Chapter 20

Five minutes later, a police helicopter landed on the water next to the pier, the wind from its rotors blowing Sherlock's long coat out behind him as he started walking towards it. He'd been pacing around impatiently as John and Mary leaned against Lestrade's car and the inspector rang several different agencies directly. Sherlock was only too happy to get a move on, and he'd made it halfway down the pier before Lestrade called from the shore, "Oi, Sherlock! Where are you going?"

Sherlock turned around, rolling his eyes in annoyance. "Well I'm not going for a swim."

"That's a police helicopter," Lestrade said, stepping down onto the pier. John and Mary followed, looking at the scene uncertainly. "It's not a car you've hired."

"Yes, and I hardly expect to be dropped off in Baker Street," Sherlock countered. "But seeing as I'm the one who solved this case in its entirety, including figuring out how Sholto would be escaping, I think that warrants a ride along, don't you?"

Lestrade looked chagrined, and that made Sherlock feel good. The police detective scratched at the back of his head. "Suppose so. But," he seemed to be searching for the best phrasing, "don't you feel like you should go home and lie down? Take it easy?"

"Lie down?" Sherlock asked, incredulous. "Do you often go home and lie down while your main suspect is actively fleeing? I suppose it would explain a lot about your solve rates."

"Sherlock," John said, stepping forward slowly. "I wasn't even able to fill that prescription for you. You'd feel much better if you sat this one out."

Sherlock highly doubted that. He was anxious because of the cocaine crash, sure. But staying away from Sholto's capture would only make that worse. "And how would that look? Seeming as though I'm unable to close a case isn't going to help me win over many new clients."

"You don't have anything to prove," John insisted. "Your record will speak for itself."

"Precisely," Sherlock hissed, taking a step towards John. "And right now my record in the eyes of the public is that I am a fraud at best and a criminal mastermind at worst. Not to mention knowing about the drugs."

"Hey," Lestrade interjected, "you didn't do yourself any favours by escaping police custody. And with a hostage held at gunpoint, no less."

"It was only John," Sherlock scoffed. John shook his head in disbelief, but he'd get over it. Sherlock continued. "And no one in Scotland Yard bothered to contradict the public perception, did they? In fact, you came to arrest me yourself. For the sake of your career, you were willing to help ruin my life." He glared accusingly on Lestrade, who was looking appropriately ashamed. Taking a step towards the inspector, Sherlock stared him in the eye and said in a low, tight voice, "You owe me this, Lestrade."

At this, Lestrade swallowed and nodded, and Sherlock knew he'd won. "All right. But you all have to stay safely out of the way," Lestrade said, leading them all into the waiting helicopter. Guilt could certainly be a useful emotion to play on. But in this case, Sherlock really did feel he was owed this chance to prove himself. John might not think it was necessary, but it was in fact vital. And not just for his career. Sherlock had told Moriarty that he wasn't an angel, and the mad man had insisted that no, Sherlock was him. That encounter had replayed over and over in Sherlock's mind for the last year and a half as he'd been out on the run.

As he put on his protective earphones and buckled himself in across from Lestrade, the rest of the world was drowned out. The helicopter lifted off, floating quickly up above London like a stray balloon. Sherlock drifted momentarily inward in a rare instance of reflection. A thousand images that were supposed to have been deleted played out in Sherlock's mind: some of the things he'd done, his relapse into addiction, and moments of painful revelation about himself that had shaken Sherlock to his core. It had been enough to make him seriously entertain the notion that he might, in fact, be a bad person. There were many times when he'd been positive of it. In those moments, he hadn't been sure he even should come back. Sherlock was slowly beginning to realise it wasn't possible for him to delete things so strongly connected to emotion. There must be a different sort of memory storage in the brain for that. He made a mental note to look into the research on that topic. This settled his nerves a little.

Coming back to his senses, Sherlock looked down at their surroundings and was surprised to see that they'd flown all the way to the eastern edge of Greater London. He supposed that couldn't have taken the helicopter long, but was still disturbed by his lack of attention to where he was. The sluggish feeling in his brain and body was no real excuse. He could damn well rest in a bit. Sherlock shook his head and blinked, trying to sweep away the cobwebs. Across from him, Lestrade was speaking into his headset, though what precisely he was saying was unclear to Sherlock. Annoyingly, he'd been given a headset without a radio in it. Following Lestrade's eyes, however, he was able to see the searchlight of the helicopter illuminating the darker parts of the Thames. The water was murky and the bank, instead of being packed with buildings, was scattered with them. In fact, they were now entering a landscape with no buildings along the river at all, only swampy darkness. Rainham Marshes Nature Reserve, Sherlock thought. Nearly out of the Metropolitan police jurisdiction.

Then Sherlock thought he saw the tiniest bit of movement, a speck in the darkness below them. He sat up straighter in his chair, squinting and gazing down at the water. His head ached and buzzed, and the vibrations of the helicopter weren't really helping that. But even so, his eyesight was still sharp and had become accustomed to low light conditions. He saw the wake more than the boat, choppy lines of white across the black water. Sherlock shook Lestrade's knee to get his attention. The inspector gave him a confused look until Sherlock pointed down at the water. It seemed to take Lestrade an awfully long time to spot the suspiciously fast-moving boat, but when he did, he called something in over the radio.

Looking down, Sherlock watched as the Marine Unit boat turned and headed in the direction of the craft. It trailed behind, but didn't attempt to overtake the swift little boat. A moment later, Lestrade looked at Sherlock, nodded, and mouthed "Sholto" in confirmation. He then turned around and shouted something at the pilot. Frustrated and agitated, Sherlock vowed to dedicate some time to learning to read lips. Really, it was embarrassing that he didn't posses the ability already.

The helicopter angled forward, picking up speed considerably. They flew a ways down river, far out from where the boat had been spotted. They circled a spot near a pier, then slowly lowered down until they settled on the calm water. The instant the pilot cut the power, Sherlock yanked off the annoying headphones that had only been making his headache worse. Now his temples were throbbing. "They got a positive ID?" Sherlock asked as Lestrade led them all out onto the pier.

"Yeah, saw the name on the boat. The Arrow. So it looks like you were right about Sholto," Lestrade said, walking to the end of the pier and stopping.

Sherlock strode quickly beside Lestrade. John and Mary followed more slowly. "Is someone meeting us here? Where are they? Sholto will make it here in a matter of minutes," Sherlock said testily. He noticed that his pulse was starting to elevate again, but that was of little consequence.

"Just a moment," Lestrade replied. "Our boat is coming up behind him, but we're now in Gravesend, in the Kent Police jurisdiction. I'd already rung them to give them a heads up, and the pilot called in where we'd meet them."

"Is one boat really all London could spare?" Mary asked, seeming quite invested.

"They've got more, but they can't leave their regular patrols. Not for this," Lestrade explained apologetically. "But he's just in a small craft and frankly he's got nowhere to go."

"Yes, and luckily all criminals behave rationally. Especially when they're high on methamphetamine," Sherlock scoffed. Looking around impatiently, he spotted the Kent Police boat heading up river toward them. Sherlock kept his eyes on it, waiting for the seemingly endless time it took to make its way through the water.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade said sternly, as though he were repeating it.

"Yes, what?" Sherlock asked, starting to feel a bit shaky. It seemed he'd missed something Lestrade had said, but then it wasn't terribly unusual for him to ignore the inspector.

"I asked if you thought he'd be easier or harder to handle while high," Lestrade asked.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I'm your expert in this, am I?" he remarked edgily. Lestrade shifted uncomfortably, but Sherlock was too eager to get going to really harp on the point at the moment. Instead he shrugged and said, "Meth is a drug that tends to make people extremely jumpy and erratic. Most likely not a good mix with desperation, no. I'd wager he'll be much more dangerous this way," he remarked absentmindedly, not looking at Lestrade as the police boat finally pulled up to the pier. "Our ride's here," he said happily, starting towards the boat.

"Wait," Lestrade said, stepping in front of Sherlock. "Now, I was able to bring you along in the helicopter because that's Met's. But I can't just invite a civilian onto someone else's Marine Unit craft without asking."

Annoyed, Sherlock replied, "Then ask." He waved in the direction of the Kent Marine Unit officers who were finishing mooring the boat to the pier. "You told me I could come along."

Lestrade pursed his lips before replying shortly, "Fine. Wait here." Sherlock watched from a distance as Lestrade introduced himself to the officers and began chatting with them.

To Sherlock's surprise, John walked around to stand in front of him, gazing at him with a concerned look. Sherlock's brow furrowed. "What?"

"You're just starting to look unwell again is all," John said. "Do you feel okay?"

Sherlock thought about it. His head hurt, his pulse was racing, he didn't feel as if he wanted to stand in one place for more than a second, and his back was starting to grow slick with cold sweat. "Fine," Sherlock answered.

John chewed at his lips in a gesture Sherlock recognised as characteristic hesitation, which he had no time for at the moment. He needed to get onto that boat and help apprehend Ted Sholto. His friend opened and closed his mouth a few times before finally spitting it out. "Maybe it's best if you just hang back here with Mary and me," John said, and Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise at the suggestion before narrowing in displeasure that it had been made. John continued, "I'm sure Lestrade will let you talk to Sholto when they bring him over here. It's not as though you're going to slap the cuffs on him yourself, so is it really that big of a difference? I only say this because you seem like you're about to burst out of your own skin."

"It's called enthusiasm, John. I know that may not be a condition you're used to now, but once upon a time you felt it as well," Sherlock chided.

John chewed his lower lip, then sighed in resignation. "Okay, we'll wait here and see you in a minute. Just be safe."

Sherlock hummed noncommittally, then strode over to Lestrade and the two Kent officers, hopping across the water and onto the boat. "Are we ready to set off?" he asked, as if he were their superior who'd just arrived on scene.

"Ah, so guys this is the consultant I mentioned," Lestrade said, and the officers nodded mutely as one of them jumped back on the pier to unmoor the boat. Sherlock observed that it was most likely some kind of regulation that they secure the vessel every time it docked, which was clearly a massive waste of time. He looked out at the water, half expecting Sholto to go speeding by any moment now. The man on the pier finally loosed the last rope from its claw and came aboard.

"Sergeant Hartley." The man said by way of introduction. "DI Lestrade tells me this guy might be high on meth? Might have been something to mention earlier. We'd have had tactical units out."

"You should have had them out in any case. The all ports warning said he was dangerous and might be armed. His being high will make that worse, but his being desperate is the underlying factor, and that would be the case with or without the drugs," Sherlock replied.

Hartley gave him a sidelong look, but didn't seem to care enough to argue the point. "Hopefully we can handle him. Anyway, in here," he said, nodding in the direction of the little wheelhouse where his partner was already turning on the engine and guiding the boat away from the dock. At least neither of these officers seemed bothered by having him on board. That certainly wouldn't have been the case in London.

The wheelhouse was rather small, fitting only the two officers and Lestrade, leaving Sherlock really standing at the side entrance more than in it. The mute boat pilot turned all the lights on the boat down low and steered them toward the centre of the river. Hartley and Lestrade stood behind him. To the inspector, Hartley said, "Given what you said about this guy's state of mind, we'll call in for some backup on shore. Just in case he gets there somehow, but we don't anticipate that. Between us and London, the scumbag won't have any way out, will he?" He chuckled and shook his head. "So he's got a London boat after him and he hadn't noticed?"

Sherlock cut in, "He may have noticed, but in his state of mind it would hardly matter. He's most likely paranoid and on edge even without the actual threat."

Hartley glanced at Lestrade as if checking if the detective were put off by this man answering questions for him. Fortunately Lestrade was wise enough to simply shrug, and Hartley continued speaking to Sherlock, "Well yeah, being high on meth I should think so." He shook his head and turned back around to watch out the window. "Can't trust any of them addicts. Sell their own mother for a hit. I reckon it takes a fundamentally weak person to get that low. Should just lock 'em all up."

Sherlock was glad the man was turned around and couldn't see the uncontrollable anger that flashed in his eyes for a moment. But Lestrade saw, and they exchanged glances a moment before the inspector turned to look out the window as well. Sherlock clenched and unclenched his hands a few times. This, he knew, was how much of the public felt. And thanks to Mycroft, he had that extra hurdle to contend with. Not that he was especially hurt by what people might think about him, but when it got in the way of the work, it angered him. Nothing to prove, indeed, he thought.

It was only a few moments before the sound of a speed engine and the whomp whomp of a rigid hulled inflatable boat against the water could be heard quickly approaching. It was nearly 2 am and there were no other active vessels on this stretch of the Thames. It had to be Sholto. Turning down the lights would only hide them until Sholto was close, but Sherlock supposed that might be enough for their plan. The sound grew closer, and closer, then the pilot flicked the light on full brightness. The relatively small boat, five metres long and two metres wide, slowed as the figure inside threw a hand up against the sudden blinding light.

Hartley took the handset that was connected to the loudspeaker and spoke into it. "Ted Sholto, this is the Kent Police Marine Unit. You are under arrest by order of the Metropolitan Police Service. Put your hands in the air and surrender immediately." What sounded like swearing emanated from Sholto's silhouetted figure. Then his hand reached down and grabbed the throttle once again. But Hartley said, "I wouldn't keep running if I were you, Mr. Sholto. Even if you get by us, we have backup down the river. There's only more Marine Police the closer you get to the delta. This is over, Mr. Sholto. Make at least this part easy on yourself."

As he spoke, the boat from the aforementioned Metropolitan Police came into sight upriver, quickly speeding Sholto's way, its bright lights already on. Ted looked frantically between the two boats, and Sherlock was beginning to think the man might actually give up. Then Ted reached for something tucked into the back waistband of his jeans, and a second later whipped a gun into the air, squeezing off two loud warning shots.

Everyone but Sherlock flinched and ducked. Sherlock only stared across the water at Sholto, seemingly the only one aware that with the lights blaring in the man's face, he wouldn't actually be able to see or aim at anyone on the boats. All he could do effectively was scare them, and only if they let him. "All right, now I've got your attention," Sholto shouted overconfidently.

"Shit," Hartley said, still crouched down next to the pilot and Lestrade. They all kept stealing glances out the window, not paying Sherlock much mind behind them.

"What's the protocol?" Lestrade asked.

"Wait for tactical units that actually have a way to enforce anything," Hartley muttered. "Unless Metro's Marine Unit get guns? Or gas?" Lestrade shook his head. "Didn't think so." He took out his phone and started dialling a number. When it picked up, he began making a request for additional aid, but Sherlock was already tuning him out.

Sherlock was focused entirely on Sholto, sizing him up. He was squinting against the bright lights, whirling this way and that. His tone was rapid. Definitely high, Sherlock thought with a scowl. He knew the man felt invincible, on top of the world right now. But if he actually let himself believe that, then he was at his most vulnerable. Making his decision, Sherlock took a few steps back and shirked his coat off, laying it across the engine well in the centre of the boat. Then he started removing his shoes and socks as Sholto continued, "Now clearly I dinnae need a boat or a plane or car. I dinnae need money or anything like that. I just need to be left the fuck alone."

Sherlock picked up a life jacket and pulled the nylon belt free. Wrapping that around his hand and shooting a quick glance back at Lestrade to confirm that the detective wasn't looking, Sherlock slid off the side of the boat and into the water.

The frigid autumn water wrapped around him like a giant hand squeezing his chest. As his heart pumped harder to vascularise his limbs against the cold, he instantly started breathing rapidly. He'd anticipated that, of course, and focused on at least keeping the breathing quiet. His limbs were already beginning to feel sluggish as he started swimming quietly in Sholto's direction.

Sholto, for his part, kept compulsively rambling. "I've got this holiday planned, like. I ken the rest of your boats'll respect my gun here, too, eh? Don't suppose many Marine police get guns. I fucking love Britain. Such a fake sorta peace. In Cambodia, every bloody punter on every corner's got a gun. This one's not even that big! But in the land of the blind, right?"

Sherlock had reached the edge of the light being cast by the police boats and couldn't risk going any further this way. Taking a deep breath, he sank down beneath the surface. Even in broad daylight, the Thames wasn't a river Sherlock would ever open his eyes in. The dark, quiet cold surrounded him like space, or the grave. Sherlock kicked out with heavy limbs, pulling himself along. He had absolutely no sense of distance, only estimations based on how far each such stroke normally took him. He thought four would be the right number, but in the end it hardly mattered. His limbs felt so leadened, his heart pounded so painfully hard, and his lungs stung so keenly for want of air that Sherlock was forced to surface then anyway.

Sherlock slid just his head out of the water and it took all of his willpower not to gasp loudly as he drew a long breath of air. His chest trembled and his breathing instantly sped up. Regardless of needing to disarm Sholto, Sherlock needed to get out of this water now. Otherwise he'd start to hyperventilate, and then he'd be no use to anyone, and rather a large liability in fact. Blinking hard to focus himself, Sherlock saw that he was only half a metre away from the rigid inflatable hull of the boat. He quickly paddled over directly beside it to make it harder for Sholto to see him, staying at the low, back end of the boat. The man was currently facing away from Sherlock, apparently addressing the Metro Police Boat. Sherlock realised Ted was saying, "So I'll just be on my way if you lot dinnae mind." He had to act now. Gripping the length of nylon belt in his right hand, Sherlock summoned every ounce of energy he had remaining, placed both his hands on the hull, then pulled himself up.

The boat was so small and light, and its balance so thrown with Ted shifted over to the far side, that Sherlock's added weight made the back end dip and the front end tilt up out of the water. Fortunately, he'd been prepared for this while Ted was thrown off balance, having no idea what had happened. This gave Sherlock the key moments he needed to pull himself to his feet, in spite of his sluggish limbs. He grabbed the free end of the nylon belt in his left hand, pulling it taught between his arms, and lunged out at Ted's back, bringing the belt over his head, under his chin, and around his neck.

Ted spluttered in surprise, gasping for air. Sherlock pulled the man back against himself, leaving no room for Sholto to twist around and fire his gun. Placing the left end of the belt into his right hand and pulling the belt tight as a noose, Sherlock freed his left hand. When Ted instinctively reached up to claw at the belt with both hands, Sherlock used his left hand to twist Ted's wrist and wrench the gun free.

Sherlock moved from behind Ted and shoved the man down onto the tall, round inflatable edge of the boat as he swapped the pistol to his right hand and the nylon belt that was still wrapped around Ted's neck to his left hand. The belt wasn't very long, forcing Sherlock to lean down over the man menacingly, even though he was no longer holding it tight enough to choke him. Sholto blinked up at him with his wide, frantic eyes. "You? I thought you weren't a cop?"

"I'm not," Sherlock growled, leaning in closer. "Why did you kill your brother?"

"I didnae," Ted snarled back.

Sherlock backhanded Ted across the face, the weight of the gun giving the hit more heft and snapping Ted's head to the side. A bright red welt instantly appeared on his sharp cheekbone. Dazed, he looked back up at Sherlock, who was now shaking, though whether with anger, withdrawal, or cold he couldn't tell anymore. But he must have been a sight, because Ted looked terrified. "You fooled me before," Sherlock admitted. "And I don't like being made a fool of. Tell me why you hated him so much, even after everything he did for you? Was it jealousy?" Not even giving Ted time to reply, Sherlock clocked him in the same spot again, causing him to cry out in pain as the welt split open in a bloody mess.

"I didnae... I didnae hate him," Ted whimpered, bringing his hands up to shield his face. That response only made Sherlock more angry. It didn't make any sense. You didn't kill your brother unless you bore a perverse, unreasonable hatred toward him. You had to be under the dark pull of fratricide. Somewhere, Sherlock thought he might have heard the sounds of someone shouting and the rumble of boat engines. But his world had narrowed down to nothing but the rapid beat of his own heart and the man cowering in front of him. He had to understand.

With Sholto's face blocked, Sherlock punched him in the sternum with his gun hand instead, the impact reverberating painfully up Sherlock's own ice cold arm. He didn't care. He hit Ted again, then again, then grabbed the now sobbing man by the shirt front and looked him in the eye. "WHY?" Sherlock shouted.

Desperate and broken, Ted Sholto finally shouted back, "He was going to sell it back! He was going to sell the land back to the government, stop the mine, stop the ephedra, everything. All for only a million quid, split three ways."

Now Sherlock was listening, though breathing heavily and shaking. "And that wasn't enough?"

"Do you know how long £330,000 would last me?" Ted asked miserably, almost as if seeking Sherlock's pity. "Maybe two years if I stretched it out. And then what? Bart gave me enough for rent and food, but what about ... everything else?" he trailed off.

Sherlock inhaled deeply. "You mean the drugs," he said, pulling back a little, feeling shaky. It wasn't the dark pull of fratricide after all; it was the dark pull of addiction. Meth wasn't even a very expensive drug, but a large habit could still total hundreds of pounds a week. Without any other income, even that would add up quickly. Sherlock could see the logic of it. That was the worst part, and it made him feel queasy. He was also beginning to feel lightheaded.

Ted swallowed. "Yeah. And at some point I'd like to live somewhere that isn't shite. A place like my miserable sod of a father had. Why dinnae I deserve that, too?"

"And all you had to do," Sherlock rasped, "was murder the man who'd pulled a miserable, worthless shit like you out of the gutter and onto his feet again." Sherlock was utterly appalled. It would have been as if he were to murder Mycroft... No, he realised. As if he were to murder John.

Sherlock let go of Sholto and stood up. For a moment, the man looked tentatively relieved. Until Sherlock pointed the gun down at him and cocked it. Ted froze, not daring even to breathe. As Sherlock stared down at the cowering, bloodied man, his vision flashed red. He saw every time he'd lied to Mycroft about what he was spending his money on. Every disgusting flat he'd never cared enough to clean up. Every dealer he knew in an alley, on a corner, in a park. Every case he'd wrecked because he couldn't focus anymore. Every gut-wrenching crash and spirit crushing desire for another hit. Every time he hated himself for that desire. And every single time he had ever stuck a needle in his arm, his leg, his neck in search of a few moments of solace that would eventually kill him.

There might have been shouting. Someone possibly called his name. Sherlock's finger eased onto the trigger. He could do it. He had done it. Only, he told himself, when he'd really needed to. And only to scum in Moriarty's network who had all done far worse to innocent people. Just as Ted had. But still, Sherlock was a killer. There was no question about that. The same as Ted. You're me, a pleased voice whispered in his ear.

Sherlock shuddered at the ghostly whisper of Moriarty. Suddenly, the world hit him like a train. All the horrible sensations in his body the frozen skin, the bone deep shiver, his throbbing heart grabbed him and threatened to bring him down to his knees. Instead he dropped the clip out of the gun. A second later, a hand grabbed the weapon out of his. Blinking, Sherlock realised Greg Lestrade had stepped onto the boat from the police vessel that had pulled up beside them. The inspector looked furious, but before he could chastise the younger man, his face fell. "Shit, what's going on? Are you okay?"

The world wobbled, and Sherlock was about to say that he'd be okay once it stopped doing that when a sudden, stabbing pain struck him in the chest. He let out of cry of pain and doubled over, his cold-heavied limbs collapsing beneath him. He wanted to gasp for air at a frantic pace, but his throat had closed up almost entirely. The pain in his chest was so powerful he started seeing spots. Not being able to breathe was only making the panic worse, making his heart pump harder. And, he could tell, irregularly. For the first time in his life, Sherlock wished he didn't know so damned much about human physiology. Oxygen levels dropping, leading to increased acidity in the blood, potential to cause seizure. Lack of oxygen also damaging heart muscle, brain function... Then, in a horrifying moment, Sherlock felt his rapid heartbeat arrest, his heart muscle quivering erratically in his chest. Lestrade may have been leaning over him, looked to be saying something. Sherlock's eyes went wide in panic as he tried to hang onto the waking world. But the searing, burning pain around his heart had other plans. The world turned grey, then black, then empty.