Chapter 21: Two Mistakes

DAY 10

Friday, 22.23 hrs

Ten seconds. It had come down to a matter of a mere ten seconds. If he had only left Slough on the floor, instead of dragging him into the freezer. If he had only left the gag in place and pulled John out straightaway. If he had only not frozen for three seconds at the door, two seconds at his side, and five seconds more when John's eyes fell closed again. Stupid, stupid. He was the worst thing that had ever happened to John Watson.

Once again, he stood frozen, his foot on the bottommost step of the stair. He was sentient, now, of the presence behind him that had soundlessly rounded the corner before Sherlock and John could disappear up the stairs. Instinctively, he pressed John closer to his breast, as though to protect him, but deep in his heart he knew the gesture was futile.

'Sherlock.' The voice was dark, though tinged with delight as it said his name in a scolding yet playful manner. From behind, a hand reached into the right pocket of his coat and calmly extracted the taser. 'Naughty naughty. Did your mum teach you nothing about stealing the other children's toys? Now drop the little bugger and turn around.'

He could feel John's quickened breath against his throat, his racing pulse—the sound of the man's voice behind him had incited this unconscious reaction. Knowing what it would cost, Sherlock seemed incapable of obedience.

Then a ring of cold steel—the business end of a pistol—pushed into the back of his neck. 'Playing obstinate probably isn't your best option right now. I said, drop him.'

He closed his eyes, steeling himself. Slowly, he lowered himself to a knee and set John's naked body on the floor at the foot of the stairs. He placed him on his side so as not to aggravate the wounds in his back or add further pressure to his wrists. Gently, he removed his hand from under John's head to rest it on the white tiles. Then, before the man could stop him, he whipped off his coat and draped it over John's shivering body. Finally, he placed a hand on John's arm, touching him through the coat, as if the gesture might offer some vain reassurance that everything would be all right.

'Stand up. Hands behind your head. Take two steps backward, then turn around.'

He looked one more time at John's beaten face, the brow that had again furrowed, and lips emitting such shallow breaths. Then he turned around and found himself face to face with a man equal to him in height but broader in the shoulders, with more defined musculature and a considerably uglier face. He bore a prominent mole above his thick left eyebrow and his face was narrow like a hound's. Everything about him—the way his eyes fixed on Sherlock, the way he levelled the Browning L9A1, the way he had shaved that morning—identified him as a military man. His accent pinned him as a Londoner. And the blood-ringed cuffs, the needle pricks along his exposed skin, and his peppermint breath named him a sadist.

His hatred against this man engulfed him. It was so potent it might as well have been poison, and it nearly blinded him. The man's face fogged before him, and he saw himself retrieving the three-finger knife from his right trouser pocket, springing forward with the speed of a cobra, and creating a fountain of blood from the man's neck. He saw himself snapping off the man's fingers, once by one, with wire cutters before stuffing them in his ugly, slanted mouth. But mostly, he saw himself carving deep into his back, long vicious stripes with a rusty blade.

But the fog cleared. In reality, he was staring down the barrel of a gun.

'Evening,' said Sherlock coolly. His fingers interlocked behind his head.

'Hello, beautiful,' said the man, a wild light playing behind his bright, blue eyes. 'So pleased to finally meet you.' His eyes raked Sherlock from hair to hiking boot. 'I can see the attraction, now I'm this close to you. You're a real heartbreaker, aren't you, Mr Holmes? But you've only one true love—the game. Have you enjoyed playing this round? Frankly, I'm surprised it took you so long to find me, given your reputation. I sent out the invitations days ago.'

'An address would have been lovely.'

'Not on your best game, or not trying too hard? Is it because that'—he gestured to John with his head, but his hands pointing the gun seemed fixed in space—'wasn't so important to you after all?'

'I'm the one you want, isn't that right? You have me now. You can let John go.'

The man laughed humourlessly; his finger on the trigger didn't slacken in the slightest. 'Let him go? Just let him stroll away, whistling a merry tune? You know that's not how this ends. Besides, the little slut doesn't have the strength even to crawl away, like the well-fucked little bitch he is. I've broken him. Look at him, Mr Holmes, I've broken him.'

'All of this, just to get to me? You're pathetic.'

'Worked though, didn't it. I mean, here you are. What do you think, my dear? I made you a welcome home gift. Hell, I made you nine of them. But you know the funny thing? I don't think he has any idea what they even mean. Isn't that funny? Was daddy just trying to keep little Johnny boy from worrying, or maybe you simply couldn't be bothered explaining it to such a slow-witted doofus? But you haven't forgotten, surely. You saw my message in the photographs, is that right? You know what they mean.'

'Of course.'

'I'm afraid I've run out of space on the back, as I'm sure you've also noticed, but there's still plenty of canvas on the front. And I have a few more in me, if you want to keep playing. I'd love to keep playing.'

'You know that's not how this ends. This ends now. If you kill John, I'll follow without complaint. But the thing is, I won't let you kill John.'

'You seem to forget: I'm the one holding the gun. And I'm not shy about pulling triggers.'

'Then why haven't you? You could have unloaded all thirteen rounds of your pistol into me in the time we've been chatting, reloaded, and unloaded again.'

'I told you: I still want to play. Don't you know? He's an amazing plaything. You should see it, Mr Holmes, how he swims in the sea of pain. Just when you think he's about to drown in it, he turns his head for air, and gasps. Then he keeps on swimming. I've never seen anyone quite like him. It's beautiful, in a way. It's like he was born for such intense suffering.'

He's strong, thought Sherlock. He's the strongest man I've ever known.

'Don't you want to see how far he can go? How many laps he can manage? You like experiments, after all. I do, too, of a sort. And John Watson has proven a most fascinating specimen. He's accepted that this, this, is his life now. I rather think he actually likes it.' The man's grin grew wider at Sherlock's flinch. 'Besides, there are other reasons to keep him alive. Daz hasn't yet grown tired of his nightly trysts with our favourite sex toy. I haven't either, for that matter. Perhaps you would like to watch? Something has to get you off.'

'Daz,' repeated Sherlock, struggling not to rise to the obvious goad. In his mind's eye, he saw himself bashing in the face of the man in the video with a rock until it was no longer a face but a cracked bowl made of skull, brain, and blood. 'The Slash Man, is he? Your hired, homeless rapist? Why yes, I'd love to meet him. I've seen castrated corpses before, but I've never had the pleasure of making the cut myself.'

The man's lip curled in a perverted version of a smile, and his eyes flicked down to John and back again. 'I'll let you practice on the whelp.'

Sherlock snorted. 'Slough? Took care of him already, but thanks for offering him up.'

The man's eyes narrowed as though trying to deduce whether or not Sherlock was lying, but he didn't pursue a line of questioning. Instead, he shifted the conversation to regain the upper hand. 'He really, truly believed it, you know. The sod. The gullible, trusting sod. That you were dead, I mean. You fooled a lot of people, Sherlock Holmes, but not me. Not me.'

'Oh come, don't flatter yourself. You believed me dead, same as the rest of the world.'

'Did not.'

'Did too.'

'Did not.'

'Then tell me how I did it.'

The man's lips closed.

'What, don't you know? All right then, tell me this: if you knew I had survived the fall, why didn't you shoot? You had a rifle pointed at one of them, am I wrong? You were one of the snipers. I see it in your index finger and the muscle twitch in your left eye. But you never took the shot. Because I jumped. Because you believed I was dead. And why would you doubt it—you had seen it with your own eyes! James Moriarty had succeeded in getting me to commit suicide, just like he told you he would. So you followed orders, packed up your gear, and melded back into anonymity. In fact, you were so convinced that you laboured under that delusion for three years. Drifting. Aimless. Until someone told you the truth: Sherlock Holmes is alive.'

The man's eyes were hardened with anger. He spoke through clenched teeth. 'You'll never guess who it was.'

'I know exactly who it was. Irene Adler. Another piece on Moriarty's chessboard. The queen, unless I am mistaken. And I rarely am. But with her, I did make a mistake. In fact, I made two. First, I fell into her trap. In a rare lapse of judgement on my part, I trusted her. Not wholly, of course. I knew she was deceitful and self-interested, something like myself, but I believed we had something of a mutual understanding of one another. So yes, I trusted her just enough to let down my guard, and she played a move against me that I've played against a hundred people, so I should have known better: people don't like telling you things, but they love to contradict you. I wouldn't tell her where I'd been, how I'd survived the fall, anything she asked me about directly. So she pretended she knew something she couldn't possibly know: that there were people here in London who did know about my being alive, who had helped me. She said just one little word, that plural form, and I didn't even blink. I corrected her. Not people. One person. Though I didn't say who. I never thought for a moment that such a simple realignment of her misapprehension could prove so devastating. She presumed, erroneously, that the one person was John.'

'And what was your second mistake?'

'Inciting her petty jealousy. I had beaten her before in our little game of wits, and when I escaped the Libyan prison, declining to serve out the full sentence she had so thoughtfully arranged for me, I beat her again. At least, that's how she saw it. If I had given her what she wanted, that night, she would have been satisfied and her loyalties might have shifted to me. But I gave her nothing. And the woman became vengeful. That was my second mistake: not predicting the devastation a woman's ire could cause. As an act of vengeance, she told you what she had guessed as though it were fact: Sherlock Holmes is alive, and John Watson can tell you where he is.'

'You're only partly right, Mr Holmes. What she told me was this: You want to get to Sherlock? Go through John. And she was right. Sure, we both figured it was because of what he knew, not what he was, but the end result was the same. It's thanks to John that you now stand on my doorstep. But tell me, Mr Holmes. If Ms Adler had guessed correctly, if I had squeezed the information from the correct source, whose body would now be lying unconscious at the foot of the stair? Or would they have given you up in that first hour?'

Sherlock said nothing.

'Who did you trust more than John Watson?'

Again, nothing.

'He trusted you, you know. Like a child. He was relentless in insisting that you were dead because you, you, Sherlock Holmes, would never have lied to him. He thought I was mad, saying you were alive. I'm going to relish the look on his face when he sees you again. And when he sees what I'm going to do to you. Or, maybe, I'll just shoot you now and let your blood wash over him. How poetic it will be when he wakes up in the freezer again, with the body of his former master, realising I was telling the truth all the while. I'll have my vengeance, you'll be dead, and John and I will still get to play. That is, if, after that, he still comes up for air.'

'Listen, if you let John go—'

The man barked out a laugh. 'This isn't a bargaining session!'

'—let John go, and you can do whatever you'd like to me. Punish me, torture me, whatever you'd like, and I won't protest. I won't escape. Finish Moriarty's game. Destroy me, bit by bit, until I'm dead or worse. Just . . . don't hurt him anymore. Don't kill him.'

He knew he was pleading, just as well as he knew it would have no effect whatsoever on the viciously detached man before him, but he couldn't stop himself. He was desperate, and he would do anything, anything, the most insane or illogical of things, if it meant John would live.

But the man only smirked at his desperation. 'How gracious of you, sending a miserable man back to his miserable life, with the memories of all that has happened to him to torment him for the rest of his miserable existence. And here I thought you cared. No, Mr Holmes, I am more merciful than that. I'll kill him, in good time, when he can't be beaten any lower. That, or watch him choose death on his own. Hell, if he begs me . . . How I'd love to hear him beg me. I haven't heard that sweet voice of his do more than groan, scream, or cry for days now, ever since poor Mary stopped being useful. But I bet I can get him to talk again. He begged for her life. Will he beg for yours? Or will he thank me for killing you, the man who lied to him and betrayed him and as good as delivered him into my hands? I say we find out. I think it's time for him to see you.'

'This isn't about John, you imbecile, it's about—'

'Just imagine the look on sweet Johnny boy's face when he sees you, then imagine how that expression will contort when he sees your head explode. You'll have to imagine it, see, because you'll be too dead to see it properly. There now. Shall we wake him?'

'Please—'

'Shut up and turn around. Turn around. Good. Now on your knees, facing him. Oh, this will be fun. I want him to see you when he opens his eyes. There you go, love. Keep those pretty hands behind your head, and don't move a muscle or I'll blow a hole right between those pretty blue eyes.' With his gun fixed on Sherlock's head, the man circled around to stand at John's feet, careful not to block Sherlock's view. Then he placed a foot on the coat covering John's thigh and pressed down on the cilice.

John's whole body jerked, his head snapped back, and his face screwed up in pain, but his eyes remained steadfastly sealed shut. Sherlock winced in empathetic unison and balled his fists in his hair.

'Oi. Johnny boy. Wakey wakey. I brought you a new present.' He grinned at Sherlock, keeping the barrel trained on his forehead.

Sherlock saw the man's arm tighten and his forefinger flex a fraction of an inch. This was no bluff. He was mere seconds away from firing. It would happen the moment John opened his eyes. Silently, he willed John to remain unconscious. Don't open your eyes, John. Don't look at me. Stay far, far away.

'Open your eyes, John,' said the man, 'and I'll give you something to drink.'

John's eyelashes fluttered.

Then suddenly, a blast. It came from above, the sound ricocheting down the stairwell and setting the tiles ringing. Both men looked up in surprise, as the noise that rent the air was followed by a distant man's incomprehensible shout and two more blasts. Gunshots.

Sherlock recovered first. He sprang to his feet and grabbed hold of the man's wrists, twisting hard to wrest the gun from his grip. But the man was strong and did not yield his weapon. With both sets of hands locked around the gun, the man swung Sherlock around until his body slammed into the wall. Sherlock's grip loosened and one hand slipped; simultaneously, the man released one of his own, and next second had fisted it and smashed it into the side of Sherlock's head. Bent nearly double and bracing for the next blow, Sherlock slipped a hand inside his right trouser pocket and extracted the knife, gripping it solidly, just as the man bashed his head again, this time into the wall. Sherlock crashed to a knee; but he used the force of his landing to drive the knife down the man's leg, knee to ankle.

Any ordinary man would cry out and retreat from the source of the pain. But this man was a trained fighter. With his uninjured leg, he kicked Sherlock in the face. For a fraction of a second, his world went dark. When it cleared again, he was on his back, and the man was on top of him, straddling him about the waist. One large hand strangled his throat, while the other pointed the gun between his eyes. But Sherlock realised that he still gripped the knife. Impulsively, he swiped it across the man's face.

The cut was long and deep, gashing both cheeks and tearing across the bridge of his nose. Blood gushed and rained down on Sherlock from above. This time, the man did scream, a primal, guttural cry, and he grabbed his face and jumped to his feet, staggering backward. Sherlock, too, scrambled to find his feet. Just as he did, he saw the man turn from him, a mad glint in his eyes, and he pointed the gun at John's head. Sherlock lunged forward with a shout, seized the man by the shoulder, and yanked.

The gun exploded. A spout of blood erupted through the punctured coat.

'John!' Sherlock cried.

John moaned in severe agony, but he did not come fully conscious. A small pool of blood leaked out from under the coat and spread wider.

Distracted by the heart-wrenching sound of his friend in anguish, Sherlock didn't brace for the next blow. The butt of the gun cracked against his skull. Hot blood poured down the side of his face. He stumbled, his shoulder crashing into the opposite wall, and he swiped the knife again, this time through nothing but air. Nevertheless, the man's attention was now divided between him and John.

Sherlock had to ensnare it.

'All this,' he said, panting, 'in the name of a man who didn't give a damn about you?'

Above the gruesome gash dividing his face, the man's eyes flashed. 'Fuck you. I was his number one. His most trusted servant. He told me everything. Everything. About you. About John. How to destroy you both.'

Sherlock was backing away, slowly, down the corridor. Though his eyes never broke contact with the man's, he saw in his periphery that the man's foot edged forward, contemplating pursuit. That's right, follow me, follow me. To the left of his vision, John was still again. Dead? No. He heard the soft, deep moan. Don't die, John. Oh god, please don't die.

'He was insane. Why do you think he put a gun in his own mouth?'

The man flinched.

'You act like that's a surprise. How do you think it is he died?'

'You killed him.'

'Please. He killed himself.' He was nearing the end of the corridor now. He knew there was another set of stairs not halfway down the next hallway. He wanted to look at John, just one more time, but he didn't dare drop his eyes from the gunman's and release the lure.

'You are a liar!'

'He put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Didn't even blink. He was so bored—with life, with me, with you—that pop! Didn't even care.'

'You—'

'Skull blown out the back.'

'—fucking—'

'Eyes still bulging.'

'—liar!'

'He was so determined to beat me that he considered his own life of little consequence, if it meant that his death would seal the deal. I would have no choice but to jump, and then we'd both be dead. But look at me. My heart still beats. Do you know what that means? I win.'

The man steadied the gun to take fire just as Sherlock reached the end of the wall. It was now or not at all. He would run. He would give chase and let the man hunt him, drawing him away from John just long enough for the man upstairs to reach him. His death would mean something this time. He dashed around the corner just as the gun went off and the rock in the wall flew like shrapnel. Sherlock ran. Behind him, he heard a cry of rage and the sound of pounding feet. Moriarty's man was in pursuit. I'm so sorry, John, he thought, as he left him behind once more.