A/N: Warning – Poorly written action sequences. Scenes of violence. Swearing. BAMF!Donovan. Inaccurate depictions of federal law enforcement authorities.
Stockholm syndrome is defined as an extraordinary phenomenon in which a hostage begins to identify with and grow sympathetic to their captor. It is so named because of an episode that occurred in Stockholm, Sweden, in August of 1973, in which an armed robber took bank workers captive, held them for six days, and apparently won their hearts and minds.
Sherlock pondered Stockholm syndrome for four days. He pondered it while his captors carved cruel fissures into his skin. He pondered it while he lay bleeding and shivering on the floor of his cell. He pondered it while Sally Donovan was being dragged from her flat.
And no matter how long he pondered it, he could not reason it out in his mind. It made sense medically, psychologically, but in reality? In practise? When Sherlock considered the idea of somehow sympathising with his captors, he nearly laughed aloud.
Unlike the Norrmalmstorg robber, these men did not casually stroll about the place singing popular 70s tunes. So perhaps the key to Stockholm syndrome lies in not being tortured for information.
Somewhere along the way, Sherlock had nearly gotten used to the pain, the dark, and the utter aloneness. He knew that it was a sign he was reaching his psychological breaking point. He was becoming resigned to the thought – no, the fact – that he would die here. Of infection, probably; unless they killed him very soon. And then along came Sally Donovan.
Sally. Why Sally? Why, of all people, Sally? It was a testament to the disorganisation of these criminals. They clearly did not have a good line of information on the investigation. Mistaking Sherlock for Lestrade was dumb, but grabbing Sally was even more foolish. What on earth had led them to believe she was involved? Either they were being fed false information – in which case: why? - or they truly were as dull-witted as they seemed.
More often than not, the answer to any question is the simplest one available. Stupidity was probably the culprit here. And because of it, Sally had ended up stuck here, too.
Sherlock had hoped to keep from involving anyone else unnecessarily. Lestrade was off chasing some other lead, with the whole of Scotland Yard behind him. John was occupied with information-gathering. Sergeant Donovan had not even been on the case. And everyone thought Sherlock himself was in Dublin tracking down a witness.
Funny how things worked out sometimes.
The dim light swinging from the centre crossbeam seemed almost blinding to Sherlock as he opened his eyes some hours after losing consciousness. He did not move, but swept his gaze toward the shadowy figure of his fellow prisoner. She was sitting on the filthy floor several feet away from him with her back pressed against the wall. One knee was bent, and upon it rested one slender arm. The other was folded over her midsection. She was staring at the opposite wall, but her eyelids looked heavy. At first glance, it looked like she might have been resting there, conserving her energy for whatever was to come. After a moment's consideration, Sherlock realised she hadn't been sleeping. She'd been keeping watch.
"They'll be looking for you," he said without prelude, his voice coming out in a stertorous croak.
Sally turned her head in the direction of his voice, narrowing her eyes at him across the strip of tiled floor. "Sorry?"
"They'll be looking for you," Sherlock repeated, wincing with the effort of raising his voice, however minutely. His concept of the passage of time was severely hindered by his condition, but he was certain that Sally had already been missed. "Your unannounced absence would have been strange. It would have made Lestrade uneasy, and he would have sent someone to your flat. Or he might have gone himself. The signs of a struggle were probably still present, if not obvious, when he got there."
Donovan uncurled slowly. She braced her hands on the floor and pushed herself up, only to walk the five feet that separated her from the detective and assume the same position beside him. "You think they'll figure out where we are." She seemed to melt down the length of the wall.
"Yes." Sherlock's voice was faint, but somehow still carried all his customary confidence. He didn't think, he knew.
"But you don't want them to."
"I don't know how many of these thugs there are."
Sally shrugged. "Lestrade's no idiot," she said pointedly, her eyes flashing in the dark as she looked Sherlock up and down. "Once he puts the pieces together, he'll bring a proper team."
I know, Sherlock thought to himself. And he'll bring John as well, because it won't take either of them very long to figure out that I'm not in Dublin. They've probably worked that part out already.
"He won't let anything happen to him, you know." Sally's voice was strained.
Foggily, Sherlock lifted his gaze toward her. Her face was pinched.
"John," she said by way of explanation. Donovan's ability to read minds was uncanny and unsettling.
Sherlock shivered involuntarily, and silence reigned for so long that his eyes drifted closed. John, he thought. John, John, John. He did not regret his decision to leave his friend out of this. He made a valiant effort at imagining John at his funeral, the pain on his face. Even this did not change his mind, because in that scenario John was still alive to experience grief. And Sherlock was selfish: he'd rather John live.
"Why didn't they do me, too?" Sally asked after an eternity of silence.
Disoriented, Sherlock didn't respond.
"What they did to you. Why didn't they do it to me?"
"They may yet."
Sherlock's words chilled the air like a door opening onto a frigid winter midnight. It was the truth, of course, but perhaps not what Donovan needed to hear. If she was fazed, though, she didn't show it except to draw herself up a little taller, to square her shoulders a little more decisively.
Indeed, the very thought that went through her mind was, Like hell they will.
Silence again. Slowly, over several minutes, Sherlock's head lolled to the side as he dipped back down into the abyssal canyon between asleep and awake. At one point, he thought he felt Sally's fingers slide under the wiry fabric of his coat and scrabble for his radial pulse, but nothing was certain. If it happened at all, her touch disappeared just as quickly as it had materialised. He sank back into chilly darkness.
He wasn't aware of how much time passed this way. Sally, on the other hand, was painfully conscious of every eons-long minute. She stared at the door – or what she thought must be the door; it was too dark to tell. Her mind was racing with questions. Why was she here? Who were these people? What did they plan to do with the Freak? Was Lestrade on his way? What did they hope to gain by beating the Freak to within an inch of his life and leaving her untouched?
It's not me they're trying to break.
She watched out of the corner of her eye as the detective lapsed fully into unconsciousness again. When Donovan was sure he was out, she gingerly shifted the heavy peacoat from his battered frame and peered into the sick, warm darkness beneath, but was unable to glean any real information from what she saw. The makeshift bandages were soaked with fluid from the wounds, but she didn't know what it was and whether it was a sign of his getting better or worse. Blood had also speckled the fabric here and there – this she knew was not good, but what help was there for it? She pulled her hand away, stood, and began to pace.
Hours passed. Sally grew agitated. Agitation faded into perplexity. Perplexity became concern.
Why had they left the two of them alone? For so long?
Donovan was turning over potential answers in her head when the door crashed inward, practically rocking off its hinges as it smashed into the wall beside.
"Sit down," said a shadowy figure in the doorway.
Sally did not sit down. Instead she placed herself between Sherlock and the man at the door, feet braced shoulder-width apart.
Sherlock grunted, "Don't," and she backed toward him a little bit but did not surrender her defensive position.
The guard at the door disappeared and a quarter second later he was replaced by another masked man – this one bigger and muscular, swinging something between his hands in a wordless threat. "Sherlock Holmes," he said slowly. His face was completely obscured by the mask, but it seemed that he was smiling.
Sally quickly realised that neither of these men was the one who interrogated her. They were grunts, sent in to do the dirty work. And in this case, dirty work was not good news for either her or Sherlock. Behind her, the detective was moving, pushing himself back against the wall, trying to draw himself up or perhaps stand. She shifted closer to him but didn't lower herself to his level. "They were listening?" she questioned in a whisper, wondering if their careless conversations had led the enemy to the knowledge that Sherlock was not who they'd thought.
Unsurprisingly, though, Sherlock shook his head in the negative. No, of course not. They knew who he was because it had been very stupid to think he was anybody else, and by now Lestrade had surely launched a full-blown rescue operation. There was no doubt that the press had probably gotten their grimy fingers on some of the information already. Two and two makes four.
"Don't do anything stupid," Sherlock said sharply. He had gathered his legs beneath him and pushed himself semi-upright – not quite crouching but no longer prone. He was preparing for action. He expected Sally to attempt escape even as he told her not to.
"Suppose they'll be coming shortly," said the masked man, as though he had not been interrupted. He tapped his left hand with his weapon – it looked like a police-issue baton.
"And I suppose you'll imprison them, too," Sherlock said, panting with the effort of holding himself up.
"Nope," the man said cheerfully.
"You can't murder an entire police force," scoffed the detective, sensing the man's wicked streak. "If it were even possible, it would be highly inadvisable. The whole world would know where you are if you did manage it – which you wouldn't. You will all die."
"Who said we intend to kill them?"
Oh. Sherlock's lips wrapped around the word, but his voice didn't get that far. They were not preparing for a siege, they were planning on retreating. After they killed their prisoners. Their entire plan had gone belly-up. This base of operations was compromised. So why did this grunt seem so pleased?
Well, that's an easy one, Sally thought, reading Sherlock's expression. She had come to the same conclusion – before Sherlock had, she might add – and the masked man's pleasure came from the satisfaction of a job well done. Prematurely, mind you, because Sally had no intention of dying here.
"Tie her up," the man barked at the door guard.
Donovan glanced over her shoulder at Sherlock, who nodded.
Might as well try. Nothing left to lose, really.
"Who else are you keeping chained up here?" Sherlock demanded of the one with the baton.
The door guard entered with a pair of handcuffs and a coiled length of black cord. The one with the baton wrapped a hand around Sally's upper arm, but his eyes were on Sherlock.
"Doesn't matter to you," he said to the detective.
"It does," Sherlock countered. His knees were trembling, struggling to prop up his scant weight. Starvation, dehydration, and the multitude of injuries had made him limp, soggy, and useless. Sally ought to save herself and forget him. The realisation hit him like a sackful of bricks and he slumped a little against the wall. I never truly expected to leave this place alive, he thought, and he knew it was the truth. But she doesn't know that, and she still thinks we're both going to survive this. Think quickly. Sherlock's eyes rapidly scanned the dim cell. There were two guards in the room, obviously; but there might be more in the hallway. The door guard might be armed, but he couldn't tell. He knew the other one was, as he was twirling a baton in the hand he wasn't holding onto Sally Donovan with. This guy was short and stocky – not much taller than Sally but nearly twice her weight at least. He was strong. The door guard, on the other hand, was lean and wiry, though broad through the shoulders. This meant upper body strength, but not an overwhelming amount. He would be fast, too, but his hands were occupied with the cuffs he was carrying. Now, Sally. Sally was tired, but she was far from beaten. She still had plenty of fight left in her, and adrenaline would probably propel her escape. Sherlock, on the other hand, was about as useful as a paperweight. He would do no fighting today. He could, however, provide a suitable distraction.
The problem, then, Sherlock realised as time caught up to his thought process, was communicating all of this to Donovan. If it were John, if it were Lestrade, he would shout a code word, a nonsensical signal to let them know what he was thinking. Vatican cameos. Ten-thirty-five. Rossignol. All things that would alert either man to the danger at hand, to the bare-bones command of Run but which would sound completely insensate to Sally Donovan.
Well, why not the obvious? Sherlock thought. The muscles in his thighs bunched obediently, if a little weakly. "Sally," he said. He lifted his eyes to hers as she turned her head toward him, and Sherlock took a breath in the split second it took for their eyes to meet.
At the exact moment that the door guard was reaching out to Sally.
At precisely the time the baton man was about to shout at them both to shut it.
At the same time that somewhere, Greg Lestrade was climbing into an armoured truck with twenty other Kevlar-coated men.
As all of this was happening simultaneously, Sherlock concentrated all of his strength into one final movement, and shouted the word "Run!" before launching himself at the baton man.
Sally was dragged sideways and then released as baton man toppled under the sudden weight of consulting detective. She spun to the stunned door guard and thrust an elbow between his eyes. The satisfying sound of bone crunching beneath bone echoed in her ears, and she recovered from the torque of the blow in time to see the guard stumbling backwards with his hands clasped to his face. Blood was issuing from his nose at an alarming rate, and he screamed something profane. He had dropped his handcuffs and the cord. In one swift, fluid movement, Sally strode forward, grabbed the cord, and looped it around the man's neck. She pulled it taught, watching his face as he struggled. He reached out, first trying to pry her hands away and then scrabbling for her throat. His fingers dug into the soft flesh beneath her jaw.
The baton man was quick to roll Sherlock off of him, but Sherlock was quick, too. He ducked a glancing blow from the baton and brought his knee up swiftly, sinking it into the man's gut before he had a chance to get to his feet. He scrambled backward as the man reeled but did not fall. The blow was too weak to do any real damage. "Fucking hell," the man spat as he regained his feet. He was unsteady, but it was from shock, not injury. He snapped the baton out to its full length and towered over the detective.
Behind him, Sally was dropping the unconscious door guard to the floor, but she was staggering, teetering into the wall with one shoulder as her hands groped at her own throat where he had tried to strangle her. She was coughing, her breathing ragged and audible as she struggled to draw in breath through her crushed windpipe.
With a glance past his assailant at the sergeant's struggles, Sherlock knew that this was it for him. He hoped it had bought Donovan some time, because otherwise this was a total waste. Idiots, Sherlock thought one more time, watching as if from outside his own body as the thick length of the baton rose in a swift arc over the masked man's head. From this angle, a strike like that could mean an instant death. There is a serious lack of creative spark here...
But the strangest thing happened next. The baton came down, but its trajectory was wobbly and uncertain. It smashed down into Sherlock's collarbone instead of his face, sending a crippling shockwave of pain down his arm but clearly not killing him. He sucked in a breath and forced his eyes to focus.
Sally had come up behind the baton man and wrapped the cord around his throat, dragging him backward. The muscles in her shoulders were straining from his weight, sinews twisting visibly, and her mouth was set in a grimace as the man fought back, waving the baton wildly. It cuffed her temple, sending her reeling back against the wall, but she hung onto the cord with all her might. The two of them crashed to the floor, and the man's weight pinned Sally beneath him. She cried out slightly as the back of her head made contact from the wall, but not once did her fingers slacken.
"Fucker," she grunted. Just die already, she thought bitterly, and some part of her was quietly horrified.
Oh, there would be a lot of therapy needed after this.
"Get up, Freak," came Donovan's next words, as the baton man's struggles began to weaken. Her voice was cautious, warning.
Sherlock realised with some difficulty that he was lying motionless on the tile floor. No doubt he appeared completely lifeless. No, he thought in response to Sally's order. I don't much feel like moving. His eyes slid shut.
The baton man's body quieted in shifts and jerks, and finally he stilled altogether. There was the sound of scraping and grunting as Sally maneouvred herself out from beneath him, yanking her limbs out from his crushing weight with brutal swiftness. She scrambled across to Sherlock and shook him roughly. "Let's go," she said gruffly. She grabbed the detective by the arm and tried to haul him up, but he was dead weight. She shook him again.
"Go," Sherlock groaned.
A growl of disapproval passed Sally's lips, and she dragged Sherlock into a sitting position. "I'm trying," she replied. "You're the one not cooperating."
"No – you. Go." Sherlock's voice was strained from the pain of movement.
"For all that vast intelligence you're supposed to possess, you're bloody stupid."
"Sod off."
"Yeah, yeah. Get up." Sally braced her shoulder against his chest, wrapped one hand around his arm, and snaked the other arm round his waist. When she stood, she pulled him up with her and steadfastly ignored the moan she heard in response. He was surprisingly light.
Most of the makeshift bandaging had fallen off his torso, exposing the wounds that were now bleeding afresh. For a moment, Donovan looked around for something to wind around his chest to slow the bleeding, but there was nothing readily available, and time was running out. Besides, if she put him down now, she knew there might not be any getting him back up again.
Sherlock's head lolled forward, pitching them both off balance. Donovan half-dragged him away from the door, picking up the coat that lay in the corner. It would do no good to get out of here only to have the Freak die of exposure out there in the cold.
If they even got that far. Donovan shuddered.
Shouldering the detective's weight, Sally moved as quickly as she could toward the hallway. She peered out, looking right and left for any sign of life. There was none. It wouldn't stay that way for long, though. And the two prisoners were very much defenseless. She glanced back into the cell.
Sherlock seemed to read her thoughts, and he transferred his weight from her steady frame onto his own two feet. He clung to the doorjamb for support as she dashed back into the room.
The door guard was unarmed but the baton man had dropped his weapon of choice. Sally snatched it up from where it had fallen and tucked it through her belt. It wasn't much, and it wouldn't do much damage in the face of human trafficking thugs who probably had plenty of experience with firearms, but it was surely better than nothing.
"Let's go," Sally said as she returned, pulling the detective away from the threshold again. He was dreadfully pale. Her lips thinned and she tightened her grip around his waist. Together, the two of them stepped out into the hallway.
The compound in which they were being held resembled a hospital or a laboratory. It reminded Sherlock of St. Bart's, in a way. Except that Bart's didn't have any lower-level wings dedicated to the holding of prisoners.
The hallway opened out before them, and Sherlock peered into rooms as they went by. Each one looked like the cell that they had just come from: filthy ceramic tile, dim lighting, signs of past struggles. This must be where they keep their human cargo, he thought.
"We need to go up," he choked at Sally. The effort of walking was far more taxing than it ought to have been. He lurched toward the wall to help hold himself up as they went stumbling down the hallway.
"Up," Sally repeated.
"Yes. We are underground. Wait. Do you hear that?"
They stopped and listened. Faintly, they could both make out voices. Sally strained to hear what they were saying, but they were too far away. She thought she heard two voices, maybe three. No, wait. Four. No, three. Blast, it was too hard to tell from this distance. "We should keep going," she hissed.
"Three voices," Sherlock said in an arrested rasp. "Men. Large. Except one who has a dodgy leg."
"How..." Donovan began to question, but stopped herself. It didn't matter. "I hope you're right," she said, as they rounded the next corner and stopped in front of a staircase. "Because I'm pretty sure those voices are coming from up there."
"I donno, mate, he said pack it all up."
"It's rubbish. Just toss it!"
"I ain't one to disobey a direct order."
"Oh, for love of – you two! Quit the arguing. Put everything in crates."
Sherlock and Sally were huddled together into an alcove at the top of the stairs. The floor they had emerged onto was in sharp contrast with the one they had just come from – it was clean, well-maintained, with a blue stripe painted onto one wall of the long hallway. The only similarity between the holding area and this one was that they were both finished with the same ceramic or porcelain tile. They were again reminded of a hospital.
The three voices – two English, one distinctly Russian (St. Petersburg, according to Sherlock) – were coming from a room just off the stairwell. When Sally peeked into the room, she saw the men ransacking the place. At least, that's what it looked like at first. Their conversation revealed that they were, in fact, packing. She assumed it was for the retreat, but they were acting awfully blase about it.
They have no idea what's happening, she thought. This whole ordeal was getting stranger and stranger. Whoever was in charge of this operation didn't seem to care at all what happened to his employees. Rather than evacuate them or marshal them against the oncoming police forces, he was engaging them in senseless, pointless tasks. He was basically asking to have them slaughtered. Was he really that stupid, or was he trying to send a message?
Beside her, Sherlock shivered incessantly. The journey up the stairs had left him feverish, exhausted, and weak. He muttered nonsense under his breath, tried to tell Sally again to go on her own, and had ultimately crumpled in the doorway, unable to go on without a moment to gather his strength. Sally had obliged, seeing as they were unable to continue unnoticed anyway, and bundled the both of them into a little storage alcove just beside the stairwell.
"There's nowhere to go," Sally murmured quietly. "We won't make it past them without being seen."
Sherlock's eyes fluttered in response. Somewhere, beyond the veil of fever, he knew that Sally could probably make it past unnoticed. If she were by herself. If she weren't burdened with dragging him around.
"Don't say it again," Donovan warned as she watched his face in the near-darkness. She wanted to shout at him, and it took all her self-control to confine her voice to a whisper. "If you fucking say it again, I will still drag your arse out of here, and then I will kill you myself. Are we clear?"
"Dead end," Sherlock said stiffly, and it wasn't clear to which situation this pithy observation applied. Perhaps both.
Donovan crouched down beside Sherlock, knees to chest, and wracked her brain. There were three men in there, all of them bigger than her. Sherlock was useless in the physical department. They were both unarmed, save for a stupid nightstick. Sally's peek into the room had not revealed anything useful aside from a bunch of packing crates and the bumbling idiots loading them.
Movement at her side interrupted the bleakness of Sally's thoughts, and she looked over to find Sherlock casting about, craning his neck this way and that to find – what? It wasn't clear. But he was mumbling insensately, eyes darting around as he searched for a solution that he apparently suspected might be written on the walls or the ceiling.
"We could go back down," Sally suggested after far too much of this. "We could find an alternate way up."
"There isn't one," Sherlock said wearily. "And I cannot go back down."
It was true. Sally could see the way he trembled, the sheen of perspiration on his face from the effort of holding his head up. He might make it down the stairs, but no further.
"You could make it past them on your own. If you timed it properly." His eyes caught what little light there was, reflecting it back from deep pools of grey.
"We already talked about this, Freak – "
"And then come back."
Sally blinked.
"Go, and then come back for me."
The thought had already crossed her mind, but there was nowhere that Sherlock would be safe while she proceeded. And who said that she would even be able to get back without raising the alarm?
"This floor is deserted aside from those three men." Sherlock's speech was limping and slurred, but he pressed on. "That means it might be used for storage. They may have weapons up here, something useful."
"There may also be guards at the end of the hallway, then," Donovan pointed out. "Nobody keeps a cache of guns on an unguarded floor. Besides, we think the Yard is on the way, don't we? Whoever's running this operation wouldn't leave their guns – if they even have them – lying about in wait for the police to confiscate."
Sherlock had known it was an optimistic speculation, but he had hoped it would prompt Donovan to move. She was, perhaps, a bit more intelligent than he gave her credit for. He made a note of it.
"The fact of the matter is that we have no information and one way to proceed. We cannot continue to sit here."
Well, he was right about that. Donovan swore under her breath and glanced around in much the same fashion her companion had done, but there was no secret solution written on the walls. There wasn't even a broom cupboard to hide in.
"Go," Sherlock was saying now. "We are wasting time."
And time is something you don't have, Donovan agreed, watching him carefully. She glanced over her shoulder, down the long hallway. It was a very exposed length of floor to be traversing without a weapon. She longed for the nine-millimeter's comforting weight on her hip. "You got me into this," she reminded him.
"I am aware."
"Stay here." Sally stood and crept, catlike, out from the sheltering storage space and into the vast, white expanse of the hallway. In a crouch, she moved toward the room where the three men were packing. She could still hear them talking, but they sounded far away now, comparatively. She guessed that they were on the other side of the room, and that their voices were muffled by the towers of packing crates all around. A cautious peek into the room proved her theory to be correct. In a moment of hesitation, she glanced over her shoulder, stepping out a little from the wall to crane her neck. She could make out a sliver of Sherlock's face, and he appeared to be asleep. Or unconscious. Or dead. Either way, she wouldn't be able to move him without a lot of noise, and so her hesitation gave way to a sense of urgency. She glanced into the room one more time to confirm that the men were still occupied, took a deep breath, and ventured across the threshold in three swift steps. She paused at the other side, pressing herself against the wall, waiting for someone to shout or for a gun to go off. Thankfully, neither of these things happened. The men continued their conversation, punctuated by the sounds of their work.
Some of the tension left her shoulders at having passed unnoticed, but it was replaced with a new kind of fear: this hallway was very open, and very long, and anybody might enter at any time. Sally traversed its length with quiet speed, mindful of any sound her shoes made as she walked. She tried the first door she came to. Locked. Then the next. Locked. The one after was open, though, and she slipped inside, shutting it behind her.
Sally found herself in a large, empty room much like the first one. There were packing crates in here, too, but not many. She strode toward one of them, popping the lid and pawing through the contents. Clothing. Some of it dirty and carelessly flopped into the box, some folded neatly. The garments were of all sorts – women's shirts, men's trousers, jackets, underthings, children's wear. It looked like a donation box waiting to be taken off to a charity shop.
Then she remembered what Sherlock had said. Not drugs. People. Women, children. She dropped the small green t-shirt she was holding as though it had burned her, and backed away from the box. With a lead weight firmly planted in the bottom of her belly, she prowled toward another box and prised its lid off. More clothes. A third box: necessities like bath tissue, soap, and toothpaste. Another box held a scant collection of first aid supplies. She pushed this one toward the door, separating it from the others with the intent to loot it later, and picked up her pace, going through box after box with careless hurry.
The things Donovan found in that room were the types of articles one might find at a non-profit preparing to send aid to a third-world country. It made sense that human cargo needed to be cared for properly, if it was to reach its destination and turn a reasonable profit, but there was something nauseating about the idea. A violent shudder crawled down Sally's spine at the thought of these monsters giving first aid to frightened children, only to sell them to the highest bidder on the other side of the globe. She did her best to put the thought out of her mind – Lestrade will find these people and bring them to justice – and continued her search.
There were no weapons in the room. Aside from a few first aid supplies and a clean shirt for Sherlock, there was nothing to be had here.
"Damn it all," she swore softly. Carefully, she moved across the room and stood on a box to get a peek out the window set high into the wall. She was not tall enough to get a good look out, but she did catch a glimpse of the ground stretching out some distance away. They were not high up. In fact, Sally guessed that this floor was still partially underground, hence the high-set window. If only it wasn't so narrow, she might try to climb out of it.
Finally, when she was resigned to the failure of her search, Sally crept back toward the door and opened it slowly, poking her head out into the hallway. All was quiet. If she strained her ears, she could just make out the murmurings of the men packing down the hall. Satisfied that no one was about, she picked up a meagre first aid kit and a clean shirt and proceeded out.
There were three more rooms on this floor. They were all locked. There was also a door at the end of the hallway, and it was locked too. Sally spied a surveillance camera above the door and had a miniature heart attack before noting the absence of the red 'record' light. It was switched off. This area really was deserted.
But that meant that they were trapped.
I'll bet ten-to-one that one of those thugs has the key to that door, though, Sally thought, eyeing the exit out of the wing. She crouched in the shadows and bit her lip. There was one thing she could try that wouldn't result in immediate bodily injury, but it was risky. Very risky. Still, she didn't see another solution. Sherlock didn't have time to waste sitting in that storage alcove. And, if they were going to die, it really would be better if it was sooner rather than later. No sense prolonging this ordeal.
First things first: clothes. Sally ducked back into the unlocked room and changed out of her filthy clothes. It took her a few minutes to find something that was both clean and fit well, but find them she did, and slipped into a pair of dark jeans and a t-shirt. Sorry, she thought as she wondered to whom these things might have belonged. She tied her hair back with an elastic she found in the toiletries box, and prayed that she looked the part. She would need to play this role carefully. She stowed her ill-gotten supplies just inside the door to the unlocked room, and stepped out into the hallway.
With all the confidence of someone who belonged there, Sally Donovan strode into the room where the three men were packing, stopped in the doorway with her hands on her hips, and cleared her throat loudly.
All three men looked up from what they were doing.
"What the hell are you still doing here?" Sally demanded in an exaggerated cockney accent.
"Who're you?" returned one of the larger men. He fixed Sally with a puzzled expression, sizing her up.
Sally's hand strayed to her hip. "You have orders!" she barked. "You were supposed to be on the main level an hour ago! There's an entire shipment to go out before nightfall, and you're doing fuck all in here!" Dear, dear god. Please let that at least sound accurate.
"What!" the Russian chimed in, straightening from a box and striding over. He towered over her as he drew close. "Orders from who?"
"From the top," Sally said, her voice taking on a threatening edge. "Where else?"
"I don't know you," the third man said, as he and the other Englishman followed the Russian.
"And you don't want to," Sally advised in a dangerously low voice. "Now I suggest you get moving."
Nobody budged.
"You and you!" she barked at the larger Englishman and the Russian. "Go! Now!" She clapped her hands at them. The three men seemed to think better of arguing with her – better safe than sorry! - and scurried off. Sally grabbed the third man by the shirtsleeve and held him back. "Not you," said Sally, dragging out the word in a way that suggested she found him terribly daft. "You, finish this. And be quick about it!"
Surprisingly, he obeyed.
Sally felt rather empowered.
She watched the grunt as he went back to his work, and listened tensely for the sound of the hall door opening and then closing. She heard the click of the lock as it was re-engaged from the other side. In one stride, she stepped out into the hallway to confirm that it was, in fact, deserted, and then went back into the packing room and shut the door.
This got the thug's attention, and his head appeared from behind a tower of boxes. "Whatcha do that for?"
Dramatically, Sally sighed. "We have some business," she said in her normal voice. If the man noticed the change in her accent, he didn't indicate so. He was staring blankly at her, waiting for her to continue. Something hopeful sparked in his eyes, and Sally had to exert a lot of self-restraint to avoid snorting.
In a few long steps, she closed the space between herself and the thug, drawing her baton from her waistband as she did. He seemed to realise that she was not coming onto him, and started to scrabble at his hip for his own weapon. Unfortunately for him, he was not quick enough, and Sally brought her stick down in a fast, wide arc against the side of his head. He went down right away, moaning as consciousness slipped away.
"That was much easier than I had thought," she muttered, glancing around the room. The red 'record' light of a surveillance camera blinked cheerily out at her from a corner. "Well... almost."
Sally was quick about patting down her friend the packing man. As she had hoped, he had a set of keys on him. Now, as long as one of those keys worked in the door at the end of the hall, they were golden. At least until whoever was watching those cameras sent people down. But Sally decided to cross each bridge as she came to it.
She sprinted back out into the hallway, down to the unlocked room, and grabbed up her supplies. Then she went back to the alcove and crashed to her knees beside Sherlock, the keys jingling in one hand.
"Brilliant performance," Sherlock whispered.
"Yeah, yeah. Here, take this." She shoved a few pills into his hand. "Might help the pain and keep you from collapsing on me." When he didn't respond, she shoved his hand toward his face. "Take them!"
With shaking fingers, Sherlock did as he was told. Then Sally was pushing the collar of a t-shirt over his head, and he keened as the rough material slid over his chest.
"Sorry," Donovan muttered, helping to pull his injured shoulder through one of the sleeves. "Better than nothing, though. It's cold out there. Besides, no cab will take us with you just wearing dirty trousers and a peacoat. You'll look like a creep."
"Ha," said Sherlock.
Sergeant Donovan did not ask if he was ready, or waste time on any more first aid efforts. She knew that this was it – they would get out of here now or they would die. She hauled him to his feet, and half-dragged him to the door at a jog. He barely kept up, feet dragging clumsily with every other step, but he did not protest or complain. His jaw was set resolutely; he directed his unfocussed eyes at the door ahead of them.
It was kind of admirable, really. Soldierly.
The door opened onto another hallway. At the end of this was a set of stairs.
"That leads to the main floor," Sherlock said with certainty, lifting a shaking hand to point.
Sally squeezed his waist, pulling him higher against herself. "This is it, then," she said softly.
Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath. "This is it."
"You are not coming."
"I have to."
"John, this is not up for discussion. You can stay with Command, but that's as far as you go!"
"Arrest me, then."
The silence that pervaded then was tense, the two men staring each other down. Lestrade was in full combat gear – he had insisted upon accompanying the federal authorities when he found out that Sherlock and Sally were being held at the Wakefield group's compound in Brixton. Of course he told John. And of course John was adamant that he would bust in there and rescue Sherlock himself amidst a hailstorm of gunfire. Risks be damned! John had shouted in a fit of rage when they had first had this discussion. They'd left it at that, but now Lestrade was suiting up and preparing to leave and John would not be swayed just because the DI had cleverly dodged the subject for the last three hours.
"We don't have time for this," Lestrade growled.
"Precisely." John stared unflinchingly up at him, blocking the door.
If you'd asked Lestrade a few days ago whether he ever thought he would get in a fist fight with John Watson, he would have laughed in your face and told you he wouldn't dare. But now, as the ex-soldier stood in front of him with burning determination in his eyes, he knew he may very well have to do so. Without another moment of hesitation, he shoved John aside and brushed past to follow the rest of his team out.
"Lestrade!" John's voice had a dangerous edge. He lunged for the DI, but two sets of strong hands restrained him. He could hear handcuffs being fumbled with. "Damn it, Lestrade!"
He's going to kill me when I get back, the DI realised. Better bring back a reason for him not to.
"They're here, Sherlock. Did you hear me? They're here." Sally was crouched beside a door, listening intently. "I can hear the trucks."
Then so do they, thought Sherlock dizzily. Scotland Yard will be the death of us. He shivered and collapsed.
Sally stood and spun to catch him, staggering under his sudden weight. "Don't – " she started to say, but she was interrupted by the door bursting inward with explosive force. Wood splinters rained down on top of them as Sally was thrown forward and to the floor, one hand shielding her own head from the debris as the other covered Sherlock's face.
A masked man stood over the pair, and Sally recognised the voice of her interrogator.
"There you are," he said. "I've been looking for you."
"You're fucked," Sally informed him, getting to her feet. Sherlock lay unconscious beside the wall.
"We all are," the man agreed. He peeled off his mask. "Orders from the top."
Sally recognised that he was quoting the line she had used on the thugs downstairs, and knew that he had seen the surveillance video.
His hands disappeared into his pockets.
Donovan lunged forward.
At that exact moment, an electronic detonator in the basement counted down.
Three.
Two.
One.
Zero.
Both subterranean levels exploded in a violent burst of fire from an immense stockpile of homemade bombs. The resulting shockwave rocked the entire building like an earthquake. A massive, centrally-focussed earthquake.
That's why, Sally thought as she watched the walls begin to crumble around her. Everything moved in slow motion. The interrogator was scowling at her. That's why we didn't run into anybody on the main floor. That's why the thugs were engaged in useless tasks. Essential personnel are all gone. Cargo are all gone. Everything of importance is gone, and this place is about to become rubble. And I went to all this trouble.
There was no escape. It was all happening too fast.
At least it will be a quick death, thought Sally, as the entire structure of Saint Catherine's Hospital crashed down on top of her.
TO BE CONTINUED
