Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 10: "…All the things that we had…"

He left the Sondersun house with almost a spring in his step. There was not only going to be a solution to this evil that was Magnussen, but the Sondersun family felt almost like allies. Forearmed and forewarned, and everyone acting in concert, they would combine to foil and defeat the man.

But he knew, even if the others had not yet reached that conclusion, that one solution merely gave space to another victim to fill the void. Magnussen would be lining up his next victims. Nothing would change. The power of a corrupt press would be all, dancing to Magnussen's whims and whoever he decided to target next.

Dealing with one tentacle at a time did not kill the octopus. Magnussen needed stopping, not just deflecting. Parliamentary committees and think tank investigations took years, did not always even reach the right conclusions - even with Lady Elizabeth Smallwood at their head.

He had known this before he began. But had not anticipated the breadth and the width of Maganussen's mania for power and control, and how much anger this sort of persecution would stir in him.

Having always been different to other people, he found he despised a man with too much power so he could pick and choose his victims at will just because they were different. Or had their personal secrets, but still met their responsibilities, thought of other people as well as their own reputations. As most people did, however large or small their secrets, their fears, their life compromises.

The Smallwoods were good people, who had sacrificed to serve and protect their country. The same was true of the Sondersuns: he had been impressed by their candour and courage.

For the Sondersuns had finally believed him. Not what he said - they had an inkling of all that already, understood the intelligence, the tactics, the evil presented that could and would destroy all three of them. If it was not stopped. If Magnussen was not stopped.

Despite their candour, Sherlock recognised there was still part of the Sondersuns they kept in reserve; he realised this and was not concerned by it. For the recording tape had kept running, and they did not admit to it's existance. The secret listener in the next room had remained a secret, and Sherlock did not ask; the trust was too unexpected, still to fragile.

He had achieved more with the Sondersun's than he had ever imagined as it was, and it was best not to try to unpick the web too far, not at this stage. But the door to the other room had remained just ajar as he passed it, and his heightened senses were aware of at least one other person, silent and still and hidden, in that darkened room.

Police - or secret service, perhaps? He did not know and could not tell. But he had done all he could, would facilitate use of the false correspondence to build Jack Smallwood's reputation and innocence and provide an alternative narrative to the one Magnussen held.

So the little puzzle of the men in the other room remained just that. No-one had appeared to challenge or attack him, so that in itself spoke of acceptance and belief.

So it had begun. No going back now, as if that had ever been possible. He had needed to come to Copenhagen, had needed to meet the Sondersun's face to face, assess them properly, talk freely.

He thought perhaps Magnussen had underestimated his opponents in this one. That the line of dominoes that had been set up would not fall as he wanted this time. Was this because he was terrified of what the Parliamentary Select Committee investigating the press would find, would decide - and would censure him?

Or was it that the man was becoming overconfident, was over reaching himself? It was the fatal flaw of all egomaniacs and tyrants, an over confidence and assumption that manipulation successful in the past would always work in the future.

Was he himself an underestimated opponent? The idea pleased him, because it gave him a psychological advantage. Magnussen would know he held the upper hand - because of whatever dominance he had exerted when Sherlock was kidnapped and drugged at Appledore.

The knowledge of manipulation and abuse annoyed rather than upset him. He had known worse and survived intact; abuse and neglect of the transport never felt personal to him and was something separate and more often revelatory about the enemy doing the abusing than of he himself.

Perhaps it was typically neurologically untypical of him, he did not know. It was what he was, and had never mattered.

The Sondersuns were too important to fall, not only because of their roles in Danish life, but because all the people concerned had too much backbone to uphold rather than simply having too much at stake to lose. He was not sure this was something Magnussen could understand or appreciate. This was itself a weakness in the Dane.

Such a weakness would be something to work on. Something to use to make Magnussen work against himself. It was the first weakness Sherlock had found in the character of a powerful and almost untouchable manipulator.

Slowly but surely he was building a picture of the man, building a case. He had more to work on now, more than he had expected.

Tomorrow he would return to Baker Street. Wine and dine Janine and find Magnussen's plans, his movements, his patterns. Janine was more than useful, and it struck him that perhaps her position and connection was not merely a happy accident.

Had Mary Morstan befriended Janine to give herself a position close to the man, just as he himself was doing? Could that be possible? Clearly Janine herself had no inkling of this, but had admitted she was surprised to have been asked to be Mary's chief bridesmaid. Was that all part of the circle closing around the Dane - he and Mary, coming from different sides, different perspectives?

He tried to kill the idea, but it had taken root, and made a horrible sort of sense.

Mary Morstan had explained her lack of wedding guests to being an orphan. But having no-one visible from her life from more than five years back was strange. Even the loneliest only child usually had someone, if merely a distant great aunt, a favourite school teacher, the loyal school friend who kept dogged contact, old work colleagues. Especially from as close knit a work community as nursing.

The lack did not make sense. It defeated logic and normality. And that made Sherlock even more suspicious. Too many aspects about Mary Morstan were proving suspicious, even when trying hard not to look for them.

Why did none of this ever occur to John Watson? Had he really been so totally blindsided by being in love? Or did he take the pragmatic view that she was in a different life now? That at forty she would be bound to have some sort of past, but that it no longer mattered? That was then, this was now? Sherlock heard his own maxim returning to haunt him. Well, he had said this often enough to Watson. He could hardly blame his friend for hearing and heeding.

He knew that at sometime the enigma that was Mary Watson would have to be addressed. But not now - not now, before the woman was even back from honeymoon! Sherlock did not want to face this. Even he knew that nothing good would come from this. And that whatever it was, Watson would never forgive him for bringing it to the surface. Whatever the reason, whatever the excuse.

And yet it was quite possible that Mary and her past could and would put John Watson in danger; put all of them in danger. Then where would they be if Sherlock had never faced the puzzle square on? If Sherlock tried to ignore it the way John and Mary were ignoring it?

For in the final analysis who would protect them, protect all of them, if it wasn't Sherlock? And he had made a vow. A vow he would never, ever renege on. However much it cost…..

His brain chased itself. Round and round the garden like a teddy bear…he remembered taunting Watson about this when they had argued about the solar system. How silly, how innocent, that seemed now. How childishly simple. If only they were back in that place and in that time, and nothing of this complicated and dangerous afterwards had happened.

But there was nothing he could do about that - yet. So pointless worrying about it now. Worry about it later, when John and Mary were home. But don't bother them, don't crowd them. Let them do whatever it is they were going to do, settle into whatever routine was going to suit them both. Stand back. Wait and see, Not precipitate things. Try to keep them at arm's length. But be ready. Whatever there was to be ready for. Sorted. Decided.

Sherlock relaxed a little within himself, stuck his hands into his pockets, put the earbuds back in place, resumed the trendy young man role, walking with that rolling hip-to-the-sound walk.

And so he crossed town, turned quietly onto the harbour side of Nyhavn, breathing in the late evening's peace and quiet after such a hectic day and enjoying the timeless scene of ancient buildings and classic high masted sailing ships that lined the quay.

Tomorrow he would take the breakfast flight back to London, return to the fray. Meet Janine at Angelo's for a meal as they had arranged; meet and talk and find facts but also try to rebut the sexual connection at the same time. Not easy! Then report back to Lord and Lady Smallwood about the new correspondence, and every hold that would be used. Try and find how Magnussen had snagged Jack Smallwood's side of the correspondence; but assume the Sondersuns had been right about that.

Perhaps visit Lestrade and stop him worrying about him; or call in on Molly. Make sure Raz and Jeanne had rescued the Land Rover from the Cotswolds and returned it to Crouch End.

He had been confident Magnussen's minions would never have found the Land Rover in the church car park or identified it as his; without car keys in his pockets, they would have had no idea how he had arrived at Appledore, or where he had even come from. And he wanted that little secret to remain just that, a secret. The old Land Rover was a useful vehicle to have tucked away, and not the sort of vehicle anyone would normally connect with an exotic city dweller like Sherlock Holmes.

And see if Kitty had any news on the source of the newspaper photos and story; although he still felt Magnussen was the source. Even if he had no idea why.

Magnussen. He would have to keep that appointment on Friday. Get close, scope him out. Before the Jack and Ellie bombshell at the Smallwood tribute meal and publicity. Magnussen would not like that, having his lever removed, the threat scotched. Something to maximise….

He hoped the note in the Dane's diary had not included his name, and that Janine had not seen it; hoped Magnussen kept his private appointments up in the penthouse just that - private.

He had no idea what Magnussen really wanted of him. Hoped he didn't. The sexual attraction was only too obvious. Well, he could deal with that. He had dealt with that before, and that did not frighten him, only shame him. It was what else Magnussen wanted from him, why Sherlock would never let the older man that close, that worried him more.

The sexual interest was personal; repulsive but an abasement he could handle if he needed to. And if that helped solve the problem, helped protect everyone it needed to, Mycroft included, Mycroft especially, it was a negligible trade off.

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But he decided he would take the Guarneri with him to CAM News, and would play. It would provide a distraction and a barrier and demonstrate a willingness he did not actually possess to relate to the Danish media mogul.

Music might lull Magnussen into a false sense of security around Sherlock. Which Sherlock would use to any advantage he could find. For he would have no compunction in playing Magnussen with as much consideration and skill as he would play the violin.

It amused, yet baffled him that both Magnussen and Janine Hawkins should be attracted to him. He looked in a mirror and could see nothing attractive about himself whatsoever. For all his intellectual arrogance, personal vanity had no role in his character.

He saw nothing attractive about himself, externally or internally. Was that a blindspot or a bonus? Or was that a useful reverse assertion of arrogance?

Questions he had asked himself before, and still had never found answers to. He quietened his mind with deliberation and walked on. He needed to settle now after a busy day, relax his consciousness ready for sleep. He was rarely tired, but today he knew it.

Someone in the far distance was walking a dog, some late revellers on the other side of the canal were lurching merrily from one bar to another. A young couple were necking quietly as they leant against a safety rail before some access steps down to the canal.

Glancing across and away quickly, Sherlock saw a young girl with short blonde hair wearing a pretty floral dress, her beau tall, suited and also blond. They seemed to not even see him as he walked past them.

But within seconds he heard the quiet padding sound of running footsteps, closing on him fast. Closing on him - there was no-one else about.

Before he could collect himself and react both his arms were grabbed from behind, his hands pulled from his hoodie pockets, was physically dragged forwards as the couple took him from either side. Hauling him forwards, dragging him towards the canal's edge

They were going to throw him into the water. They wanted him to drown. A front tail he had not spotted. Oh, great.

"Keep out of other people's business, Mr Holmes!"

The voice was that of the girl from the bar earlier. He swore to himself. He should have been prepared, should have been more aware, should have known. Why had he not known?

Scrambling to brake his progress towards the water's edge, he managed to do so by finally - luckily - digging a heel in behind a slightly risen cobblestone and getting a purchase. And that one foot held, was enough to put a sudden stop to the inexorable progress.

The man and the girl either side of him, dragging him by the arms, jolted through their whole bodies as he stopped abruptly, throwing his weight hard backwards, and stopped them too, lurching them off balance and curving in towards him in reaction as he arrested their inexorable progress in dragging him towards the water's edge.

Bracing himself, roaring a shouted - "NO! Nonononono!" calculating the shock this gave opponents - the kihap martial arts cry - he locked out his torso and heaved his arms inwards from the shoulders to bring his fists and forearms together in a classic double straight arm block, which clattered his two attackers against each other in front of him, before he then jerked his arms violently downwards, leaning rapidly in and forwards to maximise momentum. As a result they had to let go of his arms or crack their own skulls together in reaction to the force of his action.

At this release Sherlock instantly straightened up, jumped back a yard like a cat, level and two footed. The anger that had been simmering in him for months found release, came suddenly to the boil and he was hotly, unusually, angry. And violent.

His eyes blazed as he turned to the young man, who was the first to recover himself. Who faced towards Sherlock and dropped into a martial arts stance, hands palm down and parallel at chest height, eyes narrow slits of concentration.

"Oh, please," Sherlock scoffed. "Is that the best you can do? Look like a cheap knock-off of a kung-fu movie?"

He lunged forward and was deep into the blond man's reach far too fast, closed into him with surprise against all normal fight tactics, moving too quickly for his opponent to shape a contact blow, Sherlock's surprise move slapping an open palm against the young man's ear to swipe him sideways and rock his balance; an Ottoman slap that looked simpler, less painful, less disorientating, than it actually was.

Followed through by catching the back of his neck, slamming him face down and straight into the ground, then pivoting on the ball of one foot, spinning out fast through the move and turning to face and meet the attack from the girl who leapt at him with a risky high kick going for the throat.

A dangerous move to execute, and fatal if it had connected. But Sherlock rocked sideways, fast away and outside the move, deflecting her foot with one sharply raised elbow then take her in the throat in return, in passing, with a one finger spear blow from the other hand as she passed him, her own move rendered harmless, and which crashed her to the floor, retching for breath.

Shuffling backwards to have both his opponents in front of him he debated whether to turn and run or stay and fight, but decided running gave him less chance against two opponents than staying and facing the pair, who were picking themselves up and coming forward again.

He was outnumbered by skilled fighters. There was no chance of anyone coming to his aid. And they now knew he was not as ineffectual as he had at first appeared; he had lost the advantage of surprise.

The girl had taken off her kitten heeled shoes; those sharp pointed little heels held in front of her in either hand like weapons.

"Give up," rasped the girl. "You don't stand a chance against us."

"Despite evidence to the contrary," Sherlock breathed.

He watched the pair divide and move apart, attempting to sandwich him so they could attack simultaneously from opposite sides and maximise damage, not allowing him to ride against their opposing forces but to have to react and absorb them both simultaneously. A classic and insurmountable problem when facing two opponents at once.

Dropping his centre of gravity into a fighting back stance, Sherlock breathed out slowly to calm himself and pushed his hands outwards into a Korean defence position..

"So when did you learn to fight, Mr Holmes?"

"Oh, you know," he tilted his head and smirked. "One picks up things on one's travels."

He felt cold. Nor fear, exactly, more a wind at his back that told him he was no longer the amateur dilettante detective who had blithely swooped to a pretend death from the roof of Barts. And this sharp little exchange was proof of that. Did he accept - like - or even hate - this new thing he had become? Or had that change been inevitable with maturity and experience?

But now was not the time to think of such things.

The young man shuffled forward again, arms and legs suddenly whirling into action and Sherlock responded with a series of high speed blocks and feints that created themselves without conscious thought as he one-stepped backwards in a series of classic karate defensive moves intent on self preservation and staying standing.

The girl was inching behind him now. He could feel her presence drifting back and sideways, but although he tried to keep her in his peripheral vision, he could neither see her properly nor concentrate on her as he followed through his defence against her companion.

But there she was suddenly, barefoot now, slashing at him with one cutting heel, raking his face with it, and he smelt blood on his cheekbone, saw it bloom in his peripheral vision. He had snapped his head back instinctively fast, yet not quite fast enough, the blood flaring upwards and interfering with his sight, slowing him.

The girl Maria was suddenly far too close and making a judo move against him with a low sweeping scything movement of one leg, hands flat on the ground, that took his feet from under him and put him down and winded onto the cobbles, flat on his back and helpless.

He hunched desperately forwards as he fell to try and save the back of his head from impact with the ground, and grunted with the effort. His sound made her laugh. And he could gladly have killed her, killed both of them, at that moment.

As the girl threw her arms down and out to break and absorb her own fall, she was picking herself up and whirling out of his range even as he lay there winded, trying to move. So the young man was at him again before he could recover, dropping like a stone onto his prone body, knees sinking into his chest, forcing air from his lungs and making him gag for breath, see silver stars, try to parry the grab for his throat by blind instinct alone.

There was no option but to curve his hands up and inside the killer grip and rip it open fast - with his arms as leverage - and he did so in near panic. For he recognised it was going to be impossible to tackle two such skilled opponents working in concert all on his own for much longer.

Now, as they grappled, the two men's faces were too close as they breathed each other's air and stared at each other, giving no quarter, faces blank with effort and something not far from each one's limits.

He had to finish this. He was at too much of a disadvantage here. And he still could not decide if they were there to warn him off or to kill him.

Sherlock breathed down, concentrating all his mental and physical force into his upper body, attempting the fiercely physical flickering shoulder spring; difficult even without an opponent kneeling on his chest.

Somehow the anger and the force he summoned into the totally unexpected and off strategy move took the young man by surprise, and he was thrown to one side, even though the shoulder spring had not been completed clean. Yet this still gave Sherlock enough of an advantage to twist up onto one knee and catch his opponent's hand as it reached for his throat again.

Bending the arm open from the body, locking the elbow joint back, twisting the hand palm upwards, Sherlock directed the arm down onto the point of his bent knee and drew his other elbow up and back, before swooping the point down into a hammer strike.

There was an audible crack like a gun shot as the bones in the forearm broke, and the young man screamed, jerking away in surprise and pain.

Scrabbling and spinning to his feet on the shining cobbles, Sherlock came upright, throwing the man away from him. As he did so, unbalanced in the desperation of the movement, he sensed the girl lunge towards him again, ram herself close and tight into his body and grasp him by the front of his hoodie.

He had an impression of wild blue eyes far too close to his, teeth gritted with effort and anger, white spots of tension on her cheekbones. And even as he reached for her hands to prise them off him, he jolted and felt her throw her weight backwards away from him, pulling him into her arc of movement.

She fell hard backwards onto the ground, dragging him with her, planting one foot then both into his stomach to bend, extend and then lift him into a freestyle tomo nage move, pushing upwards and spinning him over his own head and hers into an overhead throw. She was the fulcrum and he could no longer resist the momentum she was creating.

This, he thought fleetingly, was always what was going to happen. He could not tackle two hard and prepared fighters used to operating as a team and ever have expected to win. And the whole thing, his pathetic abilities, his vulnerability, had been overwhelmed and destroyed in less than a minute.

Unable to stop himself, he flew upwards and over her head and body. He missed hitting the ground, hitting the thick oak timbers that lined the edge of the harbour. He was spinning towards darkness, arms and legs flailing.

He was going through the air at speed, now heading straight down twenty feet into the dark waters of the canal. He was going to be knocked out by the impact. He was going to drown. And no-one would see, or care, or come to his aid.

Just another drunk who stumbled over the edge into the water. Just another statistic. That was what they would say when they pulled his lifeless body from the water. He shouted wildly for the three seconds he was in the air in case - just in case - someone else was around to notice,

Just in case the two attackers were not then going to run to the edge, pull out a pistol and simply finish him off in the water. Like shooting a rat in a barrel. It was likely. It was what he would do in the same situation.

His last thought before he hit the water was that he deserved this, deserved all of it. Humiliation, failure, damage. Death. Magnussen had won. Lady Smallwood would be devastated. And Mycroft would not be best pleased, either…

TO BE CONTINUED…..

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