Chapter 4 - The Runaway Detective
A/N: FINALLY I finished this chapter in the middle of the night! There will probably be mistakes, feel free to point them out and I'll take care of them. If you like this story, please please let me know! Love you all! Rating going up for future chaps, random people dying and dirty words! ;D
Sherlock and Mycroft didn't exchange a word more, the detective simply ended the call, disassembled his phone in case his number would be tracked, and made his way out of the restroom. He had a lot of explaining to do. „Oh, what took you so long?" the woman greeted Sherlock as he slipped into his chair again. He let his eyes swiftly run over her, and he noticed she was slightly flustered. Perhaps because there were two new, and also empty martini glasses next to her. There was a sweet smile playing on her lips, so she was still sober enough to concentrate on her goal of seducing the detective. „Look, I need your help," Sherlock started, and the woman immediately leaned in his direction to catch his every word, „You're a flight attendant, you know your way around planes, and I can tell by the state of your palms you've been taking quite many flying lessons per week. Ambitious, aren't you? I need you to take me to the airport, and right now." Sherlock's straightforwardness seemed to take her aback, as her brows furrowed in suspicion and she moved an inch back. „Are you going to take me outside and rape me or something? Did you slip something into my drink? No, actually, who the hell are you anyway?" she asked, suddenly demanding and surprisingly aware of the fact she'd been hitting on a complete stranger. Sherlock sighed – he should have expected such questions, even though there was no time to explain and get the main idea across. „I haven't been completely honest with you, but I think there's something you need to know," Sherlock said. He needed to get her to trust him, even if that meant making up shabby lies. „Actually, I-„
Sherlock had finished the sentence, but it was as if all sound around him had suddenly been cut off. Before he could process what was happening, he realised he was on the floor, among scattered glass shards. His vision was slightly blurred, but he saw a figure running over to him and quickly helping him up. His sense of hearing returned soon after, and he caught the worried voice of the woman accompanying him: „Oi, do you hear me? Can you stand?" He felt her drag him up, swing his one arm over her shoulder and keep him steady against her small frame. She was surprisingly strong for a woman her size. As they stumbled around the table and chairs that had fallen over, in order to retrieve Sherlock's coat and her purse, other sounds started to fade in as well. The sound of numerous men yelling something in Russian made Sherlock's temples throb with sharp pain. „Bloody hell, someone threw in grenades," the woman muttered, as she helped Sherlock down to crouch behind the table. „Looks like you took the worst blow. Holy hell…" her voice wavered and she peeked at the scene unfolding in the bar's lobby. The elderly barman, joined by three male customers seemed to be physically fine and were now up against two young bald men dressed in black baggy clothes. The two younger men had retrieved knives from their pockets and were threatening to use force against the barman and his friends, if they wouldn't let them though. „Give us Sherlock and we will not hurt anybody," they commanded roughly, holding out their blades to the few people who were tightly pressed into a corner of the room, snivelling and rambling. The barman tried to reason with them, but he was fended off with a simple step forward.
Sherlock's mind was spinning. Obviously, Moriarty wasn't making this easy for him. The detective refuse to give up, to give up on London, John, and Lestrade. He reached out for his coat and pulled it from the chair it had been placed on. His revolver slid out of the pocket and his hand closed around it. „Bloody hell, what's going on?! Are you in a Mafia war with them or something? Are we going to be killed?" the woman hissed, exasperated and anxious all at once. „No. Now shut up," Sherlock firmly shut her up and pushed her behind him. He collected himself, and then, with no warning, bolted up from his cover. „You want me? Come and get me, you bloody fuckers."
The first knife missed Sherlock's shirt sleeve by a millimetre. The second one was sent flying in his direction soon after, but luckily, it also failed to hit and was buried into the wall behind him, next to the other knife. The two assassins let out vicious growls and shoved the shivering barman aside, rushing towards Sherlock. The detective raised his gun in their direction, but instead of stopping, the men ducked, rolled forward and bolted up, taking a leap in Sherlock's direction. Shocked, Sherlock fired thrice, but his poor condition wasn't helping him aim. His reflexes nearly failed him, as he dashed backwards, before one of the men got the opportunity to hit him in the face. „Get down!" a shriek filled the room, and left Sherlock's ears pounding.
Sherlock quickly stooped down, covering his head with his hands. In a second, there was the sound of solid wood and flesh colliding, and one of the men followed Sherlock suit, onto the floor. Blood was gushing from his mouth and he appeared unconscious. The detective's eyes widened and he caught a glimpse of black stockings and a magneta shirt, as the woman jumped over him with a fierce battle cry. Sherlock fetched his gun and stood up on his wobbly legs. The woman, wielding a chair that was missing one leg, was swinging the wooden object in the direction of the remaining assassin. She was clearly running on adrenaline, taking menacing skips towards the alarmed man. The man seemed to be overwhelmed with confusion, forgetting the gun holstered on his thigh, as he backed away and almost stumbled over a chair. Sherlock was done wasting time. He took a deep breath, aimed, exhaled, and fired. The man fell to the ground, a bullet through his side. „That's fucking right, you bloody wanker," the woman cussed between heavy breaths. She set the chair down, which stubbornly tilted askew, brushed blonde curls out of her face, and turned to face Sherlock. Both of them had sheepish grins on their faces and both of them looked equally mortified and relieved.
„We need to get out of here, right?" the woman asked, standing next to a still wobbly Sherlock and watching all the bar's customers regain courage to talk and move, taking out their phones and calling the police or the ambulance. „Yes. We are taking the back door. Let's move," Sherlock confirmed, sliding his dusty coat on, pocketing his revolver. He turned to head for the extra exit, when the lady reached out for his arm. She held onto his hand tightly and he gave her a concerned look. „My legs ache like hell, I don't want to put too much pressure on them," she said apologetically. Sherlock looked down at her torn stockings and shoes that were now missing their high heels. Shrapnel from the explosions had left little shallow wounds on her calves and her knees were bruised. „It's fine, we're both equivalently hurt," Sherlock dismissed the topic and they entwined their fingers and limped towards the exit.
She was bombarding him with all sorts of questions while they were walking away from the bar as fast as they could. She walked faster without high heels and they were moving towards the local airport at an acceptable speed. „Did you know those men? Why were they after you? What kind of a name is Sherlock, anyway?" Sherlock squeezed her hand tightly and she stopped rambling. Sherlock knew he had to tell her the truth sooner or later, and it was best to have her up to date with Sherlock's actions now, rather than later, when she was caught in this web of Moriarty's. „I didn't know the assassins, but I know the man who sent them after me. A criminal mastermind, to be precise. I've caused a lot of trouble for the Napoleon of Crime lately, and he isn't pleased, to say the least. It's kind of a constant battle of survival between me and him, but now he went one step further and is about to kill all my friends if I don't stop him in time. If you think I'm selfish – read to take such desperate measures to help my friends, then you should know, that if that madman regains power, he will wreak havoc across the whole world, potentially rousing an international political crisis – he loves those." He woman let out a wheezy laugh and pulled Sherlock with her, down the street to their right. „You talk like you know that madman very well," she answered, picking up her pace, „We aren't far from the airport, it's the huge bulky building right ahead." Sherlock squinted, and in the darkness of early morning hours, he made out the silhouette of a massive concrete and glass cube.
„Alright, we're here. I wasn't supposed to turn up today for work, but the security always lets me slide, I come to work at the weirdest times," the lady explained, entering the airport through the workers' door. Sherlock followed her quietly and closed the door after them. They walked down a corridor, until they reached the personnel room. „Come on," she whispered to Sherlock, unlocking the door with a key from her bag, and slipping inside. The room for employees was moderately spacy and cozy. There were a few armchairs, coffee tables, and one door that lead to the restrooms and employees' lockers. The woman effortlessly located her locker, retrieved her uniform and entered the ladies' restroom. It was a routine she carried out daily, if not more than once a day. Sherlock waited, looking around, for less than a minute, until she finally emerged from the restroom, nicely dressed in a well fitting pale coloured uniform. „Alright, let's go, hero. You better save the world or something," she chuckled, throwing her over clothes into her depository and locking it. Sherlock noticed round plasters on her legs, neatly covered by skin coloured tights. It seemed as if she was equipped for the end of the world, every single day. „Do you have ibuprofen?" Sherlock asked as they walked down another grey hallway. „Sure, knock yourself out," she replied, handing him a packet of white pills from her bag that she still had with her. Sherlock smirked and accepted the medicine, swallowing it dry. Not a moment later, a coke bottle was thrusted into his hand. „Don't take pills without water," she cautioned, and opened a door they had reached. The door read 'Maintenance'.
Sherlock found himself in a room full of computer screens and different radars. „Yeah, 'maintenance' doesn't really describe this hub. It's actually where they placed the security squad – after renovating we ran out of space. Nifty, huh?" she asked, beaming with satisfaction. Sherlock's hands went up to grab his head. „No, I don't think you understand," he started, but was cut off. „Now, we have the best gear here. If you're looking for a madman in an airport, you should be able to locate him. We can also trace flights and we catalogue the planes that take off and arrive. When I say „we", I mean the attendants, because the security guards are practically never here-„ Sherlock rubbed his temples, gritting his teeth. „No, no, no," he interrupted the woman, his voice growing louder with his swelling desperation, „When I say „airport", I mean I need to hijack a plane. I need YOU so I can hijack a plane. Can you hijack a plane? I REALLY, really need a plane, right about now, at this very moment!" The woman looked at him, dumbfounded. „Whoa, hold on a second. I'm not authorised to do that," she replied, fiddling her name tag between her fingers, attaching it to her chest and re-angling it again. She looked down at her feet and let out a huff. „I have to go help everyone," Sherlock explained, stopping her hands from going to undo the pin again by taking a hold of them. „Just improvise. Tell the security you're taking a test flight. You take flying lessons here, right?" Sherlock muttered, trying to change her mind. „I do, but I'm not allowed to board a plane by myself," she said, avoiding Sherlock's gaze, „And… god damn it, I forgot my necklace on. We're not allowed to wear accessories. Can you hold it for me?" she trailed off, removing her pendant, handing it to Sherlock who held his palm out. The warm metal touched Sherlock's hand and he observed the accessory closer. His heart fluttered and he let out a sharp gasp, his hand beginning to shake. „What is it, what's wrong?" the woman helped him steady himself yet again, „Did you get a concussion back there?" her voice sounded distant to the detective whose heartbeat was thundering in his ears. Sherlock's eyes focused on the nametag she had successfully pinned to her chest. 'Harriet'. Harriet. And the necklace wasn't a necklace after all, but two little metal plates attached to a fine golden chain. Dog tags that had 'J. H. Watson' written on them. „Harry, I think we're going to go and save your brother," Sherlock managed, and he saw all the colour drain from Harriet's face.