Chapter 7

"What exactly are we waiting for, Sherlock?" I asked, shivering in my seat. We had been waiting in the dark in the security office, watching the dull black and white screens linked to the various security cameras. We had placed ourselves in what Sherlock had deemed was an "optimum, location."

To give off the impression that the museum was really closed, the heat was shut off and the whole place was darker than the night outside. It had been hours of just sitting, staring the the screens. We had been there so long that Charlotte had nodded off and was curled up in the corner of the room in an office chair, sound asleep.

"So, what are your theories?" I broke the silence, shoving my hands deeper into my coat pockets.

"What?" Sherlock asked abruptly. I had clearly interrupted a thought.

"Oh come off it. You've always got theories. So. What have you got?"

"I don't always have theories."

I rolled my eyes pointedly. I should have known better than to expect an actual answer.

Sherlock sighed and continued at a whisper, "Alright, fine. I don't have theories this time; I know precisely what happened. I'm just waiting for confirmation."

"Since when do you ever wait for anything?" I asked incredulously. I couldn't help myself laughing.

Sherlock shushed me, indicating Charlotte sleeping in the corner. I shut up but he had brought up another interesting topic with his shushing.

"Sherlock… how are you handling all of this, really?"

"All of what?"

"It's not unreasonable for me to worry. I mean you haven't really processed this at all."

"Processed—? Of course I have—!"

"Don't get all hot and bothered, I only mean that this whole… situation… Well it's not something either of us expected"

"So?"

"Well you seem fine with it." I stressed.

"Well. I am fine with it."

"How—how can you possibly be fine with it?" I was truly exasperated at this point. I was sure that whatever Sherlock said next would send me over the edge of exasperation and straight into cross. However, Sherlock didn't get the chance to piss me off at that particular moment because apparently I had failed at keeping my voice down.

"What's happening?" Charlotte mumbled. She stretched, then rose and joined us by the monitors.

"Besides John proving that his fuse grows shorter with every passing day…"

I wanted to respond with something clever, and really put Sherlock in his place, but right at that moment the power shut off and sent us into utter darkness.

"Well. This is a new development." Sherlock said, obnoxiously pleased as usual. I felt the strong urge to punch him in his stupid smug face, but I could see Charlotte watching us as the dim emergency lighting flickered on.

Suddenly, I heard the unmistakable sound of a bullet piercing metal. Sherlock and I stood simultaneously and turned toward the door.

"Lobby?" I guessed.

"Most likely." He said, and he walked to peek through the glass in the door. "He must have broken the lock to one of the emergency exits; I can't see any disruption by the front entrance."

''Alright. What's the plan?"

Before Sherlock could answer, Charlotte snuck past us an the door to the security office and out into the museum.

"Did she just ….?" I started, but Sherlock was already out the door going after her. I was so shocked, I just stood there for a moment. But only a moment.

"Jesus. Sherlock!" I whispered angrily, then rushed after them both. When I made it to the hall, I reached for my gun instinctively, but it wasn't there. A few choice words slipped out as l tried to find any sign of Sherlock in the darkness. After a moment, I spotted his silhouette. I grabbed his arm to keep him from walking further away.

"Sherlock! What are you playing at? Why did you take my gun?" I asked, demanding his attention.

"What? I didn't take your gun. I already have a gun."

"When the hell did you get a gun?"

"0h. Mary gave it to me. She had spare."

"Mary?!" I almost shouted.

"John, perhaps you could bottle your rage, which I'm sure you think is perfectly justified, at least until we're not in eminent danger?" Sherlock muttered quickly. He dropped his voice lower to see if he could hear anything from the lobby.

"Wait." I had just realised something and my stomach dropped. "If you didn't take my gun…" We looked each other -Sherlock with a spark of euphoria in his eyes while I'm sure I harboured a much more dismal expression. Just then, we heard another shot.

Charlotte had my gun.

Sherlock took off toward the sound. Before he left my side, though, I could have sworn I heard him mumble something like, "That's my girl."

It was ominously quiet for several minutes. I was starting to think we were out of harm's way, when I heard another series of shots. I picked up my pace and made for the gallery where the shots had come from. I tried to make my eyes adjust; without the emergency lighting from the security office or the moonlight from the windows in the lobby, the center of the museum felt impossibly dark. Eventually, I gave up trying to see, and tried focussing on what I could hear. Unfortunately, as dark as it was, it was just as quiet. I reached again for my gun and cursed at its absence. Very suddenly, I heard shuffling sounds just a few meters from where I was standing, quite frozen. Before I could decide what to do next, I heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps-sprinting footsteps. They were headed in the opposite direction from where I was, so without really thinking I took off toward the noise. Mary would have said it was my "adorable military instincts"- a phrase I'm still not sure I care for. Fortunately, I wasn't running in the dark for too long. Very suddenly the lights came back on.

I wish I could say I was more graceful, but if I'm being honest (which I do aim to be with these narratives) I promptly tripped and crashed comically to the faux-marble floor. I cursed again, out loud this time-very loud.

I looked up, wincing, my side and my pride badly bruised. I saw what I had tripped over just a short ways away from where I was sprawled out. A sculpture or statue of some sort had been smashed on the ground. It wasn't made of marble or stone, though. I hobbled over to examine the remains more closely. It wasn't terribly heavy, which explained why I couldn't recall a crashing sound loud enough to belong to the destruction of a piece so large. When I held the broken fragments in my hand, they crumbled like sediment from a gravel drive up garage. It seemed like a rough mixture of cement and plaster. I could only imagine one explanation: this now shattered piece of "art'' did not belong in this museum.

I hadn't noticed right away, but very near to where I was standing, A small flight of stairs descended to an emergency exit. At the bottom of the stairs, her unruly hair covering her face like a mask, was Charlotte. She was clearly knocked unconscious. I ran down the steps, taking two at a time, stumbling as I went.

"Charlotte!" I said urgently, still trying to keep my voice low in case the intruders were still near-by. "Charlotte! Come on now, you've got to wake up." She stirred and opened her eyes to look at me. For a moment I got chills. She had precisely the same eyes as Sherlock.

"Dr. Watson." She snapped me out of my brief daze. "What's happened? Have they gone?"

"I'm not sure. Let me have a look. Where did you get hit?"

She indicated the side of her head, just above the temple. A thin line of blood was trickling from the bruise, but it was fortunately already drying and clotting: She was going to be just fine. But I couldn't feel relieved for too long; I had heard gunshots… And I hadn't heard or seen a sign of Sherlock since the lights had come back on.

"Listen, Charlotte, I need my gun back. I need to find Sherlock-I mean your fath- well erm… yes."

She handed me back my gun without another word.

"Stay right here. I'll be right back."

Having my gun back in my hands practically euphoric. Mary's words rang in my ears. I knew she was right; I enjoy this part of the "adventure" far too much. I crept down the next hall, listening carefully. I glanced at the floor and noticed a set of several partial footprints. First, I thought it must be mud from outside… but the tracks were headed toward the door, not from it. I knelt down and realized I was looking at blood. Whoever had been injured made a run for the lobby. I left Charlotte in that wing and followed the markings on the floor to the front doors. Suddenly I heard shouting. I sprinted outside and immediately spotted Sherlock. He was chasing two figures who were already too far ahead. I could just make out their silhouettes as they loaded into a car and sped off. Still, Sherlock was shouting and chasing after them. He was far from his usual cool, calculating self.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, stop!" I caught up to him and tried to turn him to face me. His eyes were manic, completely filled with rage. "Sherlock, look at me, or I swear to God I will shoot you!"

"John, you don't understand! What they did-! They weren't supposed to-!"

''Alright. Alright! Just calm down a moment. What are you going on about? They weren't supposed to do what? Did you know those… those... Sherlock, you're bleeding."

"What?"

"You're bleeding! What the- have you been shot?"

"What? No. No!"

"Sherlock! My God, you're bleeding all over. Sit down. Here, let me have a look."

Sherlock didn't fight me. He sat down on one of the steps of the plaza. I pulled back the collar of his coat to inspect the wound. Fortunately, the damage done appeared to be mostly superficial. The bullet hole was shallow and as far as I could tell, there was no exit wound-which meant I could remove the bullet fairly easily and patch him up if I could get him to my office without arousing too much suspicion. Still it looked rough and it was bleeding freely.

''How did you not notice you'd been shot? This has to be painful."

"Not at all." He muttered sarcastically, wincing at my touch.

"You said they did something they weren't supposed to?" I tried to change the subject as I took off my scarf and wrapped it tightly around his shoulder to try and stop the bleeding and then around once more passed his neck to make something to pass as a sling.

"I'd rather not say." He mumbled, wincing more noticeably this time.

I glared at him, "Try me."

I stared at him as he avoided my gaze. Sherlock may have a talent for avoiding his own emotions, but his impatience is often my advantage. I could out-wait him easily. Sure enough, barely two minutes had passed and growled his answer reluctantly.

"They hit her." He was so quiet.

I had almost forgotten about Charlotte, still in the museum. I suddenly imagined my little Mia. If anyone ever tried to hurt a hair on her head, I would become positively homicidal. I suppose because Sherlock was… well… Sherlock, and he showed no hesitation in bringing his daughter to a potential crime scene, I just didn't expect him to react so strongly to something actually happening to Charlotte. I immediately felt awful. I had watched Sherlock risk his life and so much more for my sake and for Mary's. I hated myself for assuming that he wouldn't express at least some sort of reaction.

"Sherlock. Listen. Charlotte is going to be fine. I just checked on her. She's right inside."

"This wasn't supposed to happen." Sherlock said, mostly to himself.

"What are you talking about 'supposed to' ?"

I shouldn't have been surprised that he didn't answer me, but I still felt taken-aback when he used his good arm to push himself to standing and walked swiftly back into the museum. I caught up to him and followed him back to where Charlotte was. We found her sitting on the steps with her head in her hands.

Sherlock stopped in front of her and opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again and began pacing. He stopped again and almost got a word out this time, but again started pacing. This happened a few more times before I finally made the suggestion that the three of us go sit down somewhere and talk about what just happened.

We walked to the nearest Underground Station. It was a long 20 minute ride to the Baker Street Station. No one said a word the whole way. The silence was especially deafening because, due to the lateness of the hour, the tube was completely abandoned apart from us. Good old 221 didn't come soon enough.

I held open the door to Speedy's as Sherlock and Charlotte stepped inside and picked seats at the back of the diner.

After I ordered three cups of tea, I joined them. Still, both were completely silent. I was losing my patience.

''Alright," I started, "I guess I'll talk first.

"What the hell happened back there? Charlotte, I know you're rebelling against your mother or something along those lines, but you put yourself in some serious danger tonight. What if you'd been really really hurt? What if you'd been shot? I mean, we're responsible for you right now, whether you like it or not. Sherlock, you might not respect that responsibility, but I-!"

"Would you please spare us of your overinflated sense of moral righteousness!" Sherlock snapped. "There's more to this than you could possibly grasp, John."

I closed my eyes tightly and tried to resist the urge to strangle my best friend across the table.

"Okay." I said, struggling to keep my voice down. I took a deep breath. "Enlighten me, then."

Sherlock opened his mouth, but to my surprise, Charlotte was the one to speak.

"Sherlock set up a fake investigation to test my deduction abilities. He wanted his own sort of paternity test."

When she stopped talking, Sherlock and I just stared, open-mouthed. I turned slowly to look at Sherlock. From his refusal to meet my gaze, I realised what Charlotte said was actually true.

"Sherlock? Oh my God… Are you kidding—? What is wrong with you?! Are you insane? Well of course you are; you're Sherlock Holmes!"

"John would you be quiet!"

"No! No I cannot be quiet. You put your own daughter in an extremely dangerous situation on purpose?!" My voice was shaking by now and the night staff was starting to stare curiously in our direction.

"No of course not!" Sherlock snapped then lowered his voice to a whisper. "l… did fabricate a…erm small investigation to… test Charlotte-."

"I cannot believe you-!"

"He didn't plan for the men who showed up with guns." Charlotte cut in calmly.

"What?" I hissed.

"The men Sherlock hired never showed up."

It was Sherlock's turn to look confused.

"Wait. How did you know-?"

''It was pretty simple, honestly," she explained. "I knew it was you when you told me which paintings were taken."

"How...?" I started.

"The combined initials of the artists of the missing paintings spells out 'it was me.' Sighed 'SH'."

I glanced at Sherlock and I could have sworn he was trying to suppress a smirk. It was different than just his usual arrogant I-was-right-again smirk. It was like he was… proud of Charlotte.

''Alright, fine. If Sherlock planned this whole thing, but those men weren't supposed be involved… then who the hell were they? And why were they shooting at us...? How did they even know we were there?"

But, unfortunately, neither of them had an answer. For once, I wasn't the only one in the dark. As nice as that change was… Well it still left us all in the dark.