The house was lit up like a Christmas tree with a multitude of flashing police lights as Lestrade's car rolled onto the scene. He flashed his warrant card to the officer in charge.
"DI Lestrade. What have you found?"
The officer inclined her head. "Sergeant Caroline Davidson. This woman allowed us to search the home, but there's no sign of Dave Wilson or Sherlock Holmes. The suspect's van is missing. We've put out an alert on it."
Melinda Bindon stood to the side surrounded by her three sons, her hands on her hips.
"I demand to know what is going on. What is Dave suspected of?" Then she caught sight of Molly. "Dr. Hooper? Why are you here?"
Molly shivered and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"Melinda, I don't have time to explain, but it's very important that we find Dave. Do you know where he is?" she asked anxiously.
"I don't. Like I told this lot, we went out to eat, but he didn't feel up to going with us. When we got back, he was gone and the police descended on us like a pack of wolves!" She gestured angrily at the police cars surrounding the house. "Why are you doing this to us? We are in mourning."
With an impatient grunt, John pushed passed them and rushed into the house, Molly following quickly behind.
The entryway, filled with boxes and books, was barely passable. John started up the stairs when Molly gasped.
"John!" she cried, looking at the table by the door. "These are his gloves, I'm sure of it!"
She snatched them up and held them to her nose. They ran back outside.
"These are Sherlock's!" She thrust the gloves at Lestrade.
"Well done, Molly." He turned to Melinda. "Does Dave a place he likes to go, somewhere quiet and secluded?"
"How would I know?' she snapped.
"The cottage!" Molly shouted. "Where you had Leslie's memorial service."
"Well, I suppose," she said.
"Where is it?" Lestrade demanded.
"I don't know the address," she sniffed indignantly.
"I do," piped up the youngest of her boys. "I was bored on the way out there this morning, so I mapped the drive on this app."
He held up his mobile with the route clearly marked. Lestrade took it from him.
"I'll get this back to you!" Lestrade called over his shoulder as he, Molly, and John ran for their car. "Davidson, you and another unit follow us!"
~s~s~s~s~s~
The door shook and splintered under the force of the beefy officer's shoulder.
"Gun!" Lestrade shouted, drawing his weapon as Davidson grabbed the small firearm that hung impotently from Dave Wilson's limp hand as he sat in a comfortable armchair in front of a roaring fire.
"Where is Sherlock Holmes?" Lestrade shouted. "We know you brought him here."
Wilson unemotionally watched the fire crackle on.
Lestrade continued as the officers began searching the cottage. "I've already gone through your van. There's enough evidence in there to convict you for murder without ever going to trial. So, tell me where he is."
Molly and John rushed in, searching for the missing detective with the policemen. The layout of the cottage was simple: a kitchen with a breakfast nook, a bath, and two bedrooms.
"Sherlock!" John shouted, opening every closet door.
There was no sign of him.
"Start a search outside. I want a medevac chopper in the air right now," Lestrade ordered.
Davidson hesitated. "Sir, our procedures are to wait until—"
"Do it now, sergeant!" he barked. "If you need authorization, I have clearance directly from a highly placed government official to take whatever steps I deem necessary."
"What have you done with him?" John yelled, grabbing Wilson by the lapels of his jacket.
"It's a cold one out today, isn't it?" The man sounded bored.
"You son of a . . ."
Davidson pulled John off the killer before the doctor could strike him. Molly positioned herself directly in front of the older man.
"Mr. Wilson, it's me, Molly Hooper from this afternoon? Please tell me where Sherlock is."
He looked toward her with a smile. "Hello, Dr. Hooper. So good to see you again."
Lestrade leaned in and pulled Molly to the side. "He seems to respond to you. Keep talking to him," he whispered.
She nodded imperceptibly.
"You and you, with me." Lestrade gestured to the uniformed officers. "Sergeant Davidson, stay with the suspect."
~s~s~s~s~s~
The rain was falling lightly as Lestrade and John exited the cottage.
"You go north, you south. Sherlock is a very tall man, dark curly hair, probably wearing a long coat," Lestrade instructed the policemen.
"Where do we even start?" John threw up his hands, surveying the property.
"We never found Pete Marchand's car. I'm sure Wilson hid it here. Probably didn't have time to dispose of it yet. Let's go round back."
They sloshed through the sodden grass to the rear of the cottage.
"Do you smell that?" John asked. "Is that petrol?"
Lestrade knelt and fingered the grass. "A car was parked here recently, and it had a leak."
"These tire tracks are fresh!" John pointed to marks in the mud leading away from the house.
"You're right!"
They jogged along the deep indentations a distance until they made a sharp right at a copse of trees and ended at the edge of steep slope.
"Look!" John pointed to the large pond at the bottom of the hill.
"Perfect place to ditch a car," Lestrade said.
John looked at him with a mixture of dread and anger. "And a detective."
The doctor ran pell-mell down the muddy incline to where the tracks entered the water and disappeared to the depths below.
"Sherlock!" John desperately looked one way, then the other. "Sherlock!"
"He was in that car." Lestrade's shoulders slumped, his eyes welling up. It couldn't be true. But the evidence was right in front of him.
"He could still be alive!" John insisted.
He was already knee-deep in the water by the time Lestrade reached him and wrestled him back to the bank. With an anguished cry, John staggered away shouting Sherlock's name.
Words from his childhood rushed unbidden to Lestrade's mind.
"Hail Mary, full of grace." He looked skyward. "How do I tell Molly?"
Out of the corner of his eye, something large and dark caught his attention. His eyes widened at the sight.
~s~s~s~s~s~
Molly swallowed hard.
You can do this, Molly. Do it for Sherlock.
"Mr. Wilson, I know you loved your wife very much. I love Sherlock very much." She kept her voice even and calm as she took a step closer to him.
"Stay back, Dr. Hooper," Davidson began but Molly signaled that she was fine.
"I can't begin to tell you how much he means to me," she continued. "Please tell me where he is."
A fine sheen of perspiration dotting his forehead, Wilson stared into the lapping flames.
"You were very kind to me today. I wish I could help you. I'm sorry."
Molly bit her lip and tried a different tact.
"I had a crush on Sherlock for years. I'd get all flushed if he was around." She carefully walked in front of Wilson and sat on the hearth, her knees almost touching his. "It took us so long to get together. I don't want to lose him. I know you know what I am talking about."
"I didn't want to lose Leslie," he said flatly.
Molly willed her face to remain impassive. "Sherlock has a difficult time with his emotions. I know a lot of men are the same way, but Sherlock . . . he tries to let me know he cares, but the words don't come easily. I want to hear him say that he loves me." Her voice trembled at the end. "Don't take that away from me, Mr. Wilson."
The man slowly looked her in the eye.
"He did love you. You can have peace about that."
Taken off guard, Molly's veneer began to crack.
"Wha . . . what do you mean?"
"I'm sorry, Dr. Hooper. Truly I am," he said. "Mr. Holmes was very smart, but I am much smarter. He did some dumb things tonight, all for love."
Her words tumbled out, low and angry.
"You horrible, vile little man! Tell me where he is right now!"
With an unexpectedly quick movement, he grabbed her arm in a crushing grip.
"Actually, you're the only reason that I was able to get to him at all."
~s~s~s~s~s~
"John! Over here!"
Lestrade rushed to Sherlock. Dropping to his knees, he grabbed the injured man's wrist and nearly recoiled at the feel of the ice-cold skin. He pressed deeper as John stumbled to a stop next to him.
"I can't find a pulse!" Lestrade cried.
John knelt at Sherlock's other side and reached for a carotid.
"Is he . . .?" Lestrade searched the doctor's face, an ache forming in his gut when he didn't immediately hear an answer.
After a moment, John nodded.
"There it is; it's slow, but it's there. He's hypothermic." John tore off his coat and placed it over his friend; Lestrade did the same. John's movements were careful but still held an air of urgency as he thoroughly checked him for other injuries. "He's got a nasty gash on the back of his head. Cuts and abrasions. Possible cracked ribs. Bad open tibia fracture."
"Is he going to be all right?" Lestrade asked, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's ghastly pale face.
"He will be," John said tightly.
Sherlock moaned, his head feebly moving in the mud.
"Sherlock?" John leaned in close, his nose a hair's breath from the man's face. "Sherlock!"
He rubbed hard on his friend's sternum, which elicited a weak response.
"Molly," Sherlock slurred thickly.
"Sherlock!" John tried once more to rouse his friend. "He's unresponsive. We need to get him to the hospital, but I don't know if his heart can take our carrying him."
"What does his heart have to do with it?"
"If the core temperature is too low, the heart goes into shutdown mode to preserve heat and protect the brain." John's voice was deceptively calm. "If we jostle him too much or cause him pain or distress, it could cause heart arrhythmia."
"Sir?" A uniformed officer came running down from the top of the hill, his flashlight beam floating wildly in the rain.
"Get on the horn and find out where medevac is!" Lestrade shouted. "And get Dr. Hooper down here now!"
~s~s~s~s~s~
"Let her go!"
Davidson lunged at Wilson, who abruptly released Molly as the sergeant yanked him up by the arm. With a cry, Molly jumped to her feet, clutching her wrist to her chest and watched as the woman swiftly got him into cuffs. Davidson dropped Wilson back into the chair roughly.
"Are you OK?" she asked Molly, who mutely nodded.
A deeply held anger welled up in the typically sweet pathologist.
"What do you mean I'm the reason you were able to get to him?" she demanded. "Tell me!"
"Just this morning I was cursing God for Leslie's death when you showed up at my door. It was a gift." His smile sent chills down Molly's spine. "Your business card was the key. That and a well-time phone call to your lab convinced the oh-so-mighty Mr. Holmes that you were my prisoner. He was very cooperative after that. Still arrogant but he did what I told him."
Her head spinning, Molly felt as if she were going to be sick when a policeman ran through the front door.
"Dr. Hooper! They've found him!"
~s~s~s~s~s~
Sherlock moaned again and blinked heavily, his eyes glassy.
"J-J-John?"
"Hang in there, mate." John smiled weakly.
Sherlock struggled to form words. "M-M-Molly."
"She's fine. She's on her way." John soothed him.
Sherlock didn't respond.
"John?" Lestrade began fearfully.
John desperately searched for a pulse. "It's getting weaker."
"Sherlock!" Molly's voice carried down to them.
Starting down the slope, she fell but was up again in a second, slipping her way to the bottom, the young officer at her heels. Lestrade moved so she could take his place at Sherlock's side.
"Sherlock? I'm here, I'm right here." She began to cry. "Why isn't he answering me?"
"Where's the chopper?" Lestrade demanded of the officer.
"They say they are ten minutes out," he reported.
Lestrade looked to where John had Sherlock's wrist in a death grip as if he could will a pulse into it. There was a long pause before John's voice came back thick with emotion, barely audible.
"Can you tell them to make it five?"