Mycroft's Mercedes sped off toward Moriarty's dungeon. Knowles had been easy enough to break, after Mycroft threatened to have him "relocated." Anthea sat between Mycroft and John in the car, both Anthea and Mycroft clicking away on their phones for all their worth.
"What if it's a decoy?" John asked, worriedly. "Or a trap?"
Mycroft didn't look up. "Then we shall find out soon enough."
"What about Moriarty's plan?" John added. "He could be about to go on a wild killing binge!"
Mycroft's lip twitched. "Yes, let's see what you're up to, Mr. Moriarty…" he mused, flickering his thumbs over his phone screen. "Another bomb? How tedious."
"What?" John demanded, leaning over Anthea impolitely. "How do you know that? Do you have Moriarty bugged too?"
Mycroft chuckled. "No, no. I had one of my best runners start looking into the matter about eight hours ago."
"Eight hours-" John stammered, darting a look at his watch. "I only told you about it four hours ago!"
"At any rate," Mycroft continued, unbidden, "consider that little problem resolved. Now we just have to pick up Sherlock, and then I can finally go home and have dinner."
John blinked. "Is that all you can think about? Sherlock could be dead right now, or close to it at least. No wonder he keeps on about your 'diet', which I'm starting to believe is just a fantasy of yours."
Anthea snorted softly.
Mycroft sighed and turned away.
/
The house was a typical suburban home, set across the backdrop of a lake. When John and Mycroft arrived, there were already two cars and a black van parked in front of the house.
"Who is all that?" John said, staring at the ten people in black suits milling about.
"Bomb squad," said Mycroft.
"What? A bomb? How do you know it's going to be a bomb?" John asked, now feeling even more nervous.
"Moriarty has a certain propensity toward such a weapon, wouldn't you say?" Mycroft returned.
After a few minutes of organization on Mycroft's part, he, John and four squad members headed into the cellar beneath the house. Flashlights were turned on until Mycroft found the light switch dangling from the ceiling. The sight before him made John gasp.
Sherlock was lying on his side, his brow creased in pain. His head wound had started bleeding again, and he was panting for breath. He was ashen, and sweat-soaked. Most disturbing was the steel collar going around his throat attached to what John identified as an IED, and a rather volatile one at that.
"God…" John whispered, taking an unconscious step forward.
Mycroft halted him, pushing his umbrella across John's chest. The bomb squad moved in, hefting tools and first aid materials. They moved carefully, checking different connections and wires. A few agonizingly slow minutes passed by before the bomb squad leader turned back with a barely concealed relief on her face.
"Mr. Holmes, he managed to unhook the trigger wire," she said. "It's back to a code 2."
Before John could ask what that meant, Mycroft had crossed the room and was kneeling beside Sherlock, placing his hands gently on his brother's face. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" he said, softly.
John was beside them in three seconds, checking Sherlock's pulse and temperature by hand. Meanwhile, Mycroft unhooked the restrictive collar around his brother's neck and began working at the manacles binding him.
With a shaky breath, John leaned back and dropped to his backside against the wall. "We need to get an ambulance here quickly," he said, somberly.