Chapter 10
Anne was out only for a moment and awoke shaking her head in bleary-eyed confusion before she realized she had fallen behind several chairs. Hearing the voices change, she bit her lip hard against the pain and pulled herself forward with her arms, dragging her bad leg after her, aiming for the dark, empty spaces under the chairs and benches.
Feeling much like a wounded animal trying to crawl into a den for protection, Anne wedged herself as far under the benches as she could, hearing the urgency in the voices as they neared the room. Moments later she came up against cold stone, finding her way blocked and she twisted putting her back against the wall. She could see the dim light cast into the room from under all the benches she was huddled under. A whimper of fright escaped her lips and she stuffed her fist into her mouth, pulling herself tighter into the space and cringing in terror.
The door to the room abruptly burst open and a cacophony of voices exploded at once.
"What the hell?" A man's voice exploded.
"How did she get loose?" Another man's voice demanded.
"How'd she get out the damn window?"
"It doesn't matter," a more authoritarian voice announced. "She's not here now. Find her. She can't have gotten far. Search the grounds."
There was the sound of scrambling as people emptied out of the room. Only two people remained.
"And this is what you call being in control?" A woman's European accented voice asked. "You assured me that you had her restrained."
"I am still perfectly in control," The man said. "The primary metatarsal of her foot is broken and I dislocated the patella on her left knee, she can't have gotten very far at all."
The woman scoffed. "You fool! She's a dancer, she lives in pain every single day. She's been doing double the work needed to keep up with my own position for several years now. Her pain tolerance is high. You compartmentalize the pain, use it to fuel your performance. She's escaped and now both of us are at risk!"
"We wouldn't be at risk at all if you hadn't just shown up." The man snapped. "The only reason your here is to gloat."
"And why shouldn't I? I've waited for this for a long time. She's been a thorn in my side for ten years. She should never have been hired for the company to begin with. They just wanted to make their exchange program look good."
"Aren't you a product of that exchange program?" The man's voice mocked. "I don't care a whit about what you want with her. I want my revenge on Lestrade, and I'll have it."
"You can do whatever you like to him. It matters nothing at all to me. I just want her out of my way. And now she's escaped!"
"That's exactly what I was working on when you interrupted! You aren't even supposed to know about this location, much less be in it."
"I was assured that she would be taken care of. I'll not have her taking my spot in the company, now or ever. I was promised this. I want to see that promise fulfilled. I want to see for myself that she will be permanently removed from the company!"
"Well, you only just missed my destroying the patella." The man mocked. "I was about to work on the metatarsals of her other foot when you insisted on interrupting things and arriving for no good reason. I've been filming it all, see? So that you could see the promise fulfilled. There was nothing mentioned about you being here in person to witness her destruction."
"I was promised this and now she is gone! What have you to say to that? You heard the warnings. You know what can happen if you don't deliver on your end. You said you were in control, but this certainly doesn't look like your being in control to me. You're own, injured, prisoner has escaped. That can be regarded as incompetency and you know how much that isn't tolerated."
"And what would you know about incompetency? I happen to know that you haven't had to pay yet for what you were promised. I, on the other hand, have been fulfilling my obligations in a most competent manner for several years now. And I foresee myself fulfilling even more for years to come. You on the other hand have made a grave mistake by just showing up here, all to satisfy your petty little jealousy! Don't think for a moment this is going to pass unnoticed."
"And what is that supposed to mean? Some sort of threat?"
"I don't make threats, Miss Grigorovich." The man said calmly. "I only report facts. And one fact that will be reported is that you showed up here to witness something that is none of your business and that witnesses cannot be tolerated!"
Elena laughed. "And who is bantering on about facts? I show up and your prisoner has escaped! How do you think Moriarty is going to react to that?"
At the mention of the name silence descended on the room. Several seconds ticked by.
"You little fool," The man said in a low sibilant voice. "You've just sealed your own death warrant, with your own lips."
"What? What are you doing? Let go of me!"
Already shivering in fear at hearing the voice of the man who had been torturing her, Anne held her breath, willing herself not to move, praying fervently she wouldn't be heard. She bit down hard on her fingers to keep any noise from escaping her lips.
Hearing Elena's Ukrainian accent and the revelation of her participation in events, coupled with the sounds of an uproar going on outside the window, drove Anne beyond all reason. Her shocked senses barely registered sound as a new commotion began to erupt around her. She never even realized she was biting down so hard on her fingers that she was drawing blood.
The sounds of Elena's struggling reached Anne's ears followed by the sounds of sudden pain. She could hear the velcro of the restraints that had held her being ripped open and Elena's protestations of being lashed to the chair. Then came the unmistakeable sounds of gasping for breath.
"Mentioning that name gets you one sentence." The man's voice said over the struggling of the woman. "And you said it to his own hired assassin. There is no appeal for dropping his name so flagrantly and so loosely. Instead of breaking the hyoid bone in Anne Lestrade's lovely little throat, I will break yours for violating that name, instead!"
A sick, horrifying gurgling sound grew louder and became more pronounced as the struggling, at first furious, began to subside. In moments silence descended on the room, then Anne heard the man moving around followed closely by the sound of one of the benches being slid away from its place...
Outside, in the dark, John, followed closely by Lestrade, broke through the brush at the far edge of the grass, running for what they were worth towards the dim light of the basement window. It was brighter now, with the glass being broken out of it and as they neared it they were met by three men who had dashed outside to search for their prisoner.
Voices erupted around them, as Lestrade fleetingly caught a glance of Weston inside the basement, eerily repeating the very scene Lestrade himself had witnessed years earlier of the man trying to strangle his wife to death. Only now Weston was trying to strangle Lestrade's own wife.
"Weston! No!" He heard himself roaring before abruptly coming face to face with the man who's nose he had broken.
A smile of pure malevolence crossed the man's battered face as he reached up with his hands to grab Lestrade by the lapels.
Lestrade's reaction was instantaneous. His right hand flashed to his hip then flicked to his right. What looked like a 13cm, rubber-coated, rod in his hand suddenly expanded into a 53cm steel baton. The unmistakeable metallic snick of the weapon snapping in to place was clearly heard by all around.
That feral smile, made worse by the sheer intensity of anger in his dark eyes, flashed across Lestrade's face as he swung the baton under the man's wrists, who was still gripping his lapels. Lestrade flicked the baton across the top of the man's hands laying it on the backs of his wrists. Reaching across with his left hand Lestrade grabbed the middle of the baton, his own arms now crossed and effectively trapping the man's hands. Before the man could even realize he was trapped, Lestrade was backing up, dragging the man with him causing him to lose his balance. The assailant stumbled to his knees and before Lestrade could let go of the baton, John's fist came out of nowhere, cold-cocking his attacker. He collapsed to the ground in a heap, unconscious before he even hit the ground.
There was no time for thanks as the other two assailants split their forces, attacking both of them at the same time.
Lestrade spun around, gasping at the pain in his side and was just barely cognizant of the next man coming at him with a knife in his hand. Realizing he was in too close to the man for any means of controlling the fight, Lestrade flashed his left arm up, barely blocking the knife in the man's right hand. Still, he swung the baton down in an overhand arc to his left, connecting with a bone breaking crunch just inside the man's elbow. The assailant howled, abruptly letting go of the knife, while Lestrade stepped in towards him, trapping his leg. Lestrade whipped the baton right, catching the inside of the man's left knee. When the man began to sag, Lestrade followed though on the arc of his swing by bringing the baton up and around the man's neck. He reached over, grabbing the steel rod with his left hand, trapping the man's neck and viciously swung him around to the right.
Together both men fell to the ground. Lestrade landing hard on the man's back.
A blinding flash of pain nearly caused Lestrade to black out as he tried to roll away from his attacker. He levered himself up onto his hands and knees, gripping the baton in his hand when he barely became aware of John stepping in, aiming a vicious kick into the man's ribs and knocking him over onto his back. John was on the man like a cat, one knee planted in the man's chest as he grabbed the man's shirt. He delivered a solid punch to his face, followed closely by another until the man collapsed under him.
Lestrade wasn't aware that John had already dispatched the third man as his eyes were drawn to the window where Weston was just letting go of the woman he had strangled.
"No!" Lestrade roared again, trying to push himself up, every intent being to literally dive through the window.
"Greg! No!" John shouted, grabbing Lestrade's arm and hauling him to his feet. "You'll never fit. Come on!" John began running around the building. Staggering, still gripping the baton, Lestrade took off after him.
In the basement, Weston was pulling one of the benches away from the others when he heard the sound of someone coming down the stairs. He turned, expecting to see one his men when he got sight of a much taller man, dressed in a long dark overcoat and a scarf. He had a shock of black, wavy hair and his hands were casually resting in his trouser pockets.
"So..." the stranger said, his light blue eyes scanning the scene before him, taking in Elena's slumped figure in the chair staring with sightless eyes at nothing. He took in the camera stand with the camera still rolling, the crowded furniture, broken glass, the open window and the sound of men running. Then there was Weston himself pulling a bench seat away from all the others. He shot Weston a pleasant smile. "So," he repeated, "what happens to me when I mention Moriarty's name? Oops. Just dropped it there!"
Weston stood up straight, facing Sherlock. "I know who you are..." he said slowly. "You aren't even worthy of letting that name pass your lips." The flick knife was out, and engaged, faster than either man could blink.
Sherlock, standing just inside the basement, didn't take another step further. "Let me guess..." he purred. "You were warned about me and you've seen the website, else you wouldn't have posted that on it." He nodded his head at the camera.
"You seem to know all the answers. You obviously know what my answer would be to your question."
"Ah, so tedious," Sherlock murmured, shaking his head in despair. "Let me guess?" he twisted suddenly, pulling his overcoat and jacket aside to reveal his hip. He poked a long finger into his side.
Looking curiously at Weston he said, "You'll stab me just here, under the fifth rib I believe? How ecclesiastical. One strike and I'm dead. Unlike Lestrade, whom you wanted alive. I've read the prison death files. Figured out all the ones you've dispatched over the years. Our dear friend Moriarty got to you early and had a perfect little cold hearted subject to work with. Kill this one and I'll give you Lestrade. Kill that one and I'll give you Lestrade. How wonderfully ironic that he'd groomed a former doctor to be a perfect little prison killing machine." Sherlock dropped his coat back into place and turned to face Weston.
"You don't deserve to speak his name much less call him a friend," Weston hissed.
Sherlock faked a bored yawn. "Tedious," he droned, "And rather yawn worthy too, watching you torment an innocent woman when your anger is really directed at the husband whom you're too afraid to take on yourself." He sighed dramatically, looking at the ceiling in thought before fixing his gaze back on Weston.
"Why take your anger out on someone who's own standards, physically and mentally, are infinitely bigger than yours when you can take your anger out on someone who is much smaller, and weaker, than you? Good reason, I think, for why you killed all those women years ago. You can't take on a man on his own, so you take it out on a woman. Same goes with all those men you killed in prison. You knifed them when they had no opportunity to fight back. That just smack's of cowardice to me, don't you think? You're as readable as a children's primer." Sherlock sighed, looking at Weston pityingly. "And that makes you infinitely more boring as well."
"God forbid I should bore you, Sherlock Holmes." Weston replied, his fingers working restlessly on the handle of the knife he held. "Perhaps this might entertain you?" Weston suddenly lunged forward, coming around with the knife.
Sherlock swung his left arm down quickly, stepping forward to meet Weston's swing. Catching the inside of Weston's elbow against his left forearm, Sherlock turned around, stepping backwards towards Weston. As he turned, he also turned his left arm, catching Weston's arm in the crook of his elbow, at the same time wrapping his right arm around Weston's arm and grabbing his wrist. He then slammed Weston's hand against his knee, pinching at a nerve at the base of his thumb as he tried to disarm him. Weston cried out, dropping the knife, and tried to push Sherlock away from him.
Kicking the knife away, Sherlock let him push, letting go of Weston's arm and spinning back around to face him. Waving a hand negligently, he heaved a sigh of disappointment, straightening up and rearranging his overcoat. "Like I said, boring!"
Weston's face was marred by an ugly scowl as he lunged at Sherlock again. Sherlock just stepped to one side, almost lazily, catching Weston's wrist with his right hand as he came past him, turning in towards his opponent, Sherlock wrapped his left around Weston's arm, pulling his forward and kicked the back of Weston's knee before pushing him down. Weston was on the ground in seconds, Sherlock's own knee driving him down, digging into the small of his back as he twisted Weston's arm up around behind his back. Holding his arm in place, his knee pinning Weston to the basement floor, Sherlock reached up to Weston's neck, where he found a primary nerve ending and began relentlessly driving his thumb into it, grinding down hard as he grit his teeth.
"What do you know of Moriarty?" he demanded as Weston squirmed in agony under him.
"You'll never know!" Weston managed to gasp over his increasing cries of pain.
"Oh you'll tell me, one way or another..." Sherlock growled, jerking harder on Weston's arm and driving his thumb in even more.
Weston began to scream in sheer agony.
Somehow in the rush to get inside the pub, Lestrade had cut corners and had overtaken John. He was first through the door, slamming it open with his shoulder, barely catching himself from falling as he searched for the entry to the basement. He slapped his hand against the door, pushing himself away and stumbled forward. An ear piercing shriek of unimaginable pain led Lestrade in the right direction and he was down the stairs in a flash when the screaming abruptly stopped.
Bursting into the room, he caught a brief glimpse of a woman sprawled unnaturally in the chair before he became aware of Sherlock standing up straight. Lestrade was moving fast stepping towards Sherlock, not noticing Weston on the ground. Swinging his right hand under Sherlock's arm he brought the baton up around Sherlock's shoulder, grabbing Sherlock's wrist in his left hand and twisting it, hard. With the baton's extended reach, he twisted it around, ramming the length of it across Sherlock's neck before jamming it up under his chin, forcing Sherlock to tip his head back with an awkward squawk of protest.
"Lestrade!" he gasped, trying to reach up and grab the baton as Lestrade bore down on his neck and arm trying to force him backwards onto the floor. The look of sheer fury in Lestrade's dark eyes was enough to unsettle most people. Sherlock however, tried to push back, his voice rising to a squeak as Lestrade added more pressure on his throat to bring him down. The two men, nearly evenly matched in strength and height, struggled for moment until John stepped in.
He reached up and grabbed the end of the steel baton, pulling it away from Sherlock's throat. "Greg!" he snapped, practically in Lestrade's ear, "Greg, for god's sake, it's Sherlock!" For a moment, John seriously contemplated jabbing his elbow into Lestrade's wound to get him to release the baton before Sherlock managed to squeak out.
"It's not Anne, Lestrade, look! It's not Anne!"
For a split second, Sherlock caught the sight of uncertainty in Lestrade's dark eyes as his gaze flicked over to the woman in the chair before he realised who it was he was trying to bring down. Lestrade abruptly let go, causing Sherlock to stagger backwards as Lestrade dropped his arms, looking around a moment in confusion before he dragged a hand through his hair. John reached over and neatly disarmed him of the baton, reaching down to strike it against the floor of the basement, disengaging its locks, before he slapped it back to its 13cm size.
Saying nothing, John handed it back over to Lestrade as he stepped past both men, reaching up to rest his fingers on Elena Grigorvoch's throat, while slipping his hand, almost tenderly, under her head. He had a look of appalled horror on his face.
Coughing a moment, Sherlock stood up straight, shaking his coat back into place. "It's Elena Grigorovich, Lestrade. Not Anne." His voice was unnaturally high and he reached up to rub his throat, jerking his head slightly as if popping his neck.
Lestrade, breathing hard and fighting a spasm of pain as the adrenalin began to wear off, looked over at John and Elena. John heaved a sigh, a look of sadness on his features. He glanced at Lestrade. "She's gone," he said quietly as he gently let her head settle back down to the position it had been in. "If we'd only been a few minutes earlier..." He was sorely tempted to reach up to close her eyes, but knew he couldn't.
Lestrade shook his head, looking down at Weston, unconscious at his feet before looking back at Sherlock, who was still rubbing his throat. "What'd I tell you about getting on my bad side with a baton in my hands?" he growled at him.
"That it wasn't such a good idea..." Sherlock squeaked, still rubbing his throat, "I think we have a more important matter to attend to then my forgetting a few etiquette lessons."
"Which is?" John asked, looking between Lestrade and Sherlock with a uncertainty. What other time had Lestrade got the better of Sherlock?
"Anne," Sherlock said simply and nodded at the far wall.
Lestrade looked at him puzzled for a moment.
"Think, man!" Sherlock admonished, his voice returning to normal. "She didn't have time, much less the ability, to get out of that window. Where else could she be?"
John blinked once, dawning realization hitting him as he quickly dropped to one knee and glanced under all the benches.
"Even Weston figured that out, that's why he was trying to move these," Sherlock said waving a hand at the benches and moving over to grab one end.
John stood back up, nodding at Lestrade with a relieved smile on his face, as he grabbed the other end of the bench.
"I would suggest we get her out of here before he wakes up," Sherlock said as he and John pulled the bench away. He nodded at Weston as they moved over and grabbed another bench. "He's going to wake up screaming."
Lestrade, running his hand down his side, grimacing in pain, at first didn't realize he was holding his breath, as John and Sherlock pulled another bench away. It was then that a whimper reached all their ears as the two men reached over to grab a third bench. It was followed by distraught denial.
"No, no, no, no, no, no, no..."
"Anne?" Lestrade called out, dropping to his knee and trying to look under the benches. He barely caught sight of her, wedged up against the wall under the last pew-like bench. "Anne?"
As Sherlock and John grabbed the fourth bench to move it, Anne's panic began to bubble over. Moving the bench out revealed her under the fifth one. She began to cry out, her voice rising in hysteria.
That was until Lestrade's own, anxiety driven voice snapped out, "Anne? It's me!"
Slipping into the space Sherlock and John were creating, Lestrade reached out in time to catch Anne's wrists as she prepared to fight for what she was worth. "Anne!" He admonished, holding her wrists apart, looking at her battered face, the fresh blood on her lips and hands. "Sweetheart? It's me," he repeated, imploring.
She looked at him, shivering in fright and overwhelming emotions. "Greg?" she asked, blinking in confusion, nearly blinded by the sudden exposure to light.
Lestrade dropped to both knees before her in the newly opened space. Tugging gently, he pulled her out of from under the bench. "Come on..." he coaxed. He let go of her wrists, reaching down to cup her arms, pulling her upright. She was looking at him in disbelief.
"Greg?" She asked again reaching up to grip his arms. Her chin began quivering, tears beginning to well in her eyes.
Lestrade's shoulders drooped in relief, and he flashed a deeply relieved, lopsided smile at her, "It's me, Anne," he said softly. "It's me, I'm right here," he said and he pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her at last.
End Chapter 10