Warning, the author recommends to have a box of tissues, well within reach, whilst reading this chapter.
TWO WORDS
CHAPTER 6.
"It's a bit more than just a forest," Watson reads off from Wikipedia on Holmes' phone. "The Harz is the highest mountain range in northern Germany, it has a length of 68 miles and a width of 22 miles."
The pair are sitting on a train – in a First Class compartment (the only class with remaining free places) – quickly eating up German countryside westbound. It's a very classy atmosphere composed of dark mahogany wood, two small bunk beds and a low table by the glass window. There's also a coat rack and the window has deep red curtains. Neither of the Englishmen pays the decor much attention.
"Mostly woods, a dozen rivers. It's an ideal place to hide someone." The doctor continues scrolling down the page.
"I need to contact Anthea, find out if they have men familiar with the area." Sherlock extends his hand, palm up, for his mobile. John, whose eyes are still downcast, doesn't notice the gesture.
"I need my phone," Holmes says impatiently.
"I'm reading, Sherlock," the blogger tutts, immensely happy at the role reversal. How many times had he wanted to call his sister, Harry, only to find out his friend had used his phone again and then forgot it somewhere else in the flat. He decides to let him sweat it out a little before his good nature takes the better of him again.
"Here." He reaches in his pocket. "Use mine."
Sherlock quickly snatches the little black device from John's fingers and he types in his brother's assistant's number to relay their latest breakthrough. John absentmindedly listens to the conversation, while he reads on. The part about wild animals has him slightly worried.
Once he's done with the article, he decides to save a copy of the page on the phone, just in case. The soldier in him knows it's always useful to have quick access to information on the battlefield. He sighs then. The way Sherlock organizes his files is a bloody mess. It's a clutter of various documents, all stored in the same place; it's like the man has never heard of folders.
John looks on at the stupidity of it; he finds a file named 'DNA results K.L.' next to 'Chinese Take Away'. A little bit further down, he discovers 'Locksmiths list' sandwiched between 'Lipsticks shades' and 'Pumpkin types'. He scrolls down and finds the page he has just saved 'Harz Mountain – Wikipedia' is at the very end of the list, just after what seems to be a saved voicemail dated '03/13/2012'. Intrigued - and suddenly having a bad feeling about this - John clicks on it and brings the phone to his ear.
Coldness washes over him at once as the message starts to play and he recognizes the voice talking in the speaker. He instantly feels like he's just jumped in an icy lake and dread spreads throughout his insides. The message isn't long, but John is more than puzzled at the end of it. He looks up at his friend and sees Sherlock is still talking with Anthea, oblivious to the blogger's recent discovery.
He isn't sure if he should tell him. He remembers what the younger man was like in the warehouse last night and he thinks this might be a little too much for him to take at the moment. But then he remembers his friend's broken voice when he'd blamed himself for not picking up the phone when Mycroft called, and he knows what he has to do.
"Anthea will send someone to pick us up at the station," the detective informs him after hanging up and pocketing John's phone. "She says he's very reliable and he has been ordered to assist us in whatever capacity we may require."
"Good," John says, in half a voice.
"Something wrong?" The detective frowns, being astutely perceptive for once, or maybe it's just a sign of how well he's come to know the other man.
"I - I'm sorry." John looks at the phone in his hand, resolutely not making eye contact with his flatmate.
"I was half-asleep," he adds eventually, "I - I must have pressed the wrong buttons.
"Sorry." He places the phone on the table in front of the detective. Then he stands up and leaves the compartment to give him some privacy.
Sherlock looks at his friend's retreating back with a puzzled expression. Once the door closes after John, he returns his attention to his phone which lies on the table. Saved message, he sees. Then he notices the date and comprehension dawns on him.
His hand shakes slightly, as he reaches forward to press play.
"Sherlock," his brother's voice echoes in the silent cabin, barely more than a whisper; his short breath indicates he's just stopped running. Silence stretches on and then the noise of a car engine can faintly be heard in the distance. It grows louder and his brother's breath comes out a little faster.
"Goodbye," Mycroft says at last, his voice trembling even more. Time stretches and the younger Holmes can hear the car getting closer. The silence is punctuated by his brother's laboured breathing and suddenly the message ends and his phone falls silent.
o0o
John re-enters the compartment some ten minutes later. He stops in front of the detective, and Sherlock raises his head slowly, looking up questioningly. He seems so young and innocent in this instant, with his silver eyes wide and wet, and the expression there rips at John's heart, like a sharp knife would. He feels a burning ache in his own chest, in answer to the pain in his friend's gaze.
"I'm sorry," John says softly. He sits down on the side of the little table and brings himself to the younger man's eye level.
Sherlock doesn't offer any reply. He isn't looking at him anymore; his eyes settle on a loose thread in the dark upholstery which he straightens absentmindedly with long porcelain-white fingers.
Their train continues to cross through the countryside and the world flies by, sending rays of sunshine dancing on his friend's pale face. Sparkling speckles of light momentarily colour the vacant expression.
"Are you okay?" the doctor questions eventually and the other man shakes his head 'no', eyes still resolutely downcast.
"Look at me, Sherlock." His voice is firmer and it leaves no room for arguments. This voice comes from the doctor in him; the part of him which is concerned that his friend might be going into some kind of shock.
The detective obeys the familiar tone, chin tentatively raising, eyelashes revealing pale irises and their eyes meet again. John has to force himself to maintain the connection because Sherlock's eyes are filled with so many conflicting emotions all at once, it scares him a little. The quicksilver orbs are empty and full, dead and alive, filled with guilt, remorse and fear. It's the most naked he has ever seen the other man. Sherlock is stripped down to his very soul in this moment and John badly wants to look away because it hurts him to see his friend like this.
He doesn't have to fight long against his impulse to avert his gaze because Sherlock quickly turns his head to the left again. Long lashes blink furiously as he takes in shuddery breaths. He can't continue to look at his flatmate either, to see the compassion and the concern there shakes him to the core, reaching him where he has locked himself away from the world.
The memories are all coming up to the surface now; earlier days, happier days, when everything was simple and he was so certain that his brother would always be there. And then the memories lose their colour and everything becomes darker and uglier. His world is suddenly filled with resentment and hurtful comments, and pain - so much pain that they've inflicted upon each other. It eats at him, at his heart and his soul; this ugly monster that raises its head within him. Sharp teeth and even sharper claws rip him apart from the inside. He tries to hide from it, from the truth and the darkness that is waiting to engulf him.
So he looks away from his friend's gaze, away from the concern there and the care that John so obviously wants to give.
He wishes he could tell him to go away, to leave him alone but he doesn't have the strength for it; doesn't want to risk it. He remains frozen in immobility; he is a fractured porcelain doll and even the softest of wind could be enough to cause all of the pieces to fall apart.
"Sherlock?" John is really worried now, but the detective remains engulfed in his catatonia.
God, how can I help him, he wonders. The young man has so very little experience with emotions and this latest development coupled with the last few days of worrying would be enough to throw almost anyone off balance. John has to find a way to reach him, he knows, before the pain and the remorse eat at his friend too deeply.
"Sherlock, please listen to me," he starts hesitantly. "I know you're hurting and you just want to be left alone."
There's no answer, not even a nod or a shake of the head. The detective remains absolutely still, eyes downcast and almost closed.
"But Sherlock, I've been there. What you're feeling, I know what it's like." John fights hard to keep his voice even. "I just want you to know that you're not alone, okay. It's important that you remember that. And I know things really don't look good right now, but it isn't over yet.
"We are going to find your brother, I promise you that. We will turn over all of that damn mountain if we have to, but we will find him," John promises him, pouring all the determination he can in his voice. "We will find Mycroft and then you can apologize to him."
Tears come then. Falling from Sherlock's left eye and then his right and John's heart breaks all over again. The young man huddles himself in the corner of the bed and he wraps his arms around his torso as thick, hot, cascading tears roll down his cheeks.
The doctor can't help himself from reaching out. He quickly relocates and sits on the bed next to his friend, grabbing the discarded Belstaff coat from the back of a nearby chair in one swift motion. He carefully drapes it around the young man, tries to still the shaking and hold Sherlock together even as he falls apart before his eyes.
Sherlock is so lost within himself he can barely think anymore. Emotions pull at him from all sides and he feels like he's losing himself. Images dance before his eyes: his brother younger and then older, smiling and then yelling at him in anger; different moments all melting into each other and the blood - always the blood - coming back to haunt him; tiny droplets of dark crimson red shining under fluorescent lights in a deserted warehouse. He wants it to stop, wants the pain to abide but he doesn't know how to fight it.
"It's okay, Sherlock. Let it out." John's gentle voice reassures him somewhere above his head and he gives in to the pain.
o0o
When the conductor announces Halbertstadt, John reluctantly decides to wake Sherlock up. He wishes the ride would last longer so his friend could sleep a little more. God knows he needs it. The young man fell into an exhausted slumber after the tears finally dried out. He hasn't moved since, and neither has John.
"We're there," he tells his flatmate simply when the brunette fixes him with a questioning gaze.
"Okay." He moves away from the doctor and lifts the coat off of himself before shrugging it on.
They stand up to leave the compartment and the shorter man has his fingers on the handle when Sherlock reaches for him with his left hand, forcing him to turn over and face him.
"John, I-" he starts; then he falters off, unsure how to finish.
"It's okay, Sherlock." He looks up at his friend, glad to see that the unbearable pain is gone from the blue eyes. "It had to come out. Hopefully you're feeling a bit better now?"
Sherlock nods then, still a little unsure of himself, but he gives the blonde the beginning of a smile and the doctor nods back at him before going out of the door.
There's a man in his late thirties waiting on the platform. Although he does not carry a little sign with their names on it, it's still evident he is here for them. John spots him immediately. The telltales are all over him. It's in his quick brown eyes scanning all the passengers coming out; his apparently laid back attitude, but look more closely and you'll notice he's ready for fight or flight. Then, there's also the outline of a gun under his jacket. The imprint would be invisible to the untrained eye, but John was a soldier and he knows what a concealed gun looks like, he could draw the shape with his eyes closed. Lastly, there's the physique: short haircut, strong muscular built and a sort of swiftness - as sharp and deadly as a blade, if you were one for the poetics - that ebbs from him. This man, the army veteran recognises, is a trained killer.
Sherlock must have noticed too, because he walks straight to him. They don't give their names; they don't need to. As they approach him, the man turns on his heel and starts walking towards the exit with measured steps. Sherlock and John follow dutifully without a word. There's a black four-wheel-drive SUV waiting for them outside. The plates are German, but a torn out piece of Bassett's Liquorice Allsorts' plastic bag under the front seat betrays the driver's origins.
He drives efficiently through the city's morning traffic and takes them to the back lot of what is apparently some logging company. He parks on the side of a small concrete one-storey building and motions for his guests to follow him inside.
The flat, if one can call it that, is sparsely furnished. There's a kitchen and a bare living room (save for one plastic chair in a corner) on the ground floor, two bedrooms and a bathroom on the first floor with only the minimum requirements.
"You can call me Tom," the stranger says. He closes the door after his guests have entered. There's no doubt the name is an alias.
"Pleasure," John replies with less warmth than he would normally use. He doesn't like the likes of this man; they're little more than hired-guns in his opinion.
"You have been briefed, I suppose." Sherlock dives in with his usual subtlety.
"Anthea forwarded me the file on your brother's kidnapping," he replies, waving for them to enter the small kitchen.
The detective chooses to stand near the dusty window and John sits down on one of the two chairs that accompany the little wooden table. Tom stays on the threshold, leaning against the right jamb.
"We believe they're hiding him somewhere in the Harz mountain," Sherlock states.
"Good choice: miles of desolated woods with no one around. There are also old forgotten bunkers from the second world war era," their new ally informs them. "It won't be easy to find their lair."
"They are part of a terrorist group," John starts. "Schwarze whatever-"
"Schwarze Nadel." Sherlock fills in.
"Yeah, that. Ever heard of it?" the doctor questions.
"Can't say I have," the agent, spy, whatever replies. His mouth contorts bitterly. "But I'm not really in the anti-terrorist business."
"And what exactly is your business?"
"Human Resources Management." The sneer extends and Sherlock looks puzzled for a second. John wonders if maybe he's actually the only one in the room who can read paramilitary-cold-blooded-killer on the man's forehead.
"But you must have contacts, Anthea wouldn't have sent you otherwise," the blogger questions, refocusing the line of inquiry on more pressing matters. Besides, he doesn't want Sherlock digging too much in their new friend's line of work.
"I made a few calls earlier and I have a meeting with one of my contacts this afternoon." The detective arches an eyebrow at that and the agent adds, "He might know someone who knows someone."
Tom leaves them shortly afterwards to go meet with his contact. To say that their host is a secretive bastard would be quite the understatement. He flat-out refused to disclose any information on his source and it goes without saying that Holmes and Watson were not invited to the party.
It doesn't take a genius with detective abilities to understand that the man doesn't like having to help them. This new task is clearly interfering with whatever on-going mission he has and the only reason he's helping them is because he has been ordered to by Whitehall.
o0o
Tom comes back at dusk, looking even more morose than when he left. There are tiny speckles of blood on his right arm and a cut on his left eyebrow. He's clearly been in a fight and John doesn't let himself wonder if his opponent is still alive.
"I have a few leads." He opens the fridge and takes some pizza leftovers out. He gets a slice for himself, but doesn't offer the rest to his guests. "Goslar and Wernigerode.
"Two little towns near this place," he explains after a bite. "My contact gave me the address of a bar in Goslar where some thugs like to hang out. We might find your guys there." He takes another bite.
"He also heard of someone in Wernigerode who recently bought some illicit chemicals." He wolfs down the rest of the slice.
"We'll go tomorrow, but we need to split." Sherlock instructs. "We can't waste any more time."
"I don't like that," his flatmate objects right away. There is no way that he is letting Sherlock out of his sight and he doesn't trust their new acquaintance one bit; no chance he is going to let him work on his own.
"No choice, John."
"I can take the bar while you two go and question the chemist," Tom offers.
"No." Sherlock refuses in a stern voice. "I'll take the chemist, you two can go to the bar."
This sets John on high alert and his blood instantly goes cold, he sits up quickly.
"A word." He instructs the young man, taking the two steps that separates him from Sherlock. He grabs him strongly by one of the lapels of his coat and forcefully drags him outside of the small house without giving the detective much of a choice.
"Are you crazy?" he questions, once the door is closed behind them.
"We don't have a choice John." Sherlock re-arranges his coat, now that the doctor has finally let go of it.
"I don't trust this killer one bit."
"Me neither." Sherlock sighs. "Which is why one of us will stay with him."
"I'm not letting you go to that bar alone. We can all go together to the chemist and then we go to the bar. It's safer."
"It's too late for caution, John." Sherlock's temper is rising. He takes two steps to the side, turns his back to his flatmate and exhales deeply.
In between two rows of building, he can see a small part of the Harz forest in the distance. It looks like a looming dark presence under the dying sun. He thinks of his older brother and his anger and furry withers away. He swallows thickly before facing his friend again.
"We can't waste anymore time, John," he says, in a softer voice. "Mycroft doesn't have much of it left."
"Sherlock."
"You know-" the younger man interrupts him and takes a step closer. "You know what they're doing to him."
In a rare moment of display, Sherlock lets on some of his worry and fear cross over his face and his voice takes a sadder edge. "They're torturing him as we speak, John. I... I can't let that happen."
The former soldier can feel his resolve wavering. "No," he says, tightly, but his heart feels like saying 'yes'.
"He's my brother, John. I have to save him, please."
The good doctor found out a long time ago that he can never say 'no' to Sherlock, certainly not when he says please and looks at him like someone just kicked his puppy. He sighs and against his better judgment, he gives in.
TBC.
