Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 21:'Never the same….'

This chapter, out of story telling verisimilitude and following the plotline, inevitably contains many charged and pivotal scenes from the TV episode. But there is more…

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

"I've missed this, you know."

"Missed what?"

"This mad adventure stuff , of course," John Watson replied, grinning to himself. "Bonkers stuff like this - hurtling up 32 floors to break into a multi millionaire's penthouse to steal some indiscreet letters. After you have proposed marriage to your girlfriend so she will let you in. As I said. Bonkers."

He stuck his hands into his jacket pockets and grinned to himself.

Not frightened, not worried - peeved about that false wedding proposal to Janine so she would let them in, but that was John, too humane and caring for his own good - and calm at the prospect of an illegal act in a good cause.

Sherlock Holmes slanted a glance across at him. This was not the new, distant, disengaged John Watson. It was the stalwart companion of old standing by his side. After what had happened since the wedding, since his return from the fall, the consulting detective had forgotten how assuring and affirming that was.

He had got used to be on his own again, he realised with something of a jolt.

And even as he registered this, he also knew he could not allow this resumed partnership to continue, or, rather, to start up again. John Watson was a husband now. He had to start acting like a responsible grown up, with a wife and child to consider. He was no longer a free agent. He could, and should, not be allowed or encouraged to do this any more. Skirt round the fringes of the law, risk his life, run alongside the consulting detective, hanging onto his coattails. No.

Just this once, though. Just for this one final thing. To keep Mary safe and give her the future she deserved, even if it was only domesticity and motherhood. For the consulting detective could not understand that choice because he knew it was vanilla and boring and safe. Ordinary. Conventional. Normal. Which was just what Mary - and John - and it seemed the whole of the rest of the world - wanted, needed and expected.

So John Watson would be back at his side for this one thing only. And then be put aside, firmly, finally, and with as much deliberate determination as before.

And if that caused an unusual feeling in Sherlock Holmes as if someone was clutching his heart in their fist and stopping it from beating, that was simply a pathetically human distraction from the determination of what must be. For their own good. Everyone's good.

Despite his normal appearance of calm and assured electricity, he was on edge.

So much might depend on what happened during the next hour. The devil was in the detail. How would Janine greet him as he presented her with an engagement ring? And how would he talk her round, charm her, to be a witness and an accomplice to a robbery? Or try to work his plan around her, so she did not see and remained ignorant? Would her response - and how he then had to react - distract him from his planned theft of so much material from Magnussen's possession?

Not just the Smallwood letters, as had been the original plan. But also the other material he now knew was lodged there in the penthouse - because Magnussen had shown him. The photographs of the bonfire, of himself, of Mary Morstan. And who knew what else?

Any other material that came to hand affecting all the other, as yet unknown, lives Magnussen was also set to destroy? For the more material he discovered now, the greater the responsibility.

He was so close; so close to achieving everything he needed to and more.

And if all these problems could be solved tonight - in one simple action - it would also save him. Save him from something too often called a fate worse than death. Save him from the promise he had made to Magnussen in a final attempt to get inside Appledore and create the manipulative situation, the space inhabited, that this evening could avoid.

He closed his mind to the desperation that had made him put himself forward as both bait and sacrifice to achieve this aim.

He had never been in any doubt of the enormity of what he could end up sacrificing to achieve his goal; despite his fears the decision was clear and irrevocable. For the end would surely justify the means, and therefore any further abasement of himself was both as immaterial as it was essential.

But if he could get what he needed this evening - then the pressure would be off, the case solved, the prize gained. And law could, slowly but surely, then step forward and investigate, and begin to put formal, legal, limits onto Magnussen and his practises, immoral, or illegal, or both.

For now - for tonight - he had no doubt of how alone he was in this action. How much he was doing this in defiance of all advice and control; and how much Watson was needed by his side just for now, in the depth of that loneliness. Watson; here; now - right now.

The first problem had been Lady Smallwood.

In response to his text she had rung him. She was ice cold and livid.

"You are not doing this."

"Yes I am."

"It is illegal. It will certainly be dangerous. And you have no alternative plan or escape route."

"Please be calm. Magnussen will be at a dinner in the city. The office and the penthouse should be empty. If it is not, the person there will be his PA. I have her in my pocket. Watson and I will be in and out in moments…"

"Oh, so you will have your crony with you and risk getting him into trouble too?"

"He is not a crony, and he wants to be there. He has his own agenda. And anyway, that is exactly what we do. Together."

"What you used to do. Together."

"True. So then consider this our last hurrah."

There was a brief silence on the other end of the telephone.

"Well now; as you are going to do this whatever I say, why did you tell me your plans?"

"You are my backstop. In case things go wrong somehow and we do not reappear. You at least will know where we disappeared, who will have disappeared us, and why."

"Must you sound quite so cold blooded about it?"

"Yes. That is why you employ me."

"Fair point. I assume Mycroft is still unaware?"

"And must remain so." He paused, took a breath. "If my plan works this evening - if I am able to get all the blackmail material I saw for myself in the penthouse the other day - it will be the game changer. It will break the cycle and get everyone off the hook. Including me. And if I am off the hook, Mycroft comes off the agenda.

"Because Magnussen will not then be able to achieve any other lever against Mycroft once he has lost me. And he will have lost his lever against me, because it will make the game we are playing null and void as I will no longer be willing to play the game. Because I will no longer need to manipulate access to Appledore. Is all that not a good enough incentive for you?"

"If that becomes the case it is worth the risk." She paused, thought before she spoke "If anything goes wrong I can make a lot of legal and technical problems disappear if necessary."

"I should hope so. In fact I am banking on it. But I am expecting to make a cleaner job of it than that and walk out like a summer breeze within the hour. When Watson and I are out and clear, I will ring you to confirm we have the material and are safe. If I do not ring you by 8pm send in the dogs. Clear?"

"I am far from happy with this."

"Make the best of what you are given."

He was about to speak again, across the distance between them that was stretching too long and too far, when she suddenly spoke.

"I should be doing this. Facing Magnussen down. Demanding the letters back. I should never have involved you. I should have known using you as an intermediary would not work….."

"Well, thank you so much for that vote of confidence." He snarled slowly but sharply in reply, heard her suck in an angry breath at having been provoked into such a personal and undermining response, and he talked over her attempt to retract.

"Stop dwelling on it. And you are not to try and intervene before I do this thing. I know you, Elizabeth."

She put the phone down on him in something between frustration and guilt.

He scowled, but did not try to call her back.

o0o0o0o

"No, there is absolutely no chance of either of them getting out, Sherlock."

Lestrade was firm and calm. "We are investigating a whole list of unsolved cases the Dixon Carr's have been suspected of for years. And the fact that Mark Dixon Carr tried to kill you - and yes, I do have your statement here, and now also a witness statement from Colonel Bruhl. Which he made this morning on his way to hospital to visit Mr Sondersun, Add that to Marie Dixon Carr caught on CCTV shooting Mr Sondersun on your doorstep, and we have two pretty clear cases of attempted murder.

"So sometimes my brother's vigilance regarding what I do actually has a useful result." There was something of a smile in Sherlock Holmes's voice, and Lestrade heard it.

"You're not kidding. Positively benevolent, for once."

They could feel each other grinning at the other down the telephone. Years of mutual commitment and synchronicity spoke through that silence.

"Mycroft has not been in touch again?"

"Should he?" Lestrade queried.

"He does so like to interfere. Anything from Magnussen?"

"Not exactly. But I have been speaking to Langdale Pike. He has offered up some interesting lines of investigation, you might say. And he has shared his fears about the death of Nicholas Haig, the newspaper reporter."

"Ah!"

"You know about this?"

"Yes. Haig's widow is Kitty Riley. Remember her? Moriarty's dupe at the time of the Reichenbach Fall? The young lady who accosted us at the charity gala?"

Yes, by God."

"Then you will know Magnussen has a black Audi. I very much doubt the man himself was behind the wheel…he does so like to delegate. But you might find the link. Or get one of his underlings to talk. Give the car a deep forensic once-over; even at this late date it may achieve something by at least being unsettling.

"There is one especially callous and proactive member of Magnussen's staff you may like to zone in on. A man with a distinctive silver ponytail…." He hesitated.

"I have a file….." he began again. "It is currently being investigated by a colleague of Mycroft's. But I see no harm in sharing it with you. There may be something there for you that presents some leads, wraps up some cases. I will email it to you."

He also gave Lestrade Lady Smallwood's office number. "In case you need it. To jump past a few hurdles that may be in your way."

Lestrade had the good sense not to ask why he had been given the personal number of a person in Whitehall whose own importance was on a level with that of Mycroft Holmes. He just made a note of it: and wondered. About danger, and alternative plans, and the tension he knew was currently swallowing Sherlock Holmes whole.

"Where did you get all this info?"

"Like any good journalist or policeman, I never reveal my sources," he said.

"Bastard!" Lestrade exclaimed. Then: "But thanks, Sherlock. Take care of yourself."

"I shall endeavour to do so."

Lestrade chuckled as he put the telephone down. He did not hear the irony in the younger man's voice.

o0o0o0o

"Are you OK about John being out with me this evening?" he asked without greeting or preamble.

"Of course I am. I've told you before: I am not about to come between the two of you. And John needs his occasional fix of boyish adventure."

Mary Watson had been reluctant to answer the telephone when the call identity came up on the screen.

When he rang back ten minutes later, she had been walking circles around the telephone in the kitchen rather than answer it, not knowing what he was going to ask, or what she was going to say, but suspicious, all instincts on full alert. By the second call she realised he would keep on ringing until she answered. Admitting defeat, she picked up the phone.

"I should tell you where we are going and what we are going to do ….."

"No. That is between the two of you. Nothing to do with me. You and John are a team. John and I are a team. But we are not the same team."

"You don't have to be like this, Mary," his voice was so quiet, so slow and soft, she almost thought it belonged to someone else. "I am not going to come between you and John. That is not, and never was, my intention. You do know that. Just this one last thing together and that will be it, I promise."

He was so tired. Too tired to be anything but gentle. Tired in body, tired in spirit. He should be able to address the full problem Magnussen had presented to him about Mary: about who and what she was. It was typical of the man as manipulator that he had told enough to pique Sherlock's interest, flick his senses onto full alert. But not told enough to make everything clear. To intentionally add fuel to Sherlock's doubts and fears and deductions about Mary Morstan.

Now she was quiet for so long he almost thought she had put the telephone down. But then she sighed.

"What if he can't give you up, Sherlock? What if he really is what he said he was this morning, when he stomped on Bill Wiggins? That he is indeed an addict? And addicted to the excitement, the chase, and more important - addicted to you?"

This was not the pragmatic procedural fears of the professional. This was the genuine heartfelt fears of a woman in love. Even he recognised that.

"Then I will detox him of me. Whether he wants it or not. I will detox him for you, Mary." The voice was still quiet, slow, despairingly sincere. She could not decide whether she simply did not trust him, or whether she found this untypical selflessness and self sacrifice from Sherlock Holmes regarding a man he had always described as his only friend too much to believe.

"He needs you." Three words that took all Sherlock Holmes' courage to speak. Driven by his annoyance that Mary Watson refused to even consider he - with Watson at his side - may be doing this one thing to save her; to save her and John Watson both; and in an action - surely she could see? - that would sacrifice Sherlock's relationship with them both.

There was only so much he could tell her, or tell John Watson, before the wheels came off the bus completely. Tell either - both - too much and they would both walk away and never turn back to him. He wanted to protect and save them before that happened.

So he was in control of the facts and the action, and he had to make sure neither irreversibly damaged the other. Not alienate John from Mary, Mary from John. So do the deed, make them safe. And then they could, together, safety and comfortably, alienate themselves from him. That was better. That was tolerable. That was how it was meant to happen.

Mary Watson heard his words with a sense of wonder and of doubt. Sherlock Holmes was haughty, arrogant, selfish and demanding. This new and despairing honesty was as frightening as it was unexpected. But it was time for Mrs Watson to lay her cards on the table.

"He needs you," she returned.

"No. He only thinks he does. I will disabuse him. Time he realised the ramifications of the decision he made to encompass convention, marriage, share his life with a wife and child. Time he understood how to be an adult now."

"You saying you are not an adult? Even when you are the cleverest man in the room?"

He gave a harsh and telling laugh. "What is adult and responsible about what I do? I am myself alone, Mary. That cannot ever change. But John is more of an adult than I shall ever be, so he must change and turn to you, be yours alone. So bear with me while I…we….just do this one thing."

"You don't have to cut him out of your life. Most people compromise…."

"I don't. Can't. Because of what I do. And what he must no longer do. Don't worry, Mary. In a little while he won't miss me."

"He missed you for two years."

"That was when he thought I was dead. This is not grief, this is…..disassociation. It isn't the same. It is just…ordinary life moving on. He will come to terms with it, and accept it. Just this one final thing we need to do together, Mary. Then he will be off my hands and into yours forever."

"Sherlock, no…"

"Just this one thing, Mary. Please. I will talk to you again. After…this evening."

"Sherlock…"

"No, Mary. I am right about this. We both need to be strong now for John's sake."

She shook her head and started to speak, but then realised he had terminated the conversation.

o0o0o0o

"

Good afternoon, brother mine."

"And to what do I attribute this unexpected call?"

"Oh, just the chance to pass the time of day."

"Sherlock, you never telephone to merely pass the time of day. What do you want?"

"Do you know, I can't remember. Perhaps it was simply the delight of hearing your voice."

"What's wrong? What's happened?"

"Nothing. Nothing wrong. Nothing has happened. Perhaps that is why I rang. To point this out. It is rather unusual, so noteworthy."

"Thank you for that. Now can I get on?"

"Certainly. I must get on too. That is what we do, isn't it? Goodbye Mycroft."

"Good afternoon, little brother."

o0o0o0o

He had now spoken to everyone he needed to. Had left details of where he would be, had organised back up if desired, rescue if needed, and heard his brother's voice. There was nothing he had not forgotten. Yet did not understand why he had spoken to so many people. Some sort of premonition? Ridiculous.

The lift drifted to a halt, and they stepped out onto Floor 31. The only light in the darkness was the reading lamp over Janine's workstation.

Sherlock ducked across the threshold, his happy smile pinned on to make his marriage proposal formal. The proposal he had made over the security camera intercom to manipulate Janine, the engagement ring he had shown, the shy but happy smile he had produced - all to achieve the one end - to get himself and John Watson up into Magnussen's office.

And yet now there was no-one in that office to greet him. When he had expected a happy bouncing Janine….

"So where did she go?" he asked Watson, puzzled. "It's a bit rude. I just proposed to her."

John Watson stepped forward into the office as Sherlock was spinning small circles, looking, seeking. And it was John Watson who spotted Janine flat on the floor behind the desk.

"Sherlock…." he warned, voice low, doubtful.

"Did she faint?" he followed Watson into the room, a genuine look of bafflement on his face. "Did I really do that?" Halfway between disbelief, shock and humour. Until John Watson spoke.

"It's a blow to the head."

Watson was on his knees beside her, checking her pulse, brushing her hair from her forehead to check for damage. "She's breathing. Janine."

The girl moaned in response, and Sherlock, realising she was alive, stopped considering her a priority; now safe in the care of the doctor that is John Watson.

He looked round, into the next office.

"Another in here," he moved forward to check. A burly man spread unconscious on the floor; muscles braced and bulging through the material of the expensive suit, a shaved head, earring, tattoos "Security," he added.

"Does he need help?" Watson asked, still kneeling by Janine's side, concentrating.

" Ex con. White supremacist by the tattoos," Sherlock assessed. Prioritised. "So who cares? Stick with Janine."

Something had happened, he realised., cold fingers of a dread premonition very real now, and creeping down his spine. Something had gone wrong. He could feel the evening air coming in through an open window: who could have entered that high room at night? Via the window cleaner's dolly? By abseiling down from the roof? Sucker climbed or grapple ironed upwards? Used the service stairs and a master pass key?

Who would do this, though? No chance burglar would even try to hit such a difficult mark, not would be there by coincidence. But another person had suggested an intervention….another person with the physical dexterity, the nerve, the motivation.

"Then they must still be here, " Watson suggested, glancing round as if he expected to see an intruder under the nearest desk, crouched behind the nearest chair.

"So's Magnussen," agreed Sherlock Holmes in a hard whisper, crouching, stooping, moving towards and touching the black leather seat of Magnussen's office chair. "His seat's still warm. He should be at a dinner but he's still in the building."

He paused to listen; a low murmur of distant voices only he can hear; he was close to the other office door, the stairs to the penthouse. "Upstairs," he added.

"We should call the police," John Watson was already dragging his mobile from his jacket pocket, starting to dial.

"During our own burglary?" the whisper was hurried, scathing. "You're really not a natural at this, are you? " he demanded; heard Watson sigh, close down the telephone, as Sherlock raised a hand for silence. "No. Wait. Sshh."

His head lifted. Drew a deep breath through his nose. Another. An unexpected scent filled the air in the room. Windmilled his hands in wide, sorting, selecting gestures John Watson had seen before. Deep in the library of the Mind Palace.

"Perfume," he announced "Not Janine's."

Janine favoured Yves St Laurent's Black Opium. This was a lighter fragrance altogether, more floral.

"Clair de la lune," he determined. Then, speaking aloud to himself: "Why do I know it?"

"Mary wears it," John Watson observed absently, kneeling at Janine's side, still trying to gently revive her.

"No, not Mary. Somebody else!"

.Hearing a noise he froze; concentrated hard, listening again; thoughts and impressions rained in together; aghast he turned towards the doorway - and ran off without explaining himself. Just in case he was right…

"Sherlock!" John Watson's cry was warning, caution, plea; he wanted to be with his friend, but the doctor within him demanded he stay with his patient, who was finally starting to awaken , murmuring up through shock and pain.

Halfway up the stairs, Sherlock Holmes paused to listen again. He heard Magnussen; not words as yet, just tonal sounds, a stressed pitch, untypically urgent, unimaginably almost tearful. Then his hearing finally tuned sounds into words.

"What would your husband think, eh? He…. your lovely husband… upright…. honourable…."

Sherlock Holmes remained frozen for a moment by what he heard. Put his thoughts firmly on hold as he crept silently upwards. Looked through the door into the penthouse.

Magnussen there, on his knees is a corner, arms raised in supplication, and cowering. Still talking, the volubility of the terrified.

"…..So English. What would he say to you now? Eh?".

In front of him, with a dark back turned to Sherlock, stood a trim figure dressed all in black: cargo pant fatigues, with loaded thigh pockets. Swat boots, black sweater and gear rig vest, balaclava hat pulled down over the ears but the face mask rolled back and up.

Unafraid to show the face, to risk being identified afterwards. Set to kill Magnussen then - the only witness to his death. Professional. But now there is ME!

Black leather gloves. And in the glove of the left hand a high calibre pistol - Walther PPK? Browning? Couldn't tell from this angle. But a pistol with a silencer and being held steady at professional arm's length, cocked and ready to fire.

Magnussen sensed the determined movement as readily as Sherlock, and in panic reverted to Danish in plea: - "Nej, Nej!" he cried - No! No! - in denial, low, ragged, unusually engaged.

"You're doing this to protect him from the truth, but is protection what he would want?" Magnussen had tried pleading, now he tried reasoning.

Sherlock stepped softly into the room, to save, to intercede, to break the impasse. Not to specifically save the man on his knees and terrified. But to get the man to tell where he keeps his secrets, to save the person in control, the potential shooter, from the final finite act of determination and revenge.

Only afterwards did he realise the idiocy of stepping into a room dominated by a person with a gun. A gun cocked and locked and ready to do it's work. But then, he had always made mistakes, hadn't he? Even if they were always the worst of mistakes for the best of reasons.

" Additionally, if you're going to commit murder, you might consider changing your perfume," His voice joined the one sided conversation; authoritative, imperious, and instantly filling the room.

He almost felt the other two people slam their attention towards him, catch their breaths. And because he knew who the shooter was, knew instinctively - because he had told her not to act, and she was never one who took orders easily or kindly - so he knew who this was only too well….he added: ". Lady Smallwood."

As soon as he spoke he knew he had made a mistake, and the enormity of the mistake. Because Magnussen straightened his spine then, pulled in a long shaky breath. And looked at him, those blank shark's eye puzzled.

"Sorry - who?"

He looked from Sherlock to the shooter. And back. Spoke slow and sure and confident, as if trying not to panic either or any of them. And most especially the person with the gun. "That's not Lady Smallwood, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock frowned, momentarily speechless. He knew, he was sure he knew. How…?.

The person in black turned slowly to face him and to slowly, purposefully, level the gun at him. Not Lady Smallwood. No. It was…. The person he had barely even feared it might be. Unbelievably it was. It is Mary Watson.

This, he realised with a jolt of hindsight, this is the real Mary Watson. Cold, calculating. He was looking into the dead eyes of a killer. For a second there had been a flash of recognition. Warmth - friendship even.

But ultimately the woman was a professional. He saw that now; and too late.

If only Magnussen had told me! If only…..

She stepped back into herself and made no greeting nor excuse for her presence. And the question she posed was so simple.

"Is John with you?"

She had not expected to see either of them, he realised. She had not wanted to know what her husband and her best man had been planning to do tonight, or why, or even where they would be.

Because she had had had her own agenda, her own destination and purpose for this evening. Was just relieved to have both of them out of her way so she could achieve her aim.

Sorry, Mary!

And yes - now he understood why she had been so disengaged when he rang, was just happy to see them both out from under her feet. To give her opportunity and space of her own in which to move and to raid and to complete her self imposed mission - to kill Magnussen.

And he - Sherlock Holmes - had put all three of them in this position. Because of his desire to bring down Magnussen and retrieve all the dangerous paperwork and revealing photographs. And because he had been stupid enough to tell Mary Watson that her photograph existed; that he had seen it, that Magnussen possessed it and knew her secrets. And that he had underestimated her will and her determination to keep her secrets regardless of anything. And certainly regardless of him.

I am an idiot! John trusts me so I assumed Mary would too. Fool!

She had never been willing to trust her husband's best friend. He saw that now. Had never trusted him to do what he would and be himself, do his job, and yet also keep them all, all four of them, safe. As safe as he had vowed.

Sherlock felt as if he had been hit between the eyes with a brick. That the gods had clamped hands around his heart and stopped him breathing. Had dropped him into some obscene joke of suspended animation.

He tried to speak, mouth dry with shock, lips working and nothing coming out. He blinked, and then collected himself

"He's,,,,umh…."

"Is John here?" she repeated. Blank question without appeal or encouragement.

"He…."

Try again, Holmes. Get a grip.

Is there any point in trying to protect John from this? Of course not; she was not about to shoot her husband. And that need for restraint may save us all. So try truth, then; because she knew they would be together. When danger called - when were they not?

"… he's downstairs."

She nodded in reply. A tiny tight smile as she reconfigured her plans, her objectives, allowed for the new complications and dynamics that had presented themselves. Disaster. Thanks to her husband and his best friend.

"So what do you do now? Kill us both?" Magnussen asked from behind her. It said much for the fear Mary Watson had instilled in the Danish millionaire that he stayed where he was, made no attempt to overpower her when she was not looking at him, or make a lunge for the gun.

Was he a wise man or a coward? Sherlock Holmes could not decide.

Mary Watson smiled humourlessly back over her shoulder at Magnussen, and ignored his question.

"Mary, whatever he's got on you…let me help," He heard himself, strong, confident, but speaking from his heart. From good intentions. He knew - now - he had been right to never quite trust her. But Magnussen was hideous; whatever the hold he had over her, her action now was brave, and committed and probably more than justified, and he could not criticise her for that.

And they both had their own love and commitment to John Watson to rescue from the wreckage of all this; whatever this was. A joint mission then - a joint goal. She would understand they are stronger together than divided. Of course she would! Understand that John Watson deserved no less from either of them.

He smiled, recognising that she was a professional too, that she must see and understand this complication he had become to her plan and her life had not been intentional; she must know he was on her side. Would help her, just as he had promised he would?

Took a half step forward to reassure her, unite at her side against Magnussen. So he was unprepared - shocked, disbelieving - when she spoke, coolly, almost conversationally:

"Oh, Sherlock, if you take one more step I swear I will kill you."

What a professional she was! He was suddenly proud of her, John Watson's clever and unique choice of wife! He may not have known what his friend saw in her when he fell in love with her. But he could see now! Another soul with John Watson's love of danger, of adrenalin, and with all his strength.

Sherlock Holmes gave a small uncalculated smile that warmed his eyes. Took another small step forward.

"No, Mrs Watson. You won't." His voice was low, assured, confident. Confident in her, her acceptance and understanding of him.

As he lifted his foot to move forward - ignoring that ridiculous cliché of a threat - she shot him.

Just as she had told him she would. One bullet. Low centre mass. He saw the recoil of the barrel; heard the small cough of the ignition; saw the black slug leave the muzzle, the trickle behind of gases combusted. Everything felt suddenly focussed down to the one action, and time moved into slow motion.

He could not have moved to escape if he had tried…even if he had believed what was happening. Realised it would have made no difference, that there was no escaping the physics of it.

Because he didn't believe before. A split second later and too late - then he did.

He looked down at his torso, quietly shocked. Surely the impact should kick him backwards, spin him to the floor? That was what it always looked like on TV, in westerns, in cop shows. A scream, a spin driven by the impact of the shot, wild flying limbs, a crash to the ground.

Yet he had hardly felt a thing; a tiny kick, no more; more like a finger being flicked into his body. He kept looking down, still not believing.

There was a pause of suspended time. It seemed to last for hours. After that freeze framed pause blood started to show. Just a little seepage of red at the hole punched into his best new white shirt at first. Surely he was imagining this? How could Mary have shot him? John's Mary - his Mary. Had shot him?

The seepage became a trickle. And then a flood. And as he looked down - the fascination of the awful; how absurd! What a cliché! - his mouth dropped open in shock. The air started to leave his body. Yes. Shock.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. Truly am." Her voice sounded cramped down. As if she too was only now realising the awful finality, the result of her actions.

Well, thanks, Mary! That's fine! Makes me feel a whole lot….."

"Mary…..?" he managed in a sort of wonder, a sort of disbelief, a sort of appeal for help.

He started to fall backwards. His peripheral vision registered Mary Watson moving; turning and pistol whipping Magnussen to the ground, turning away, reaching for something.

The body of Sherlock Holmes began to crumple. To fall onto the floor and to convulse in shocks and jolts of pain as the bullet slammed a wild disorder into his body, took him down.

Red, rushing, unbearable pain. Too many thoughts for his brain to hold - and it was true: life did flash before your eyes in a kaleidoscope of images and regrets and impressions from the past,

He felt his lips pull back over his teeth in the rictus grin of approaching death. But the machine that was the mind of Sherlock Holmes was still working - now at hyper speed.

Mary moving, reaching for something, turning away. He heard the chirrups of a mobile phone being brought into play. Why? Who? What for? Who cares any more?

The elegant mirror behind him had not shattered, so the bullet was still in him. Good. That was good. A bullet that had entered and passed through would make a larger exit hole, have hit more vital organs, and he would be already dead. The bullet had travelled less far, less hard than he had expected …

Ah! I see! So no death intent in the shooting. Two proofs now. That's something….

A single shot to arrest, to damage, to retain control of the situation. No professional absolute kill shot. That would, even at such close proximity, still be the definitive two shots centre mass, plus one head shot; to guarantee no way back.

So Mary had shot him - just the once - for control and clarity, but also shot him - just the once - so had been offering him a special sort of professional compromise now - a way back to life? Covering all possibilities? Delaying and distracting him. Increasing his odds, by cutting her own. Oh, how interesting.

Had she shot out of panic? Fear? To minimise disruption to her plan? To keep John Watson out of the way? Doubtful.

But she had not followed through her original plan - had not shot Magnussen. To protect Watson and keep him safe in an impossible position? Because she did not know if her husband was even now downstairs trailing fingerprints and DNA in his wake?

Evidence that would be circumstantial only. But circumstantial evidence had been enough to get people hung in the past. And even so, there was no way Mary Watson could allow any close scrutiny of her husband and thus herself; her assumed identity may not survive such close scrutiny. Yes.

Should have been sensible. Should have stayed downstairs, not moved forward. Why always so impulsive? Why cannot a brain like mine learn restraint? And thus safety? Because my brain does not work like that! It cannot! Don't start into self blame and defeat - just deal with what's happening!

No. Should have let Mary have time to shoot her real target.

Also my target. She could have killed two birds with one stone. Instead of just me….easy to be wise after the event….

To then have found the body, taken time to find and remove the paperwork and exit quietly. Leaving Janine and the security man unconscious and exactly how they had found them….and been gone. Unknown and unnoticed. Professional. That would have been the sensible thing to do.

Will I never learn to be sensible, to stand back, to be prudent? Too bloody late now…..

The East wind is coming. It is coming for me. I can hear it chasing through corridors, over hills, up stairwells. Hunting me. If there is a chance to survive I must grab it - I cannot die now!

John Watson has to be made safe. I made a vow, I must keep it. Must love and keep it. For how dangerous will Mary now be to her John? For he must learn of this. Must know. Not become a victim himself through ignorance. And only I can tell him. I am the only person he will believe. And he needs to know, For his own survival.

How dangerous will Magnussen be now to us all? And there is still only me to do this thing….

She did not mean to kill me. She did not mean to kill me. She does not know she has killed me. Just one shot, Mary. When you should have done three, But one shot is enough….

Just seconds left now. Try to control the transport. Slow it down. Suspend animation. Try and get into meditation mode. Shallow breaths. Has to be shallow breaths. Anything else hurts too much. Come on, come on - step out of yourself and drop beyond your pain and your fear and your consciousness.

His eyes rolled up to the ceiling.

Why are ceilings so bland and white and boring? People lie looking at ceilings so often in their life - in dentist's chairs, chasing sleep, relaxing, thinking, being medically examined - why aren't ceilings more interesting?

Distantly, far, far away, he feels the vibration of running footsteps on the floor against his head.

John Watson, his white knight, his hero coming to his rescue, his medical Mr Fixit. Come on, John -

Fix it! Fix me! Help, John! Save John Watson! Save me! Stop the blood…

He felt the thump shiver painfully through his frame as Watson dropped to his knees at his side.

Heard his friend curse, felt his gentle hands brush the jacket aside and put even more gentle fingers to the wound. He would have cried out if he could. He couldn't.

Watson questioned Magnusson frantically as to what happened - to a calm reply "He got shot."

Oh, cheers! Bloody helpful! Does John think Magnussen shot me? Dropped his gun out of the window and is playing the innocent victim? Certainly doing nothing to help me, the bastard.

Wants my body but doesn't care to save my life….how typical is that? Necrophilia. Oh, please…..

No, don't think about that!

John! Concentrate! Think about blood…..! My….blood. Help…me…not….d….

TO BE CONTINUED…