AJ Elfhawk

On The Way Down

Chapter 26 – In Sorrow

"There's no remedy for memory, your face is
Like a melody, it won't leave my head
Your soul is haunting me and telling me
That everything is fine
But I wish I was dead."

Dark Paradise – Lana Del Rey

'You were wrong to trust him.' John whispered, and Sherlock forgot what he'd been watching before John spoke as he turned his head, searching in the dark.

'You used to tell me I was too cynical.' He pointed out, and John stepped closer to his side.

'That was before I was almost thrown from a helicopter.' As he came out of shadow, Sherlock stared at a bruise around his throat, shaped loosely like a handprint. Reaching out, his fingers aligned perfectly with those of the markings, as he'd expected. John's eyes lifted to his, four decades of heartache as he smiled and Sherlock lowered his hand.

'It wasn't you, but he hopes you'll believe it was.' The voice was John's although his mouth hadn't moved, but the words stirred a pattern of memories in Sherlock's thoughts. Misdirection was the key to what eluded him, he realised. Every appearance was a distortion of the truth, just as a woman's makeup diverted the viewer to the colours, and not the face. Unless it happened to be Irene Adler, in which case an absence of clothes achieved a comparable purpose.

Without explanation, John pulled him close, pinning his arms tightly. Sherlock wasn't well versed in discerning the nature of embraces, but locked arms behind his back definitely felt like goodbye.

'What's the matter?' Sherlock asked, wondering why they were standing in a field at this time of night, a chemical aroma of cologne completely mismatched to their surroundings.

'He's already there,' John said calmly, leaning forward on his chest. 'You need to wake up.'

Sherlock pushed himself away, prising his arms free as he woke with a start.

Limbs heavy with cold, he fought the restriction that remained even after his dream faded. Finding the only restraint had been the tailoring of his coat, Sherlock lay back in relief as he caught his breath and looked up towards the sky. Savouring the hazy details while he still recalled them, Sherlock slowly wiped away the remnants of tears. He hardly dreamt anymore, not since the last few times he'd been using, but even then the dreams were chaotic, traumatising in their vividness and violence. He couldn't recall the last time he'd remembered a dream and still felt this rested. The headache had even cleared enough to think for the first time in days.

Rising up, Sherlock crawled drowsily across the ground and manoeuvred into the open, brambles snatching through skin as he tripped out of their grasp to stumble upright. Well-rested clearly didn't equate with coordination. The rush of being vertical cleared after a moment and Sherlock picked out features of the forest around him, searching for a clear stretch of sky to estimate how long he'd been cataleptic for on this occasion.

What coat? Sherlock grasped the collar but felt only the wool lining of gloves. He pulled off the right one, the leather still inflexibly new, and grasped the fabric of a cashmere scarf, fuzzy where it had never yet been washed, both identical matches for his own.

Sherlock's senses went wild, feeling breached by the act of being dressed - in the undergrowth, of all places. Pocketing the gloves, he checked the coat seams to find that this at least was the original discarded several days ago in open pursuit.

The wood was quiet, but he doubted he could be alone. Looking back in the direction of the farmland buildings, long hidden over the distance travelled, he wondered whether he was even in the same forest.

Nearby, someone shifted their weight and Sherlock crouched, every shadow suddenly a threat. Immobilised by lack of tactical advantage, the night time silence mounted tension between him and the stalker as he wondered whether it would be wise to face an unknown attack. If someone was there, they'd heard him emerge and any judgement about the technology they employed had fallen considerably short. Clearly someone knew exactly where he was, someone with a reason to prevent his death by hypothermia, which narrowed the list considerably. Hopefully their seemingly benevolent motives didn't subsequently involve inflicting death in person.

As he perched there, the fragrance reached him again and he realised it was coming from the scarf beneath his own chin. He pushed it higher, inhaling against the soft weave to identify hints of citrus, rose and sandalwood. It was an eau de cologne, Muelhens 4711. Unisex, made in Germany.

It didn't bring anyone to mind, but if it had been planted there deliberately, there was a very definite message behind the choice of scent.

As an insect succeeded in crawling past one of his socks, Sherlock crushed it through the trouser leg, speculating that the remnants of sleep and adrenaline might have been deceiving. So why did suspicion keep him stationary?

Talking in the distance unfocused his attention; Sherlock turned to see the first hints of helmet torches through the line of trees. He stood and edged back as a group of voices rose in debate, whispered commands echoing into the distance in opposite directions. The full extent of what he faced became apparent; Moran had drafted a perimeter of men to flush him out.

But… he would have needed perhaps a hundred or more to surround the buildings from this distance. Having the resources to hold a standing boundary overnight seemed too disciplined for Moran, perhaps even a touch too military. Given that the civil defence forces were either directly or obliquely in Mycroft's back pocket...

The silent observer broke cover suddenly from four or five metres away, fleeing into the forest as the others approached. As much as curiosity urged him to follow, the stalker was not a threat and John was now his priority.

Sherlock drew a deep breath. 'Long live the Queen!' He bellowed the pledge twice more for good measure before the first of many converging men plucked him roughly into the open.

'Phone.' The gruff demand echoed back and forth between a few men as the item was produced and finally made its way into Sherlock's palm. Encased in shock-proof rubber, the display was already lit with an active call. He looked at the number twice, and held it to his ear.

'Yes?'

'Still in one piece then?'

'Relatively speaking, and no thanks to Sebastian Moran.'

'So I gathered.'

'They still they have John.' Sherlock glanced between the men surrounding him as they cross referenced position. He walked further from the chatter and crossbeams of light towards the edge of the crowd, seeking solace in the darkness. 'Did you hear me? He's critical, Mycroft. He needs help now.'

'Yes, I heard you –'

'Then get an air ambulance in-flight immediately, he'll need surgery the moment they reach him. Also, get the Air Force to investigate Petersborough air field and detain any private charters scheduled to leave within the week.'

'Sherlock, if you'd just–'

'Moran is going to attempt to leave the country, possibly alone, but there's a headcount of up to twenty in the farm buildings these men of yours are heading towards. You need to block off the two main roads that–'

'We have already.'

'Then stop talking to me and get to John, or Sebastian Moran is going to kill him!' Sherlock shouted in frustration, trying to remain in control even though the situation was out of his hands. Mycroft always had to be so composed, even when there was something this serious at stake. Perhaps a little too calm, even for his brother. 'You're already there?'

'Sherlock, please… take a breath and just listen to me for a moment.'

'You're with John?'

'I'm with his… him. Yes.'

Sherlock stared out into the darkness, wondering if his follower watched him in return. Mycroft would have chosen not to speak rather than correct himself mid-sentence, the mistake was only premeditated to convey a message he hoped to avoid vocalising.

'You're with his body.' Sherlock clarified. At an immediate loss for words, Mycroft said nothing and a throat-dry, heart-pounding silence took over. He set off through the woods once more, the opposite direction this time, slipping the phone inside his coat.

'I'm coming,' he told John, ignoring the contingent of service men and woman that followed in his wake.