Couple of quick notes; after spending last week in pure plotting mode for this tale, then most of the weekend asleep (twelve hours at a time when I usually get three), I appear to have caught something. This is a blessing and a curse. Blessing because my imagination runs wild when I'm feverish, and curse because my internal censor burns out first. Guess we'll see which wins! Extra special thanks to Nocturnias, thedragonaunt, and MizJoely, all of whom I need to catch up reading and reviewing! I will get there, promise! Forgive me? (Makes pouty face) Special thanks also to Rocking the Redhead (yes, I'm doing what the nice doctor says! 101.7 and counting), nowsusieq, 4May, 7stronger, and Thestarlitrose! Reviews make it all worth it! Please look for Flavia's beautiful illustration of my Fever Dreams on Tumblr! There is a plot and I'll weave as fast as I can! Hoping for Chapter Five in forty eight hours!
Procuring the proper outerwear from a nearby fire vehicle was almost absurdly easy. A scene was only ever as secure as the least observant official present. As far as anyone knew, this warehouse was simply derelict, nothing to be damaged by the fire but years of accumulated debris. Until the most sensitive boxes above were identified, this scene was as secure as a public toilet. Moran wouldn't have very long, but he should have long enough.
The giveaway had been the electricity being cut off before the fire had truly begun. His cameras should have sent clear images of the flames long before the wiring had burnt through. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw the hole blown in the first floor. None of the ammo above had detonated, and even if it had, the coincidence that it would rupture a hole into the vault was beyond imagining.
Not believing in coincidence, Moran climbed down a fire ladder to the basement below. The vault door was flung wide, but the explosion could have done that once the locks were turned off. More interesting was the small pile of bones currently cordoned off awaiting evidence technicians. Dry, disassembled, scattered, skull missing entirely. Those bones did not come from his trophy; he was sure of it. Clever attempt, though. If he hadn't looked himself; had instead waited for the official reports, he would have assumed his trophy was the unidentified body in the basement.
He made his way upstairs, checking his mental inventory against what remained in the charred rooms. If the idiots he hired had let the trophy get away, maybe they had at least gotten most of the other valuable property away from the flames. For a moment, he dared hope, and then his eye fell on a very large box of exotic triggers. Damn. Even Scotland Yard wouldn't be dense enough to mistake those as common devices. They'd be pulled out of the building as soon as MI5 arrived. He slipped off into the shadows, his credentials never questioned.
The silence alone snapped him awake. Long silence meant the cacophony was due any minute and he had to be braced for it. The one protest he had left against his captors was not reacting, not responding, not giving them what little he knew they wanted. He fought to not move, keep his breathing shallow.
Molly was…why was Molly here? Curled up, sleeping in a tatty chair he knew hadn't been in this place before. Wisps of her hair that had escaped the elastic were framing her exhaustion, moving as she breathed. If she were really here, her tiredness would be the least of his worries. No, she was an illusion, and he couldn't say if it was better or worse than the hallucinations that had come before. Painful, bittersweet. She was safe, they were safe, and that was the important thing. She could take care of them far better than he had. They would protect her far better than he could.
Something unfinished, a vow he'd never forged into words. Words were too fragile to hold his intent. Nerve, bone, the salt of blood and tears, but never flimsy, misinterpreted language. The vow was gone now, melted in his palm like snow. Molly, braver than she'd ever know, had dared name it and he'd failed her. She'd forgive him, he never doubted it, but didn't deserve it. All his cleverness, all his skills and he couldn't find his way home.
He wanted to tell her, too much, far too late. Without thought, he reached, hoping she would know he tried; he would have answered her if he could. A shadow falling on her curled legs. That was always the problem, wasn't it?
Unconsciousness pulled him under again, but he thought he'd heard his name.
John Watson paused in his note taking, hearing his next patient cursing a blue streak. The tone was unique, even if the language was practically universal. Soldiers swore as a matter of tradition, but some of the homeless seemed to want to make it an art form.
The office intranet displayed the right file just as the patient closed the consulting room door behind him. Paul Morrison, 23, no previous medical conditions, but a short history of narcotic seeking behavior. He wanted treatment for burns and a sprained ankle.
The smell reached him before he'd even looked up at the patient; melted plastic, concrete dust, burned hair. "Were you at that warehouse fire? The one on the news?" John asked, gesturing to the exam table.
"Supposed to be a party." Paul winced as he lifted his injured leg beside him onto the table. "Bloody Wiggins and his bright ideas! 'C'mon down and play with TV people', he said."
That was a name John hadn't heard in a long time, not since… "How is Wiggins, anyway? Last I heard he was trying to get back on the grid, into a job with a little security or at least a roof." He looked over the marks on Paul's arms. Most were first degree burns, but a few were second. No bandages required, but he'd prescribe some crème.
"That was before that freak came along." Paul must have seen some change in John's expression so he sped on. "He took up with this girl, some foreigner. Barely any accent, so don't ask me from where. Crazy, seriously demented. Keeps getting chased off, doing handstands on Tower Bridge! Bring 'em down on us all, she will!"
John waited for Paul to finish taking off his trainer and sock. "This girl has a name?" Maybe he'd look Wiggins up, just to see how he really was. It was another part of Sherlock's life he'd been reluctant to approach since his death. One more area he'd felt powerless.
Paul barked a laugh. "Not really! He's got some stupid pet name for her, though. Creepy girl! Wouldn't surprise me if she started the damned fire in the first place!"
He had desperately wanted to close his eyes as the wind howled past, but knew he didn't dare. No rehearsals and no retakes. The nightmare elongated the memory, stretching the distance for mile after mile. That moment when he thought his heart had actually stopped, held for hours, until he thought his ribs would implode.
He snapped awake, would have collided with her if she hadn't grasped his shoulder and locked her arm, following his motion as he sat up. Her eyes, so heartbroken, yet so infinitely strong. That was how he thought of his Molly; rushing in where angels feared to tread. She was speaking to him, but the howling hadn't faded and he couldn't understand her. He shook his head in confusion and she stopped.
The tears, oh god. If his mind had to magic her here, couldn't he be spared that much? Too many tears already to ever be made up for. Every one he had ever suspected burned. He wanted to ask her to stop, it wasn't worth it, he wasn't worth it, but the words he wanted to express failed as badly as the words his mind wouldn't take in.
She pulled slightly away from him as he laid back, the room beginning to spin to the left. It was then that he saw her hands, fists curled tight, nails driven deep in her palms. A slight tremble as her muscles stayed rigid. It flooded him like a cool balm; she wasn't weeping for something he had unthinkingly done some forgotten promise or misspoken word. She was angry for him. Angry for the pain, the hunger, the thirst. Angry for the unanswered shouts and unheard pleas. Angry for the horrible little cell he was sure was to be his tomb.
He took one of her hands in his, carefully loosening her fingers until they straightened. He traced the four half moons embossed in her palm. Even an illusion of her couldn't be left like this. He wove his fingers between hers, then his other hand around the whole. With any luck, she would never really know the truth. He slipped away again.
Viktor Andrasko did his best to pace in an office entirely too small for the job. Irritation burned, goaded at him. The only peace he had ever made with his one previous failure was the knowledge that the information had gone to the grave, never to be revealed to anyone. Now that he knew that was not the case, he was furious, desperate to begin the chase, even if the client himself could no longer gain the benefit. Pride was involved, reputation. Leverage against the client's successor; the fool who accepted an office far smaller than his stature deserved.
Moran dropped his overcoat onto a long couch and began rolling up his sleeves. "Tell me the tale again, from the beginning, including the parts you've skipped over." He took up station at his desk, the various monitors coming back to life, some showing his own cameras, some patched into the government feeds. It was amazing what you could find if you just bothered to look. MI5 should have arrived on scene by now and the delay intrigued him. Had the trophy left a message behind? He couldn't find one, hadn't had much time to look, but that didn't mean none was to be found.
He took his time lighting his cigar while Andrasko droned on, his eyes never leaving the screens. It sounded like another of Jimmie's beloved fairy stories, full of imperiled damsels, fallen heroes and hidden treasures. How a man of his genius could get so caught up in children's rhymes and bedtime stories was one of the few things Sebastian had never understood.
"Venovat pozomost!" Andrasko slammed a fist into the desk. "Show some respect! This entire enterprise was built on the work I did for him! You would have nothing now without his plans and my skills!"
"But you blew it, didn't you?" Sebastian smiled crookedly. "You let the key escape without opening the lock. Sloppy, Viktor. How much did that little error cost in the end? Is that why Jimmie didn't really trust you?"
Andrasko looked stricken. "He pushed too hard, wanted answers too quickly. The child would rather have died. I…we thought she had."
Moran opened the file that had been left on the desk, fanned out the still photographs taken from the security recordings of the now ruined warehouse. Jimmie always hated unfinished business and he knew he would give Andrasko some amount of time to complete the earlier work. The girl was too small to have created much of a problem. Her information was really no longer needed. A shot from a reasonable distance would be the end of it.
A single image stilled his hand. The time/date stamp showed it was from yesterday's footage. Her slim form halfway down the ladder into the basement. What the hell would she have wanted with his trophy? "Find her. Bring her here. Watch her first, though. She may be with Sherlock Holmes."
Coughing wracked him, dehydration still playing havoc with his body. He vaguely remembered choking, someone else pushing their way into the cell and performing the Heimlich maneuver. He had lost too much breath at that point to try to break his way free, cursed himself a fool for his weakness. A prime opportunity that had gotten away from him. The last chance he thought he had, wasted.
Molly was still here, concern still blazing in her eyes. She held a small bottle of water out to him and his hand shook as he took it. Lukewarm, stale, but it was still one of the best flavors he could ever remember. Another deep drink and the burning in his throat subsided. He stared at the bottle in shock, his grip loosening. The smallest sliver of doubt crept in, starting a chain reaction.
Her robe hanging on the back of the door, pink, terry cloth, burn on the right sleeve from her electric kettle. Beaten hardback copy of "Jane Eyre", dog-eared on the bedside table. Too many perfume bottles lined up atop her dresser, most not suiting her but too expensive for her to want to throw away. Small mould stain in the ceiling in the corner where her old building's roof needed repairs.
He reached out carefully, cupping her jaw and drawing her close. One gold mote in the suede brown of her left eye and three in her right. No hallucination. Not in the cell. He'd only spent a few hours in her flat before, shouldn't remember it in this detail. He'd never been able to delete the motes.
She was speaking, so slowly, but his mind was only processing the occasional word; free, safe, rescue, home. He shut his eyes tight, curled his fingers in her hair. Not safe; not if Moran was still out there. He needed to think, needed to plan. She had to be kept safe, this brave, insane woman who just saved him yet again.
He eased her down, drawing the duvet over them both. Let the rest swirl away for a bit. She would anchor him while he slept, while he tried to find a way to save them both.
Mycroft Holmes had already pushed aside the warm duvet and gotten to his feet before he was awake enough to lift the receiver. One of the benefits of a trusted staff was the knowledge that if that particular phone rang, something truly required his immediate attention. "Yes, Anthea?" Where had his slippers disappeared to?
"Sorry to wake you, sir, but one of your red flags has appeared within London itself." Even over the line, her concern was evident; tightness in her voice that indicated it was a red flag to her as well.
He blinked blearily at the alarm clock. Morning had begun for most, but he had only been asleep for a couple of hours. Boredom and a long rest would have been a delight. He cast one last longing look at the rumpled bedclothes. "What is it?"
"Dentrazi detonators. An entire crate of them, perhaps as many as fifty, has been found in the remains of a warehouse fire."
Mycroft's blood frosted. He didn't need to review any notes. Dentrazi detonators were the mark of a passionate stupid amateur or a desperate smart professional. The only one he had ever seen, the only one ever known previously to have been on British soil, had been hand delivered by an Interpol agent to his personal office.
The design was simple enough to be cheaply produced by anyone with enough chemistry knowledge. The Dentrazi was supposed to be activated by a coded text message sent to an attached mobile phone, but the design had proven to be far too sensitive. Once activated, it could be set off by any mobile phone signal coming too close. Each had the ability to trigger a large amount of several explosive agents. As long as the user wasn't too particular about a specific target, a Dentrazi could cause a large body count at little expense. A thing nightmares could be built upon.
Coffee would be an immediate requirement. "Seize control of the scene. No one in or out unless they've been thoroughly debriefed. Fire, police personnel, all of them. Clear the media from a two mile radius. Get Thompson in for a complete inventory of the warehouse contents, burned or otherwise. Get Acosta in to check for security apparatus. No one would leave a shipment like that unattended."
"Already in progress, sir." Anthea assured him. "One other note? It is currently Detective Inspector Lestrade's crime scene."
Mycroft rested his forehead on his hand. This day was not shaping up well. Better a preemptive strike. "Please ask the Detective Inspector around to my office before any rivalries can flare up."