Chapter Three
The two German spies drew up to their destination late that night. The de Havilland aircraft factory in Hertfordshire was dark and deserted, all the workers having left for the night.
This was what they had come to see. Well, it would be more accurate to say that this was what they had come to see... blow up.
The aircrafts that de Havilland produced - the Mosquitos - were frontline combat aircrafts and the Germans wanted them cut out of the equation. That was what the Germans had sent Napoleon and Heinz to sabotage.
They scaled the wired fence outside the factory and snuck into the grounds, setting their bombs.
The timers were set to blow in an hour to give them ample time to flee the scene, but one of Napoleon's bombs detonated prematurely, causing the rest of the explosives to go off and forced the two German spies to take off at a dead run to escape the ensuing blast.
The shockwave knocked them both to the ground and flame licked at them briefly before surging back.
Heinz was not sure whether this was done deliberately by Napoleon to mess with him and their mission, but nevertheless, he treated Napoleon as if it was.
It was a safe bet. Napoleon was always causing trouble.
"Ow, ow, ow!" Napoleon yelped as Heinz grabbed him by the ear hard and threw him back into the back passenger seat of their stolen car. "Ow! Heinz!"
Heinz rounded the car to the driver's seat and jumped in. "Don't talk." he said warningly and floored the gas pedal.
The car leapt forward and Heinz reminded himself that they should change vehicles before the police tracked this one down.
"Sorry." Napoleon said unapologetically.
"The Hell." Heinz grumbled, running a hand over his gun holster contemplatively.
"I said I was sorry!" Napoleon whined.
"And you heard what I said!" Heinz snapped back.
There was a moment's silence. "I think I burned my eyebrows off." Napoleon sighed at length.
The car screeched to a halt on the side of the street and Heinz spun around in his seat, eyes widened fractionally.
"Oh, this I've got to see."
Napoleon had his forehead covered by his hands. "Will you forgive me if I show you?"
"Sure, why not?" Heinz replied easily.
Sherlock opened his eyes that afternoon to see a short man with blonde hair sitting in one of Mycroft's armchairs nervously.
Funny, he hadn't even noticed him arrive. Not uncommon, though, he had been visiting his Mind Palace, after all. He was quite dead to the world when he did that.
"Captain John Watson." he greeted.
The smaller man jumped, startled. "Oh...!" He smiled sheepishly. "Sorry. I didn't notice you woke up."
"I wasn't sleeping."
Just then, Mycroft walked into the room. "Ah, Sherlock, back with us, I see."
John stood to attention like a good little soldier.
"Oh, don't do that." Sherlock said.
John looked at him, bewildered. "Excuse me?"
"What my brother means - I'm sure - is that you should remain seated." Mycroft said. "Wouldn't do to upset the leg."
John stiffened. "What leg?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The psychosomatic limp. Obviously."
"Obv-..." John looked confused. "Sorry, your secretary showed me in and neither of you have seen me walk. Who said anything about a psychosomatic limp?"
"We did, Doctor Watson, we did." Mycroft hummed placatingly.
"You winced when you stood up." Sherlock told the army doctor. "Considerable stiffness in the leg, probably built up from the flight back from the frontlines."
"Now, now, Sherlock." Mycroft admonished. "Play nice."
"How do you supply medical assistance on the field?" Sherlock asked, ignoring Mycroft. "Conduct surgeries? You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand."
John turned red. "I've never messed up in the field, thank you very much!" he defended himself angrily.
"Naturally," Mycroft crossed his arms. "this is because his hands don't shake when he is under extreme pressure. Do pay attention, Sherlock. The reason he gained these unfortunate set backs was not because he was haunted by the war... but because he missed it." The spymaster regarded John with a polite smile. "Welcome back." Whether it was to England, or war he was welcoming John back to, was unknown. He looked at his younger brother. "Are we done playing playground bully, Sherlock?"
Sherlock growled, rolling his eyes, and sat up.
Satisfied, Mycroft turned back to John. "My most sincere apologies, Doctor Watson." he said apologetically. "Pleased to meet you, I am Mycroft Holmes, and the rude one in the dressing gown is my brother Sherlock. Do put on some proper clothes, please." This was directed at the younger Holmes.
"Why should I?" Sherlock returned stubbornly.
Mycroft shook his head wryly and looked at John. "He is a stubborn and manner-less young man. Please do not kill him. He has enough enemies as it is."
"And my brother is a lying, cold-blooded killer." Sherlock returned, voice saccharine. "Please do not be killed by him. He has enough ghosts as it is."
The two Holmeses began a heated stare-down.
John got in between them, clearing his throat. "Um, sorry to intrude on the sibling squabbles, but what am I doing here?" he asked.
"Anthea didn't tell you?" Mycroft asked.
"Um... no." John shrugged. "She only said that it was urgent and highly classified."
Sherlock scoffed. "Typical. Listen, Doctor Watson, when someone says that to you, it usually means that he, or she, doesn't know."
"Or that it really is classified." Mycroft returned.
"Mycroft is a spymaster." Sherlock declared flatly. "Well, actually, he is the British government."
Mycroft glared sharply at Sherlock. "For God's sakes, Sherlock! Not this again!"
"It's all true." Sherlock continued dryly. "Winston Churchill is Mycroft's second in command."
John sat back down heavily as he watched the two Holmeses begin their second round of stare-down.
"Can I leave?" he asked timidly.
Neither of the Holmeses even heard him speak.
Der Fuchs, known in his own language as 'the Fox', fell out of bed with a thud when the message came in. He scrambled to uncover his radio and set it down on the writing desk in his room.
NAPOLEON AND HEINZ COMPLETED TASK. TAKE PARCEL AND MOVE TO LOCATION.
The message was concise. The Fox had been given a parcel by his German handlers last time he was in France and told to keep it until he was given further instructions.
He knew what was in the package. Fake documentations for two, an unassembled sniper rifle, and a book of Grimm's Fairytales.
The location in question had been taught to him before he had infiltrated England as well.
He pulled out the parcel in question and stuffed it into a bag that he slung over his shoulder. He set a flat cap on his head, worn old boots on his feet, and ambled off to St. Bart's Hospital.
"Oh, Aiden!" One of the nurses, Molly Hooper, greeted him with a smile.
The Fox, Aiden, smiled back. "Hey, Molly. How are you holding up?"
Molly put on a forced smile. "I'm good, thanks..." the Fox sent her a piercing look. "Well... not so good, actually." the woman confessed. "You must've heard and felt those bombs in last week's blitz attack."
The Fox 'aah'ed in understanding.
"A mother died the other day and we've got three new orphans running around. Two men are in critical condition, and I'm swamped!" Molly half-wailed her distress.
The Fox patted her head gently. "Take a break, Molly." he told her. "You look like you could use some rest."
"But I-..."
"No 'but's!" The Fox insisted. "I'll take over for a bit. Just let me drop something off and I'll be right back."
Molly nodded weakly and stumbled off to find some flat, vertical surface to sleep on.
The Fox was not a doctor or a nurse legally, but everybody at the hospital knew him. He was a regular there. He was unemployed and, being in the middle of a war and all, he couldn't exactly find work.
He helped the people affected by the German blitz attacks, though. He learned basic first aid from Molly and sometimes drove Sally Donovan's ambulance through the wreckages when they were short on hands.
The 'location' was inside the hospital, somewhere where many faceless people wandered in and out of without suspicion. Working so close to the spot gave him good excuse to be there now.
He hid the parcel in the spot he knew Napoleon and Heinz would be instructed to look.
Then, he rolled up his sleeves and got to work.