Thank you for sticking with me and reading my story :)
At four-fifty on a Thursday afternoon, the three-mile taxi ride from Barts to the 256 takes us almost thirty minutes. Way too frustrating for Sherlock who's jumping out onto the pavement for the fourth time for... I follow his dark silhouette fraying like a salmon in the middle of the small crowd... ten meters. Half the distance he covered the previous time. At this rhythm, next time he will have barely put a foot out that he will get back in the cab.
"People are so slow today and noisy! It's unbearable," he says to explain his hasty return.
"Sherlock? What if we have this all wrong?"
"What do you mean?"
"Even if I'd gone to the 256 instead of Barts, why would you think there's a threat to the BSL4 facility?" I ask, struggling to make sense.
"I don't think there's a threat to the BSL4."
"Then why are we going there?"
"Because they happen to have one of the best electron microscopes in the world and an expert on nanotechnologies. Aren't you curious to know what's in your blood?"
"Sure. What I don't understand is why does your brother think Allaoui would be there?"
"One, because I used your phone, and two, because there's a reasonable chance that he has an accomplice inside the place. An expert accomplice," Sherlock replies as our taxi stops in front of the 256 building A - personnel entrance.
"So, I'm a bait then?"
"Sort of," Sherlock says, energetically stepping out under the sunny sky.
The intense luminosity makes me squint.
"How is your leg feeling?" he asks, coming back to the taxi when he realises that I did not follow.
A deep sigh rises from my tense body as I extract myself out of the cabin, wishing for my sunglasses.
"I can walk."
"Good. Warn me when you think you can fly."
"Not funny."
"If it can reassure you, I asked Mycroft to have a medical team on standby here at the 256. You'll be as fine as possible considering your unusual situation."
For the next ten minutes, I try to ignore the heavyweight crushing, twisting, and tearing every single millimeter of my intestines apart while we fill the formalities at the first security booth. After having submitted all of our fingers and right eye to biometrics controls, a young corporal leads us to an elevator, gets in with us, and uses his swipe card to authorize our descent to the third, underground level.
"Is there another access point?" I ask, judging unlikely that Allaoui can use this entry to get in the facility.
"Yes, sir. Two others. Down level two, a corridor leading to the hospital C wing, and a goods-lift at shipping and receiving. All the others have been sealed off."
"How many others exactly?" Sherlock asks.
"I don't know, sir. The building's pretty old, and some modifications date back to the second world war," the young corporal replies just as the elevator's door opens.
The intensity of the ceiling lights makes me squint as I observe the small hall, more of an airlock actually with another security booth, two armed sentries next to a fire-resistant door that I imagine must give access to the laboratories.
We are told to wait there for our escort to arrive. Sherlock's impatience is betrayed by a movement of his right hand in his pocket while he tries to see through the narrow glass panel on the door what lays beyond the airlock.
"What is it you have in your pocket? ยป I whisper, curious.
"You'll see," he replies just as the door opens on a man with gray, short-cut hair and a white coat.
"Colonel Pattinson!" say I, surprised to see the man who patched me up back in Afghanistan.
"Captain Watson! Glad to see you. How are you doing these days?"
"Good. I'm good."
"How is your leg?"
"Walking."
"Happy to hear it."
"So, you're in charge of this facility?"
"Yes. I've decided a change in-"
"Why don't you two go to the cafeteria to discuss old good times while I focus on what brings us here and go to the EM lab?" Intervenes Sherlock.
Quickly, I make the presentations and notice that, in fact, Pattinson does not seem too happy to see us here. But then, the whole situation is quite unorthodox, to say the least. So, after a quick exchange of courtesy, followed by more blinding retina controls, we finally walk through the door and silently follow our host in a long, white corridor with offices on one side and laboratories on the other.
"The BSL4 is further down, at the center of two level-three laboratories," Pattinson says as we arrive at a T-junction, nodding quickly to the corridor on our right before turning left, adding: "but before we go to the lab, I'd like to clear some concerns first, if you don't mind."
"There are no concern to have," Sherlock says.
"What kind of sample are you going to observe under the EM?" Pattinson asks.
"Blood. Human. Not contagious. Class three by precaution only."
"I'll need more information to allow you to work."
"No, you don't."
"Perhaps you don't realise, but people who get to work in a BSL3 usually have at least a Ph.D., Mr. Holmes."
"What I realise is that ordinary people have a title because of their childish need to be granted access to a select club. Unless it is their unresolved, incestuous love for their mother to see her eyes gleam with pride when they finally obtain that common piece of paper. Thank god! As I do not have any of those petty needs, subjecting myself to the judgment of presumptuous pseudo-scientists never distracted me from my numerous interests. But if you insist, Doctor Watson will be happy to hear and clear any of your concerns while I conduct my own experiment that should not take more than thirty minutes. I accept being accompanied only if your man does not talk."
Pattinson cast me a shocked glance as Sherlock turns right in the corridor and starts to walk toward the BSL4 laboratory.
"However, if you have more concerns with your orders, I suggest you call your superiors!" Sherlock shouts without looking back, outrageously confident that he is in his right. And his brother being his brother, he probably is.
"You can trust him," say I, embarrassed a little by Sherlock's behavior because Pattinson does not deserve such disdain.
Quickly, Pattinson walks to the only office with an opened door.
"Peter? Could you go down to the four and assist a guest with the EM?"
"How did you end up with such a highly-connected jerk?" Pattinson mutters as I watch a man in his thirties, boots and hair cut saying military, quickly walk down the corridor.
"Long story. Not much activity around here," say I, wondering just how much information I should give him.
"We're preparing for a decontamination, so most works have been put on standby for a couple of days. Let's go to my office."
As we walk along the lifeless laboratories and closed offices, I cast a half-curious half-worried glance through each window, feeling the place a bit too clean to my liking. Empty walls, cold, sterile atmosphere... Even an operating room would look more welcoming, would transpire more joy of living than this facility. Or maybe this effect is caused by the artificial lighting.
"Headache?" Pattinson asks when I wince and massage my eyes to get rid of the sudden dark spots.
"Just some light sensitivity."
"There's a small UV component in our lights. Some very sensitive people wear tinted lenses to work here."
"Yeah. Do you?"
"No. I'm fine. Any chance I can coerce you to join my research team?"
"Why? Do you have a virus to shoot?" I ask, shaking my head to the dreadful vision of being trapped all day long behind tubes and Petri dishes. But when I meet Pattinson's eyes again, I realise my sarcasm has embarrassed him, so I add: "However, I wouldn't mind getting a refresher on nanoparticles as drug delivery systems."
"Here, come in," Pattinson says as he opens the door to his office. "A pretty wide subject. What do you want to know exactly?"
"How to get rid of nano drug delivery systems in someone's blood is of particular interest for me," say I, looking around the cramped, underground room.
A mahogany, L-shaped desk with a computer and a laptop; piles and piles of scientific publications; cluttered floating shelves; ground to ceiling bookcases; five-drawer file cabinets and above them, a few frames: diplomas, scientific posters of works published in Nature, Cell, Journal of Virology, works probably not from this facility but from the hospital research department. Collaborations then.
"What do you mean, for you?" Pattinson asks as my eyes freeze on a frame on the central shelf of the bookcase.
My throat suddenly feels very dry. And like a bass drum produces a roaring thunder, my eardrum vibrates from the blood rushing through my veins.
The picture shows a joint unit of British and Afghani soldiers. Matthews, Pattinson, and Allaoui...
"When was this picture taken?"
"Three years ago. Why?"
So before our mission. Of course before our mission! After it, Allaoui was dead, wasn't he? Is he, really? He is, I say to myself as my memories of the day I killed him resurface once more. I was with Matthews, climbing the stairs of the building across the street, facing the one from where the signal was coming. Sholvo and Johnson waiting to get our go before moving in.
I see again the half-opened door I was pushing with my foot to check if the flat was empty when Matthews had sworn between his teeth and suddenly taken off, shouting: "It's him! Watson! It's him!"
"John?" ask Pattinson, bringing me back to the present.
"I... I think I recognize a face..." I whisper before clearing my voice and showing Allaoui on the picture to Pattinson. "This man."
"Oh, him? Larzo Barzan. He used to be our interpret."
Barzan? Fake identity. And interpret? So working on the base.
Of course... Now everything's so clear.
"When's the last time you saw him?" I ask, feeling tenser by the second.
"Two hours ago, maybe."
"What the hell! Are you telling me that he is working here?!" I exclaim just as a siren blares like bombs are gonna fall on our heads.
