"Right." I said. Still no real explanation. It was then I noticed that Sherlock had a backpack with him. "What's in the bag?" I asked, as he never carried a bag with him.
"Supplies." Was all the answer I received. I knew something was wrong, but didn't quite know what. I knew that when we arrived at Romford we may find a corpse, and not the hoped for body. I still didn't know who it was, just that it was a 'he', and someone that the Holmes brothers both seemed terribly worried about, who also worked for Mycroft. Does everyone in the government technically work for Mycroft, if Mycroft is the British Government? Does that extend to the armed forces? If so, does that mean that I worked for Mycroft? Bloody hell. Right, ramble over.
I looked out the window on my side of the cab, and Sherlock did the same. This was weird. Usually we talked. About the case. Him complaining about Mrs Hudson or Mycroft or Scotland Yard…
"Why haven't you just called the police?" I asked.
"He works for Mycroft, John. Mycroft can't just lose people. And the police - what good ever are the police? I know exactly how unhelpful getting Lestrade involved in this would be."
Whatever this is, I thought. Sherlock was terribly flustered, and I was annoyed that I didn't know more. The trip out to the east end seemed to take a terribly long time, no doubt because the cab was stopped at red lights as often as not, clearly not having the same special status as Mycroft's vehicle. After what felt like an hour (it wasn't) we arrived outside a government housing block.
"Can you wait?" Sherlock asked the cabbie.
"At this time of night, mate?"
"I'll pay double."
"How long?"
"Ten, maybe 15 minutes."
"Then back to Westminster?"
"Yes."
"Alright."
"Come on, John." Sherlock said, and we climbed out the car. I followed him into the building, up the narrow concrete stairs. There was loud music blasting from one of the rooms above us, and frankly, the stairwell smelt like piss. I remember being quite glad I had my gun, as this hardly looked to be the friendliest building in the east end, not least judging by some of the graffiti on the walls. We climbed up to the fourth floor (I forget how many floors the building had. I don't think it's relevant anyway. Sherlock might, but god only knows how Sherlock picks what's important. But we were on floor four). There were two houses? Flats? Whatever, on each floor. Sherlock pulled his lock-picking pen out of his pocket and opened the door to 4A. We entered into a small but clean living/kitchen space. Sherlock turned on the light. The room was very sparse, just a table, two fold-up chairs, a dresser and a blue plastic bin. But the room was warm. There was heating on. Sherlock dashed around the table and pulled the curtains shut. "In here." Sherlock said, leaning against what I correctly guessed as the bedroom door. He opened it and turned on the light.
I think I swore. Again, the room was quite clean and sparsely decorated, with just a double bed taking up most of the room. The curtains in here were already drawn. That, however, was not what made me swear. On the bed was a very, very sick young man, clearly whoever we were supposed to be rescuing.
"We need to call an ambulance." I said, pulling out my phone.
"No!" Sherlock said. He looked – scared. It was strange. Seldom have I seen Sherlock Holmes look as afraid as that. "No, John, put your phone away. You're a doctor. You have to help him."
"Sherlock, I don't even know what's wrong with him!" I hissed.
Then the man's head flopped over to the side and he opened his eyes. "Sh…"
"Shh." Said Sherlock, taking the man's hand. "Don't speak. This is John. We're going to take you home."
"Oh, shit, Sherlock." I exclaimed, seeing the inside of the man's arm. I know I say man, but that's only because I know who he is now. Really though, lying there feverish and shaking, in just his pants, having kicked off the blankets, he looked like a small kid. "Sherlock he's been shooting up."
"No he hasn't, John." Sherlock said. He seemed calmer now. Perhaps because the man was awake. "Look at the bruising. It's poison. They've been using blunt needles. We have to get him back to Baker St." Sherlock let go of the man's hand and opened the bag and pulled out a zip-up hoodie, which he carefully put on the man. I noticed the man wince as Sherlock touched his arms.
"Ah, Sherlock..." I said.
"Not now, John. I don't think they'll be back tonight. I'd say there were here about two, maybe three hours ago. I haven't seen any CCTV, so we should have enough time." Sherlock said as he zipped up the hoodie and pulled the hood up over the man's head. Then he pulled a pair of glasses out of the backpack and placed the gently on the man's face. The man shut his eyes and re-opened them slowly as his world came back into focus.
"Sherlock."
"John, we have to get him out. We'll have to turn the lights out behind us. Don't worry about fingerprints or anything, Mycroft's people will clean this place up once we leave. They can't trace him back to us. Or maybe they will. It might make things more interesting."
"Sherlock…"
Sherlock pulled the man up into a sitting position. "Don't you think this is a bit easy, John? Oh well. Take him under the arm, will you."
"Sherlock!" I yelled.
"John we have to do this now!"
"You're not looking!" I cried. "There are wires under the mattress!" I pointed.
"Oh…." Sherlock's eye's went wide. He let go of the man.
"Sh…"
Sherlock grabbed the man by the shoulders. "It's pressure plated, isn't it? If you leave the bed, it will blow."
The man's head drooped down.
"Am I right?" Sherlock shook him.
"Yes." He mouthed.
Sherlock let go of the man and stepped back, running his fingers through his hair. "John I don't know what to do." He admitted. Poor Sherlock, he looked terrible and sounded so panicked.
"Can't you disarm it?" I asked, trying to be helpful. Sometimes I wonder why Sherlock didn't befriend a member of the bomb disposal unit rather than a doctor, but I digress.
"Not without moving the mattress, which will set it off anyway…"
"Sh…"
"Can you stop it?" Sherlock asked, turning back to the man. The man made a slight movement of his shoulders that I took to be a shrug. "Yes, but not in this condition?" I noticed a gentleness in Sherlock's voice. The corner of the man's mouth twitched, which I took to be all he could manage for a smile. He reached out and took Sherlock's arm. I could see the effort it was taking him to do such a small thing, and it was painful to watch. He wrapped his long fingers around Sherlock's bony wrist. "What?" Sherlock and the man looked intently at each other. "Wrist? Watch? Time? Timer! Oh, it's on a timer! How long?" The man moved his shoulders again. "Right." Said Sherlock. "John, go and open the front door." I went and did so and was back in the room in a couple of seconds.
"Now what?" I asked. "Because, honestly Sherlock, I still have no idea…"
"John, whatever happens, keep moving. You have to get him out. Get in the cab and get back to Baker St. Call Mycroft. He can help you."
"Woh, ok, hold on, what the hell is happening?"
"John, we have to get him out."
"What is going on? You're a sociopath! You generally don't care about other people!" I said. That was a bit unfair, really, as I knew that Sherlock did care, but since I still had no idea who the poor sick bloke was, I didn't know why Sherlock should care so much about him.
"Please, John." Sherlock looked at me. "Take him under the arm, but for goodness sake, don't sit on the bed, or the extra weight will most likely set to bomb off too."
"Shouldn't we call the police now?"
"I messaged Lestrade as we pulled up."
"You didn't know about the bomb then."
"Look at this building, John. Lestrade and his crew could have a field day here. The average response time is twenty minutes, and when I message, Lestrade actually comes. John, we have to go now."
"I. Don't. Know. What's. Happening!"
"Just help me! Take him by the arm!"
I did as Sherlock commanded and took the sickly man under the arm.
"Can you carry him?" Sherlock asked.
The man was ridiculously thin, but carrying him down four flights of narrow steps was a bit of an ask. "Can't you help?"
"It doesn't matter. Right, when I count to three, lift him up and run, John. Run. I'll be right behind you." Sherlock looked at the man. "You have to hold on." The man closed his eyes. "Ready?" Sherlock asked.
"I don't understand."
"On three. Two, one."
I pulled the man to his feet and ran, half dragging half carrying him out of that tiny flat. He cried out in pain, and I heard Sherlock yell to keep running. I went down the stairs as quickly and as carefully as I could. I could hear Sherlock's shoes on the concrete stairs just behind me. I was just about to turn onto the last set of stairs when a blast happened above. I fell forward, down the last three steps onto the landing, dropping the sickly man, and ending up with Sherlock landing on top of me.
