Case of the Burning Heart

The Fire Spreads

The hospital was quiet. They always were, as if a noise would make a difference in life or death. Sherlock paced down the hallways towards the surgical waiting area. John had been in surgery for almost two and a half hours. It seemed too long, the wound, while horrific, was basic and a man of Seekins skill should be finished. The seating area was empty now. There was a nurse marching down the hall, nothing but crisp efficiency in her gate. She'd been out too late the night before, her make-up was a little too heavy and her hair was definitely flatter on one side than the other. There was a tiny limp in her gate, Sherlock chose not to dwell on that and instead paced to the window to look out at the city. He was out there somewhere, sitting in the center of his web, waiting to see what his next play would be. Did he know John was wounded but alive, or did he think him dead? Which news would serve Sherlock's cause more? It would be easier to keep him safe…

He pulled out his phone. Can you arrange announcement of John's death? S He wouldn't need to explain why to Mycroft—his brother would understand immediately. He had his uses which is why Sherlock had let a few transgressions pass by without action

Consider it done, will be on the news in less than ten minutes. M

Sherlock smiled. His brother was probably hoping that would be enough to keep Sherlock in place in the hospital guarding John just in case. The funny thing was, even Mycroft occasionally forgot about Sherlock and his life. He pulled his phone out again and sent another text, it was just a matter of time now, waiting for a reliable guard to appear.

"How is he?" Lestrade asked softly. Sherlock had braced himself for the detective inspector's arrival the moment he heard the lift doors opened and recognized Lestrade's step.

"Obviously still in surgery."

"We have nothing to go one with the shooter. You were right, cyanide in one of those little rubber capsules and no finger prints or dental to go on—all but three teeth were false and the ones that were real were ground down enough to be unidentifiable."

"Of course they were. I think I told you it was a waste of time. You won't find any food in his intestines to place him anywhere in town and while DNA is helpful for ruling people out, it's not that useful for finding them," Sherlock said, still watching the street below the window.

"You need to leave this to me," Lestrade said firmly.

That made Sherlock turn from the window. "Funny, you're the second person to tell me that today. I'll give you the same answer. No."

"You can't just go after whoever this is."

"I know who it is." Sherlock met the man's eyes.

"You need to let us…"

"No, because you won't. You will arrest him and sit him in a cell and he will get away with this—and that is not an option."

Lestrade's face slowly changed from concern to horror as he realized what Sherlock meant. "No, you can't."

"Yes, I can. More to the point, I will."

"Sir? You may see Dr. Watson, five minutes only," a female voice said from behind him

Sherlock turned away without another word and followed the woman down the hall, leaving Lestrade alone in the surgical area.

XXXXX

Lestrade watched Sherlock walk away. He could sense the trouble brewing, he knew what the man was capable of, he'd seen it in action once or twice, but never in anger. This time Sherlock had every reason to be angry and Lestrade was pretty sure there was no way to stop him short of putting him into a coma.

He pulled out his phone and scrolled to a number he had stored, but rarely used. It was one that was only used in the case of the direst emergencies. He was pretty sure this counted.

"I am worried about what Sherlock might do."

The reply came back faster than he expected and the content was deeply distressing.

"Lock down the crime scenes as fast as you can and contact me immediately. I will take care of the mess. MH"

XXXXX

Sherlock followed the nurse to the ICU ward. She left him outside a room, reiterating the five minute rule, and departed to her duties. It was quieter here than the other parts of the hospital. The only sounds those of machines, it was as if humanity had deserted the patients here and all that was left were the machines. To his left he could hear the soft moans of someone in pain, there was the distinct scent of hospital disinfectant and the coppery scent of blood that the other odors couldn't cover.

He stepped into John's room. Even though he'd told himself he was ready for this, knew what to expect and all—he wasn't. Sherlock had been in this ward more than once, but this, seeing John here… He cleared his throat and approached the bed. Most people would ignore the tubes and lines, the monitors and bags hooked up to the patient, but he couldn't. He looked at each name on each bag, knowing what each was for, he also knew what each monitor was, how they were attached and what they did. His eyes traveled over John's body, remembering the blood, the way the wound had sucked at his hand, but mostly remembering how John had held his eyes for as long as he could, longer than he managed to keep his hand grasped in Sherlock's coat.

The bedrail was cold under his hand as he stood beside it. He didn't want to have that to haunt him if… he pushed that thought away, it wasn't of any use here. He moved his hand so it was resting on John's arm. "I know you're in there, I know you can hear me, so do me a favor and just stop this, we have things to do, and you really don't want me to get bored do you?"

"Sir, it's been five minutes."

"I'll be back this evening, John, I have a few things to do. I'll expect you to still be here when I get back." He gave his friend's arm a little squeeze and left the room. As he walked out of ICU he noticed the hulk of Danny Fisher, former boxer, one time enforcer for the mob, now indebted to Sherlock. He had no doubts about the man's loyalty. There was no way Moriarty or anyone else would get past him. "Fisher," he said, stopping for a moment.

"Mr. Holmes."

"No one through the doors unless they have proper ID, if you suspect anything, follow them into Dr. Watson's room, understood?"

"Yes." It was a promise and a vow. If anyone made a run at John, they would be dead before they could get to his bedside.

"Thank you."

"Yes." And Fisher moved to block the doors.

Sherlock walked down the corridor and paused by the lift, then changed his mind and headed for the staircase. He wasn't sure if Mycroft was still lurking outside, or where Lestrade had gone off to, but he had no intention of either one of them getting in his way. That might turn out badly.

He went all the way to the bottom—the staff entrance from the parking garage—and slipped out, checking right and left to make sure there was no one waiting. He didn't think Mycroft would put a tail on him, but Lestrade might make that mistake. Again, Sherlock hoped he hadn't, it would turn out badly for the poor man chosen to follow him.

Luckily, there was no one there, and he walked out of the garage on the far side from where Mycroft had been parked and hailed a cab. The first stop was the man who had mysteriously disappeared after the Red Circle affair. Moriarty had gotten him out, the police could turn nothing up and Sherlock had been carefully amassing information on the man, he'd promised him back then he wouldn't get away with kidnapping John and Sherlock had always intended to keep that promise. He knew where the man was now, and he knew that the Red Circle was officially part of Moriarty's web. It was his first stop.

Sherlock found him at the rundown flat in an even more rundown neighborhood. Despite the outward appearance, when he let himself in he was not surprised to see the large screen TV or the other luxuries that were in the small room. "Hello," he said conversationally. Of course, if it had been his flat the first thing he would have installed was a decent security system, proving once again people were idiots.

The man jumped up from the couch, turned towards him and brought a gun up at the same time. Sherlock smiled. "I really wouldn't do that."

"Who the hell are you?"

"I shot you once, and you've forgotten me already?" As he said it, Sherlock moved over the couch in a fluid motion and had the man on the ground, his foot grinding against his throat. "Let's have a chat, shall we?"

XXXXX

Lestrade was first one the scene, he took one look and pulled out his phone. "It's started."

"Don't let anyone else in. My people will be there in five minutes. Keep this quiet and lock it down. MH."

"Done." As if he really had a choice. Bile rose in his throat as he looked around the area. If this was the beginning, how much worse would it get.

The problem was, he knew the answer. Sherlock Holmes was going to get Moriarty no matter what the cost.

XXXXX

There was no one by the stairs when Sherlock returned to the hospital. He guessed that no one had thought to put a guard there—either that or Mycroft and Lestrade knew he would find a way to visit John no matter what they tried to do to stop him. It had been a fruitful day, after discussing things with several members of the Red Circle—he should say former members of the former Red Circle—he had the information for his next step. He was playing Moriarty's game at his level now and they would just have to see who broke first. Sherlock knew the answer, but he wondered if Moriarty really did.

Since the first text, Moriarty had been silent. Sherlock wondered if the news announcement about John's death had been behind that. It didn't really matter, nor did it matter that Sherlock had no number for Moriarty. He was leaving his message very clearly all over London. Eventually, the man himself would have to come out and play. Until he did Sherlock intended to pull his web apart strand by strand until there was nothing left for Moriarty to hold on to.

"Fisher?" he said as he approached.

"Just medical personal and Lestrade. I knew him so I let him back."

"Right."

"I called Snyder for night duty, I hope that's okay?"

"Yes." Sherlock was planning on calling the man himself, but he had been distracted by his discussion with the Red Circle. He suspected Lestrade was beside himself, but you'd think he'd be grateful, the Red Circle was no more. "Good idea."

"He will be here in an hour, I'll brief him. Will you be here?"

"I have a meeting at ten."

"Do you need help?"

"I'll do fine." Sherlock didn't want to involve the man in what was happening that night. With a curt nod he went into ICU.

John hadn't moved, but the drugs had changed. Sherlock noted the new bags, and the missing ones. They were lowering the sedative, perhaps planning on waking the doctor the next day. That seemed soon, but Sherlock was not a physician, most of his knowledge of the human body had to do with post mortem information and that was simply not a thought he was going to connect with John. Sherlock put his hand on John's arm, taking comfort from the warm flesh under his palm.

"I've not been bored today," he said, looking down at John. There was a small hiss each time the vent released, two beeps to each hiss. "I chatted with an old friend of yours. I can't believe Lestrade and his people never found him there. Unless…" He trailed off. "I'm an idiot, aren't I? Someone knew he was there, and they were told not to find him. I have an appointment at ten, after that I might just check into why they never found him" He sighed. "I haven't been back to the flat. I… John… Please." It was all he could manage.

"Sir?"

"Yes, I'm coming," he snapped. "I'll be back later." With a gentle squeeze on John's arm, he left, not stopping this time on his way out but heading straight for the staircase—the public one not the staff one—just in case. He had no intention of being caught yet.

It was just before ten when he walked into the small, darkly lit café. He spotted Upton at a table towards the back of the room. Sherlock ignored the looks of the other patrons and walked straight back to the table.

"Ah, Holmes," Upton said, his sweet smile on his face.

"Upton," Sherlock said, sitting down across from the man, but turned enough so he could see both entrance and exit.

"So sorry to hear about your doctor."

"Don't mention him again or," Sherlock smiled, "this will be a very short conversation."

"Do you honestly think threats will work on me?" Upton laughed happily.

"Do you think that was a threat?"

The man paled for a moment, then smiled again. "What can I do for you?"

"I think you know."

XXXXX

The call came in at 10:30 and Lestrade was the first one on the scene. He opened the doors to the café, well known as a gathering place for some of the higher class thugs in London, and stopped. Swallowing hard he closed the door just as then next police vehicle arrived. He motioned for them to cordon off the area and pulled out his phone.

"Upton and his café."

"Close it down, the team will be there in ten minutes. Did he leave anything behind? MH"

Lestrade tried to get the images of the inside of the café out of his brain. "Not much, I think there may be an arm in there somewhere."

"Don't be so dramatic. You know removing the arm of the leader of that gang sends a message. MH"

"Two arms."

"Probably both Upton's, keep it locked "

"Understood."

XXXXX

Mycroft stared at the phone in annoyance for a moment after he broke the connection with Lestrade. Sherlock was becoming a nuisance and it was getting harder to cover up his little transgressions. He fully understood why his brother was doing it, and to be honest, most of what he'd done so far was helpful, but Mycroft knew that wouldn't last. He had been doing his own research and knew just how far Moriarty's web might extend and if Sherlock followed that strand—well covering that up would be a little more difficult. He needed to speak with his brother. He tried calling, but was unsurprised when he got no answer. So he tried a different tactic. Texting usually got a response.

"How is John?"

"Alive."

"Not many left alive."

"Still too many."

"Leave this to me, Sherlock."

"We settled that, Mycroft. I have business. S."

He was beginning to worry about his brother. He'd been wrong when he thought he'd known what Sherlock was capable of, so very wrong. When he'd compared him to Golson, he'd been wrong—not precisely wrong, just massively underestimating. It was as if Golson's street urchin had been killed and Golson had torn the entire country apart. Mycroft was beginning to fear that's where this was leading and he might be left with a very difficult choice.

To Be Continued