10:00 pm
Two pints down…three to go
The good news was that the wind had ceased. The bad news was that a fog had begun to set in and a heavy, damp fog at that; a fact which made searching for a white lorry in a shadowy maze of narrow streets and blind alleyways somewhat…challenging.
The vehicle had been sighted by a patrol in the general vicinity of an industrial area near the river. It was reported in response to the alert which had been ordered by Lestrade, however white lorries were not exactly a novelty and many sightings had been reported. By the time the information had been verified and passed on to the inspector, two hours had passed. Still it was the best, and only, lead they'd had since the affair had begun. The area in which the lorry had been seen consisted of several blocks of dilapidated old warehouses and weed snarled empty lots; the search would have been difficult enough to conduct during the day let alone a dark and damp foggy night. There were too many places to hide…far too many to search during their limited timeframe, a limitation which Moriarty delighted in reminding John of every hour on the hour with a tally and a new photo.
John needed no reminder; he was well aware of the fact that with each passing moment the chances of Sherlock's survival grew more uncertain. If they were unable to find him within the next two hours, he feared that, even if he managed to save his friend's life, the damage done might be irreversible. This fear had plagued him from the moment Moriarty had revealed his dark little 'game'. As a doctor he had witnessed firsthand the effects of massive blood loss on the body…and the mind. He vowed to do everything within his power to prevent it from happening to his friend.
He forwarded the last set of messages on to Lestrade and Mycroft, adding a rather scathing message of his own for the latter. It was both odd and extremely frustrating that the man who seemed to delight in abducting him off the streets at the most inconvenient of times just to inquire after his brother's eating habits, who managed to sneak at least three security cameras into the flat without his knowledge, who practically ran the British government had remained strangely absent while a madman had not only abducted his brother from his own home but was making good on his threat to dispose of the detective…in a most ingenious and inhuman manner. John swore that if anything…anything at all… happened to Sherlock he would take Mycroft's bloody umbrella and shove it up his…well some place very unpleasant to be certain.
"Doctor Watson."
John slid the mobile into the pocket of his trousers and accepted the Kevlar vest Bradstreet offered with a nod of thanks. Though they had been unable to locate the lorry itself, a search of the property holdings had revealed that Tipton Rugs and Furnishings held the deed to a large warehouse located in the general direction in which the vehicle had vanished. It was a start though not quite enough to gain the search warrant they required…until the tech boys had managed to trace the origin of the video feed to an area with radius of twelve blocks which included the warehouse in question. Lestrade had prepositioned his teams a few blocks away from the building as those with higher authority used their influence to gain the required warrant. Until then, all they could do was wait.
…with time they did not have.
What they needed was a miracle.
John secured the vest over his jumper, ignoring the damp cold of the rain as it traced down the back of his neck and beneath the collar of his shirt. His shoulder twinged in protest as he slid his arms back into his coat. He rotated it carefully, loosening the scarred muscle as he ignored the concerned looks of his self appointed bodyguards as they hovered in the background. His hand dropped to rest on the hilt of his service revolver tucked against his lower back beneath his coat. The familiar presence of the gun calmed him, as did the soft steady murmur of the voices and movement which surrounded him as the team Lestrade had assembled readied to move, awaiting the signal. He turned his head as the murmur of voices grew more urgent and then quieted suddenly. Lestrade stood in the center of the men, the thick tendrils of damp white fog nearly obscuring the group though they were a mere few meters away. The inspector gave a quick gesture and the men melted into the darkness like wraiths. John straightened as his friend hurried toward them, a determined glint in his dark eyes.
"We have the warrant." Lestrade announced as he reached them. "The teams are moving into position. You three are with me. With Moriarty involved, there is no knowing what situation we might find, so the explosives team will move first and the rest of us will follow. The mission is to get in, secure the site, find Holmes and get out. Clear?"
All three men nodded solemnly. Lestrade reached out and caught John's arm, holding him back as Bradstreet and Hopkins moved forward. His dark eyes were serious as he studied his friend.
"I know that you are armed." He stated softly. "Stay close, keep your head down, and try to remember that you are a civilian and let us do our jobs for once."
John nodded tightly. He knew the risk that Lestrade was taking allowing him to join in the raid…however, whether the result of Sherlock's influence or not, he was not about to let them bully him into remaining behind. Besides, if Sherlock was in the warehouse, they would need his medical expertise.
"Right." Lestrade stated, a small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. "Good, then. Sherlock would never let me hear the end of it if I allowed something to happen to you on my watch."
The grin widened briefly at John's soft snort of protest at the statement, and then the moment of levity faded as the radio on Lestrade's shoulder crackled quietly and the seriousness of the situation returned.
"Let's move out."
The men moved forward silently, spreading out along the maze of alleyways and streets which wove between the old warehouses along the waterfront; Lestrade's team was to approach the building from the front while the second team approached the rear. The air was thick with the scent of brackish brine of the nearby mudflats mingled with rotting fish from the docks beyond the buildings. John carefully stepped around a dank puddle of muddy water, pressing his back against the rough cut brick of the building beside his as Lestrade signaled them to halt near the mouth of the alley. He tightened his grip on his weapon as his eyes settled on their target. The Tipton Warehouse was a large three story structure which had been built more for utilitarian use than aesthetics. It was constructed primarily of brick with a large loading bay set into the right side; the large metal bay doors appeared to be secured, despite the aging patches of rust which peppered their surface. Large windows were set at even intervals along the top half of the building, several of the panes broken and cracked. The building appeared abandoned…with the exception of a small light which glimmered from the far left bank of windows. No movement was visible.
Lestrade issued the signal and the Yarders moved quietly forward. Each doorway was swiftly and carefully examined for possible trip wires or traps. With Moriarty's love for explosives, one could not be too cautious. None were found. A side door was swiftly opened and the team moved inside the structure. The interior appeared to consist of one cavernous main room with a metal staircase leading to a second story loft on the left side of the room. The main floor contained what appeared to be carefully balanced rolls of plastic covered carpets, many of which had been there for quite some time judging by the thick layer of dust. The air was stale and tinged with a noxious combination of old plastics, mildew and old carpets. As they moved silently along the side of the building toward the rear, John caught a faint scent of petrol. He caught Lestrade's eye as he motioned toward a large white object located near the loading bay doors.
The missing lorry.
The vehicle was empty, though they had not expected to find anyone inside. The engine was cold and the doors were unlocked. A closer look with a carefully hooded torch revealed little in the front of the vehicle other than a mound of take away food wrappers and an older GPS unit attached to the dashboard. A quick examination of the rear of the vehicle revealed a bit more. A pile of rolled area rugs were stacked carefully along the floor. One was half covered by a long black bit of fabric which on closer examination was revealed to be Sherlock's coat. Beside the coat rested an old battered metal tool chest. The men exchanged quick glances as they eased away from the vehicle and continued their search of the building. The presence of Sherlock's coat suggested that the man himself might be close. For the first time that night, a small bit of hope began to thaw the grip which clenched at John's chest.
Out of the corner of his eye, John saw the silhouettes of the second team as they moved swiftly up a metal staircase which led to a loft in the back corner of the room where the light had originated. The rest moved toward the rear a second light source was barely visible among the piles of rugs. The back left hand corner of the building appeared to have been walled off, forming a small box like structure the size of the sitting room at Baker Street. Unlike the rest of the building, it had been constructed fairly recently judging by the scent of drywall and fresh paint. If Sherlock were in the building, this was as likely a place as any. A light spill from beneath the lone door; no sound was heard from beyond it. The silence was eerie…almost foreboding.
Tension was thick as the team moved silently into place on either side of the door. Lestrade motioned for John and Hopkins to fall back as the rest readied to move. The door was examined for trip wires, and upon finding none, a pair of armored constables moved forward with a compact battering ram. Metal struck wood, splintering the door frame with a piercing crack as the men spilled into the small room, declaring their identity and issuing a demand of surrender…and then the shouts ceased abruptly followed by a loud oath.
"Doctor Watson!"
John surged forward through the doorway and into the room with Hopkins on his heels. The man nearly crashed into him as he came to a sudden halt at the gruesome sight which greeted him. Disappointment warred with horror and disgust before John felt his mask of professional detachment snap firmly into place. It was one thing to witness such a scene through a photo or video link…and another to see it in person. He moved closer to the low table and the body which lay sprawled on its surface. His fingers reached forward to press against the pale clammy throat though he had already known what he would find. No one could lose so much blood and survive.
His eyes met Lestrade's as he shook his head slightly.
"He's dead."
John reached forward and gently closed the dark lifeless eyes. "At least two hours from the looks of it." He took a step back as his eyes shifted to the container on the table beside the man, and the crimson colored liquid which spilled over its rim, pooling onto the floor. Anger burned inside him at the inhumanity of the act. No man deserved to die in such a manner, no matter what he had done. "Never had a chance."
"Joshua Tipton." Lestrade identified.
John nodded. "Out lived his usefulness…literally."
He ran a rough hand over his face and then through his hair as the heavy disappointment returned. There was no sign of Sherlock and their best suspect was dead.
"Spread out and search the building for his companion." Lestrade ordered. "And keep an eye out for any hidden rooms or locked doors. The signal came from this building, so Holmes might still be here."
Before anyone could move, the sound of slow clapping filled the room.
"Oh I don't believe that will be necessary, Inspector." A cold familiar voice remarked pleasantly. "Allow me to save you the trouble."
A large LED screen blinked to life against the back wall. John let out a low growl as he raised his weapon, though it was useless against the mocking smile of the man on the opposite side of the screen.
"Now, Doctor, temper, temper." Moriarty crooned.
John lowered the gun slowly as pulled his emotions under control. It would do him little good to lose his control now, not while Sherlock was still in danger and Moriarty was still breathing…why waste bullets on a television screen when he could save them for the real thing.
"Where is Sherlock?" He bit out between clenched teeth.
The smile plastered on the man's pale face grew patronizing as he took a step back from the screen to reveal the detective lying on the table behind him. "Oh he's safe…for now."
John swept the prone detective's image with practiced glance, measuring it against the level of blood in the glass beside him. A fine sheen of sweat glimmered against Sherlock's pale skin beneath the glare of the large overhead light. As John watched, his thin chest rose and fell with shallow rapid breaths. He had a little over two and a half pints, and was beginning to show signs of having entered the second stage of hypovolemia, quickly nearing the third. John shifted his eyes back to Moriarty to find the man watching him with intense fascination.
"You have surprised me, Doctor." Moriarty stated with a pleased smile before shifting his gaze in Lestrade's direction. "As have you, Inspector. You are both far more intelligent than Sherlock gives you credit for." The cold eyes moved back to John. "And you, Doctor…such loyalty…and admirable quality." The man let out a soft sigh of false remorse as moved closer to the table. "It is truly a pity that I cannot let you live."
John stepped closer to the screen, his eyes hardening.
"Why the game? Why waste your time if you meant to kill us all along."
Hate flared within the man's cold eyes as he turned to face the screen and then it cooled suddenly, vanishing as if it had never existed. "That, my dear boy, is for me alone to know. You have served your purpose and for that I thank you." He gave them a slight mocking bow. "And now your usefulness has come to an end."
Moriarty moved around the back of the table. "Before you die however, I did promise to allow your friend to say his goodbyes." He reached out quickly and a loud slap of skin against skin sounded.
Red filled John's vision as he surged toward the screen as he shouted his protests at the rough treatment as Sherlock's head lolled to the side. He felt a pair of strong arms grab at him and pulling him back…and Lestrade's calm voice in his ear. "Stand down, John. Don't let him get inside your head." He nodded tightly, his eyes never leaving the screen even as Lestrade's grip fell away. John stilled as a pair of familiar groggy eyes met his.
"Sherlock." John uttered. His hand clenched uselessly around the grip of his weapon as he registered the brief flash of fear in the detective's pale eyes.
"Say goodbye to your pet, Sherlock. You won't be seeing him again."
As John watched, his friend's eyes widened, his gaze shifting frantically from John to the door behind him and then back again as if he were trying to warn him. The detective's lips twitched though no sound emerged and John understood. It was a trap; it had been a trap all along. They had to get out of the building…now. John nodded slightly indicating that he understood, holding his friend's gaze for a beat. "I'm coming for you." He promised, and then tearing his eyes from Sherlock's with a near Herculean effort, he spun suddenly and shoved Lestrade toward the open door with all of his strength. "Hold on!" He yelled at the screen before following the man out the door.
"Farewell." Moriarty's voice mocked.
The image was replaced with a digital clock…its numbers slowly counting down.
Lestrade shouted for all to abort the search and clear the building as they ran past the rows of abandoned carpets, past the van…and toward the open door.
In the small room the countdown reached its conclusion, pausing briefly as it reached zero.
And then the world exploded in a cloud of fire and mortar as the building came tumbling down.
oOo
Across town two pairs of eyes watched with differing emotion as the image on the screen fizzled and then went dark. The room was silent for a moment, apart from the labored breathing of the man lying on the table, and then the man startled as the other clapped his hands together loudly.
"Well that was rather anticlimactic, was it not? Perhaps the next time, I should have cameras installed outside of the building as well as in." Moriarty remarked casually as he rubbed his palms together. The cold eyes lowered to study his prey, a mocking smile on his thin lips. "More dramatic, don't you think?"
Fury spread like fire through Sherlock's sluggish veins at the man's callous remark. To his surprise, and his opponent's, he suddenly shot upward off the table, his thin cold fingers wrapping around the man's throat. The moment was short lived, however as Moriarty merely grinned as the detective slumped back against the table in a boneless panting heap as his strength failed him.
"My, my." Moriarty stated as he leaned closer, his eyes studying Sherlock with barely disguised glee. "Are you still trying to win?"
Sherlock glared weakly at the man as he fought to slow the painful breathing. He held his opponent's gaze as Moriarty leaned closer, cocking his head to the side as a cold grin spread across his face.
"It is useless, you know." The man purred as he took the detective's chin between his fingers and forced him to turn his head toward the hourglass. "You friends are dead. No one knows where you are. You have no hope of rescue." The man leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "You've failed, Holmes. You've failed and I've won."
The words echoed through Sherlock's mind, keeping time with the rapid pulse pounding in his ears. His eyes slid close as he felt a strange numbness overtake him. What if his warning had come too late. John had understood, he was certain that he had, and yet what if it had all been in vain. What if they had died as Moriarty claimed. He swallowed weakly against the hard lump that had lodged in his throat. What if John were dead…and Lestrade as well…who would be left to stop Moriarty?
The table shuddered slightly as his nemesis moved away. Sherlock watched as the man came to a stop before the table which held the hourglass, reaching out to finger the valve which controlled the flow of blood from the tube into the glass.
"I had planned to watch you die, you know. Until the last bit of your life was drained away. But alas, time is short and I have much to do." Moriarty remarked as his grip tightened on the small bit of plastic. "However, I could end your life in a few short moments with just one quick twist of this switch."
Sherlock watched with listless eyes, hope fading as the man withdrew his hand after a moment of contemplation, a cold smile on his thin face. "Then again, I believe that it would be greater torture to leave you to contemplate your failure, alone and in the dark, as your time literally runs out."
Sherlock let his eyes drift shut as he heard Moriarty move away, his measured pace echoing through the small room.
"Farewell, Sherlock Holmes."
The strange stone on metal sound returned and then the room was plunged into darkness. All was silent with the exception of the ever present sound of his blood dripping into the hourglass. Nearly three pints of blood had drained…only two left to go…and yet he found that he no longer cared.
If Moriarty was right, if the game was over, then he had failed…and his friends had paid for his failure. If Moriarty was right, John was dead…
…and yet he could not ignore the small nagging voice which whispered repeatedly in his head.
I'm coming for you.
Hold on.
Hold on…two more hours. He would hold on for two more hours and then it would be over
…one way or another.
Author's note: Thank you for all of the kind reviews, favorites and story alerts. Each one motivates me to finish the next chapter that much sooner. Hope you are still enjoying the story. Thank you for reading. I value your feedback. Also for those of you who are in angst over the ending of Season 2, I recommend reading Arthur Conan Doyle's original stories The Final Problem and the Empty House. They may ease your mind enough to get you through until Season 3.
