Everything was quiet.
After Bugs had signed off, John had squatted down to peer into the "safe room" under the bed and had to agree—it looked slightly less like a coffin than he expected. It was set down into the floor so that, once maneuvered into, he would be able to sit up. There was light, a first aid kit, and some basic provisions.
But still … hiding was never going to be his first choice. And he certainly wasn't going to squeeze in there if he didn't have to.
He had to admit to some nervousness, though. It was certainly true that he was trapped here. There was no exit from these rooms other than the terrace (or blasting through the dumb-waiter, though he was willing to bet that was bullet-proof). His options for hiding spots (other than the bed) were very limited.
Add to that the likelihood that any sniper worth his salt was going to have night-vision goggles at the very least … hiding was not going to be easy.
He could agree with Bugs that the safe room was the most prudent option if things were to go badly, but … nobody had ever accused John Watson of being prudent.
Silently, he prowled his rooms, reminding himself of angles and lines of sight. Without knowing the layout of the rest of the building, he had no idea which of his walls were most likely to be shot through, but he could at least prepare for an invader coming in through his glass sliders and then hope for the best.
He wondered how much Moran knew about his location—if he knew how, what was the phrase? self-contained his set of rooms were. If so, any sniper doing his job wouldn't even need to come inside—he could just shoot from the terrace. Though, he wouldn't put it past his 'hosts' to have made the sliders out of bullet-proof glass as well.
No, taking his best guess at the likeliest line for invasion, he laid his own trap. He ruffled the covers on the bed to look like he'd woken in a hurry, and then tossed his pajamas and robe into the safe room and pressed the button to close it … making sure that the tail of his robe tie remained outside, as if he had carelessly gotten it caught in his rush.
He was sure the safe room would block any heat signatures and so, his gun at the ready, he crouched down in the corner next to the bed on the other side, confident that he couldn't be seen (or detected) by an invader coming in the door.
Bugs had been right. He'd barely been in position for fifteen minutes when he heard footsteps pounding through the unseen hallways beyond his ears. (Considering the level of sound-proofing around his suite, he was impressed he could hear anything at all.) Muffled gunfire sounded and he held his breath, wondering who was more trained—Moran's men or Bugs's people.
There was so much noise coming from the rest of the house (it sounded like a full-out pitched battle), he barely heard the scratching noise coming from the terrace.
###
John held his breath. If all went well, Moran would come in, see the robe belt sticking out from the safe room and—while he was examining it—John could strike.
Except, that wasn't what happened. At all.
He heard some quiet noise on the terrace, as he hunkered down in his corner, senses taut as he strained to hear, barely allowing himself to breathe.
He was so focused on listening, the bang, when it came, almost made him jump. Frowning, he tried to place the noise. He would have said gunshot, but the terminus didn't sound right … ah, he thought. The glass is bullet-proof.
Except, what had the sniper been shooting at? The noise had come from the living room, not the bedroom, so it seemed that his hiding spot was still secure, the camouflage from the safe room still effective. It was illogical, though.
Why the living room? It wasn't even three in the morning, why was he shooting into the living room? John tried to remember exactly what one could see from the terrace, and only then realized there was light in his living room as if he'd left … ah, of course … the telly on.
He swore under his breath. No doubt Bugs thought he was helping, but if Moran came in through the living room and then used the internal door to enter the bedroom, John's hiding spot was no such thing—he'd be spotted immediately. His plan would only work if Moran came in directly from the terrace.
Why would Bugs be putting him at extra risk?
Unless … damn it. He was doing this on purpose to maneuver John into that damned safe room under the bed. John's life was in danger and the man was playing games. He really was Looney Tunes.
He could hear chaos coming (distantly) from the rest of the … house? Building? It really was admirable sound-proofing, but it also meant he was trapped here with Moran right outside his rooms and no way to alert anyone. He wondered how good Bugs's security cameras were, wondered if he knew that Moran was using the terrace after all.
"I know you're here, Watson," a taunting voice came through the glass. "Why don't you come out and play?"
Another bullet slammed into the glass—the bedroom door, this time—and John tried not to flinch.
"You've been hiding so long, I thought maybe you'd lost interest. Don't make me come in there to find you."
John just kept his head down, resisting the urge to get pulled into a series of playground taunts. He was absolutely astonished when he heard his own voice speaking from the living room. "Go away, Moran. I'm not playing your game."
Bugs again! What the hell was he doing? Didn't he know better than to poke a tiger? Then he heard a quieter hiss from the television in his room. "John! Get in the safe room! It's the only way."
Stubbornly, he just shook his head. Things hadn't gotten that bad yet.
Moran was calling from the terrace, "Come on out, Watson. If you do, I promise I'll make it easy for you. One, quick bullet, just like Moriarty when Holmes killed him. I'm here for justice, not revenge. It'll be fast … but only if you come out … NOW."
John heard his own voice responding stubbornly from the living room while his bedroom set entreated him to retreat now. Damn Bugs—he really didn't know John at all if he didn't realize that this would only make him more stubborn. He could feel his heels digging in to the rug as he clenched his jaw. Like hell he was going to walk away from this fight!
"You're not going to do this the easy way?" Moran forced a note of disappointment in his voice, but dropped it an instant later. "Good. A clean death is too good for you, with you cowering in there like a rat. You've been cowering for months, Watson. And you call yourself a soldier?"
John was opening his mouth to explain just how little he was cowering when the living room television did it for him. "I'm a doctor, Moran, and only fight when I have to."
John rolled his eyes. That was the best the man could do at imitating him? The computer might have the voice spot on, but the dialogue was dreadful. He would never have said that.
"Lucky for you, then, I'm not interested in fighting you, Watson," Moran said, sounding closer now. "I just want you to die."
And then several things happened all at once.
The living room slider opened with a crash and then several smoke grenades came bouncing into the suite, one rolling right into John's bedroom.
As John began to cough, the door slammed closed again, followed by a solid thump like something was being wedged in the door, and then another, right outside the bedroom.
And then, as the sprinkler system came on, the terrace outside his window burst into flames.
What the hell? John looked up over the bed to see Moran lit by the glare from the flames. Blinking away the water streaming down his face from the suite's sprinklers, he strained to look … the exit was completely blocked by flames, flaring five feet tall already. Judging by the orange light in the living room, that door was blocked as well.
Even as he choked in the smoke, he couldn't make sense of this. The smoke grenades would have forced him out onto the terrace, but Moran had blocked him in with both fire and whatever he had lodged in the doors to keep them from opening. But since the sprinkler system immediately killed the smoke from the grenades … didn't that just make John safer? Kept securely inside behind bullet-proof glass? A little wet, maybe, but safe enough.
Another rack of coughs took him, and it was only as his vision started to tunnel that he realized … of course. The grenades weren't just smoke. They were poison. He could either lie here and choke to death or try to force himself past the blocked, shatter-proof glass doors only to be shot dead on the other side.
Damn it, there really was only one choice.
Reaching behind him, he fumbled for the button for the safe room, fighting to keep breathing, hoping the thing had some kind of air purifying system, or it was just going to kill him faster. He was starting to lose feeling in his fingers and hurried, squirming under the bed to fall onto the padded floor below. Thankful for the automatic lighting, he found the switch to close it. Dimly, he heard his name being called in the distance and hoped Bugs was happy now.
Still coughing in the smoke that had rolled in with him (he could only hope that being soaked to the skin was a good thing. What kind of poison was this?), he looked frantically around. He'd seen a first aid kit … would it include…?
He was crawling toward it when the gas overcame him and he collapsed.
###
It was only moments later when John came to, still struggling to breathe. He lifted his head, trying to see in the dim, smoke-filled light. The first aid kit. That's what he wanted.
He pulled himself up to his hands and knees and inched forward, coughing, toward a familiar-looking shape that he hoped … yes, it was. An oxygen tank. Fingers fumbling, he pulled at the mask and tried to turn the knob at the side to release the air as the smoke rose up to fill his lungs and he passed out again.
###
He felt air moving across his face and blinked for a moment before he realized. He had fallen before he'd gotten the oxygen mask on his face, but it was inches away, and still purer than the air outside. Moving as quickly as he could, he pulled the strap over his head and just lay there, panting while he took deep, clean breaths.
It helped, but not enough. He looked around his tiny little safe room for something to purify the air and, mental fingers crossed, hit the Fan button he found in the wall. Safe rooms were built for doomsday scenarios, right? They would vent out but not pull in stale, dangerous air from the outside … right?
The oxygen was helping, but he was still being racked with great coughs that seemed to come from his very toes. He couldn't believe he was here—trapped under the bed like a frightened 9-year old, but what choice had he had?
Like Bugs had said, it was large enough to sit up with room to spare. He looked around, trying to make sense of the cupboards and buttons on the control panel. One was marked CCTV and he flipped it and was granted an instant infrared look at his bedroom, full of smoke but otherwise empty. There were other feeds—he scrolled through to see his living room, the kitchenette, the terrace … and there, Moran, yelling and trying to see past the flames.
Poor sniper, thought John, he must be wondering what happened to his target. From his angle, John had appeared to collapse on the far side of the bed—he likely didn't even know about the safe room underneath. And if he did? Well, John was willing to bet this was as secure as they came. What had Bugs said? Seven hundred fifty thousand chances against one to breaking in?
So, in theory, all John had to do was wait for reinforcements. That's what safe rooms were for, right?
He coughed again and felt like he was tearing the lining of his throat. Was there water in here? There should be … ah, in the corner. He cracked open a bottle and lifted the mask long enough for a long drink before sniffing at the air. It smelled a lot better than it had. He could probably turn off the oxygen in a few more minutes, as long as his breathing held steady.
He saw a blinking light next to a phone receiver and picked it up. "Hello?"
"John? Thank God. Are you all right?" It was Bugs, sounding frantic and more out of breath than John was.
"I'm fine," he said, coughing. "Fine enough, anyway."
"I did tell you to get in the safe room, John."
"Isn't there some kind of a rule about computer animations not saying 'I told you so'?" John asked. "Or are you going to tell me you were expecting poison gas with the escape route blocked off?"
Silence from the other end of the line and then, "Poison?"
"Yeah," John said. "Not sure which one—it's been a while since I did poison gases—but definitely more than just smoke. Moran planned quite a show for himself—either watching me succumb to gas, die in flames escaping the room, or getting to shoot me if I made it past them." He glanced at his tiny monitor. "Uh oh. He's breaking his way into the room now. Apparently he's not happy not knowing if I'm actually dead. So … how secure is this safe room?"
"Very," Bugs told him, sounding confident. "What's your condition, John?"
"The oxygen helped—and, let me compliment you on your nicely equipped first aid kit. I'm feeling mostly fine at the moment, though without knowing what I inhaled, that could change. Mustard gas could take hours to show up its worst effects for the poor blokes who didn't collapse in the first wave."
"So, first aid sooner rather than later," Bugs said firmly. "I'm ten minutes out with reinforcements. Just … don't do anything stupid, John, please."
"I could say the same to you."
John leaned the receiver on his shoulder and took one, last deep breath before turning off the oxygen. There were flames outside his window and he didn't want any more pure oxygen in here than necessary. No sense turning his safe house into Apollo One.
He wished he hadn't thought of that, though. What would happen if Moran decided to set the room on fire? Were these things heat-proof? Or would it act like a secure little oven?
He watched his monitor while Moran beat away at the flames blocking his door and then pull at the wood he'd wedged to keep the door from opening.
Then, towering at his full, enraged height, Moran filled the door.
###
John watched as Moran pulled a gas mask on over his face and then step over the embers on the ground, rifle held at the ready.
"Bugs? Moran is in the bedroom."
"I can see that, John. Five minutes."
John just nodded and watched the screen as Moran edged around the bed to the corner where John had been hiding. He couldn't hear anything, but he could imagine the stream of curses as the man saw he was missing.
Moran bent to look under the bed and then gave the side of the platform a kick, making John jump. The man backed away then and stepped toward the center of the room before taking his rifle in his hands and firing at the bottom of the bed.
John almost laughed when the bullet ricocheted back, just missing the man's legs. "He's shooting at the bed," he told Bugs over the phone.
"It's secure, John. Just hold tight," he was told, but he was barely listening, too busy watching as Moran looked around, clearly formulating another plan.
On his monitor, Moran reversed his gun and, using the butt, crushed the water sprinkler in the ceiling, reducing the water to a mere trickle. Then, he stalked back out to the terrace and came back with a can of petrol, which he began splashing around the room.
Oh no. "Have you got the same video feed I've got?" John asked. "Maybe full tanks of oxygen weren't such a good idea, after all. How heat-proof is this room, Bugs?"
"It should be fine, John," Bugs told him, but his voice sounded uncertain.
"You're not exactly inspiring confidence, here, Sherlock … I mean, Bugs," John told him, wondering at the tongue slip. "You know, this is exactly the kind of reason I don't like safe rooms. I'd rather be fighting than trapped!"
"And I'd rather you were safe," Bugs snapped back.
"Who the hell put you in charge of my life?" John could feel all the pent-up frustration of the last eleven weeks roaring through him. "I don't even know you. It's not your decision, but here we are. You put me in this situation and you'd damned well better get me out!"
"Believe me, John, I will."
John could hear Bugs yelling at someone, asking how close they were just as Moran tossed a lighter onto the bed, the room went up in flames, and the line went dead.
###
Note: I don't know how safe-rooms really work, so I'm making this up as I go. I'm trying to keep it realistic, but without any real research, I could have this completely wrong. Whoever Bugs is, though, he's obviously very security-conscious, so I like to think he'd have supplied the room with as many gadgets and safety features as he could. And no, I don't know much about poison gases, either.)
