Chapter Two
Officers of New Scotland Yard swarmed the recently discovered basement, taking pictures of everything and sifting through all the papers and boxes.
"Found anything?" Greg called out.
Sergeant Sally Donovan stepped over to him. "Nothing. We can't find anything that tells us if they were planning this or if they already have it set to blow."
"Can't we?" said Sherlock as he appeared at their sides with a worn cardboard box.
"How did you find that?" Donovan demanded.
"By looking," said Sherlock, setting the box down on a nearby surface and flipping open the lid.
John and Greg shared a smile as Donovan shook her head and stormed back to the search for more evidence. Sherlock, meanwhile, was digging through the box, pulling out tape after tape.
"We'll find all the evidence we need on these," said Sherlock.
Greg grabbed the attention of a nearby officer. "Bring the tape recorder."
"Why would they keep all of the evidence down here?" asked John. "You would think a terrorist group would be more cautious."
"Why indeed," muttered Sherlock with a smirk.
"What is it?" asked Greg, eager for whatever Sherlock had.
"He was getting ready to turn them in," Sherlock told them.
"You think?" asked John.
"I don't think, I know," said Sherlock quickly. "Someone planning to set off a bomb would be a hardened criminal, most likely seasoned as well. It's very doubtful an experienced criminal would leave evidence lying around, let alone record it for anyone to find and listen to. His fingernails were badly chewed, yet the tips of his fingers were red, showing that he had only recently taken up the nervous habit. Now, what would he need to be nervous about? Nervous that his co-conspirators were going to turn on him? And why would they? Because they had begun to suspect he was a traitor."
"That's why he asked for you," nodded John, catching on.
"Exactly," said Sherlock.
The officer returned with the recorder, which Sherlock accepted and emptied of the previous tape. He picked up one of the tapes from the box, inserting it into the recorder and pressing play.
"And you've plotted out the location?"
"Yes. We won't have trouble getting in."
"Good. Does he have the timers ready?"
"What is it?" asked John.
Sherlock had slowly lowered the recorder and was staring at the wall ahead of him with wide eyes and slack jaw. "Michael Jacobs…"
"Who's that?" asked Greg as Sherlock stopped the tape.
"One of the more sinister criminals I've ever encountered," Sherlock explained. "Had a particular proclivity for murdering young pregnant women. It was a case I worked on seven years ago. He was arrested and sent to Pentonville."
"So, he escaped?" asked John.
"He couldn't have," said Sherlock, looking over at them with a smirk. "He was killed in a prison skirmish six months after his incarceration."
"And you're sure it's him?" asked John.
"I'd recognize his voice anywhere," said Sherlock. He placed the recorder into the box of tapes and flipped the lid shut. "I'll be at Baker Street."
"No, wait, Sherlock!" exclaimed Greg as he detective hefted the box into his arms. "You can't just—"
"I'll be able to solve it much faster on my own," Sherlock rattled off. "You know I will."
Greg hesitated before rolling his eyes and waving him off. "Oh, go on."
Sherlock strode past him, John hot on his heels, and headed up the stairs to the now-empty room. The two of them hurried out to the street before trying to hail a cab.
"You need any help?" asked John.
"I'll be fine for now," Sherlock told him quickly as a cab pulled up. "Go home."
"Thanks," said John, turning to head down the street towards his home.
John gently laid Rachel down in her crib, pulling the small blanket up onto her torso. He stood smiling down at her as she slept.
Sometimes, he couldn't believe how lucky he was. And to think that he had almost lost this. True, he was still upset with Mary for her duplicity, but he was upset, not mad. Ever since, Mary had done her best to be honest with him every day. And John appreciated it so very much.
John turned and quietly left the nursery, easing the door shut. He moved down the hall to the sitting room, where Mary was lounging on the sofa.
"Is she finally asleep?" Mary groaned.
John chuckled. "Yeah, she's out." He walked over to the sofa and sat next to her.
"How were the cases today?" asked Mary, curling up into his side.
John wrapped his arm around her. "Not bad. First one was boring, apparently. And now, Sherlock's after a terrorist cell."
"Terrorist cell?" asked Mary, looking up at him.
"Yeah, they're planning a bomb, or they've planted it, or something," John told her. "Sherlock's figuring it out now."
John's mobile phone began ringing on the coffee table, and Mary leaned forward to grab it, handing it over to her husband.
John glanced down at the screen. "Oh, speaking of…" He answered the phone and brought it to his ear. "Hi, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock's not causing trouble, is he?"
"Actually, he's not in," Mrs. Hudson told him. "He's not with you, is he?"
"No, no, I'm at home," John told her with a frown. "Have you tried his phone?"
"He's not answering," said Mrs. Hudson worriedly. "John, I just got back from dinner, and…" She took a shaky breath. "Oh, God…"
John's heart began beating faster. "Mrs. Hudson, what happened?"
"Someone broke into Baker Street," Mrs. Hudson said shakily. "They completely ruined the flat."
"Oh, my God," muttered John. "I'll be right over. Call the police." He quickly hung up and hurried towards his coat.
"What happened?" asked Mary.
"Baker Street's been broken into, and Sherlock's missing," John told her, pulling on his coat.
"Oh, my God…" gasped Mary.
"I need to call Mycroft," said John hurriedly as he headed for the door.
Mary followed him to the door. "Call me when you find him."
And didn't John just love that about Mary: her faith in him. There was no if he finds him; there was only when.
John rushed out the door and hailed a cab, jumping inside when one pulled up. "221B Baker Street."
As the cab pulled into the street, John dialed Mycroft's number on his phone.
"Yes, John, I am aware of what has happened," Mycroft instantly answered. "My people are searching for my brother as we speak."
"All right," John replied. "I'll be at Baker Street with Lestrade."
"I'll be in touch," said Mycroft shortly before hanging up.
John spent the fifteen minute cab ride trying Sherlock's mobile himself. Just as the cab stopped in front of the flat, John's phone rang, and he answered it in a rush without even looking at it.
"Sherlock?" John exclaimed.
"The GPS on Sherlock's phone shows that he is still in Baker Street, though I suspect this is not the case," Mycroft told him. "We are still looking." And with that, he hung up.
John's grip around his phone tightened as he glanced up at the first floor windows. He rushed through the front door and up the stairs, ignoring the startled Mrs. Hudson and police officers gathered at the door of the flat. He barreled through the door, coming to a stop just inside.
"Jesus…" breathed John.
The flat was in complete disarray. Books from the shelves were thrown across the sitting room. The armchairs were overturned, and the sofa cushions were all askew. The pictures on the walls had been knocked crooked, and in one case even having fallen to the floor. Sherlock's laptop lay cracked and broken on the floor by the table, as though thrown aside in the search for something.
As John's eyes moved across the floor, he spotted the violin in front of the fireplace, the neck snapped in two and the body splintered.
Oh, not the violin… John thought as he stared at the destroyed instrument. Sherlock's gonna be brassed off about that.
John finally noticed Greg Lestrade standing in the doorway between the sitting room and the kitchen. Greg had been staring at him, but he now spoke quickly to the officers next to him and then stepped over to John.
"Do you have any idea where Sherlock might be?" asked Greg.
John shook his head. "Mycroft's on it. But he said Sherlock's phone is still here." He held his mobile up, which was still in his hand, and dialed.
He lowered his hand, and they waited to hear the other phone ring, but there was nothing.
"Hang on," said John, stepping through the kitchen (equally vandalized) and down the hallway as he tried again.
This time, he could hear the faint ringing of a phone. He immediately followed the noise into Sherlock's room, his eyes falling on the busted-open wardrobe.
"Oh, no…" John dropped his phone into his pocket as he hurried to kneel in front of the wardrobe. He picked up Sherlock's phone that lay on the floor in front of it. "Please no…"
"What?" asked Greg from behind him.
John reached into the wardrobe and pushed aside the crumpled clothes that lay on its bottom. "Oh, great…"
Greg squatted down beside John and peered into the wardrobe to see that, apparently, it had a false bottom. And that false bottom had been broken open. "What is it?"
"That's Sherlock's secret stash," John told him. "And I don't mean drugs. He keeps everything of importance in there: sensitive documents, important evidence from the cases he's working on. If there was anywhere that he would have kept that box of tapes for safe-keeping, this would have been it."
Greg looked closer to see that there was an empty space big enough for the box. "Which means this Jacobs character broke in here. But the door wasn't forced. Mrs. Hudson had to use her keys to get in, so the burglars locked it behind them. Which means…"
"They have Sherlock's keys," said John as he came to the same conclusion.
The people Sherlock had been after had broken into his flat for the evidence against them. They had done so by getting hold of Sherlock's keys, and now, Sherlock was missing.
My God, what did they do to him? John wondered.
John's phone alerted him to a text, and he pulled it out to see a message from Mycroft.
2254 Camden Road.
"Mycroft's got a location," John quickly told Greg, hurrying back towards the staircase with the Detective Inspector.
John got into Greg's police car, and Greg sped towards the address Mycroft had given them. Upon arriving, they both jumped out and began a frantic search of the streets around the location.
As John was walking past an alley, he spotted a pair of legs sticking out from a corner down it. "Greg!"
John hurried down the alley and rounded the corner. Sherlock lay sprawled on the pavement, unconscious.
John fell onto his knees next to his friend, placing a hand on his face. "Sherlock? Sherlock, are you okay?"
There was no response, and John quickly examined Sherlock's head to discover blood matted in his hair just over his left ear.
"Oh, God…" breathed John, slipping right into doctor mode. He placed the first two fingers of his right hand to Sherlock's carotid artery, relieved to feel a pulse. He then leaned down with his ear to Sherlock's mouth, relieved once again at the sound of shallow inhales and exhales. "Sherlock? Can you hear me?"
There was still no response, so John moved onto the next test. He pressed the heel of his palm into Sherlock's sternum, rubbing it somewhat harshly. He then squeezed tightly on Sherlock's fingers, but Sherlock remained unconscious and still.
No response to painful stimuli.
This was not going well. So far, Sherlock's Glasgow Coma Scale rating was a three, which meant deep coma.
ABCs, John. Airway, breathing, circulation.
"Greg, call an ambulance!" John called over his shoulder as he carefully maneuvered Sherlock further onto his right side.
He moved Sherlock's left leg to lie over his right, stretching his right arm out straight and placing his left arm over it. He then carefully tilted Sherlock's head back to keep his epiglottis open and turned his head slightly towards the pavement to keep anything from going down his throat.
Once he had Sherlock in this recovery position, John placed his fingers to Sherlock's pulse point once again, raising his left hand to look at his watch as he began counting the beats of his heart and watching Sherlock's chest rise and fall for the next thirty seconds. Once he was finished, he quickly calculated the rates per minute.
Pulse 68. Respirations 16.
John then placed a hand to Sherlock's forehead, eyes widening when he felt the chill there.
God, how long has he been out here?
John glanced back at Greg, who had already gotten off of the phone. "Your coat, quick."
As Greg began removing his coat, John did the same, throwing it over Sherlock's body. Greg handed John his coat, and John then tucked that one around Sherlock as well. He leaned once more over Sherlock's face, listening as closely as he could to Sherlock's lungs without the aid of a stethoscope.
Before long, the ambulance arrived, and the EMTs were swarming over Sherlock and loading him onto the stretcher. As they walked, John kept pace, giving them Sherlock's medical status.
"Pulse rate steady, sixty-eight. Pulse strength two. Resps slow and regular, sixteen. GCS score three."
They loaded Sherlock into the back of the ambulance, and John climbed in next to the cot, watching his friend as they sped towards the hospital.
Please wake up, Sherlock.