Chapter Eight
Sherlock walked at a quick pace along the corridor, in search of a mop to clean up the mess in John's room. His head was spinning. John had practically said that he didn't want Sherlock around anymore. Sherlock had promised himself that he'd only stay around to help John, and only if John was happy for him to be there. Clearly, that wasn't the case, which meant Sherlock would have to leave. That, he realised with grim determination, meant it was time he went after Moriarty once more. Only this time, he'd finish the job properly.
The nurses' station was deserted. Sherlock deduced it must have been time for the morning rounds. For that he was thankful, as it meant he didn't have to bother being pleasant. Tucked away in a corner, Sherlock found a mop and bucket. He grabbed them, and started to walk back towards John's room, when he realised they'd need some water in order to mop up the vomit. Sherlock turned on his heel and retraced his steps, looking for somewhere that might have freely available water.
The first place Sherlock found was a cupboard. He didn't expect to find a tap, but opened the door anyway. Just as he'd imagined, there was no tap, but there was some floor cleaner and anti-bacterial spray on a dusty shelf, so he pulled them down and chucked them into the bucket. He didn't have to travel much further to find a toilet, which Sherlock knew would have a tap. Pushing the door open with his elbow, Sherlock entered. To his relief, nobody else was in the toilet, so Sherlock chucked the mop on the floor, tipped out the cleaning products and held the bucket under the tap in the washbasin.
When the bucket was almost half full, the door behind Sherlock opened, as someone else entered. However, instead of walking towards the cubicles, the footsteps came towards Sherlock. There was a clicking sound that Sherlock would recognise anywhere, and the barrel of a gun was pushed against Sherlock's temple.
Sherlock sighed in annoyance. "Most people come in here for another purpose."
"Put your hands behind your back, Mr Holmes." The voice had a gravelly quality that defined a heavy smoker, and an accent that Sherlock placed as being from somewhere in Eastern Europe, maybe Hungary.
"In case you hadn't noticed, I'm busy; my hands are occupied." The bucket was almost full now.
The gun was pressed harder into Sherlock's temple. "Behind your back. Now."
Rolling his eyes, Sherlock slowly and carefully lowered the bucket to the floor and twisted the tap off, then put his hands behind his back.
"Thank you." The other man drawled. "Now, open your mouth, and swallow these." A grubby, calloused hand extended into Sherlock's line of sight. In its palm were four small, white pills.
"What are they?" Sherlock asked. He tried to turn his head to look at the assailant, but the gun held him in place. His back was starting to hurt, as he was still bent over from where he'd been holding the bucket.
"Nothing sinister, Mr Holmes. They won't harm you in any way; they'll just make you moreā¦pliable." There was a pause where the man sniffed. "Also, they'll make my job a lot easier."
"Why not just hit me over the back of the head? It would be a lot faster."
Then, without warning, Sherlock thrust his right foot up and out, catching the man in the groin. He yelled and doubled over, giving Sherlock time to whirl around. In a smooth motion, Sherlock span and lunged for the door, but the handle wouldn't budge; it was locked from the outside.
Suddenly, Sherlock's legs were kicked from under him, and he found himself on the floor. Sherlock's attacker fired a warning shot into the ground centimetres from Sherlock's head, and he recoiled, stunned by the force and sound of it.
Sherlock recovered his senses in time to roll, avoiding a jab in the ribs from what looked like a steel-toed boot. Reaching out, he grabbed the anti-bacterial spray he'd found in the store cupboard. With perfect aim, he sprayed it into his attacker's face, aiming for the eyes. A strangled cry yielded success.
Sherlock took a moment to get a breath, and then looked up. His eyes widened in shock, and he tried to roll again, but he wasn't fast enough. The attacker landed with his knees either side of Sherlock's torso, locking him in place. Sherlock's wrists were tapped either side of him under the man's vice-like legs, and he gasped as the air rushed from his crushed diaphragm.
Will jogged along the corridor, looking for Sherlock. He had a feeling in his gut that something had just gone horribly wrong. This feeling only intensified when he found the constantly-monitored nurses' station empty. Frantically, Will looked around him, and spotted a door in the wall not far down the corridor. He jogged to it and pulled the door open, but the cupboard was empty, save for a few cleaning supplies and sets of keys.
Will scanned the row of keys, and noticed a set was missing. The hook had a label above it, which read WC. His heart leapt in his chest, and then he began to sprint. Skidding slightly on the polished floor, Will rounded a bend in the corridor. He ducked, narrowly missing a bullet fired by a man in black clothing; a man standing outside the door to the toilets.
Swerving, Will pulled his own pistol from the holster on his belt, and jumped behind the corner he'd just run around. He stuck his gun out and fired three shots with fatal precision. There was a cry and a thud, and Will allowed himself a small smile. It was short-lived, however, for he heard another gun shot, and then an anguished cry that was unmistakably Sherlock.
Sherlock panted under the weight of his attacker, kicking his legs feebly, although he knew it would make no difference. He could see the man's face now; it had a scar on the left cheek that looked like a bullet-hole, and another scar that went from just above his right eye up into his hair line. His eyes were ice blue, and they burned with hatred.
A gun fired on the other side of the door, and Sherlock jumped. There was silence for a moment, and then three more gunshots. Sherlock barely stifled his sigh of relief; Will had found him. He looked towards the door, and inhaled deeply.
Sherlock's attacker fired his gun, and the bullet penetrated the floor mere millimetres from the end of Sherlock's nose. He gasped in surprise and horror, and turned his face back up towards the other man.
"Good, I've got your attention. We're running out of time, so you'd better co-operate now." He smiled and produced the four pills from his jacket pocket. "Mr Holmes, are we going to do this the easy way, or the hard way?"
"You're trapped now. Moriarty sent you, didn't he? You can't get away, there's no hope left of an escape." Sherlock tried to sound as angry as possible, but he was still gasping a little for breath, as his attacker was crushing most of his torso, restricting the expansion of his lungs.
Unperturbed, the man spoke again. "It looks like we're doing this the hard way, then."
He dropped his gun onto Sherlock's chest, and pinched Sherlock's nose closed with his left hand. In the other, he held the pills out. "Open your mouth like a good boy."
Sherlock blinked, and clamped his lips shut. All he had to do was hold on long enough for Will to reach him.
At the sound of Sherlock's cry, Will dashed forward. He pulled on the door handle, but it was locked. Desperately, Will patted down the dead man in search of the keys. He heard and jingle, and pulled them from his blood-soaked jeans pocket.
Will's smirk of victory was short-lived, as he was tackled from behind and slammed into the wall opposite the door.
"Not so fast, pretty boy. There'll be no heroic rescue from you today."
Chastising himself for not thinking of it before, Will pressed the new panic button placed discreetly on his belt. He just hoped Mycroft and his cavalry would be fast enough.
Will felt his own gun being pulled from its holster, and then it was pressed to the base of his skull.
"You try anything, and it'll be lights out."
Will gulped and closed his eyes. He'd been trained to stay cool in these kinds of situation. Panicking now would not be helpful for anyone. With his free hand, Will's attacker squeezed his neck from the front, forcing it back so that the gun barrel dug into his skin painfully, and crushing his windpipe almost completely.
Why hadn't Will got in yet? He was taking his jolly time. Sherlock was fast running out of air. He knew he had less than thirty seconds before he'd be forced to gasp in a mouthful of air. But with that precious air would come the pills.
"Open up, Mr Holmes. It'll be all better soon."
Sherlock heard a jangle of keys, and his heart raced, but then there was a gasp, and a thump. His hopes of salvation were crushed just as soon as they'd lifted. He clung on to the hope that there was only one way in and one way out of the room, which meant they'd encounter Will soon enough, whether he unlocked the door or not.
There was only a few seconds left before he'd have to take a breath. Sherlock had told John before that breathing was boring, but now it had become so much more than that; it had become deadly. Twisting his head away desperately, Sherlock opened his mouth and gasped in as much air as his compromised lungs could take.
"Gotcha!"
Fingers forced Sherlock's jaw open, and the pills were dropped in. Then his mouth was clamped shut again, and the man pushed under Sherlock's chin, extending his neck and making it impossible for Sherlock to re-open his mouth.
Now, Sherlock had a choice. He could defiantly hold the pills in his cheek, allowing them to slowly dissolve in his saliva, or he could swallow them, in the hope that Will would be there to force them out of his stomach again once the door was opened. Deciding it was the most logical option, Sherlock swallowed the pills whole.
He was rewarded with a gentle caress. "See, that wasn't so bad. You'll be okay now. I didn't want to harm you; I just wanted to make both our lives a little easier." The attacker smiled, and let go of Sherlock's jaw. He opened it immediately and gulped in all the air he could. Sherlock needed to stay awake as long as possible.
Mycroft raced through the hospital, with special armed agents running both behind and in front of him. He was thankful he'd kept his men in a discreet place within the hospital, but wished he'd kept them somewhere even closer. His heart was in his mouth. He looked down at his phone to check the GPS signal from Will's panic button. Will hadn't moved at all since the button had been pressed, and Mycroft couldn't decide if this was good news, or very, very bad.
They reached the right floor, and the tension in the air increased. All that stood between them was a few short corridors. Two men peeled off into John's room, but Mycroft and the rest kept running.
Mycroft's team rounded the final corner, and there was an explosion of gunfire. One of the team nearest Mycroft pushed him against the wall and down, and then shielded him with his own body. Mycroft didn't dare to move, and barely thought to breathe.
Around the corner, Will's attacker dropped to the floor amid a flurry of bullets, and Will fell with him, sliding down the wall and slumping on the ground. A rasping cry that could have been "Sherlock!" fell from his lips. As soon as both men were down, the team rushed forward. Three ran on down the corridor, looking for any more of the attackers. The man who had been shielding Mycroft stood, and pulled his Boss to his feet. As soon as he was up, Mycroft was running.
He glanced at Will, who appeared to be gasping for air on the floor, trying to re-orientate himself. There was blood everywhere, but it was hard to tell whether it belong to Will, or to the man who had apprehended him. Desperately, Will tried to pull himself up onto his elbows, and looked directly at Mycroft as he pointed with a wavering hand to the door opposite them.
Suddenly, a bullet flew through the toilet door, and one of the team went door, a cry of pain and shock emerging from his lips. The team fired back through the door, littering it with holes, before shooting the lock. There was no more return fire. Mycroft darted forwards, and pushed through the door into the room beyond.
