Chapter Eight

Molly carried a tea tray from the kitchen and put it on the coffee table in her sitting room. Mycroft was in the guest bedroom, taking a phone call. John was on his phone to Mary, explaining the situation. Molly lifted the lid of the tea pot and stirred the contents then poured three cups, for herself and her two guests. Adding milk, she raised her cup to her lips and took a sip. How strange, she thought, that something as mundane as pouring a cup of tea could evoke such vivid memories.

She was reliving the night she came home from hospital following the kidnapping incident. Sherlock had made a pot of tea and they had talked. He had asked her what she wanted from him and then told her what he wanted from her. It was more than she had ever imagined to be possible, beyond her wildest dreams. That was the first time he admitted having feelings for her. It was like being touched by an angel – her angel, her heart's desire, her Sherlock Holmes.

Silent tears trickled down her cheeks and dripped onto the hand holding the cup. She didn't even bother to wipe them away. John's eye was caught by the movement as more tears dripped from her chin. He told Mary he would call her back, put down his phone, took the cup from Molly's hand and put it back on the tray then wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tight to his chest. She shook with sobs of despair and clung to him, wishing so much that it was Sherlock not John holding her, yet grateful beyond words that at least someone was there.

Mycroft, returning from the bedroom and happening upon this scene, sat in the armchair, feeling helpless, frustrated, angry and determined. Molly pulled away from John's embrace, wiped her face on her sleeves and apologised for being such a wuss. Then, turning to Mycroft, she asked if there was any news.

'The wood through which the road runs has been searched using the lay-by where the car was abandoned as Ground Zero and working outwards in all directions. The SAS have a survival expert on their staff who found a trail of foot prints running from the car through the wood for about a mile and then out to the edge of the road; and there's evidence that someone crawled along the edge of the road for a short distance and then back into the woods.'

'They found a badger trail running through the wood - several badger trails, in fact, criss-crossing one another - but one looks as though something was dragged along it. They suspect this was Sherlock, dragging something to mask his scent. They think it was probably road kill. They began to follow the drag marks but the light was failing so they could'n't be sure he didn't branch off. The ground is quite hard so the drag marks are intermittent. They tried a dog but whatever he was dragging smelt a lot stronger than he did so the dog was confused.'

'Well, we all know what that feels like,' John muttered.

Mycroft went on.

'They're fairly sure he was working his way back towards St Hugh's but the wood covers several hundred hectares so he could have branched off and be holed up somewhere or he could have kept going. He might even have picked up a ride from one of the roads that cut through the woodland. Either way, there's nothing to be done on that front until morning. The SAS chap thinks he'll be able to pick up the trail in the daylight and follow it wherever it goes.'

'Meanwhile, they have a helicopter in the air now, with a heat-seeking camera scanning the woods in a spiral pattern, working out from the lay-by. If he's holed up, it will spot him – unless he's gone underground. The wood is full of badger sets, and some of the tunnels are wide enough to admit a man, especially a thin one like my brother. If he's down in one of those, the cameras won't pick him up. They have, however, spotted a lot of deer, several foxes and a courting couple, who were somewhat alarmed to find themselves surrounded by an SAS assault unit.'

'Bit of a passion killer, for sure,' John commented.

'Any way, I suggest we call it a night. Molly, I assume you will be coming back to Hertfordshire for the night?'

Molly thought for a moment then said,

'Actually, no, Mycroft, I won't. John and I have a lead in the dwarf case and I really want to follow it up tomorrow so I should stay in London. Anyway, I don't want William to see me upset and, the way I'm feeling just now, I couldn't guarantee that I could hide it.'

'But you can't stay here on your own, Molly…' Mycroft began.

'No, she can come home with me,' John interjected, 'OK Moll?' Molly nodded, gratefully.

'Well, please allow me to give you both a lift, John.'

ooOoo

Sherlock drove through the dark lanes. He knew once the searchers discovered what he was driving, he would be a sitting duck for road traffic cameras on all the major routes but he was hoping they wouldn't know about the land rover yet. He was banking on it not being missed until the morning but he needed to cover as much ground as possible, before the alarm was raised and they put two and two together. He estimated he had until about six in the morning. Once it was known what he was driving, they would be able to track him using those cameras so, at some point in the night, he would have to dump this vehicle and find another one that couldn't be tracked. He was beginning to formulate a plan. He drove cross-country towards Flitwick, sticking to back lanes and minor roads to avoid any road blocks that might have been put in place. Once he picked up the M1, it was north, north, north.

It took nearly two hours to reach Watford Gap services. Sherlock parked the Land Rover close to the service building in the busiest part of the car park, where it would be least conspicuous, and next to a large camper-van which he hoped would shield him from the CCTV cameras when he got out. Before abandoning the vehicle, he went through the glove box and the rest of the cab to see if there was anything he might find useful. He found a screw driver, a pair of thermal gloves, a torch and some loose change - and pocketed them all.

Money would be his biggest problem. He couldn't use his debit or credit cards because they left an audit trail. He had about £20 in cash but he had things he could sell. He would have to be both frugal and inventive in his use of money. Having taken what he could from the land rover, he unrolled the hood of his stolen jacket from under the collar and pulled it up over the beret on his head. Exiting the vehicle, he locked it up and pushed the keys inside the exhaust pipe. He hoped the game keeper would eventually get it back.

Using other vehicles to shield him from the CCTV cameras as much as possible, he made his way to the service building, hunching his shoulders and adopting a slouching gait to make it more difficult for Mycroft or anyone else who knew him to identify him by his walk. Once inside the building, he made for the cafeteria, bought a coffee with the loose change from the car and chose a table in a busy part of the hall. He scanned the room, looking for a potential ride.

He spotted a group of tables in the far corner where a number of men were seated, all conversing together. As he observed them, individuals would get up and leave, saying loud, enthusiastic goodbyes, and new men would arrive, giving equally rowdy greetings. He recognised them as lorry drivers, 'knights of the road', who clearly met each other frequently but irregularly at theses truck stop watering holes. Having identified his target group, he picked up his coffee and strolled over to them, effecting the upright posture of a military man. Adopting an Estuary English accent, he addressed the group.

''Scuse me, mates, I was wonderin', any o' you geysers goin' t' the North West?'

The men gave him an appraising look.

'What's your problem, pal?' one of the men asked, with a pronounced Brummie accent.

'I'm on my way to rejoin my regiment but some dickhead nicked my rucksack. 'Ad my travel coupon in it, di'n'it. So I'm a bit fucked. If I don't ge' back in time, I'll be AWOL. We're off to Afghanistan in two weeks. I don' wanna be court-martialled, do I?'

The men studied him for a moment, then one said,

'How far you going, son?'

'Carlisle.'

'There's nae Army Barracks in Carlisle, son,' another chipped in, 'Not unless you include the Territorials.'

'I'm meetin' up wiv a mate there. We're goin' on to Edinburgh t'geva,' Sherlock explained, blithely.

'A Scottish regiment? You don't sound very Scottish to me, pal,' the Brummie asserted.

'Nah, I don', do I!' Sherlock laughed, good-naturedly. 'My dad wuz Sco''ish, weren' 'e, so 'e insisted I joined a Sco''ish regiment.'

'Oh, stop gi'ing the poor boy a hard time, you bunch o' old women,' a fourth man interjected. 'You stick wi' me, sonny. I'm goin' through Carlisle. I can tekk ya there, nae problem.'

Sherlock rewarded the man with one of his most winning smiles, pulled out a chair and sat at an adjacent table.

When the big Scottish driver finished his meal break, he bid his colleagues and occasional friends goodbye and he and Sherlock strolled from the cafeteria and out to his rig.

'What's your name, sonny?' the man asked, pleasantly.

'You'll larf,' Sherlock replied, feigning embarrassment.

'Course I won't,' the man replied.

'Hamish,' said Sherlock.

The man roared with laughter and slapped him on the back.

Once installed in the warm and comfortably-appointed cab - and not certain how much longer he could sustain the accent - Sherlock wedged himself into the corner, between the seat back and the side door, closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. He didn't have to pretend for long, however, as the motion of the vehicle and the stress of the day got the better of him and he drifted into unconsciousness. And the juggernaut carried him further and further from everything he held dear.

ooOoo

Ten o'clock Sunday morning, John and Molly said goodbye to Mary and walked to the tube station to begin their journey to the home of Jamie Eastridge. Mary had been most understanding about the complete disruption of her weekend with John. She could only imagine what Molly was going through. She had always marvelled at Molly and Sherlock's relationship. They were the archetypal odd couple – Sherlock so fey and other-worldly, Molly so down to earth and practical. That's probably what made it work. Complete opposites attract and also compliment, she concluded. She also marvelled at Sherlock's ability to inspire such loyalty in his friends. She was very aware that she had to share John with him. She would never ask John to choose between them because she had a distinct feeling that she would lose.

John and Molly approached the local authority bungalow up the wheelchair ramp that led to the front door. This residence had obviously been adapted for the use of a disabled person. John rang the doorbell and the door was opened by a woman of indeterminate age. She could have been young but ill-preserved or middle-aged and well-preserved. It was hard to tell. She looked at them enquiringly.

'Mrs Eastridge?' Molly asked.

The woman looked instantly alarmed. Molly smiled reassuringly but it had little effect on the woman's demeanour.

'Who wants to know?' she snapped.

'My name is Molly and this is John.' Molly had decided to go for the less scary, low-tech 'first names'approach.

'You're not bloody God-botherers, are you? 'Cos if you are, you can sling your hook,' the woman retorted, belligerently.

John decided to step in.

'We're doctors, madam,' he stated, bluntly.

'I ain't sick,' she exclaimed, back to being alarmed.

'We've come to see Mr James Eastridge. Is he here?'

'Er, no, he's just popped out. I can tell him you called. If you want to leave your number, I can get him to ring you back.'

'When do you expect him back?' John asked.

'Oh, who knows? He comes and goes as he pleases, really.'

'Who has he gone out with?' John asked, with a disarming smile.

'Oh, no one. He's just gone on his own.' She was beginning to perspire, twisting the fingers of both hands together.

'And your name is?' John asked.

'Er, Josie. I'm his, er, girlfriend,' she stammered.

'Well, Josie, thank you for your help.' John took out his notebook, wrote his mobile number on a page, tore it out and gave it to 'Josie'.

'Please ask Mr Eastridge to call me.'

John smiled, Molly said goodbye and they walked away.

'Well, she's obviously lying,' John declared, 'and not just about him going out on his own.'

'What do we do now?' Molly asked.

'Let's wait and see if Mr Eastridge is as good at making posthumous phone calls as he is at post mortem letter-writing, shall we?' John replied and grinned, wickedly

ooOoo

Ten o'clock Sunday morning, Mycroft and William were watching TV in the nanny's sitting room in their pyjamas and dressing gowns, having eaten a hearty breakfast prepared by the cook in the house kitchen but served in the Nursery play room. Mycroft was reliving aspects of his own childhood that he had long forgotten. An in doing so, was remembering the relationship he used to enjoy with his brother and recalling where it had all gone wrong.

Mycroft was seven years old when Sherlock came along, and the apple of his father's eye. The arrival of the new baby did not change any of that. His father had shown little or no interest in the new arrival. In the normal way of things, Sherlock would have been his mother's favourite but, having given birth to him, Mummy Holmes almost immediately lost interest in the infant, too. Mycroft was not aware of this at the time – he was, after all, only seven – but he did become aware as he grew up.

When Mycroft was eight, he went away to boarding school leaving Sherlock more or less alone, being cared for by the staff whilst their father pursued his glittering career in diplomacy and his mother enjoyed her charity and committee work. Mycroft recalled how delighted Sherlock always was to see him when he came home on exeat or for the holidays. Every time William greeted him, he was reminded of Sherlock doing that self-same thing, thirty-odd years previously.

He and Sherlock used to play together in the Nursery, around the house and on the estate. His brother would follow behind him, playing 'Grandmother's Footsteps' and scream with delight when Mycroft turned around and caught him. He would come to show his big brother the treasures he had found – an owl pellet, a fox's skull, a dead frog – and they would go to the library and find a book about whatever it was, which Mycroft would read to Sherlock. The favourite game was always 'Pirates'. Rainy days, the Nursery playroom became the pirates' ship; on dry days, the garden became a Treasure Island and, at bedtime, Sherlock would listen with rapt attention whilst Mycroft read him 'Peter Pan'.

But it all became too much for the older brother. By the time he turned thirteen, Mycroft could feel the weight of responsibility lying heavily upon him. He did not look forward to coming home and being pestered by his little brother to play 'Pirates' or look at his treasures. Mycroft's interests were different now; he wanted to be left alone to do his own thing so he pushed Sherlock away, hid from him, ignored him. He could clearly recall the hurt look on little Sherlock's face when he rejected him. Was it any wonder that his brother had grown up to be so bitter and resentful? The consummate loner, utterly self-reliant, ruthless and single minded - on the outside. All to mask the hurt child on the inside.

But why had Sherlock run? Mycroft could not get past that question. His life was better now than it had ever been. He had a true and loyal friend, a woman who loved him and whom, Mycroft believed, he loved in return, a beautiful child and an ideal career. What could have made him throw all that away? What could be so compelling as to over-ride all those advantages?

William broke into Mycroft's thoughts by pointing out something that was happening in the TV programme. Mycroft responded to William's query then returned to his musings.

Re-enacting all those moments now, with Sherlock's child, was bittersweet to the extreme. They were so similar, father and son. When Mycroft looked at the William, he saw the young Sherlock and, imagining the looks of hurt and confusion on William's face that he had seen so many times on Sherlock's, was quite unbearable. Was he trying to make amends for his earlier mistakes by doing it right the second time around? Was it even possible to earn his brother's forgiveness through his child? All previous attempts at redemption had met with suspicion and derision from Sherlock. Would he even get the opportunity to be forgiven? Would he ever see Sherlock again?

This final thought only served to strengthen his resolve. He would find his brother and he would deal with whatever it was that had sent him into melt down. He would do it, whatever it took!

Mycroft's mobile rang and he snatched it up.

'Yes?' he snapped then listened to the caller. 'Yes' again and more listening, then 'Right, call a meeting. My office, twelve noon today. Yes, the usual parties and include DI Lestrade, too.'

He cut off the phone. His plans for his second day with William would have to be postponed until next time. Mrs Hudson, who had stayed over and was currently enjoying the company of his cook, having a good old chin-wag in the kitchen, would be pressed into service again as William's minder whilst Mycroft held a council of war to organise the hunt for his missing brother.

ooOoo

Ten o'clock Sunday morning and Sherlock was waiting outside the John Street hostel in Carlisle, hoping to find a place to stay, for a day or two, with a warm bed and good food thrown in. The lorry driver had dropped him at the motorway exit at around six that morning, at just the time - he imagined - when the game keeper would be discovering that his land rover was missing. He could almost hear the cog wheels grinding into motion – report the theft to the police, APB goes out on missing car at the same time that APB goes out on missing man. He could well imagine the news bulletin – man escapes from top security mental hospital; dangerous, do not approach; report sightings to local police. There would be a photograph; last seen wearing such and such; believed to be in the so and so area.

He would have to lie low today as it was Sunday and nothing he needed in Carlisle would be open until tomorrow. He needed to change his appearance, get some decent hiking boots and warm weather-proof clothing and, in order to do that, sell some things to get cash. He was in survival mode, living by his wits, taking what he needed, avoiding capture. He had lived this way for three whole years during his 'absence'. He was an expert. His association with the Homeless Network had also taught him a great deal about living on the street that would be invaluable now, and his experiences with the Street Children in Rio…but he couldn't even think about that. It was emotionally catastrophic.

The hostel door opened and a woman in an apron gave him a friendly smile.

'You alright, pet?' she asked in a cheery voice.

Sherlock gave a small shrug

'Bit o' breakfast would help,' he replied, in his best Arthur-esque Lancashire accent.

'Come on in, then, love,' she said and beckoned him inside.

ooOoo

Molly's phone rang as she and John left the tube station on their way back to John's flat. It was Mycroft with an update.

'The gamekeeper at St Hugh's reported his vehicle stolen this morning and the SAS tracker followed what we believe to be Sherlock's trail right to the gamekeeper's cottage, where they found a dead badger, with some cord tied round its neck, which had clearly been dragged along for some distance. We are fairly certain, therefore, that Sherlock took the land rover. The police have circulated the registration number of the vehicle. I've called a meeting at my office in Whitehall for noon today to organise the wider search. I would be grateful if you and John could attend. I think we need to combine all our efforts.'

Molly was in complete agreement. Having been assured by Mycroft that William was fine and enjoying the attentions of Mrs Hudson and all his staff, she rang off. She and John turned and headed back to the tube station they had just left.

ooOoo