Things We Lost In The Flames
This story is being updated every weekend. It will extend to around thirty chapters and from Chapter Nineteen picks up from the start of the final episode of Series Three, His Last Vow. Although there will of course be the vital element of following and reflecting the on screen plot, much will be told in an alternative form through lost scenes and Sherlock PoV. Now read on…
Chapter 11: "All that we have amassed…."
The water was so cold it took his breath away, and the hard impact robbed him of consciousness for a moment. The speed and force of the fall drove him down into the depths of the canal, and he had to flail, and to push hard, to get back to the surface, fighting his lungs' desire to breathe in anything, even water.
He gathered himself as he burst back to the surface, gulping in air, arms out with a determination to stay there, treading water, swirling the bone chilling wetness out of his hair and eyes so he could at least see. He could smell and feel the heat of blood on his face where the stiletto heel had slashed him.
Apart from the slight sound of departing footsteps -they're leaving me here in the water, the bastards; do they think- hope - I'm dead? Should have broken more than an arm - the silence closed around him with something like finality.
The sheer concrete and steel sides of the artificial walls of the canal gave an illusion of solitude and immense darkness in the middle of the city, and he looked round wildly for a break in that wall, of steps or even a slipway that would let him haul himself out of the water and to safety. He began to softly breast stroke to the side.
"Here!" a voice hissed out of the darkness, sharp and low. He stopped swimming immediately to listen; someone had spotted him? Who? Where? And would it be safe to respond?
"Here! Holmes! This way!"
Someone knew who he was. Perfect English, Danish accent….he looked round, treading water. There was a single flash from a small torch to show him the way, and he eased towards it.
A man was hanging from one arm, braced on a service ladder, reaching out a hand to him.
"Here! Quickly!"
He pushed towards the hand, which caught his wrist and hauled.
He was dragged up the steel ladder, hand over hand and a little too quickly, in intense silence, and was pulled over the cill onto the pavement like a fish being landed, slithering as if boneless, as if unconscious, up and onto the ground, water sluicing out of his clothes.
Sherlock arched up to his hands and knees as a coat was thrown about his shoulders.
"Don't get cold. You don't want hypothermia. Your face is bleeding. Are you hurt?"
"Not much," he managed. "Thank you."
"Ah….English manners, "said the voice, with a smile in it. Arms came down, lifted him up and then brought him close enough to lift bodily, and he surged up and forward, banging chests with his rescuer: a shorter, older, bulky yet handsome man with treacle brown eyes and a lined face. The other man's hands went automatically under his shoulder blades, holding up and supporting him; there was a moment of breathlessness, then the other man rasped a hard breath and grasped his shoulders tight with splayed fingers for an instant.
"Have you been shot?"
"No….why?"
"No matter just now. In the car; we must get you warm and dry. Pneumonia is not a complication you need."
The elderly dark blue Saab that drew up alongside them was driven by a young man with short blond hair and a scowl.
"This is Matti, my driver," was the brief introduction as Sherlock was bundled unceremoniously into the rear seat. The two men now in the front turned and looked back at him.
"What are you doing? Let me out, please. I'm fine."
"We will make sure. Because you are wet through and you are bleeding. It's OK; you can trust us, Mr Holmes, we are not the enemy. Just a short trip."
The car delivered Sherlock and his rescuer to an old townhouse less than a mile away, and he was bundled inside at speed.
"My city pied a terre; you are safe now."
The front door slammed shut, lights inside the house snapped on, and Sherlock and his rescuer stood and looked at each other as Sherlock dripped water onto the stone floor of the hallway..
"You are Piet Bruhl," Sherlock stated. "And you were the listener in the other room."
"And you are Sherlock Holmes," said Piet Bruhl, nodding an introduction..
The two men stood and assessed each other for a moment, then Sherlock held out a damp hand and Bruhl shook it.
"Thank you, Colonel Bruhl. Why were you following me?"
"Making sure - trying to make sure - you were safe, you were alone, and reached the safety of your accommodation. My instinct shouted at me when you left Ari's house and yet I still failed you. That bit of action was too swift for me to intercede. I am sorry." He paused, then seemed to add despite himself: "I did not expect you to be a fighter. I had been told you were an amateur."
Sherlock shook his head.
"Clearly I am an amateur, as I failed; so we both failed. I should have seen the danger. But I had not expected any. No-one should have known I was here in Copenhagen."
"Hmn."
Piet Bruhl reached into the bathroom, brought out a grey robe and held it out.
"Go shower. Give me your clothes so I can dry them. We will talk, and then when your clothes are dry again you can leave. Continue as planned."
Sherlock responded with a bleak nod. Within ten minutes he was out of the bathroom, showered, warm again, wrapped in the robe.
"What do you need now?"
Piet Bruhl rose from an armchair as Sherlock reappeared.
"Superglue."
The older man opened a drawer in an antique walnut desk and offered without question an almost new tube. Sherlock took it, turned to the gilt mirror over the fireplace, pinched the cut edges of his face together and applied the glue.
"Quicker and easier than first aid," he said, and the other man nodded. "The heels on ladies' shoes are lethal."
Piet Bruhl spoke: "Has something else happened to you recently? "
"You asked earlier if I had been shot. Why?"
The answer was more indirect than Sherlock had expected.
"Turn round and take off the robe, please. Let me see your back."
Sherlock did not move, but narrowed his eyes, assessing.
" Mr Holmes. When I brought you out of the water I thought I felt something….under your skin. I want to make sure."
Sherlock nodded, turned, let the robe drop to the floor. Stood in the middle of the room, open to scrutiny, and waited. There was the impression of a boot mark on his ribs, a bruise on his chest where the girl's feet had planted to fire him into the air in an overhead throw, grazes on his hands and arms. It could have been worse.
When Bruhl touched his shoulders he could not repress a shudder of reaction.
"I am not going to hurt you, Mr Holmes. You carry momentoes from tonight; but you got off lightly, fighting two people. The other man ended up with a broken arm."
"I should have broken his neck." He heard the vitriol shake into his words and was astonished at his unexpected passion.
"Quite so. You have a killer instinct I had not expected. Your other injuries are…quite recent?"
"Yes. Healed now. They don't worry me."
"Impressive, nevertheless. But you don't have to act strong for me." Bruhl's hand moved, pressed hard around the left shoulder blade. Probed under the bone. "Feel that?"
"Yes. Feels like a pellet, like grapeshot."
"Ever been hit with grapeshot?"
Never."
Hmn."
Bruhl found a spot, pressed and manipulated.
"There. Feel it there? I can actually see it under the skin when I press."
"A tracking device." Sherlock finally deduced what it was Bruhl saw, and his voice was determinedly bland, sitting hard on his reaction as he identified the foreign object in his body, sounding almost bored. Masking the sudden deep anger and sense of violation that hit him so unexpectedly.
"You wondered how anyone knew you were in Copenhagen - and exactly where. You said so. Now you know."
"I also wondered how someone knew I was at two particular houses last evening. Now I know that too."
Bruhl came round to face him.
"Magnussen." he said with quiet certainty. Sherlock did not even need to do as much as nod. A moment's thought, then: "How?"
"I …made a calculated error. Stepped out of the shadows. He…pounced."
"How?"
"I was attacked and drugged by a lackey; a strike at speed. After that…." he hesitated, shook his head, looked away from Bruhl's intent and intelligent gaze. "…I lost twelve hours. Turned up dumped on the doorstep of a Magnussen employee. Tested full of GHD and ketamine. Enough of either to kill me.""
"For why?"
"Humiliation. Knowledge. Opportunity. Inspection. Power. Rape. You choose."
"Do you remember anything from those twelve hours?"
"Not…..clearly." The two words were a huge admission. And they both recognised that.
"So you now have your own very personal reasons for bringing Magnussen down." Bruhl nodded, assessing.
"No. My own situation is irrelevant and cannot influence me, or the detachment of the decision making process. You know that. This is all about a more urgent chain of blackmail that ends with you."
"Me?"
Of course, you. Your military defensive power across Europe and probably beyond. Your sexual identity. Your lover. Your affection for his younger brother and his wife. I understand the pressures upon you. You are the man at the top of the pile and you are the kingpin."
"Hmn. I need to think." Bruhl bent down, lifted the robe, put it absentmindedly back around Sherlock's shoulders.
"No," Sherlock commanded, stepping away from the robe being held out to him. "The tracking device first."
Naked and unselfconscious, he stepped into the kitchen, found the smallest and sharpest knife in the wooden chef's block and held it out to Piet Bruhl. He had a salt cellar in the other hand.
"Need your help," he said.
Bruhl shook his head, eyes widening. "I can't do that. I don't have benzocaine or linocaine in the house for a local anaesthetic. I can't just cut you…."
"Yes you can. If you deal with it quickly. I need you to. I can't reach to do it myself. And I can hardly go to a hospital, now can I?"
"A paring knife, a pinch of salt and superglue. Seriously?"
"Yes. Quickly. Before I change my mind." Sighed and turned his back again. Grasped the back rail of the chair nearest to him. Emptied his mind. Braced himself, leaning slightly forward, eyes downcast and concentrating on a space somewhere on the floor. "Just do it. Please. I am too much at risk with this thing in place…"
The incision came quickly - fast, hard, and without hesitation. Even prepared and away, deep in his Mind Palace, the pain rocked him, the hot feel of the knife tip probing, guided steady by Bruhl's other hand pressing hard into his chest to hold his torso firm, was of exquisite burn.
He closed his eyes, isolated the pain, drew it into a small room in the heart of the Mind Palace and locked it there, felt the small steel foreign body move inside his flesh, then be plucked out. Felt the blood flow. Smelt it. Blocked out the pain to concentrate on just staying standing.
Bruhl swabbed the cut he had made with kitchen roll, loaded salt into the wound. Scraped the now pink granulated salt out, and put superglue into the cut just as he had seen Sherlock Holmes do it, squeezing the tube hard, pinching and holding the edges of skin together until the superglue took hold.
"You should have stitches in this."
He waited a moment for reply and got none. Turned and leant forward, looked into Sherlock's face, and registered with mild surprise that Sherlock did not see him. Bruhl shook his head. Draped the robe back round Sherlock's shoulders and guided him down into a chair. Sherlock had not cried out or reacted in any way under Piet Bruhl's hands, but his eyes were closed, he was sweating and looked ready to pass out.
"Focus," snapped Bruhl harshly, and delicately held out the tiny silver cylinder in bloody fingers. Sherlock's eyes jolted open, and he took it. Hummed appreciatively, smiled weakly, and let his hand fall with it curled into his palm.
"Thank you, Colonel Bruhl. I will dispose of this usefully," he promised, but his arm dropped slackly towards the floor, and his eyes flickered closed.
"You want me to destroy it?"
"Oh no," a weak smile flashed and was gone. "It still has a purpose to serve."
The elite soldier looked long at him without comment, then left the room and soon returned with a glass of water and two white tablets.
"Painkillers," he said, watched Sherlock take the pills, then the water, and swallow them.
Piet Bruhl returned to the kitchen, and in a few moments Sherlock did not notice passing, returned with a mug of hot milk. "With honey, brandy, cinnamon. The best pick-me-up in the world. Drink."
Sherlock was beyond arguing, and Bruhl knew it, guiding the mug to his mouth and waiting until reaction made him sip and swallow. Wrapped Sherlock's hand around the mug until Sherlock held it for himself.
"Thank you. I don't normally need looking after."
"I know." Bruhl intoned. "But circumstances dictate. You are …unusual. It has been a privilege to see you in action, Mr Holmes. You are not Magnussen's normal type of adversary. He will be piqued by the challenge."
"But he will not want me dead. There is no power for him in that. Not yet, anyway. I need to make the most of that delay."
"There are ways to destroy a man other than killing him."
"You mean me? No. No-one expects normal behaviour from me. I have no pressure points in Magnussen's terms, so he cannot destroy me; there is nothing of me to destroy. And I know what being dead feels like. So I do not fear him turning on me." Sherlock quirked a smile, and Bruhl saw it. "In fact I probably require it."
"Do not let that make you overconfident. If he cannot touch you, he will target those people who have meaning for you instead. He is good at leverage..
"I am aware."
"But are you? Really? Has it crossed your mind that you may not be the real target? That he is pursuing you as a way to your brother?"
"My first assumption, always. I will never let him close in on my brother. I tell only you this fact - I will die before I allow that." Sherlock shafted a look up at Bruhl over the rim of the mug, and the other man saw the implacable determination there.
"Magnussen never makes a direct approach. Therefore it now seems he has been closing in on me for some time. Me on the way to Mycroft. Lady Smallwood's little problem has merely escalated his time frame. May even be a feint to draw me closer in.
"I suspect he may also be targeting others in my circle of influence" Bruhl registered the unusual phrase Sherlock used instead of a more simple 'friends' - did the man not recognise such a condition regarding himself? - "as well as affecting Lord and Lady Smallwood. He is getting too close to the heart of British government as well as too close to me. Too close to you, too."
"What do you intend to do?"
"At this stage my decision is not yet made. Partly dependant upon you and what you decide to do on behalf of your lover, your family and their actions relatively. Many people are influenced by this ripple effect. You already know what I may need to do ultimately."
"Eliminate."
"Yes. It may be the only way to keep people, countries, Europe's entire defence systems, safe from his harm.. The man is amoral. He thinks he is the most powerful man in England. In Europe, even. Either him or my brother - in his eyes. He may well be right, for all I know.
"Which is why - whatever else he does on the way to it - he is circling around Mycroft Holmes to strike and kill. Literally? Figuratively? Whichever hardly matters, the end result will be the same.
"He is not doing this out of a misguided belief system, or megalomania, or some need for revenge. He does it simply because he can; because he is addicted to his power over others. Of knowing more than anyone else - about anything else - and being able to use it to change the world. For the worse, normally. Because he gets his kicks by dominating others and spreading fear. He may not be technically insane, but the remorseless effect is the same."
"I agree. The cost may be high, Mr Holmes."
Sherlock shrugged, impassive.
"If I do not act the cost will be higher."
"My assessment also. You seem unmoved by the equation."
"Of course. The UK, the European alliance and it's defence strategies….important proactive and influential individuals intent on good such as yourself, your lover's brother, my brother, Lady Smallwood. All are his victims. Measured against myself? No contest. I do what I have to do. Consequences to myself are immaterial."
Piet Bruhl looked Sherlock Holmes in the eye. Neither man blinked. Finally Piet Bruhl spoke, his tone deep; measured, premeditated words.
"I know your brother. I always thought him unparalleled as a thinking machine. Either you are at least his equal or a better poker player."
"Never play poker against my brother. Or even Snap, for that matter. Take the word of the little brother who always lost."
"You don't intend to lose this time."
"No. But my route to victory may seem…different to what you expect."
"I'll remember that," Bruhl risked an assessing look. For an injured man wearing only a bathrobe and blond hair dye Sherlock Holmes seemed remarkably self possessed and self contained. "Are you always like this? Or acting your role for my benefit?"
"I don't know what you mean."
The unusual opal eyes looking at Piet Bruhl were calm and untroubled. Not transparent, far from transparent, but without subterfuge or guile at this moment. Just a small frown causing a wrinkle on the bridge of the nose. No lies, just a vague puzzlement at being assessed by someone who did not understand that his own normality was not the same as other people's.
"No. I don't think you do." Piet Bruhl allowed himself a slow and appreciative smile that was as honest as it was rare. "I appreciate your detachment and your honesty." He let the silence between them stretch.
"People frequently tell me I am a machine," Sherlock admitted with an ironic smile.. "Not in an appreciative way. Obviously. A freak, some call me. I prefer high functioning sociopath."
Into the silence this created in the room the tumble drier clicked off. Piet Bruhl rose from his chair.
"Your clothes are cooked. A moment."
He returned with a bundle of familiar garments. Sherlock stood and without ceremony took off and folded the robe and slowly got into the clothes, dry now, wrinkled and still warm. Piet Bruhl watched him impassively.
"I look more into my disguise like this," Sherlock commented. Straightening the hoodie, he slanted a look up at Bruhl. "What are you going to do now?"
"I need to talk to Fredrik."
"Let me know what he says. What you decide between you. Please also explain to me why, in the most sexually liberal country in the world, where same sex marriage was pioneered, where even in the military the lack of minority discrimination is exemplary, why you have allowed yourselves to be open to intimidation for so long by being secretive about your relationship?"
"You really don't understand, do you? " Piet Bruhl sat back down and attempted to explain the unexplainable.
"Living and functioning in a liberal country does not make everyone liberal. And a law does not reinvent a mindset. My parents would have died of shame to find their son was homosexual. Even with my exemplary record as a soldier and a servant of our country.
"Fredrik's parents are proud of Ari and they love him. Ari is handsome, heterosexual, a compassionate and caring member of Parliament who has a wonderful and brilliant wife who wants to heal the world. Fredrik's parents love Fredrik. He is a compassionate and caring mover and shaper, a man of achievement, yet he has no wife. Only me."
"You underrate yourself."
"If Fredrik's parents - or mine - had known we have each other we would not have had any parents. Being of a liberal country does not mean liberality is also personal. Everyone has blind spots, intolerances. That is life.
"Over twenty years we have kept ourselves secret, private. Fredrik and I. For our careers, our discretion, for ourselves; but mainly for our parents. A sacrifice we made for each other and a fear of exposure we learnt to live with. We love each other, Mr Holmes."
Sherlock tilted his head, but did not speak.
"Do you not understand love, Mr Holmes?"
"Emotion is alien to me." The words were totally without inflexion.
"If that is your nature I feel sorry for you. If it is your choice then I pity you."
"Thank you."
Piet Bruhl looked at him sharply, but saw no humour or irony in the words. He shivered. There was something in the soul of Sherlock Holmes that disturbed him. The fact that most of that disturbance was admiration had more to do with Piet Bruhl's profession than his heart. Although something now touched his heart he had never expected. Pity, perhaps?. Or empathy. Respect? Even a sort of envy for a man with an empty heart?
"What do you intend to do now?"
"First I must speak to Fredrik. Much depends on what we dare do, what we can do, can achieve. Together or alone. In private or in public. We need to think. To seek counsel. Consider how brave we can be, or need to be. Do you understand? "
"Yes. Will Fredrik?"
"That is what we must discuss. What we put first. Our country or ourselves."
"I wish you well."
"You don't understand the dilemma, do you?"
Sherlock Holmes looked away from Piet Bruhl's intense gaze. It was easiest to do that. To make silent denial and look away.
"Yes. Love is messy. It is the devil. So I am told. And it confuses your motivation." He paused. "If you were not lovers…just friends…would that make any difference?"
"If we were only friends there would be no dilemma, would there? However; in the modern climate close friends of different or the same sex are too often assumed to be lovers, regardless. You know?"
Sherlock Holmes was hit with the sudden rush of an identification with what the other man was saying. Bruhl could not know about his friendship with John Watson. Of course he couldn't! What it was, what it had been. What it was no longer - except to him. How would he react facing the same dilemma? So many people had always made that assumption, that he and John Watson were lovers, however much they denied it or ignored it.
Love was too simplistic a categorisation. And these days he would be hard pressed to still describe Watson as a friend at all. Despite the wedding, the best man's role, the naked respect and affection he had expressed at the wedding - just days ago. The vow he had made to John and Mary and their baby. He must have been mad. How swiftly things could - must - change.
'My first and last vow…whatever it takes. Whatever happens from now on, I swear I will always be there, always…
'I never expected to be anyone's best friend…..certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune to have known…..
'the warmth and constancy of your friendship….I will never let you down, and have a lifetime to prove that….
'I will never let you down….never…..'
Would he still stand up, step forward and save John Watson's life? Put Watson's life above his own? Of course he would; even if he never set eyes on the man again. He had a debt. He owed John Watson his life, a life Watson had saved so many times, in so many ways. Distance and dislocation were irrelevant. He would kill and sacrifice for John Watson. He had always been prepared to do that.
Saving the man from a bomb jacket, from a maniac like Moriarty. From a bomb in a tube train, from beneath a bonfire. Bonfire. That damned and bloody bonfire again….
"Mr Holmes? Are you all right?"
Sherlock felt himself drifting. Blinked hard to see Bruhl's brown eyes intent upon him.
"I am so sorry. It has been a long day."
Bruhl put a hand on his shoulder.
"My driver will take you to your hotel. He will guard your door tonight. And he will drive you to the airport in the morning. Yes?"
"No need, really."
"Indeed there is. You were nearly killed tonight, by professional attackers who have been following you. You nearly killed someone yourself, and you did not hesitate to do so.
"You are helping people I love and you are helping me. I want to thank you, and I also want to keep you alive. Do we understand each other, Mr Holmes?"
Sherlock finally nodded, acquiesced. Too tired and drained to do anything else. The incision in his back was still paining him, despite the pills. But he preferred Piet Bruhl did not know this.
"Good! That is good!"" Piet Bruhl relaxed somewhere deep inside himself. Hesitated, but still asked:
"And what do you do next?"
"Return to my real life. I feel as if I have spent the last day in a bubble, an unreal bubble. But I go back. To my own world and to Magnussen. We have a meeting….." he closed his eyes at the thought, and Bruhl watched him teeter a little.
"Take care of yourself, Mr Holmes. And watch your back. In more ways than one."
Sherlock nodded and opened his hand. The tiny silver cylinder remained nestled there.
"You need something more, Mr Holmes?"
"A dab of superglue?" he asked, smiling. And Piet Bruhl handed it to him and simply laughed, saying: "Please keep the tube. Your need is greater than mine."
Matti, the dour young driver, came to the door to collect him.
Piet Bruhl stood in front of him and offered his hand. Sherlock shook it. A silent gesture of thanks and appreciation Bruhl understood.
"Look after yourself, Sherlock. And do not hesitate to ask my help. Stay in touch. I will tell you what we decide."
"Thank you, Piet. For the …." he hesitated, quirked a smile. "attention to detail."
He moved to the window and looked down onto the silent and deserted street.
"Where is your car?"
"Parked about ten cars down, to your right," Piet Bruhl joined him at the window, and their arms brushed as they stood together.
"Can you tell me about the other cars?"
"All neighbours. The Fiat belongs to Jiri next door - shopping trolley. The Volkswagen next to it is the car of all work for the Ehrlich family. The white Volvo is rarely here; Sven works for the EU in Brussels, so he will be off back there tomorrow, the…."
"That will do."
Sherlock Holmes applied superglue to the tiny cylinder, puts the tube carefully in his hoodie pocket, hand curled protectively around it. With the other hand withdrew a badly crumpled paper handkerchief that had survived it's trip through the tumble drier.
"I have a terrible cold," he commented inconsequentially, and stifled a sneeze. Piet Brul looked at him, not comprehending.
He left Piet Bruhl with a nod, but no goodbye.
Bruhl remained at the window, watched his driver escort Sherlock Holmes into the street, check for suspicious bystanders, lead him to the elderly Saab. The check was professional; it looked like two men simply leaving a house together, looking round to remember where they left their car.
He heard Sherlock sneeze again - twice - and put the tissue to his nose. Sneezed again. Dropped the tissue accidentally, walk on then have second thoughts, step back to pick up his litter like a conscientious citizen.
As he bent and put one hand out for the tissue, Piet Bruhl saw the other hand dip and lift, attach something to the underside of the wheel arch nearest to him on the Volvo. The movement of one hand mask the movement of the other.
The GPS tracker.
Piet Bruhl stepped back from the window and grinned to himself. He is an expert in covert operations. He had been watching closely - yet still he almost missed it.
The tiny cylinder someone still thought was embedded inside Sherlock Holmes would soon be heading for Brussels. And that someone would think Sherlock Holmes was heading there next; instead of returning to London.
For the first time that day Piet Bruhl felt his spirit lift, hope dare to enter his heart. He closed the curtains and crossed to his desk.
TO BE CONTINUED….
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