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GIFT OF SILENCE

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Chapter 11: Moments Before the Explosion...Tuesday, 9 May, 2017

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"…first we have to catch him to get fresh DNA for that proof. We can only do that if we can locate him and get close enough to obtain samples," Sherlock had said the previous night.

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John was in a hurry. It was all coming together. Their investigation had led them to this moment, and he wanted it over and out of their hands.

Heading south onto Old Brompton Road, not far from his pre-arranged rendezvous with Sherlock at the Royal Marsden Hospital, John was making excellent progress. He was shaving time off the six-minute walk from the South Kensington station to Fulham Road at an invigorating pace that elevated his heart rate and raised his spirits. Sherlock couldn't complain about his tardiness now. It was 09.10; they were supposed to be meeting by 09.30 to begin their surveillance.

Certainly theirs was not a mad scheme by comparison to some that Sherlock had undertaken. They were not foiling an Underground terrorist attack, dealing with Black Lotus assassins, or outwitting Moriarty. Sherlock had assured John that this would be a simple operation, mostly because they did not want to alert their suspect and have him disappear again. John had agreed their plan was possibly the least complicated in their history of working together—to collect some DNA from a discarded coffee cup or a tossed napkin in a local eatery or the hospital canteen as they followed the man on his daily routine. They first had to confirm for themselves—with Molly conducting a Polymerase Chain Reaction test on their behalf—that he was indeed their missing-person/pedophile doctor on the run from the FBI. Convincing Lestrade that there was enough circumstantial evidence to justify obtaining a warrant would be another matter altogether. At best they would provide a tip off, but a tip from the Great Sherlock Holmes would not be ignored. Ultimately, it would be up to the Met to gather admissible evidence to satisfy the chain of custody that would hold up in court. However, putting the police on the trail would end their involvement. Then John would do his best to put some space between him and this dreadful case of the pedophile doctor—block the whole affair from his mind it if he had to—and eliminate some of his "underlying stressors" as Ella would call them.

Thanks to the detective's unrelenting efforts, they had located Willard/Prius. Overnight, Sherlock's algorithm had successfully triangulated the facial recognition hits of their suspect with the CCTV databases within the vicinity of the Royal Marsden Hospital and produced a predictable pattern.

The analysis of the data indicated that for more than two months, their man had consistently boarded the 06.51 Sevenoaks commuter train to Charing Cross, arriving at 07.23 every morning. After, he had hopped on either the District or Circle Line for another half-hour to a stop that put him within walking distance of the hospital. Once in the hospital, the lobby cameras picked up Willard/Prius greeting the guard whilst juggling coffee and showing an ID badge which granted him access to the facility. Occasionally he would leave for a mid-day break or for an early lunch where he had been observed at the local bistros or for quick lunches when he had gone out briefly and come back with takeaway. He always left on schedule every night and reversed his course going home. Even though they now knew what the man looked like and where he worked, until they made inquiries at the hospital, they did not have the name of their suspect's new identity. What business had brought him regularly to the RMH or where he actually had been living were still unknowns.

However, at this crucial stage of their investigation, Sherlock had become the proverbial bloodhound on the scent, driven and unstoppable.

John felt a nagging twinge with this thought: that 'bloodhound' had not been able to keep the scent when John had needed him the most. As John rounded toward Fulham Road, his thoughts turned sharply back to key moments before and after the devastating tragedy on that horrible night…

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07.45 31st December

Mary and John had packed their 4-door Audi hatchback the night before their trip with all the provisions a toddler would require for a week in the country. Mary and Rosamund were to motor down and John had planned to follow them later by evening train after a day at the surgery. That New Year's Eve morning before he had left for work, he was a happy man looking forward to a well-deserved week of exclusive family time.

Equally ebullient and efficient during their preparations for the sojourn into the countryside, Mary had lost a little of her enthusiasm when she was seeing John off for work that morning. Her bright blue eyes suddenly grew moist, and she hid a sniffle within an exasperated chuckle.

"No. Not now! I refuse to get a head cold. I hope it's just from the dust we've raised pulling out the luggage." After palming her eyes, she threw her arms around John and pulled him to her in a tight embrace. Laying her cheek against his freshly-shaven one, she inhaled the scent of his aftershave and sighed.

Savoring her warmth, John reciprocated with a passionate hug and also exhaled a gentle sigh. He nestled his nose in Mary's still-damp, fragrant hair as images of their morning shower came into sharp focus. The memory raised more than his smile. They lingered in their embrace, absorbing each other, until John grunted quietly. "You're still in your dressing gown, Mary…I could easily catch the next train…" His whisper tickled Mary's neck, as she quivered and giggled softly in his arms.

Then a hitch of a child's cry expanding into an enormous wail shattered their brief fantasy.

"Teething woes." Listening, Mary's body tensed with the distraction. "Those second molars! Oh, Rosie's up now for sure."

"But I'm up too." John coaxed slyly with a half-smile.

"You've had your turn already, John!" Mary laughed, patted John intimately in acknowledgement making him shudder with pleasure, and pushed free. "I know you can't afford to be late this morning." Very reluctantly he let her go. "Wait!" she called over her shoulder. "We both want to say goodbye." With the speed of a woman with a purpose, Mary had entered Rosamund's bedroom, chirped a sing-song greeting accompanied by soothing coos, and bewitched the sobs into happy squeals. With their wispy tow-haired toddler perched in her arms, Mary hurried back.

"Lookee, Lambkins! Here's Daddy. Off to work! We want to say bye-bye!" Two matching pairs of sky-blue eyes peered from faces that were strikingly similar, prompting John's beaming smile.

"Ah, my lovely ladies! Give me your kisses!" John planted a series of soft kisses onto his daughter's precious cheeks causing her to giggle with delight. When he had finished his little game, he turned toward Mary to give her a kiss and noticed her cheeks shimmering with real tears. This was no head cold or reaction to dust.

"Hey, what's this, then?" He searched her face. Her large eyes met his with a sorrowful stare.

"Now I'm sorry I convinced you to work this shift today." As Rosie played with her daddy's ears, Mary leant her head on his shoulder. "I know with GPS I can find the cottage fine but I don't like leaving you behind. The last time I checked your work diary, you were fully booked all morning, John, but if there are any cancellations in the afternoon and you can get away early, let me know."

"Of course." Touched by both her tone that conveyed how much she would miss him and her words, John closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around them both for a final encompassing hug as if he could pull them both into his heart. Releasing them at last, he kissed the towheaded toddler and the tearful wife with profound tenderness before he turned and left for the day.

19.15 31st December

New Year's Eve revelers who had boarded the 18.10 at London Liverpool Street for Colchester Station with John had begun their celebrations early. Their mirth and loud chatter did not allow for any repose after a long and unexpectedly busy day in the surgery, but John did his best to kip on the train so he would have sufficient energy to ring in the New Year with Mary.

Nearly an hour later, John hailed a taxi at the Colchester station for the 30-minute ride to their rental cottage, feeling a bit uneasy that his repeated attempts to ring Mary had failed. The connection kept ringing out. He presumed it was due to the weak mobile reception at such a remote place.

They passed through stretches of open farmland. Several kilometers from their destination, the cab driver pointed to an orange glow above the horizon ahead. "Must be where the Fire Brigade was headed at dinnertime. Heard tell it was a major alarm. Brigades from several vicinities called in."

John leant forward to look through the windscreen. Against the backdrop of an illuminating orange bloom, a column of smoke spiraled and drifted slowly south, disappearing into the moonless night sky.

"Looks like a big one if it's glowing like this."

A sinking feeling gripped John but he refused to panic. Immediately, he punched in Mary's number once more and placed the phone to his right ear, drumming the fingers of his left hand on the upholstered seat, but again, it rang without an answer. Finally, John rung off. Damn!

"Are there many farms or houses around here?"

"A few. These cottage farms are a bit more remote than most. You're headed to Grove, right?"

John's mobile chirped startling him. The caller ID read "Mary," and immediately John felt his heart drop from his throat allowing him to answer. "Mary! Thank God!"

A man's voice responded. "Mr. John Watson?"

"Yes." Dread made John's stomach lurch. His heart hammered in his ribcage. "Who's this?"

"This is Inspector Toby Richards of the Essex Police. We see you've called this mobile numerous times. We found it in a parked car." The Inspector exhaled a short breath before he began the official statement with the prescribed, "I am terribly sorry to have to inform you, there has been a fire—"

Afterwards, John could never quite recall the actual words that delivered the painful blow, the impact was too great.

When his taxi had pulled up to the perimeter of the scene, John leapt out before it rolled to a full stop and he started to run. Whirling blue and red lights from official vehicles strobed rhythmically and streaked the thick plumes of heavy smoke that concealed the cottage. John dashed forward, devastated and dazed, until the centuries-old cottage came into view—what remained were blackened timbers licked by intense crimson and orange flames in consuming tongues of fire. Immediately intercepted by officials, John struggled against the blockade of powerful, restraining arms in stunned disbelief, whilst his screams for his family was swallowed in the vortex of sounds from the running engines, the working pumps and the shouted commands.

When the futility of fighting exhausted him and the realization of his loss drained his strength, John collapsed to the ground with his hands over his mouth trying to suppress the endless need to call out their names. At last relying on his soldier's instinct to persevere, John summoned the strength to rise to his feet and witness the flickering red, yellow, and orange light of the dying fire. Numb, he viewed the eerie scene of the calamity. Craters of water formed by runoff from the fire hoses reflected the activity that bustled around him, but all John could do was watch utterly helpless. Firefighters dressed in heavy gear wrestled coiled hoses and continued to douse the charred ruins of the timber-framed cottage. Constabulary and fire inspectors stood in clusters conferring with the firefighters securing the scene for further investigation whilst uniformed constables equipped with walkie-talkies listened and responded in bursts of communication. The paramedics on the scene waited in a parked and empty ambulance. John stubbornly dismissed their attempts to check him for shock and eventually they were permitted to pack up and drive off.

John understood it all. No one would be walking out of that house. There would be no rescue. There would be no recovery. His wife and daughter were reduced to bone fragments, teeth and ash.

How long he remained paralyzed by grief, John could not be sure. After the police had taken his statement and exchanged information among themselves, one constable took John aside. "Mr. Watson, I'm Police Constable Sanders. May we arrange a place for you to stay tonight?"

For a moment, John met the PC's kind eyes and quickly averted his gaze toward a distant spot beyond. Everywhere he looked there was destruction and ruin, but it was better for him to stare at the devastation than see in the eyes of a stranger the sympathy that would crumble his resolve.

"Is there someone you'd like us to call? To be with you…?" Sanders persisted.

Controlling the quiver of his lower lip, John shook his head.

The PC nodded to the Audi parked near the end of the drive. "We realize that's your family car. It's undamaged, but it will have to be impounded as part of the ongoing investigation," the constable explained. "Have you a way to get home?"

John hesitated, dazed that the constable was bringing this up. "I came by taxi and train." He pointed to the taxi driver who, absorbed by the tragedy, had not left. As both John and Sanders glanced in his direction, the somber-faced cabbie acknowledged their glances with a nod.

"Tom's a good man. I'll talk to him about the fare and send him off. We may have a few more questions. It's better if you stay with us. We'll take care to get you home," the constable assured him and went off to speak to the cab driver.

Now shivering as the adrenaline that had sustained him bled off, John bowed his head. His shoes were soaked through to his skin, his trousers were muddy, his hair was sprinkled with bits of soot, and his nose stung with the foul, pungent stench of smoke. Whilst there was nothing more for him to see, he could not find it in himself to leave just yet.

His heart ached and his brain hurt, but John tried to collect his thoughts by concentrating on the freezing puddles. As emergency personnel splashed through them in haste, the thin skins of ice that coated their surfaces fractured. John, too, felt thin-skinned and unable to withstand the heavy foot that had stomped out his dreams. Yet, somehow in the past, he had managed. He had been able to recover from two life-changing shocks—as a casualty of war that crippled him and his surgical career and as the horrified witness grief-stricken by his best friend's inexplicable suicide. But this time, this time, it was too much to bear. Living was a burden he did not want; surviving the loss of Mary and Rosie would be impossible…

This was impossible…. what he was witnessing could not have happened. A sudden nagging idea sparked a conflagration of thoughts that illuminated the unasked question: Was this an accident or something else? He had been so caught up reacting to what had happened that he had not considered how it had happened. The fire inspectors would not share their suspicions until they had thoroughly investigated the scene, leaving John in the worst kind of limbo. A chilling recollection about the dangers of Mary's past and the protection that she had been promised—Sherlock's vow: "I will always be there, always, for all three of you," followed later by Mycroft's aid—furiously fanned the flames of John's stark fear that this fire may not have been an accident but an act of wilful murder.

No! If only I had been here! Fighting through his rage and grief, John sifted through assorted excuses and explanations but came up empty; raw emotions made it impossible to think. Guilt, far thicker than smoke, choked him, enormous guilt about remaining in London to finish up at the surgery, as Mary had suggested, before joining his girls to spend the first seven days in the New Year on holiday. If only he had been here, he would have defended them. He would have rescued his wife and daughter from the fire or died with them.

Another wave of regrets assailed him. Neither Sherlock's vow nor Mycroft's support were of any use. Empty fucking promises, they were! Bitterness rose in his throat along with fury. Yet as much as he wanted to cast blame elsewhere—anywhere else—he realized neither Sherlock nor Mycroft were as much to blame as he. It was ultimately his responsibility to protect his wife and child, and having utterly failed his family, he was to blame for what traces remained of them in mere bone fragments, teeth and ash.

The fire was now almost completely out with only smoke and a few red-glowing wall studs—the structure's exposed skeleton remained. John turned to survey the burned-out cottage and surroundings one last time. Who would listen to his suspicions and not think he was paranoid or maddened by grief? John squared his shoulders, stared at the charred ruins of his life, and pulled out his mobile. There was only one person who would listen, only one person who mattered to him now—his best friend—the genius who knew ash.

"Sherlock," he swallowed the sob that nearly choked his voice. "I need your help—"

JANUARY - APRIL

Initially, the "bloodhound" had strained at the lead, eager to be on the scent. In pursuing the investigation to establish the cause of the fire, Sherlock seemed unstoppable, entirely focused on the reasons how and why it happened, as if to spare himself the loss and the pain of what had happened to John Watson's family. So, it was decidedly unexpected that barely a week after the New Year's Eve fire, it seemed that Sherlock had lost the scent. The detective's frustration and anger were palpable, and he seemed greatly pained by his inability to prove what John suspected.

Nor were John's suspicions resolved by the notice he received about an official inquest that had been opened within 48-hours of the fire. He had been informed that as the victims died in a commercial property, standard police and fire protocols were being followed to determine the cause of death. After, he would be invited to the hearing that the Court of Inquest would convene to review the results of these investigations. On the appointed day of the public hearing in late March, John had not come alone to listen to the findings of—in his opinion—the suspect investigations. Although unable to provide supporting evidence to the contrary, Sherlock had been at his side. They listened quietly as first the police and then the fire inspectors presented their reports.

What the police had found was hardly earthshaking. Exploring motives for the fire, the police had made thorough background checks establishing that no complaints had been filed or threats made against the proprietors of the holiday home, no history of vandalism had been reported in the area, and no unusual insurance claims and title problems were attached to the destroyed property. Neither had the neighbors seen anything to arouse suspicion, despite the timing of it being New Year's Eve, leaving the police nothing further to go on.

In their report the fire inspectors explained that they had sent in their most qualified cause-and-origin experts to examine the fire scene and collect evidence. After combing through the ruins, the investigators had decidedly ruled out arson caused by accelerants on the premises, although a deliberate cigarette could erupt into flames. As the victims were not smokers, this possibility was ruled out. Smoke detectors taken into evidence were melted lumps of battery and plastic as was the artificial Christmas tree adorned by fairy lights. In addition, the fire investigators had reviewed the fire-inspection records on the cottage and found no overt violations or electrical hazards that compromised the safety of the structure. Some evidence of damage to a gas value had been noted, but the inspectors could not determine if it had happened before or after the explosion that caused the fire. They concluded that the gas explosion was triggered by an electrical spark possibly from defective fairy lights.

The last report was delivered by Dr. Stanley Tucker, the Colchester coroner. Unable to perform autopsies on the remains recovered in the high-heat fire, Dr. Tucker determined that the trace remains sifted from the ashes were indeed human. Unfortunately, the morphological indicators had been altered. The DNA of the bone fragments and teeth of the victims had been chemically and physically degraded, making positive proof of their identities impossible.

Throughout the proceedings John sat tense and silent, his lips drawn into a thin, grim line. As family of the deceased he had a "proper interest" to question a witness, but there were no witnesses, no one to interrogate. Although John had not been present at the time of the fire and therefore not a witness, he was called to give his account at the inquest regarding Mary's state of mind, but his statements were relegated to answering yes or no to the questions: Was Mary Watson suicidal? No! Was she harboring thoughts of infanticide? No! It was just as well he was not given opportunity to elaborate; he did not believe his opinions would have convinced the authorities to reconsider their findings. Nor could he disclose the truth about Mary's past, a truth he did not fully know himself.

Upon determining all the facts surrounding the deaths, Dr. Stanley Tucker rendered the decision that the deaths were accidental. Once the verdict was returned, the Court of Inquest concluded and everyone cleared the room—except John and Sherlock.

Sherlock stood wearily; John was unable even to move from his seat. He was not satisfied with the official conclusions. Every bit of it felt wrong: the fire, the investigation, the Coroner's conclusions, the inquest but most of all, the verdict. Fists clenched, his mind raced with arguments he could not speak aloud. No, no, no. My Mary was resourcefully cunning, a tactical agent—she had been a fucking trained assassin, for God's sakes—with her bloody amazing reflexes and retentive memory. How could this skilled agent not have maneuvered her way out of a simple country cottage to save herself and our daughter? This was no accident…

Feeling stymied, John realized there was no point in requesting an appeal. He had no unconsidered evidence and therefore no recourse but to abide by the ruling although he would never believe the lies it contained. With that thought, John abruptly stood.

Sherlock, taking it as a sign that John was ready to leave, led the way and John distractedly followed, his mind still churning with questions: had Mary's past caught up with her? Did someone breach the protection Mycroft had promised us? She had to have been attacked, overpowered, and incapacitated! That is the only Goddamned reason she would not have fought them off.

"Murder!" John hissed through gritted teeth controlling his rage within a tight whisper. A few steps behind the detective, John leant closer to his friend's back and spoke into the dark weave of the great coat like it was a confessional screen. "It had to have been murder, Sherlock, not an accident! I will not accept that a gas explosion sparked by fairy lights on a Christmas tree caused the massive fire that took my Mary and Rosie from me—" John's voice broke. As he could not forgive himself for failing them, he could not expect absolution.

Sherlock wore an inscrutable expression as he turned to face John. Briefly he studied his friend with his mouth parted as if ready to offer some information, but immediately he clamped his lips shut. When they resumed walking, they were now side-by-side. Finally exhaling a soft sigh, Sherlock spoke at last, "I hear you, John."

Casting a sidelong glance at his tight-lipped friend, John wondered why during the hearing the detective had not uttered a word, had not raised his hand to speak and had not poked holes in the flimsy evidence that screamed contradictions, even to John's less discerning eye.

As if not to encourage John's discussion in so public a place, Sherlock did not return the glance. A great disquiet had settled over Sherlock months ago when the Watson family had died. That same mood darkened his countenance as they left the Coroner's office. Even more than John, Sherlock had grown withdrawn and brooding, and it appeared his thoughts were now heavier with the outcome having been handed down. Each man was so wrapt in his own thoughts about the absurdity as well as the finality of the inquest's verdict that neither spoke on the trip back to London.

As months followed weeks, John could never quite overcome the feeling of betrayal that once the trail had gone cold, so had Sherlock's interest…

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Pre-explosion: moments before (continues)

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Just as John arrived in Fulham, his mobile rang, startling him. John blinked himself into the present and lifted the phone to his ear. Sherlock was already talking.

"Our suspect is not following his predicted pattern, John!" Rarely as it was heard, the worry in Sherlock's voice was loud and clear through John's mobile. "Our facial recognition alerts did not detect our suspect boarding the commuter train this morning."

"What?" John halted in his tracks. "Has he been spotted anywhere today?"

"I'm waiting for data uplinks to refresh on my laptop."

"You're still at Baker Street then?" John hesitated and circled a spot on the pavement. As a lorry rumbled by, he covered his free ear to mask the traffic sounds.

"No, John, I'm in the hospital lobby. There's Internet here too." Don't be an idiot was implied in his tone, but Sherlock could not resist showcasing his manipulation of the situation. "Didn't sign on as guest, though. That would have been too heavily filtered and slow—I had to hop on the hospital server. I should need only a few minutes before their IT people notice anything. I am broadening the search for the entire radius of the hospital."

"It's barely nine fifteen! We're supposed to meet at half past." Hell! Of course Sherlock would be early. "Hang on. I'm nearly there, Sherlock." John resumed his quick march. "I'll be there in less than two minutes."

"That may be too late, John. This change in pattern could mean he is planning to take off and we might lose him." The urgency in Sherlock's voice was unmistakable.

"I guess the lobby guard is not authorized to release information or even tell you if he checked in today?" John mused aloud.

"You know my methods, John. He did, but without realizing it," Sherlock replied.

"So much for hospital security," John mumbled.

"Certainly not the usual hospital protocol though, is it? That's what's curious. Why would our suspect enter through the lobby daily and not use the separate entrances and electronic keycards normally given to hospital staff?" It was a rhetorical question and Sherlock had not expected John to answer.

"Because he's not a staff member." John answered anyway.

"Right, John!" Sherlock agreed. "The lobby guard keeps entry records of nonstaff with limited access to certain floors and the labs. We are looking for Will Franks—occupation: medical lab technician on loan from the Institute of Cancer Research—a guest researcher. Unfortunately today, he checked in a full half-hour earlier—without his morning coffee. Such a small detail may matter greatly in this case."

John immediately intuited the reason. "If he didn't pass his normal breakfast stops, maybe he arrived by another means, like a taxi or car."

"Exactly, John! A break in routine has great significance. Oh, the data is loading now. I'm getting new images. It is showing me he left the hospital ten minutes ago and the CCTV cameras have picked him up at the Just Park near the Royal Marsden. I don't believe this is a live feed, maybe on a 20-second delay, but it shows him heading toward a car in a reserved parking space! And now it shows that he is actually driving off toward…looks like he's headed to Fulham. Where are you now, John?"

"Fulham! Near the hospital entrance."

"Wait there, John. I'm coming out."

"What kind of car? Color?" John growled impatiently. "Sherlock? Sherlock?" John kept the phone pressed to his ear, listening hard to the detective who was speaking rapidly at someone as if experiencing some resistance in leaving the hospital lobby. Had Sherlock miscalculated when the hospital IT might notice his presence? He might be detained if he couldn't talk his way out of this one.

"Sherlock! Tell me what the bloody hell type of car I should be looking for!"

At last John heard the succinct, "Volkswagen Golf! Black!" And Sherlock rang off.

John had hardly tucked his phone away when the sounds of screeching brakes and the sickening noise of a car smashing into a streetlight pole shook him. Bystanders had become immobilized by shock and stood rooted to the pavement in Fulham Road. When John saw a young child in a sky-blue jacket, screaming for her mother, his combat medical training, as quick as his paternal instinct, focused him. He charged toward the scene of the collision.

From a great distance he heard Sherlock's distinct cry, "JOHN!" followed by an enormous BOOM.

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Always grateful for the advice and support from my hard-working Betas: baillierj, sevenpercent, and Honourable!