not the one blowing things up.”
“You’re also not trapped inside a building rigged with explosives, which is the part I find curious. Now I confess I’ve only followed you career peripherally over the years, but ever since this Moriarty business my men,” Lestrade grunted, causing Peterson to correct himself, “and women have been working with you more often than not. I understand you’re his target?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Hence my puzzlement at the fact that you don’t seem to be in danger.”
“He’s going about it in a... round-about fashion.”
“I should say so! Pretty round-about if you’re outside and the bomb’s in there. Do you reckon this Moriarty chap realises you're not in your office today, as it were?”
Sherlock’s opinion of Peterson’s intelligence could not have been written on his face any more clearly.
“While I sometimes borrow the laboratory here, I do not have and never have had an office. Moreover Moriarty is a criminal genius who has masterminded hundreds of murders, orchestrated untold numbers of forgeries and robberies, including yesterday’s theft of the international prototype of the kilogram in Paris - yes, Lestrade, you heard me, that was him -- and managed to kidnap Doctor Watson while he was walking down the street, no mean feat as John is a former army doctor and highly skilled at both armed and hand-to-hand combat. He has a large, anonymous, and well-placed network of informers, and I have it on good authority that he has the technical expertise to hack into the Met's CCTV system. What do you think, Chief Inspector? Do you reckon this Moriarty chap realises I’m outside the building?”
Lestrade and I shared a look and I felt pity for the DI. It was one thing to make excuses for Sherlock to your team but another entirely to have to make them to your boss.
Fortunately, Peterson was a jocular man who just laughed and clapped Lestrade on the shoulder. “Between this one and Anderson I’d say you’re a saint.”
“Anderson’s not really...” Lestrade tried to protest. Anderson wasn’t really a part of his team. But then neither was Sherlock.
“Ah! Sergeant Donovan!” Peterson interrupted, waving over a lost-looking Sally. She threaded through the crowd to join us.
“There you are,” she said to Lestrade, relieved. “I saw the car but I couldn’t find you. Jones is going batty without someone to take orders from.”
“He’ll live,” Lestrade said.
“He’s latched onto Gregson.” She smirked. Gregory Lestrade and Lester Gregson had been friendly rivals since their training programme. Something about their similar names had drawn them together and they had been attempting to one-up each other ever since. Unfortunately for Sally, the gravity of our situation meant Lestrade wasn’t about to be provoked.
“Has the bomb squad found anything?”
“No, nothing to report. The evacuation is complete, though.”
“Good,” Peterson said. “Now we can focus on moving people outside the perimeter.” He reached for the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt. “Bradstreet? I want everybody at least 500 feet from the building.” We were barely that far away ourselves. There simply wasn’t anywhere to go. “Start moving people out.”
“Will do.” Bradstreet’s voice crackled out of the walkie-talkie. “Oh and Chief Inspector? Some of the hospital staff say they’re missing someone. A Doctor Molly Hooper? Works in the morgue apparently; seems she knew the bomber from last month. They’re worried he could target her if he's the one behind this. She hasn’t been seen in a few hours so she may have gone home, but she’s not answering her mobile.”
Peterson looked at us. “Ring any bells?”
My heart leaped into my throat. Sherlock, who had already been deflating following his evisceration of Peterson, looked alert again.
“Yes, we know her.” I turned to Sherlock. “Call her. She’ll answer for you.” If she’s alive. We knew Moriarty was the bomber, which meant Molly really could be in danger and not just taking a half-holiday.
Sherlock nodded and made the call. She answered almost immediately. “Ah, hello Molly. How are you this afternoon?”
“Put her on speaker, Sherlock,” I hissed.
“Wonderful. Just a moment, Molly. John would like to hear your dulcet tones as well.” He lowered the phone and flicked a button. I leaned in to hear over the ambient sounds of the evacuation.
“Hello, Johnny,” came Molly’s sweet voice from the speakers. I looked up at Sherlock in alarm. Johnny wasn’t Molly’s name for me; she called me Doctor Watson when she remembered my name at all. The keen look in my friend’s eyes showed me he had noticed this anomaly as well, but he merely nodded for me to respond.
“Afternoon, Molly. Listen, you might have heard there’s been a bit of a scare at Barts and some of your colleagues are worried about you. Would you mind telling us where you are?” My mind was filling with images of Molly wearing an earpiece and strapped to a Semtex vest, somewhere in the bowels of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital.
Molly just laughed. “Don’t you worry, Johnny. I’m as safe as houses. Now this hospital, on the other hand... that might be a bit less safe.”
Sherlock’s grip tightened on the phone. Watching him become sure made me sure; Molly was speaking for Moriarty.
“You have ten minutes,” she said sweetly, and ended the call.
“Shit.”
“Eloquently put, Lestrade, but hardly helpful,” Sherlock snapped. “Your men missed something, send them back inside.”
“You heard her, Sherlock! The bomb is going off in ten minutes. I’m not authorising another sweep with such a small window.”
“That’s not up to you, is it?” DCI Peterson said. Lestrade coloured slightly. “I’ll radio Forbes but,” he added kindly, “I think he might be in agreement with you.”
“This is ridiculous,” Sherlock muttered. “Bureaucracy is ridiculous.” Neither Lestrade nor Peterson were listening to him; they were attempting to coordinate the police response.
Sherlock tugged at his hair in frustration, causing Sally to look at him oddly. Her expression was half judgement and half puzzlement. I stepped between them in an attempt to shield him from her view.
“Hey,” I said softly. “Stop that.” I pulled his hands down. “There’s got to be something more productive to do.”
“You’re right. I’m going inside.” Sherlock started towards the hospital, but he underestimated my reflexes. He had barely moved more than an inch before I snatched at his wrist and held him fast.
“Idiot! That wasn’t what I meant at all. Why not give her another call? Maybe you can deduce her location from her responses.” I cleared my throat. “His responses,” I hastily corrected myself. I refused to presume Molly was anything other than an innocent victim, evidence be damned.
Sherlock peered at me curiously and I could tell that he was intrigued enough that he wasn’t an immediate flight risk. I released his wrist. He passed me his phone.
“Sherlock!” Molly gave a tinkling laugh far more winning than any I’d ever heard her utter in person. “I knew you’d call back.”
I unclenched my jaw enough to respond. “Not Sherlock, no.”
“Oh.” Molly was disappointed. “Is your master at home?”
Sherlock and I shared a look.
“I’m listening, Moriarty,” Sherlock put in.
“Oh good,” Molly exhaled in relief. “I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before, but you really could do better.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock drawled, plucking the phone from my hand.
Molly giggled again, a bit hysterically. “Of course you don’t, darling. Johnny’s charming really, very obedient, but you will get bored with him.”
Everyone shuffled uncomfortably at that, including Lestrade and Peterson who had concluded their communiqués and were shifting closer to hear. I clamped down on the urge to deny that Sherlock and I were together and instead focused on a clump of grass pushing its way between the cracks in the pavement.
“I’m already bored. With you,” Sherlock said coldly.
“No, you’re not. Just look around! Isn’t it exciting? All of this could be gone at any moment. Poof! Nothing left but dust and rubble.”
“But you let us get the patients out in time. Why?”
“Why not? Why would I kill them? It would be so inelegant, don’t you think? Just look at them; most of them are dying anyway. No, death is so much more meaningful when it comes for the young. For those full of promise. Quiet, and brilliant in their own way.” Molly’s voice cracked. “Perhaps beneath your notice, but certainly not beneath mine.”
I looked up from the ground and into Sherlock’s panicked eyes. All doubt was wiped from my mind, and I think that was the moment it was wiped from his as well. Molly's was a stolen voice, albeit one afflicted with Stockholm Syndrome . And she was in very real danger.
“I see,” Sherlock murmured, his voice as cold and controlled as I'd ever heard it. “The bomb threat was only to get me here. So who was the poem about if not the doctors at the hospital?”
“Oh, I’m already bored with my pet. I was just--” Molly’s voice hitched, and the rest of the sentence came out in a desperate whine, “I was just about to put her down.”
Everyone snapped to attention at that. Sherlock’s fingers gripped the phone tightly
“We aren’t going to let that happen, Molly.” Sherlock’s voice was steady and calm. He was talking to Molly directly now, not to Moriarty through her. “Tell us where you are and we’ll be in to get you in a minute. Put him off as best as you can.” He was already striding towards the hospital with Lestrade, Donovan, and myself close behind. Peterson stayed where he was, but I could hear him radioing for armed backup.
There was no response other than a stifled sob.
“Can you hear me, Molly? Say something. We’re coming.” We jogged steadily through the crowd as we neared the building. Somewhere in the back of my mind I worried that Molly was being used as bait and that we were walking into a trap, but I pushed those thoughts down. Even if it was a trap there was no way I was going to let Sherlock enter it alone. I was impressed that Lestrade and Donovan had followed as well.
“I don’t think you’re going to make it in time, my dear.” Moriarty’s hated Irish lilt had replaced Molly’s voice. Were we rushing towards Moriarty, as well as a bomb? It seemed likely, though he was an expert hacker so I held out hope that he had merely hacked into Molly’s phone.
“Haven’t you hurt her enough?” Sherlock growled.
“Secure the exits,” Lestrade barked into his phone as we ducked beneath the police tape strung across the entrance. “The bomber is in the building.”
“I certainly have!” Moriarty laughed, then the line went dead.
The inside of the hospital was eerily quiet. “Should we split up?” I asked. “So we can search more thoroughly?”
“No,” Sherlock stated fiercely. “We’re going to Molly’s place of work.”
Of course. The poem. Toil.
“Should we wait...?” Donovan’s enquiry was shut down with a look from Lestrade. There wasn’t time to wait for backup.
Our footsteps echoed loudly as we hurried down the hall and pounded down the stairs to the basement morgue. Most of the lights had been turned out, presumably to provide the bomb squad with a visual overview of which areas had been searched. It made the atmosphere even more threatening than it already was.
“Stop,” I hissed as we paused outside of the morgue door. I took out my gun and clicked off the safety. “I go first.”
Lestrade and Donovan looked flabbergasted, but Sherlock smirked as he got into position immediately behind me. “Don’t look so put out, Lestrade; you won’t have to arrest him. John’s a ‘double-o’.”
Lestrade shook his head, presumably filing that away under 'Ridiculous Facts About Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, Dear God Help Us All.'
I toed open the morgue door and looked inside. The room seemed empty in what little light there was. I swiftly stepped inside, holding out my gun to cover us. Sherlock’s hand darted out behind my shoulder to press the switch. For a moment the room was filled with flickering as the fluorescent lights came on.
We inched forward into the room.
“Hello?” Donovan called softly, earning a glare from Sherlock. There was no reply.
Gradually we worked our way around the perimeter of the room. There was no sign of Molly, Moriarty, or a bomb in any of the corners or beneath any of the tables. More significantly there was no sign of a struggle.
Sherlock turned to me. “Office,” he said, before loping off in that direction. Molly had a small office that overlooked the morgue through a tiny window. I followed close behind, covering Sherlock all the way, but the office turned out to be empty too.
Sherlock leaned against the wall with a sigh. I lowered my gun and leaned next to him. “Where else can we look? Where else did Molly work?”
“She had access to several of the labs but rarely went to them. Far easier to have someone else do the blood analysis.”
I snorted. “That sounds more like you than like Molly. Come on, let’s try them.”
When we reentered the morgue, Lestrade and Donovan were still turning it upside down. They had both pulled on gloves and were opening drawers and the doors of the morgue refrigerators.
“Just dead bodies,” Sally said, reading a toe tag before closing one refrigerator door and opening another.
Sherlock swallowed. “Make sure none of them are her. Molly Hooper. Be thorough.” He began opening refrigerators too, working from the left hand side of the morgue while Sally worked from the right. He called out, “Molly, if you’re in here and you can still move, bang something!”
A metallic clanging came from the bottommost refrigerator in the middle. All of us rushed towards it, but none of us rushed as quickly as Sherlock. In a flash he had the door open and the gurney pulled out.
It was empty.
“What made the noise?” I asked stupidly, stunned.
Sherlock dropped to his hands and knees, stuck his head into the unit, and peered around. When he looked up, he had blanched.
“What is it?” Lestrade asked.
“Up above. A hand...” Sherlock trailed off. “It’s covered in blood.”
Donovan and I sprang for the unit above him and wrenched the door open simultaneously.
“Oh God.” Donovan clapped her hand to her mouth, Lestrade radioed for a medical team, and Sherlock scrambled to his feet. Molly Hooper was lying there, eyes closed, mouth open. She was almost translucent due to blood loss. Dark blood was pooled all around her, drenching her clothes and her hair. I could tell it had come from a wound on her torso.
I went to work immediately, paying little heed to the way her dangling hand caught against the refrigerator door as I tugged the gurney out. I checked her vitals and performed CPR. If the morgue had been equipped with a defibrillator I would have utilised it, even though I already knew it was hopeless. With the amount of blood Molly had lost she would have had very little chance of survival even in the controlled environment of an operating room.
“She’s gone.”
“She was stabbed,” Sherlock stated as he passed me a paper towel so I could clean my bloody hands. It wasn’t a question. Even he looked queasy, despite having seen dead bodies dozens of times before. I doubted he had ever been at a crime scene where he had known the deceased.
“Most likely,” I agreed, though I resisted the impulse to begin investigating myself. A stab wound would explain both the absence of a gunshot and the presence of trauma massive enough to cause her to bleed out in minutes.
He nodded, then turned to Lestrade. “We won’t catch him.”
Lestrade held up his hands in supplication. “I didn’t say anything!”
“You were thinking it. He’s gone, if he was ever the one with her at all. And he knew exactly how long it would take us to find her. But what made the noise?”
Sherlock dropped to his knees again and began feeling around the interior of the bottom refrigerator.
“Aha! She must have dropped it or knocked it aside during her death throes.” He held up his discovery.
It was a blood-splattered pink phone, identical to the one Moriarty had given Sherlock before. I took it from him. On the screen was a text message.
From: Unknown Caller
That’s one admirer eliminated. Or two?
N 51 31.427 W 000 09.502
Notes: Sincere apologies are due to the Metropolitan Police, who would certainly handle the evacuation of a hospital in a safer and more intelligent manner than I’ve depicted here. Likewise, apologies are due to medical professionals, especially those trained to handle massive trauma in warzones. I’m sure they would acquit themselves more ablely than John did here, though of course his failings are entirely my own fault!
Lord knows when the next part of this will be up. This one took me about three months to write, though at least half of that time was spent procrastinating and trying to avoid writing Molly’s death. I like Molly!
Next Part: A Vision of Skulls