Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
The Cold Reveal
The slaughterhouse was only fifteen blocks from Molly's flat. Rather than waste time hailing a cab, Sherlock covered the distance at a dead run. His mind blotted out his fatigue and focused on finding Nesbitt and unleashing hell on his worthless carcass. The memory of Molly's fear for her nephew's life was burned into his brain, and it fueled his rage.
Tamasin met him by the front door. "He's still inside. This is the only unlocked door." She handed him a torch and clicked her own on.
"Excellent. Lestrade and his men should be here within a half an hour. Plenty of time to apprehend the suspect."
A wide, toothy smile decorated her face. "And if he should resist being apprehended?"
His own smile flashed in the darkness. "Then we use force to restrain him."
"An adequate amount, of course."
"Adequate for a killer, of course." He flipped his collar up. "Shall we begin?"
Together Sherlock and Tamasin walked into the abandoned slaughterhouse, their torch beams sweeping the interior. None of the machinery remained, but the stench of old blood and guts hovered in the air like old ghosts. Dust stirred in the stale air, marking the smeared imprints of size-ten trainers that had cut through the carpet of age and grime on the smooth floor.
"He headed deeper into the plant," said Sherlock, indicating the direction to Tamasin. "Tread carefully. He may still be armed."
The trail led them down a dark, dank hallway that reeked of mildew and old blood. A chill made Sherlock shiver, and his breath ghosted in front of his face. A puzzled frown tugged at his lips. "I thought you said this slaughterhouse was abandoned."
"Slated for demolition next month. Why?"
"The temperature has dropped almost ten degrees. And I hear the hum of the electric system." Sherlock scanned the room they were just about to enter. "Tam, what does that look like to you?"
She looked around. "A room. Metal walls, metal floor, no windows, ceiling vents spaced every ten..." A sharp inhale of breath told Sherlock that she'd realized what he had. "Locks, I think this is the - "
He didn't hear what she said after that on account of the blow to his head sending him tumbling into darkness.
His return to consciousness was punctuated by Tamasin letting loose a soft yet incensed, "Bollocks."
The back of Sherlock's head was throbbing with pain, but he was able to work out the particulars. "Nesbitt locked us in the freezer."
"Came up behind us and hit you in the head. Forced me to drag you inside at gunpoint." She cursed again and gave the door a useless kick. "Bolted from the outside. We're trapped."
The dimensions of the meat freezer were deduced within the first five minutes. Twelve meters by seven meters by eight meters. Wall thickness, between ten and fifteen centimeters with insulation and covered in aluminum in conformity to the latest health codes. Temperature, between negative seventeen and negative twenty-three degrees Celsius. Sherlock checked his phone. No signal at all. We're too insulated for a signal to lock onto us. Tracking by GPS will be useless.
He glanced over at Tamasin, who was already belting her peacoat even more tightly around her waist. She pulled out a black knit beanie and yanked it over her head and ears, then extracted a pair of gloves to tug over her hands. "Better bundle up, Locks," she remarked. "We might be in here a while."
Sherlock quickly wrapped his scarf around his pounding head in a makeshift turban, turned up his Belstaff's collar to protect his neck, and shoved his hands back in his pockets to keep them warm. Loss of body heat would become an issue almost immediately. Moderate hypothermia would set in after a matter of hours. If no help arrived, death would follow shortly after.
"John will come."
He sighed at her statement. Tamasin liked having faith in things, a sentimental notion he could never understand. "Of course he will. Molly will have undoubtedly called him and Lestrade by now. Doubtless they are scouring the area for any signs of a chase or struggle. Once they find Oliver, it will be a simple endeavor to locate where he's been."
Tamasin gave him a look. "And how will they accomplish that?"
"Molly heard the name of the packing plant. And once they notice the fresh blood in the hallway, they will follow the trail to us." Mention of his wound brought Sherlock's mind back to his headache. A quick check of his body yielded the goose egg at the back of his head (which had stopped bleeding, thank goodness) and the discovery of a cut on his cheek. Shallow, no major damage, but still bleeding. Must've scraped it on the floor as I fell, he thought as he wadded a spare handkerchief against the wound.
"Oh here, let me." Tam knelt beside him and held the handkerchief more securely. "You were always rubbish with patching yourself up after fights."
A real smile found its way onto his face before he could stop its arrival. "I was pretty good at scrapping, though."
"Had to be. You got pounded every other day by some bigger bloke because you couldn't keep your quips to yourself."
"And you'd always patch me up afterwards," Sherlock said, looking down at her and still smiling. "And you'd always say - "
"Locks, there's going to be a day that I won't be around to do this anymore." She looked up at the dark-haired man with a fond smile. "And I'd add, "You need to make friends. Friends other than me." And you'd say - "
"I don't have "friends." Something hard lodged in his throat as he spoke. "I have you."
"And it was sweet to say that, Sherlock, but we weren't always going to be together."
"I truly believed that."
"But even then, I was a realist," Tam said. "Some things don't ever change, no matter what else has."
The oddness of her statement suddenly struck Sherlock. In fact, now that he thought about it, a few things were a little off about Tamasin. He could never hold onto it, like trying to grab smoke with his bare hand, but now, without the distractions of a case and Christmas, he was beginning to recall things. Uncertain things, coming back to him over the last few days since she came back.
She must have caught his expression, because he heard her say, "They'll come for you, Sherlock. Don't worry."
His eyebrows furrowed slightly. "For me? What about you?"
Tamasin frowned in puzzlement. "I said us. They'll come for us."
She misread the pensive look on his face. "I know the cold sucks, but think of it this way. You always handled winter better than I did. We're going to be fine."
Still suspicious, Sherlock gave a quick shake of his head. Most of his extremities had already gone numb, and the cold was affecting his ability to think clearly for very long. But he knew one thing.
Something about Tam was off.
After what felt like hours, Sherlock couldn't even begin to pretend that he was fine. His fingers had long since gone numb, every breath hurt coming in and out, and he was so, so sleepy. It was almost as good as being high, because it slowed his brain down and made him feel as if nothing bad could happen. Like he wasn't courting death every second.
Yes, it was exactly like being high.
"Sherlock, you've got to stay awake." He forced heavy eyelids open to find Tam kneeling in front of him, invading his personal space as fondly as she loved to do. "Don't close your eyes. Your body's trying to shut down on you. Fight it. Mind over matter, remember?"
"Mind o'er matter," he mumbled back, tripping over his tongue. "Mind can be tricked, man can be fooled. Not real can look real, sound real, feel real, and not be."
Tamasin's hands framed his face, soft and grounding against his cheeks. "What on earth are you babbling about? Locks, you're not making any sense."
"I'm goin' t' die here," Sherlock slurred. A drunken grin spread across his numb face as he looked at Tamasin. "So it's fine. Re'lly."
"It's not fine," Tamasin hotly denied. "What about John? Molly? Lestrade? Christ, what about Myke and Mum and Dad? They'll be devastated."
"Wha' 'bout you?"
She blinked, and in that split second, Sherlock knew. Maybe the knowledge of oncoming death really did bring clarity, because now Sherlock noted all the discrepancies. The last few days flashed through his mind like a Super-8 reel - coming home to John, speaking with Molly, the crime scenes, the nights in 221B, the outraged cabbie demanding his fare, these last few hours in the freezer.
Nobody had directly spoken to her. She'd never been there at all.
"It's jus' like in uni. When I got high." He looked up at the hallucination and smiled again. "Y'ur not real."
"Of course I'm real." She let go of his face and grabbed his hand in both of hers, chafing the skin between her palms. "I'm here, Locks. It's me. It's Tam."
But his mind had worked it out, and one irrefutable fact kept him grounded. "Y'ur dead, Tam. You've been dead for ov'r twen'y years." It didn't hurt to say the words, not this time. "And very briefly, I will join you."
"Sherlock Holmes, don't you fucking dare!" But her words sounded muffled, like he was hearing them through dozens of pillows. He let his eyes slide shut and a sigh escape his lips. His great mind rested at long last as the fatigue overtook him.
John, Lestrade, and ten officers found him thirty minutes later. Alone.
A.N. - Personally, my face-claim for Tamasin Holmes is Katie McGrath. She's got beautiful color-shifting eyes that are perfect for a Holmes.
Stay tuned!
