Chapter 7

"He's dressed in a white t-shirt, black jeans, a black collared knit jumper and a black leather jacket. Appropriately inconspicuous," Sherlock said as he returned from his bedroom where he had checked his wardrobe. He cast a withering look at Mycroft for usurping the chair where the detective usually sat, but was studiously ignored.

"I'll forward the description to the whole intelligence community," Mycroft said, busily typing on his phone. "I'd rather keep the police and the public out of it for now. Do you have a suitable picture of him I can attach?"

Sherlock walked over to the bookshelf where the box of photos he'd shown Watson before their trip to Pakistan still sat. He handed it to Mycroft who started to flip through the contents.

"I must say, this is a nice kettle of fish," Mycroft said, pulling out a photograph and squinting at it.

"If that's your way of saying 'I told you so' I'd like to remind you that it's your agent who's gone rogue," Sherlock replied heatedly. "How come you did not see that coming?"

"If I'd had the chance to debrief him I might have, but you..."

"Now, now, settle down, children," Watson said stepping between the brothers. "Maybe the situation is not as clean cut as you think. I still can't believe Sherrinford is a double agent - or triple agent or whatever. That look in his eyes yesterday when we arrived at the airport..."

"Well, he is gifted with a more than average talent for the stage," Mycroft said, handing John a picture he'd found in the pile. "This is what he was capable of during his student days. An amateur production. And I'm sure being undercover for so many years has honed his skills even further."

Watson had to admit that the emotion portrayed by the handcuffed soldier in the photograph was very believable.

Mycroft snapped a copy of a shot he'd found suitable with his phone and mailed it out with the description. "There, now all we can do is wait and see if somebody flushes him out."

He rose from his chair. "I have to hurry along, I'm having lunch with an old friend who has just returned from the East. I will be in touch if anything develops. And you will of course let me know if he tries to contact you, won't you?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, while Watson just nodded.

When Mycroft had gone John turned to his friend. "You had your reservations about him all along, didn't you? Why didn't you stop me last night from bringing him here?"

"I needed confirmation," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "And now I have it."

"It's still not conclusive," John said stubbornly. "He may have been kidnapped."

Sherlock shook his head. "There was no sign of a struggle in the bathroom."

"Well, maybe somebody was lying in wait and knocked him unconscious."

"Then manhandled his dead weight through a window barely large enough to let him pass through, and manoeuvered him dow ladder? Not to forget that he procured a set of my clothes and dressed him first. No, John, we have to accept the fact that we've been played, and well played. And now," he said retrieving his coat from its hanger, "I will go out. I will set my Baker Street Irregulars on his trail as well."

"What am I supposed to do?" Watson asked.

"Try to remember everything that was said over breakfast this morning. There may be a clue in some innocuous comment. Oh, and have some fish for lunch. It's supposedly brain food and might help you remember." And he was gone.

John spent a dismal afternoon alternately pacing the floor and brooding in his favourite chair. There were just too many unknowns to even begin to unravel this puzzle. The most important question was whether the pathogen had already reached England via a different route or if it was still in transit which would at least give them time to prepare for the attack. Although there wasn't much you could do to 'prepare' for a massive Ebola outbreak at some unspecified location in a place with such a high population density as London.

It was growing dark outside when Watson's phone rang. It was Sherlock. "Sherrinford's been found," he said. "They're just taking him to St. Mary's hospital."

Watson sat up in alarm. "Is he hurt?"

"Apparently somebody has attempted to beat him to pulp. Meet me in the A&E there as soon as you can. Hopefully we'll get some answers."

Since it was rush hour Watson opted for the tube rather than a taxi, and he all but ran from Paddington station to the hospital entrance. Following the signs to the A&E he saw Sherlock immediately, as usual he was towering over most of the crowd. Mycroft was with him.

"There you are, you've made excellent time," the detective said when he saw John. "He's in bay 7. This way."

Watson sucked in a breath when he saw the state Sherrinford was in. His face was bruised and bloody, and his nose had apparently been broken since the EMTs had tried to stabilize it with cotton wool and sticking plaster. A doctor was just cutting the white t-shirt off of him, which revealed more massive bruising around his ribs and abdomen. But there were other, older marks as well. Red, round spots that had probably been cigarette burns. And the scars of welts caused by a whip or a cane. There were also traces of two former bullet wounds as well as a few crudely sewn cuts. All in all the map of a life lived in constant danger.

"When can we speak with him?" Sherlock asked.

The doctor, a middle aged, rotund woman who wore her jet black hair in a tight bun, straightened and turned to him with an air of indignation. "We're still in the process of assessing the extent of his injuries, but it's safe to say he won't be coherent any time soon. Apart from a concussion I suspect several broken ribs and possibly internal bleeding. We'll be taking him for an MRI in a moment, which will tell us more. But regardless whether he'll require surgery or not, we're planning to keep him sedated for at least 24 hours. Now please excuse me, I have work to do."

Signalling a nurse, they rolled the gurney with the unconscious agent out of the bay.

"Hmm, his injuries appear too severe to be self inflicted," Sherlock mused.

"Seriously?" Watson was appalled. "You're actually considering that he voluntarily put himself in such a state?"

"If the alternative is a court martial for treason, I'd say it's quite within the realm of possibility," Mycroft replied. When he saw John's surprised look he added, "Well, technically he's never been discharged from the air force so he's still under military jurisdiction."

"Be that as it may," Sherlock said, "we won't learn anything from him at this point." He turned to Mycroft. "I assume you'll be taking him to a safe house once he's stable?"

Mycroft nodded. "Where we can make sure there won't be any further unplanned excursions, yes. Security in a place like this is a nightmare."

"Just call me when he's awake," Sherlock said, turning to go.

"But wait a minute, aren't we on the clock here?" Watson exclaimed. "What if the attack is imminent?"

Sherlock stopped. "Unlikely. If Sherrinford is in league with the terrorists, he obviously failed to provide what they expected and this is his punishment. And if this is a ploy to worm his way into our trust again he must be needing something from us. So either way, their game is not yet afoot." He turned once more to go, calling over his shoulder, "Are you coming, John? I skipped lunch so I'm positively ravenous, and there's a quaint little pub around the corner that serves a sublime Shepherd's Pie."