Damaged Heart

Chapter Nine

A Rescue in the Rain

John blinks and instantly sits bolt upright. Harry glances sharply at him. 'Who the hell is that?' she asks. John thinks hard, and then he has the voice placed. Hope dawns on his face as he shouts out.

'Chip? Chip, we're down here! Down in the cellar! Hurry!'

There is a pause and then clattering footsteps. Chip appears in the doorway to the cellar, staring down at them.

'Oh my God,' he says, clapping a hand to his mouth.

'Hurry!' John shouts.

The boy stumbles down the steps and moves immediately to John, kneeling behind him and examining the knots.

'What happened?' he asks.

'No time to explain. Get me out.'

Clearly giving up on the idea of unpicking the knots, Chip takes a penknife from his jeans and begins sawing methodically through the rope. Eventually they fall in a slithering heap to the floor and John gets to his feet, rubbing at his wrists.

'Get my sister free, Chip. Then meet me outside. One minute, no more.'

John pauses in the hallway to grab his bag and gun. Swiftly he checks the weapon, making absolutely sure it's in perfect working order. Then he dashes out to the car and hurls himself into the driver's seat.

Less than a minute later Chip comes skidding towards him while Harry stands at the doorway, watching them and rubbing at her wrists reflexively. Chip slides into the passenger seat and John engages the gears with a sickening crunch. He spares just a second to wave to Harry who waves back, a weak, encouraging smile on her face. He thinks he sees her mouth form the words Good Luck before he's speeding down the street and heading toward the Manor.

'Why d'you leave us, John?' Chip asks, clinging onto his seat with both hands as John takes a hairpin turn at fifty miles an hour. 'Did you not like living with us? I know the master can be difficult sometimes but don't you care about him at all?'

'I care about him more than he knows,' John mutters, his attention fixed on the road in front of him.

Chip shuffles awkwardly on the seat for a moment. 'Listen, you're not going to believe this, but...'

'I know everything. The man who tied me and Harry up told me before going to Holmes Manor. He's with Sherlock as we speak, videoing everything...' John trails off and Chip sees him raise one clenched fist to his eye and dash something away. 'I know about the curse. And if Sherlock dies it'll be all my fault for being such a goddamn coward.'

'You're not a coward, John,' Chip says quietly. 'The curse is... well, it's crazy. A situation like this would never have crossed your mind and if we'd told you, you'd never have believed it.'

'I know,' John mutters. 'Doesn't make it any better though. If Sherlock dies, I'll never forgive myself.'

There's silence for awhile, apart from the hiss and splatter of raindrops and the purring engine of the car as it speeds through the darkness, the rays of light cast by the headlamps throwing the road and surrounding wintry trees into stark relief. The wipers squeak rhythmically, working to clear the water off the windscreen.

'How did you manage to find me anyway?' John asks suddenly, his voice so loud and sudden that Chip jumps.

'Oh, it was easy really. I saw the way Sherlock was going and I knew you were his last chance. I went into Grandma's room and found the contact details for you from the emails she sent. Then I stole some money out of her purse and got on the first train I could. I got a taxi to yours from the station.'

John glances at him admiringly. 'How old are you again?'

'Going on fifteen.'

'Well, that was some quick thinking on your part. And I for one am glad you thought of coming to find me otherwise I'd still be stuck in that damned cellar.'

'The man who tied you guys up in the first place, who exactly is he? And why's he gone to the Manor?'

'It's a long story,' John replies, sighing heavily. 'Jim Moriarty is a smalltown bully with a uniquely cunning and vicious mind. Somehow, shortly after me and Harry moved into the town, he became obsessed with me. It started off quite small and really I found it funny to begin with. Creepy but harmless, you know? Then, well, he started coming round to the house at all hours, insisting we were supposed to be together. He made several marriage proposals.'

'You're kidding,' Chip says, looking as if he's torn between laughter and horror. 'What a pyscho.'

'You got that right. He basically got Harry to call me and say he'd been threatening her. When I heard that, I left the Manor immediately to head home as he knew I would. He was waiting with a gun in the kitchen, one thing led to another and you know the rest.'

'Jesus,' Chip mutters sounding a little awed despite himself.

Less than an hour and a half later, thanks to John's blatant disregard for speed limits and red lights, they find themselves pulling up to Holmes Manor. John can see Jim's car parked neatly in front of the gates and feels his anger spike again.

'It's going to take ages for them to open these gates,' John says, more to himself than to Chip. 'Guess I'm going to have to find a way over them. If Jim managed it...'

'No need,' Chip pipes from his seat, waving a small black remote. He depresses a button on it and gradually the gates begin to open.

'Good thinking,' John says, driving forward the second the gates are wide enough to fit the car through. They screech up the drive and as soon as the car's stopped, John is out and running toward the front door which opens just as he reaches it, his fist raised to pound on the wood. Greg is standing there looking tired and dispirited. His eyes light up as he sees John and then Chip.

'Thank Christ you're here,' he says. 'You're not going to believe...'

'Yes, I know everything,' John blurts out, shouldering past, followed by Chip. Greg shuts the door, looking a little lost and bewildered.

'Wait, you know everything? How?'

'No time. I need to see Sherlock,' John says, withdrawing his gun and proceeding towards the stairs. Greg hurries after him.

'He's locked himself in his room, we haven't seen him since you left. He's getting worse, we can hear him coughing.'

'He's not alone in there anymore,' John bites out, as they reach the landing and head down the corridor leading to the West Wing. 'My stalker from back home broke in.'

'Wait, what?' Greg asks, panting along beside him. 'What stalker?'

'Long story. He came here to film Sherlock's last moments. He's a pyschopath and...' John trails off. 'It's all just a mess. I told him I'd kill him when I get my hands on him and if I'm too late, I will.'

They reach the stairs leading to Sherlock's rooms.

'You do realise you probably shouldn't say that sort of thing,' Greg says without much force. 'I am a retired police officer.'

'I couldn't care less right now,' John responds shortly. He slows down as they approach the doors leading to Sherlock's rooms. Placing a finger on his lips, he presses his ear against the wood. 'I can't hear anything,' John whispers. 'How about you?'

Looking like he's stepped through the looking glass, Greg mirrors John and listens intently. 'Nothing,' he says quietly. John glances at Greg who nods and they both step back.

'You ever done this before?' John asks.

'A coupla times. Drugs busts, mainly.' Without waiting to say anymore he raises his right leg straight from the hip and kicks out at the lock of the door. The wood shudders and there is a small splintering sound. 'Good,' Greg mutters, getting ready to kick again.

'Good?' John asks, watching as Greg's foot slams into the door a second time, the splintering sound louder now, the dull metal lock wobbling.

'Yes, good. If the door doesn't give at all at the first kick it's unlikely to break.' Greg moves forward to examine the lock and gives the wood an experimental push. The door shudders more violently under his touch. 'One more kick and then we'll use shoulders,' Greg mutters to himself, taking up his position once more. The third kick sees the lock suddenly hang crazily at an angle and the door bends inward a touch. Swiftly Greg tells John how to position himself and then, after a short pause, they both run at the door together, their shoulders pistoning into the wood. There's a loud cracking noise and the groan of hinges under stress.

'One more time,' Greg pants and John nods. They run at the door once more and then they're through, stumbling over the broken ends of wood.

The anteroom is deserted, the usual jumble of junk lying undisturbed. Their eyes fall on the double doors opposite them which lead into Sherlock's bedroom.

'He'd better not have locked them too,' Greg mutters, rubbing his shoulder. John dashes forward and tries the handle.

'It's unlocked. You ready?'

'Right behind you,' Greg responds. John nods, adjusts his grip on his gun, and opens the door. His eyes scan the room quickly, a soldier always learns how to weigh up any potentially dangerous situation. However, much like the anteroom it's completely deserted.

'They were here!' John hisses, moving further into the room. Greg follows and then stops abruptly, listening.

'John. They're outside.'

John stops and listens too. Over the drumming of the rain on the few unbroken panes of glass they can hear a voice although it's barely audible over the din made by the weather. John motions to Greg and together they creep out onto the balcony.

John is instantly drenched. The rain trickles in chilled fingers down the neck of his jacket and plasters his hair to his skull. He blinks fiercely, attempting to keep water out of his eyes as he peers through the downpour.

The balcony is extensive and John knows that a set of stone steps to his left lead down to a lower platform. Motioning silently to Greg he edges in that direction, counting on the thundering rain to muffle his footsteps.

The sight that greets him once he's gained the lower platform almost makes his heart stop. As he rounds the corner he sees Jim standing facing him. He has one arm locked around Sherlock's waist and with his other hand he's pressing his gun to Sherlock's temple.

'I had a feeling I might be seeing you here,' Jim crows, raising his eyebrows as he sees Greg approach. 'And you brought a friend. How delightful. Now, I would warn you against saying anything to him Johnny,' he says with a tilt of his head as John opens his mouth. 'One word from you and Sherlock will have his brains spattered all over the place.'

John is under no allusions as to what Jim is forbidding him to say. Besides, it doesn't look as if Sherlock is in any condition to hear him. From the way his dark head is lolling and the fact that his body is half supported by Jim, half supported by the stone balustrade, John presumes he's unconscious. He hopes he's unconscious.

'You said you wouldn't hurt him,' John mutters, his fingers tightening reflexively around the handle of his gun.

'I haven't... yet,' Jim replies amiably. 'And if you do as you're told then I'll let nature take its course and Sherlock can die of... well, not exactly natural causes but not by my hand.'

'So what do you want me to do?' John asks, forcing an air of calm. He can sense Greg shifting uneasily behind him.

'Come away with me,' Jim replies simply, his eyes unblinking despite the rain.

John opens his mouth to reply, with what he has no idea. And then, suddenly, the world is full of noise. The air rushes past him, the trees in the grounds bend alarmingly their trunks creaking in the unexpected gale. He glances to his right. A helicopter is lowering itself to the earth right beside them, its blades slowing as it approaches the landing. Everywhere there is roaring, rushing noise.

John was a soldier and realises there can be nothing more helpful than an unexpected disruption. True enough, Jim's eyes are fixed on the helicopter, his mouth slightly open in surprise. If this were any other time, John might have stayed to enjoy that look on his face. As it is, he launches himself at the man, dropping his gun as he does so.

He crashes into Jim and the momentum sends them both over the ledge. What he hasn't accounted for is the fact that Jim's hand is clenched in Sherlock's shirt, therefore dragging him over as well.