Jesus, John thought, eyes skimming the outline of the old power station in the fading daylight. Silhouettes of cranes towered above the construction site, illuminated only by warning lights to alert airplanes, but the sprawling building itself was dark.
It seemed larger than he remembered it – some of that was the scaffolding but it was mostly the stark reality that this time, he wasn't being led somewhere specific. He'd had a guide of sorts last time.
And Adler had wanted to be found.
Now they were going in blind, just the two of them. Armed, yes, but without knowing what they would find.
His memory wavered for a moment, threatening to send him back to Wales and to Afghanistan at the same time; John set his jaw, drawing his gun and following Sherlock's careful path through the construction site toward the building.
Wales didn't matter here, but Afghanistan did. A hand on Sherlock's arm stopped the detective, and John took the lead, slipping so easily back into thinking and moving like a soldier that it almost surprised him. He shelved that, keeping his focus on what he'd been trained to do so long ago.
Sherlock fell in behind him without question or protest, letting John take charge; the doctor gave himself a brief moment to be grateful for that without becoming distracted by it.
Every sense stayed tuned to his immediate environment, scanning the shadows for places where there might be movement or too much depth, listening for anything outside of the distant sounds of London or the shifting of the evening breeze across tarps.
They could be in the wrong place.
It could be a trap.
It could be both of those things at the same time.
The silence didn't feel false, but John didn't trust it all the same.
If Alexandre was in there, they owed it to him to find out – and John was acutely aware that they might not have another chance if they passed this one up.
The police were on their way, he reminded himself.
And Sherlock had been right. They were more likely to get in unnoticed just the two of them than an entire armed force would be.
John set his jaw again, hoping like hell they'd been unnoticed. The security cameras surrounding the site had been on, but Sherlock had navigated through their blind spots as much as possible.
John saw no indication of cameras inside, but that didn't mean they weren't there.
He felt like he was being watched, even through the apparently sincere silence. Someone could have been watching from a distance.
This was a game to her, after all. One in which they weren't the goal – John held no illusions that he was anything more than a pawn for Adler, but he wondered darkly where Sherlock fit into her plans. He doubted the detective was as disposable as he himself was, and it wouldn't have surprised him if Sherlock was being strung along.
For fun, or for some ulterior motive.
John smothered the flash of fury, checking his breath to keep it calm.
Whatever her plans for Sherlock might be, they hardly mattered.
It was his own plans for Sherlock that were important. And he planned on both of them being back at Baker Street before the sun came back up, with Alexandre safely on his way back to France.
He fixed that image in his mind, a stubborn frame of reference, and motioned to Sherlock to crouch down. The detective did so without hesitation, but John could feel the questions and concern directed his way; he ignored them, taking shelter behind a low stack of bricks.
He scanned the entrance – it was their best choice, closest and most accessible, which made it the most obvious as well. Anyone waiting for them would set up on the other side, an easy position to ambush from
Still, he doubted Adler would leave any entrance uncovered if she wanted to catch them immediately. Best to take the most obvious entrance. It was clear enough on this side for him to feel confident that no one was waiting to catch them up before they got inside.
That was something at least.
He gestured to Sherlock, keeping low as they crept toward the building, each of them moving to stand on either side of the open entrance, backs against the wall, guns ready. There was no door, just an empty frame covered by a sheet of plastic. It took undisturbed, the plastic fixed firmly to the plywood walls, and the staples holding it in place didn't look fresh.
He nodded at Sherlock, who drew a pen knife deftly from a pocket and sliced a neat line through the plastic next to the door frame. Sherlock twitched the now-loose plastic aside with one foot; John positioned himself quickly to fire if needed.
The breeze played at the free edge of the plastic, but beyond that, nothing stirred. John shifted his stance slightly, giving Sherlock another curt nod. He wasn't happy about it, but the detective was closer to the makeshift entrance and John was already in a position to cover him as much as possible.
Sherlock met his gaze squarely, the look in his grey eyes speaking volumes. John swallowed hard, adjusting his grip on his gun.
The moment it took for Sherlock to duck under the plastic was less than the space of a breath, but John felt suspended in it, chest and shoulders tight, senses on alert. The quick activity was followed by a taut silence, before Sherlock whispered John's name as an all-clear.
John steeled himself and slipped inside, plunged immediately into darkness that was illuminated by the bright beam of Sherlock's flashlight. Instinctively he pulled out his own, positioning it under his weapon with practiced habit.
He swung the light around him, tracing upward along a vaulting space, distracted when Sherlock nudged his foot, directing his gaze downward. The detective's flashlight skittered over relatively fresh footprints impressed faintly into the dust and dirt on the building's floor.
Whoever it was hadn't come in the same way they had, but had gone past here.
John met Sherlock's gaze and nodded again, gesturing quickly in the direction the scuff marks had most likely gone. The trail was fairly indistinct, and any shoe size or type was masked by scuffing, but his own good sense of direction was backed up by Sherlock, who gave him a quick nod in return.
The absence of anything else, it was a better path to follow than nothing.
John was about to move when a sound cut through the silence, distant but distinct, an abrupt rattling that sent an adrenaline spike through his veins. He moved with Sherlock, flashlights swinging toward the sound, racing up along the beams and supports that braced the walls, landing on a terrified face staring back at them.
"Shit," John whispered, feeling Sherlock freeze beside him.
It was a woman, three stories up and tied precariously to the edge of an unstable-looking scaffolding platform, her face largely obscured by the gag covering her mouth. Despite that, and the distance that separated them, John could see her features well enough to recognize her.
"Go," Sherlock whispered from beside him. John tore his gaze from Bridget to meet Sherlock's, shaking his head vehemently.
"Not a chance–"
"We don't have time, John!" Sherlock hissed. "And she saved our lives. Go!"
John hesitated, eyes flickering back up to Bridget, who was watching with barely restrained terror, obviously trying to keep herself as still as possible. He met Sherlock's gaze again, swallowing hard, forcing himself to nod.
"I'll catch up," he said, voice low. The corners of Sherlock's lips twitched into something that was almost a smile.
"Yes," Sherlock said. "I know."
There was no time for the instincts that screamed that Bridget was a trap – of course it was a trap. Meant to separate him and John. To isolate him.
But this time, Sherlock knew.
He knew where he was, he knew why, and he knew John would find him again.
Soon.
He moved slowly, one cautious step after another, placing each foot soundlessly, deliberately. There was an instinct to rush as well – adrenaline, an ancient defensive reaction, and not one he could heed right now.
Behind him, the sounds of John trying to rescue someone – of John being John – faded away. Sherlock kept his breathing steady, ignoring the part of him that screamed about the separation.
The Woman wouldn't kill him.
Not unless she really had to.
But Georges… Sherlock understood far too well that Georges would be readily expendable.
He'd made a promise. To Juliette Arnaud.
And to John.
He intended to keep them both.
The trail led him toward the heart of the old station, up flights of temporary stairs that existed only for the construction crews. The internal structure he'd navigated the last time had almost vanished – some of its layout remained, but it had been largely stripped away, leaving the shell of the old station and replacing the interior with something that would, someday, be sleek and modern.
Right now, wood and concrete dust hung in the air, particles dancing in the beam of his headlight, giving the air a musty, almost woodsy smell. Sherlock inhaled deeply, teasing apart the scents, scouring it for hints of anything else.
She'd left a trail of perfume for him once before, at Baker Street.
But she was clever.
She was leaving him with nothing but the faint and fading path of footprints.
He kept moving, refusing to give into doubt that he was on the wrong track. She'd set this trap. She would be waiting. He was in the right place. His observational skills were as honed and accurate as ever. He was going the right way.
But arrogance was dangerous here; speed and assumptions could kill. Maybe not him, but Georges.
Maybe him.
Maybe John.
Sherlock kept his pace slow, deliberate, taking the time to scout his path before following it, to examine each empty room he came to without the weight of any expectation. Knowing what he was looking for might mask what was there. He needed to observe, not just to see. Assumptions could be blinding.
The prickling of hairs on the back of his neck reminded him he wasn't alone. Someone was watching – doubtless there were internal cameras he wasn't aware of, that he couldn't see. How much they could record in the darkness hardly mattered. The light from one flashlight was telling enough. Even if John had been with him, it would have been too dangerous for one of them to move without a light.
Periodically but sporadically, Sherlock turned, scrutinizing the path behind him, watching and waiting for any sign of being followed.
The Woman wanted him to come, and it appeared she wanted him to come alone.
It was hardly surprising that the trail led up towards the penthouse that either she or Mary owned – more surprising that it stopped several floors below that. Light spilled out from an empty doorway in the near distance; Sherlock shut off his flashlight, squinting as he approached slowly, letting his vision adjust.
She had a natural advantage. No need to give her more.
He was silent, nothing more than a shadow, back to the nearest wall without touching it, without so much as the brush of fabric against a surface. The pulse in his ears made it more difficult to hear; Sherlock focussed on his breathing, slow and deep, forcing his heart rate to drop and match it.
He took the time to pocket his flashlight, freeing up his hands entirely to grip the gun, using the long moment to gather as much data as he could. It was a single light, not affixed to the ceiling, hung in a corner. It would leave shadows along the edges of the room, blind spots that were already blind spots because he couldn't see them. She might be in one of those, hidden and waiting.
But she knew he was coming.
And he could see her now.
She'd put herself on display the first time, too – all of herself, using her body as a weapon to throw him off.
There was none of that here; her appearance was all business, the white dress and heels impractical for a construction site but ideal for suggesting authority, hair swept up, posture poised and confident.
He took a deep breath held it, took another. The rage, bright and shocking, made his hands tremble. Sherlock steeled himself again, forcing calmness to smother the sharp, manic desire to act, to extract revenge for Wales. For John.
She would expect that. That weakness.
John was his weakness. His pressure point.
One of many.
But knowing that was half the battle.
And he knew he was one of hers.
"Where is he?" Sherlock demanded, still swathed in the shadows. The flash of triumph at her surprise was overshadowed by his own.
She hadn't been sure he was coming. Not entirely.
"No, stay where you are," he said when she took one step toward the door. "I am armed and you do know I will fire."
"You saved my life once," she answered, voice smoother than he remembered, more luscious.
"I did," Sherlock agreed. "I never make the same mistake twice."
The Woman smiled, a bright sudden grin that caught him off guard – there was no sensuousness there, no cunning or guile. Only genuine amusement.
"Where is he?" Sherlock pressed, refusing to be distracted. He kept himself in check, ignoring the clamour from his muscles to tighten his finger on the trigger.
For Wales. For John.
No, he thought.
"Mister Holmes. If I'd known you were coming, I would have ordered dinner."
"Where is he?" Sherlock repeated, dropping his voice an octave, letting it resonate.
"John?" she enquired innocently; Sherlock set his jaw hard, holding himself steady. "I imagine playing the hero – he so enjoys that."
"Alexandre Georges. Where is he?"
"Aren't you going to tell me that if I let him go, I may make it out of here alive?"
"No," Sherlock replied.
He'd made promises.
That wasn't one of them.
"You won't shoot me," the Woman continued. "Oh, don't look like that," she continued, taking another slow, casual step toward the door before stopping. She couldn't see him, he knew, but he felt the flash of alarm and irritation all the same. "It's not just sentiment, you know. I haven't come completely unprepared."
She flashed another smile, this one far more calculating.
"I am on a schedule," she said. "There are… certain people waiting for me to make contact. If I don't…" A slight shrug, feigned unconcern for the result. "Perhaps I should say it would be very difficult then for you to make it out of here alive."
"Tell me where he is," Sherlock said, ignoring the taunts, focussing instead on her expression, her posture.
It was easier, now, to read beneath what she wanted him to see. The rage helped, the memory of scouring an empty darkness, each passing moment without John becoming more and more suffocating.
"He has nothing to do with this."
The Woman laughed, almost as if she meant it.
"Nothing to do with you, Mister Holmes. But then, nothing about this does, not really. I was hoping you would see that. I'd hate it to spoil anything between us."
He refused to take the bait, swallowing a retort.
"This is between you and Mary. Leave it at that."
"Interesting," she said, cocking her head. "Why call her that? You know it's not her name."
"It does the job," Sherlock replied.
"And here you are, doing yours. Like a good little soldier. Your brother would be so proud."
"Perhaps we should leave brothers out of this altogether," Sherlock suggested.
She laughed again, looking delighted.
"If only it were that easy," she replied. "And please, don't be tedious and tell me it could be. It's a pity it turned out this way, Mister Holmes, but you really should know your place. You could have avoided all of this by going to France when I first asked you to. All I needed from you was the information. The rest…" she shrugged again, unconcerned. "It doesn't involve you at all."
Sherlock felt the movement behind him almost before he heard it, warning instincts setting off alarm bells in the split second before he felt something connect like a sledgehammer with the back of his head, blinding white light exploding across his vision, dragging searing pain with it that screamed along his nerves, paralyzing everything, seizing control of his body from him.
"Sorry about this, Mister Holmes," another familiar voice said next to his ear as the sound of his gun clattering, uselessly, to the concrete floor reached him from across a great distance, as his knees gave way, his body folding in on itself, "but I did promise you that you wouldn't ever see me again."