Infinite Improbabilities

Chapter 2: Sally

A cab ride for only two pounds fifty. - A day late and a pound short. - In which verb tenses are inadequate. – Jack and Shelley, got it. – Finding Sherlock. – Things get more complicated, dammit. – Sherlock holds on like a baby monkey.

Sally wasn't sure what was happening, but John was running off down the street, and she felt responsible for him because he was a civilian involved in a police matter, and also he was apparently the only person she knew anymore—these days—those days? What the hell was going on, anyway? She didn't know if she bought John's theory that they had somehow traveled in time, because she was fairly sure that was impossible, but she would go along with it for now until a better theory came along. Maybe this was just a dream anyway. It made more sense than time travel.

John had managed to hail a cab on the corner of Burnt Ash Lane, which Sally remembered as the A2212, although that signage had gone missing. She really hoped John had some money because her pockets were near empty and she didn't think the cabbie would take a credit card, seeing that it had been issued in 2012, which hadn't happened yet apparently.

When they were ensconced in the back seat of the old-fashioned cab, which was smaller than she remembered, with manual windows and a tacky-looking yellow and brown interior, she asked him again, "Have you got any money?"

"Yeah," he said distractedly. "I just cashed my paycheck. Six hundred quid. Should be plenty."

"You brought that much money to a crime scene?" she squeaked. "Christ, John!"

"Sherlock caught me on the way home and insisted I come along. I didn't have time to drop off the money. Don't worry, it's fine. Anyway, good I've got it."

"The notes look a bit different, don't they?" she said quietly, glancing up at the window separating them from the cabbie.

"A bit. I'll just shove it in his hand quick and leave. He won't notice. I hope."

Sally didn't like it, but she didn't have any money on her, much less any banknotes from 1981, so she didn't have a better plan.

"I wonder what time it is?" John said, craning his head to look out the window.

"Um, it's. . ." She fished her phone out of her pocket to check the time, but John grabbed her hand and made her put it back. "Oh, right. . ."

"Yeah, keep that put away. It's not going to be right anyway, and neither is my watch. I'd say it's about half four, by the sun."

When the cab pulled up in front of Holland Park, John jumped out and leaned over to pay the cabbie.

"That'll be two pounds fifty," the man grunted.

John gaped at him until Sally elbowed him in the ribs. "You heard the man. Two pounds fifty."

"Oh, uh, right. Smallest I've got's a tenner."

The man took the note without more than a passing glance, and then they waited while he slowly counted out the change. Sally smirked at the pound notes he handed over instead of the coins she was used to. "Haven't seen any of those in a while," she said to John in an undertone as they walked away.

"Yeah, my pockets feel lighter already," John snickered back.

"So where are we going?"

"Playground, right up this path. Mycroft told me he was snatched at 4:45. They had gone to the park after school so Sherlock could burn off some energy—"

"Think that strategy would work now?" Sally asked with a grin. "Send him to the park to play when he gets too fractious?"

"Maybe. He likes to climb. That's how he leaves me behind, mainly. I just hope we're in time to stop it."

While they were talking, a boy came running up the path toward them. He was wearing a school uniform: Maroon blazer, gray jumper, black trousers, blue and maroon tie. Sally didn't recognize the school colors, but it looked fancy. His sandy hair was sweaty and his round face looked flushed and panicked.

"Please, I'm looking for my brother," he said breathlessly to another couple a little ways in front of them.

John grabbed Sally's arm to stop her. "Shit, that's Mycroft," he whispered.

"He's about this tall—" Mycroft gestured about waist height "—He's got black curly hair and he's wearing a school uniform like mine with a rip in the knee."

The couple were shaking their heads, so Mycroft quickly left them and ran on toward John and Sally.

"Please, sir, have you seen my brother?" he asked anxiously. "He's run off and I can't find him!"

John shot Sally a glance, then said to the boy, "What's your brother's name?"

"Sherlock. He's only five. He's gone and disappeared on me!"

"Why don't you run phone your Mum and Dad?" Sally put in. "We'll look around here."

"I haven't got any money for the phone."

"Oh, here," John dug in his pocket and came up with a 10p coin from his change from the cabbie. "Take this. There's a call box just outside the park. Go phone them quickly now."

"Yes, sir, thank you!" The boy called back over his shoulder as he ran off toward the entrance to the park.

John turned to Sally, eyebrows raised. "Believe me now?" he asked quietly.

Sally shrugged in response. "I suppose my only other choice is to believe this is a very detailed dream, which I still haven't ruled out, mind you."

"Yeah, I was wondering that myself."

"Do you know where they took Sherlock? I doubt we're going to find him here."

"It was an abandoned warehouse in Clapham. Mycroft told me that's where they finally found him, after they paid the ransom. He pointed it out to me one time." John started back toward the street, with Sally hurrying to catch up.

"Finally?" she asked in surprise. "How long did they have him?"

"Almost two weeks before his parents paid the ransom. Sherlock never talked about what they did, but Mycroft thinks they tortured him that whole time. He says he was never the same after. We've got to find him before that happens." John raised his hand and a black cab rolled to a stop at the kerb.

"Maybe we should call the police," Sally said quietly as she climbed into the cab after John.

John shook his head. "No police. They said they'd kill him. I know where he is. We'll just go and free him."

"Won't he recognize us?"

"He hasn't met us yet. You haven't even been born yet."

"Yes I have! But no, I mean later, in the present—in the future. Damn, I haven't even got the right verb tenses to talk about this. I mean, when we meet him again, in the—future, present, whatever—won't he remember that it was us who rescued him?"

"I don't know. He's only five."

"This is Sherlock we're talking about here. He remembers everything."

"Unless he decides to delete it, you mean. Yeah, you're right. How about fake names then? So even if he recognizes our faces, the names won't match."

"All right. What names?"

"How about I'm Jack, and you're Shelley. They'll be easy to remember, and if we forget and slip up, it will sound close enough that maybe he won't notice."

"Ok. Jack. You're Jack. Jack-be-Nimble."

"Right. Don't call me that."

"How about Jack Sprat? Can I call you that?"

"How about just Jack."

"Ok, Just-Jack."

"Ha ha." John scoffed, but he had a little smile on his face, and that was what Sally had been going for, so she smirked back. It was slightly easier these days to make John laugh, which was a relief. The few times she had seen him while Sherlock was playing dead, he looked so tense and serious that she had been overwhelmed with guilt and afraid to talk to him. And even since Sherlock had been back. . . well, John never looked relaxed and happy anymore, not like he had before all that mess happened.

"I wonder what a five-year-old Sherlock will be like?" she mused.

"Other than shorter, probably not much different to an almost-forty-year-old Sherlock, I'd imagine."

"True."

The nearly twenty minute cab ride to Clapham cost only three pounds, which left Sally shaking her head in disbelief, but she didn't have time to remark on it before John said, "Across the street there, see?" He gestured toward a derelict-looking warehouse, with boarded up windows and a chained-shut front door. "Let's go around the back. That door is chained shut from the outside, so they must have got in a different way." John headed that direction. Sally trailed after dubiously. Venturing into a dark alleyway in this neighborhood didn't seem like the best idea to her, but what choice did she have? John was her responsibility, and she was determined not to let him get killed if she could help it.

"Where was he in the building?"

"Mycroft said a back storage room. They had him chained to a radiator like a dog."

"How are we going to avoid the kidnappers?"

"We'll just have to be quiet and look around," John said. "Here we go." He pointed to where a door was propped partway open with a worn-out trainer stuffed under it in lieu of a doorstop.

Carefully John pulled it open, wincing when it creaked a little. They both froze to listen for noises that meant they had been heard, but all was quiet inside, so John stuck his head in while Donovan waited anxiously. After a second, he beckoned to her, palm-up military-style, then slipped past the door, with Donovan so close behind that she trod on his heel.

"Sorry!" she whispered, but he just put his finger to his lips to shut her up. Donovan backed off a few steps and eased her Taser out of its pouch on her belt, hoping she wouldn't find the criminals inside to be armed with anything more deadly. Since they were apparently in a time period before the Firearms act of 1997, she considered it likely that the perps were carrying guns, whereas unfortunately she only had her Taser to protect them both.

As her eyes adjusted to the dimness inside, she caught a glint of light reflecting off something metal in John's hand. Shit, he was carrying a firearm? She was going to have to have a little talk with him about that later. After this was over, that is. She hoped she could get it off him without a fuss. At the moment, however, she couldn't say she wasn't grateful.

John held up a fist, and Sally stopped just in time to avoid plowing into him. A minute later she heard the voices coming from somewhere to her left, first a man, then a woman's higher pitch. She couldn't make out what they were saying, just the murmur of voices. They sounded angry.

John beckoned again toward a hallway to the right, away from the voices. He stopped at the first doorway and tried the knob, but it didn't turn, so he kept moving. Sally followed suit on the other side of the hall, slowly and carefully trying each door in turn, but they were all locked.

Finally, when they had nearly reached the chained-shut exit door at the end of the hallway, a knob gave way in her hand. She stopped before it opened and waved John over. He pulled out his phone, turned on the torch setting, and held it up with the gun, then nodded at her.

Donovan took a deep breath, mouthed "one-two-three" and quickly pushed open the door. At first the torch illuminated only boxes and piles of junk inside, then a quiet scuffling sound came from the left, so they both spun in that direction. John swung the torch down, and the beam caught a small white hand, palm out, smudged with blood and dirt, and beyond it a head of dark curls.

Oh!

Slowly the hand lowered just enough for her to see a pair of blue-green eyes in a dirty, beat-up, blood-smeared face. Although Sherlock (could this really be him?) was tiny, bruised, and defenceless, he didn't look scared; rather angry and determined. His face, while filthy, was unmarked by tears.

While she and John both stood there, stunned, the boy scooched back until he was pressed up against the radiator, but he didn't scream as she had been expecting. Instead his little hand curled into a fist. She could see that his wrist was a bloody mess, and that his other hand was cuffed to the radiator behind him. His face was marked with dark bruises, his shirt untucked and half-unbuttoned, his trousers ripped and spattered with reddish-brown blood, and he was missing a shoe.

Something about the scene caught Sally right in the throat. "Hey, little man," she said gently, pushing John's hand down so the torch (and gun) weren't pointed directly at Sherlock's head. She tucked her Taser away, pulled out her handcuff key, and moved in closer, only to get kicked in the shin for her trouble.

"Ouch! Hey, we're here to help!" she hissed.

Sherlock's face pulled down into a scowl. "Will you take me home?" he asked in a piping little voice that made her do a double-take.

Sally shot John a glance. "That's the plan. Isn't it, Jack?"

"Yeah," John replied, warily watching the door. "I'm going to go check our escape route." He slipped noiselessly out the door, and Sally crouched down in front of Sherlock, who was pulling futilely at the handcuff that still encircled his right wrist.

"I can't get this undone. It's stuck." He yanked at it harder, which must have hurt, but he didn't react to it. Sally reached out and caught his small hand to still it.

"I've got a key. See?" She held up her handcuff key with an encouraging smile. He just watched her silently, his face guarded. "Just hold still now."

Still holding onto his hand, she slid the key into the lock and twisted, and the cuff popped open, which finally elicited a small, triumphant grin. She suddenly realized it was probably a good thing she had a hold on him, or he might have suddenly taken off as soon as he was free.

"There, see?"

"Let's go. I want to go home. I want my daddy." He tugged on her hand, trying to pull her toward the door.

"We have to wait for Jo—Jack to come back."

"What if the bad man catches him?"

"They won't. He's sneaky." At that moment, the door, which had been almost closed, started to open, and suddenly Sally felt a little hand close on her trouser leg as Sherlock edged behind her, his body pressed up against the back of her leg. Was Sherlock Holmes afraid after all? Sally had to admit that she was a bit scared too. She put one hand in her pocket and wrapped her fingers around her Taser. Her other hand she carefully laid on Sherlock's back, and was surprised to feel his ropy muscles trembling.

But it was just John coming back, his face grim. He slipped inside and quietly closed the door, then came toward her shaking his head. Oh, shit, was their escape route blocked?

When she raised her eyebrows at him, he glanced down at the top of Sherlock's head where he was still hiding behind her leg, then slipped his phone out of his pocket. She was fairly sure he wasn't going to find any mobile service here (now), and there wasn't anyone he could text or call anyway, so. . .

Ah, he had opened the notes app and was tapping away furiously with his thumbs. After a few seconds he held up the phone and showed it to her.

Sherlock's dad is out there. He's in on it.

Crap. That meant they were in a lot more trouble than they had thought. Sally took John's phone and tapped out a reply one-handed.

What do we do?

Let's get him out of here, but we can't take him home. Not yet. We'll hole up somewhere until I figure out what's going on.

Sally nodded, and John slid the phone back into his jeans pocket. Then he slipped his jacket off and crouched down beside Sherlock, who was peeking out at him from behind Sally's leg.

"Hi, I'm. . . Jack, and this is Shelley," John said in a gentle voice that Sally imagined worked quite well with his smallest patients. "And you're Sherlock, right? We're here to help you. Will you come with us?"

Sherlock looked back and forth between the two of them with narrowed eyes. Sally could almost see the wheels turning in his head, calculating whether he could trust them, but he didn't say anything.

"Ok, I'm going to put my jacket around you and carry you out." He reached out to wrap the jacket around Sherlock, but the boy pushed himself farther back behind Sally's leg. Sally tried to peel him off, but he wasn't having it. His skinny arms just held on tighter.

"Here, come on—" Sally couldn't believe she was really doing this, but she stuck her hands under his armpits and lifted him up, marveling at how light he was. His legs immediately wrapped themselves around her waist and his arms went around her neck so tightly that she could barely breathe. His whole body was taut and vibrating like a drawn bowstring. She slipped an arm under his bum to support him, but she had a feeling she could let go and he would hang there like a baby monkey. "Ok, loosen up there a bit, little man," she whispered in his ear, but he didn't loosen up. If anything, his grip got tighter.

With a patient sigh, John tucked his jacket around Sherlock's hunched shoulders. "Follow me. Stay close," he whispered, his voice as taut as Sherlock's back felt under Sally's hand. John led the way out the door, down the hallway, halting their progress every few feet to listen, and finally out the back door into the cool evening air.

"My house is on Abbotsbury Road, but I don't know how to get back there," said a little voice in Sally's ear. "They put something over my head. I couldn't work out where we were."

"It's all right, mate, we'll get you home. . . Soon," she whispered back. At least she hoped it would be soon. If his dad was in on the kidnapping, then they might have just taken him out of the frying pan into the fire. His whole life would be changed. The implications made Sally's head spin.