Usual disclaimers apply - not mine, no money. Thanks for the lovely reviews, including those from guests who I can't reply to personally.
Chapter 29
Time took on an indistinct quality. Molly stood numb as the emergency personnel swarmed about her, carrying away the dead and tending to the injured. She didn't know why she didn't move away – why she wasn't physically able to move away – unless it was because of Mary, who also refused to leave. She felt an odd responsibility to Mary. Had years passed since Sherlock had told her to look after Mary? It felt like it, and yet his voice on that day sounded very clear in her ear, even now. He had seemed certain that Mary might need her support at some point.
He couldn't have predicted this, though.
She looked over at him. He was standing motionless, staring at the devastated street and apparently unaware of the hive of activity going on all around him. More and more ambulances arrived, their shrieking sirens adding to the cries of distress from the wounded and bereaved people. Sherlock had certainly been right about the scale of devastation likely to be caused by the bomb. Molly saw a member of the bomb disposal squad sitting on the ramp of an ambulance with his head in his hands, and thought briefly of the experts that she had seen walking down that street. She assumed that most of his colleagues had been killed, and fervently prayed that they hadn't known too much about it.
Whoever had planted the bomb beneath John and Mary's flat certainly hadn't expected the residents to survive…which begged the question: how had Sherlock known? Presumably John – or Mary? – had been the intended target… In which case, had Sherlock deliberately been given a clue and enough time to get them clear? Was this some kind of brutal warning?
But now was not the time to get any answers. While a paramedic assessed her arm and the graze on her forehead, she kept her eyes on Mary, who was stubbornly refusing to take Ellie to hospital. The woman was chalk-white, her eyes distant, and yet she seemed frighteningly calm in the circumstances. Molly would have felt easier in her own mind if Mary had broken down in hysterics instead of arguing energetically with a paramedic. It would have seemed more natural.
To be fair, the baby seemed much calmer, so it was most likely that it had just been the loud noise that had distressed her. There was a chance that her eardrums had burst, but Mary had fortuitously covered her head with a blanket just before the explosion, which would have absorbed the worst of the concussion. And, as Mary was strongly pointing out, if she did go to hospital, she'd probably spend hours waiting to be assessed while the more serious cases were wheeled through.
Molly tended to agree. Her paramedic had dabbed some antiseptic on her forehead and wrapped her arm in a loose temporary dressing. He frowned when she refused to go to hospital but seemed mollified when she pointed out that she could always go into work and get a medical colleague from Pathology to put some stitches in the cut. She suspected that he saw little point in arguing, especially as there were plenty of serious cases, to say nothing of the walking-wounded who did want to be admitted to A&E, so the services would be struggling to cope as it was.
After signing an emergency treatment form, she wandered back over to Mary. The diminutive blonde woman was staring towards the smoke-filled ruins that had started to emerge as the dust cleared. Molly watched her carefully, trying to work out whether this unnatural quietness was the prelude to a major breakdown. After her initial tears, Mary had got up, had carefully shaken the glass and other debris off herself and Eleanor, and had gathered together her remaining belongings. Pretty much everything in her home must have been destroyed…but of course that didn't matter compared with…
Molly closed her eyes tightly, but it was no good. Visions swam before her eyes. She could see him, John – tanned and golden and carefree, with his bright blue eyes, back before the Fall, when life was simple, leaning against the laboratory wall, laughing loudly at something Sherlock had just said. She could see him looking at her with that quirky little smile – that "us against him" smile that he so often shared with her. Back before Sherlock's fall sent him grey overnight.
And then, against her will, she remembered that time when he seemed to read her thoughts and that unbearably kind, tender expression in his eyes… The one that she'd later recognised as pity.
She felt hot tears springing into her eyes and repressed them savagely, blinking rapidly as she gritted her teeth. She couldn't break down – not now, not while Mary and little Eleanor needed her to be strong… But it wasn't fair! Of all people, why did it have to be John?
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she put a tentative finger out to stroke little Ellie's soft cheek. "Um…I guess it was very quick. I mean, I don't suppose he would've known what would happen," she ventured, wincing at the way it sounded.
Mary's eyes narrowed as she stared determinedly ahead, not looking at Molly. Her jaw was set. "Don't be stupid. Of course he knew what would happen. He was trying to be a hero. He always had to be the bloody hero." She spat the last sentence out bitterly.
Molly was silent, unsure of what to say. She sensed that the usual well-meaning platitudes would fall on deaf ears; Mary was past all that if she'd ever been in the mood to hear them. No – this went deeper. There was something going on here – something between Mary and John and quite possibly involving Sherlock that she was not privy to. There was something…hard and unyielding about Mary at this moment. Molly was a little scared of her.
Eventually, the woman next to her sighed and shifted a little. "I don't blame Sherlock, if that's what you're thinking. People assume that he always led John into danger…but they were wrong. He craved it – the danger, the adrenaline. He – he lived for it."
Molly, noting the past tense, opened her mouth to point out that they didn't yet know for certain that John had died…and then closed it again. What would be the point? Mary was almost certainly only accepting the inevitable.
She slipped away to Sherlock a little guiltily. However, Mary didn't seem to notice her leaving.
Sherlock spared her a quick glance as she appeared by his side. "You should get that arm treated properly. There may be glass fragments."
She gave a vague shrug; what did it matter? "Mike can look at it later."
He seemed to accept this, refocusing his sharp gaze on the street. He seemed oddly calm for a man who had probably just lost his best friend.
"Mary says that John is dead," she ventured, cautiously.
"I know," he replied, icily calm. "But she's wrong. He's very much alive." His composed exterior was revealed to be a mask when his hand sought her uninjured arm and clasped it around the wrist, gripping so fiercely that she nearly cried out. Her heart was thumping hard in her ears, and she wondered, not for the first time, whether Sherlock really had gone mad at last.
"How can you possibly say that?" she burst out, almost sobbing in her frustration. "For God's sake, Sherlock! The blast -."
"He was nowhere near the bomb when I saw it," Sherlock interrupted, almost fiercely. His hand loosened on her wrist but moved to clasp her hand tightly instead; she wasn't sure whether the firm grasp was intended to steady her nerves or his own. "It was easy to find, so he would have spotted it if he'd gone into the back garden – which he did, because he knew his neighbour was at home. Because she's deafer than she likes to admit, he guessed that she was probably in the back garden feeding her interminable cats and hadn't heard him knocking. He knew the blast was imminent and that it would be big – he's no expert on them, but he knows enough about that type of device. He probably knew he didn't have time to both retrieve his neighbour and get clear of the street, so after he found her, he removed them to the nearest position of safety he knew of." He turned to her, gripping her fingers hard. "He's alive, Molly! I know he is."
His face was white, his eyes red-rimmed, and even though he was looking at her, he didn't seem to be seeing her very clearly. Close to, she could see that he hadn't escaped the explosion entirely Scot-free; there was a gash in his cheek and a more alarming bruise forming high on his forehead, just at the hairline. She automatically reached up with her spare hand to grip his chin, trying to assess the damage, but her hand was trembling so much that she let it fall again. His eyes were as keen as ever, flickering in that manic way she associated with his mind palace. He didn't seem concussed – or at least, temporary madness wasn't usually a sign of concussion as far as she knew…and he must be mad if he really believed his friend had survived. John would never have been able to drag an elderly person far enough away to escape the blast in time. Even Sherlock and Mary had barely made it out before the bomb went off.
As if he sensed her disbelief, he pulled away from her and turned back to the street as he continued talking. "The question is where did he go? Where in the immediate neighbourhood would be able to withstand an explosion of that magnitude? And the answer, I think, lies in the reason why he insisted on renting a flat above a particularly disagreeable woman who openly professes a dislike of infants. Why live there when he could easily afford something better and more child-friendly?"
"Why indeed?" said a familiar voice.
Molly looked around, somehow not even remotely surprised to see Mycroft standing there. He looked as meticulously turned out as ever, but the usual arrogant expression was missing. She sensed a fresh tension in Sherlock's body, but he didn't let go of her hand or give the impatient sigh that Mycroft's sudden appearances usually elicited. And when his brother moved up to stand next to him, the two of them focused their attention on the remains of John and Mary's flat rather than upon one another. They looked strangely alike, with matching expressions of serious preoccupation.
"There's an unused bomb shelter located behind those houses," Mycroft said quietly. His younger brother nodded in agreement. "Do you suppose John knew of its existence?"
"I think it highly likely," Sherlock murmured. He turned his head toward Mycroft, running his eyes over his brother's immaculate suit before giving him a brief grin. "Care to go and investigate?"
He turned to Molly, his eyes focusing properly on her face for the first time since the bomb had gone off. She didn't know what he saw in her expression, but his face softened and he leaned down, kissing the right side of her forehead very carefully – she didn't know why that spot until she remembered that a bandage swathed the left side. His lips moved quickly to her cheek and then he murmured "Bring Mary" in her ear before letting go of her hand and striding through the gap between two overturned police cars.
Mycroft gave a delicate sniff and looked at the dusty rubble without enthusiasm, but followed his brother without complaint. She noticed that two men dressed in khaki and passing as ordinary soldiers quickly followed their employer.
Molly stared after them for a moment…and then swore loudly and marched over to Mary and Eleanor.
"Come with me." She grabbed the other woman's elbow, pulling her firmly towards the street.
Mary hesitated, her already white face turning paler. "I don't want to – to see…"
"No – come on! Sherlock's onto something. John might be – look, just come on."
She pulled Mary towards the smoking rubble, and then hesitated, glancing at the baby.
"I can't take Ellie in there," Mary pointed out, looking at the clouds of dust.
After a moment's thought, Molly looked around at the paramedic who had been assessing Mary and the baby a few minutes before. She was now busy with another patient, so Molly looked beyond the line of ambulances. She noted a dust-covered and agitated-looking Sally Donovan and considered her for a moment before shaking her head. She looked even further…and spotted the front of a black car protruding from the next street along.
"Aha," she murmured, a wicked smile playing on her lips. "I think I have the answer."
Sure enough, Mycroft's erstwhile assistant Anthea was sitting in the back of the car, busy with her smartphone as usual. She looked up at the two women enquiringly. Molly fancied the woman's calm expression faltered just a fraction at their dusty, bloodied appearance.
Molly gave her a brilliant smile. "Mr Holmes asked us to accompany him into the bomb site and as we can't possibly take the baby in there, I'm sure he won't mind if we leave her with you," she said, sweetly. After all, Anthea didn't need to know which 'Mr Holmes' had made the request. "Mary, this is Mycroft's personal assistant Anthea, so Ellie couldn't be in safer hands. Anthea, this is Mary Watson - and this is Eleanor, who won't give you any trouble, I'm sure."
She stood back and watched as Mary passed Ellie and her changing bag over to the stunned woman, issuing some quick instructions with regard to changing equipment and infant formula. Anthea dropped her phone on the floor of the car as she accepted her new charge in a flustered manner. Molly was fairly sure the woman hadn't come into contact with all that many babies in the past. Looking up, she caught the amused eye of the driver in the car window and had to hide her grin.
"You do trust her, I take it," Mary asked, dubiously, as they hurried back down the road.
"Oh, absolutely. Ellie couldn't be in a more secure location. Besides which," she added, reflectively, "I'm sure the driver will help out if she's clueless. He had the look of a dad about him – forty-something and wearing a wedding ring."
For some reason, the police officers guarding the bomb site hadn't attempted to stop the Holmes' brothers entering the street. However, they certainly weren't prepared to ignore the two women hurrying up to them. Molly surprised herself by firmly brushing them aside and dragging a reluctant Mary through the cordon. When one of the officers looked as if he might intervene, she mentioned Mycroft and noted with satisfaction that a simple name really could make a grown man quail and step back.
"What is all this about?" Mary asked. "What does Sherlock want us there for? I'm not sure I want to see where -," she swallowed, clearly trying to maintain her calm. It occurred to Molly suddenly that Mary might be suffering from delayed shock, which might explain her icy calm in the face of possible bereavement.
"Look, I don't know if I should tell you this, but…Sherlock thinks John is still alive. And, what's more, Mycroft agrees with him," she said cautiously, as they picked their way through the smoke and dust and rubble. Many of the houses were only half collapsed and the mortar rumbled alarmingly as they prudently took a route along the very centre of the street.
Mary stopped dead, an expression of shock warring with fragile hope on her face. "He…he's just hoping for the best…" she ventured, but as she moved forward again, her pace picked up speed.
"He mentioned an old bomb shelter – he thought John must have known about it… How are we going to get through this?"
Halfway up the street, the piles of rubble that they were stumbling over were replaced by larger columns of brick and cement. The entirety of John and Mary's building and a few houses on either side had collapsed, the walls and shattered pieces of furniture lying haphazardly in large heaps across the street.
"Here – come on, quick." Mary stepped up onto the first pile of bricks with surprising agility and grabbed Molly's hand to pull her up. Molly looked down at the debris nervously; it was by no means certain it wouldn't collapse further under their weight. However, since Sherlock and Mycroft must have passed this way…
She followed Mary, marvelling at the other woman's light-footedness. Mary seemed to know exactly where it would safe to step. She paused from time to time, feeling her way with her feet before putting her full weight down. Molly, conscious of being bigger and heavier than Mary, tried to follow in her footsteps as much as possible.
Mary helped her over a couple of tricky sections but eventually her impatience seemed to get the better of her, and she hurried on ahead, leaving Molly to pick her cautious way alone. By the time she had scrambled over the pile of bricks that marked the former entrance into John and Mary's back garden, Mary was standing with Sherlock and Mycroft, the three of them looking at a point beyond where the back fence had lain.
There were a number of khaki-clad men investigating the site of the explosion, and one of them came over and helped Molly clamber down into the back garden. He didn't seem surprised to see her, and she realised that he and his colleagues were probably Mycroft's men.
The garden was a sorry mess of piled-up soil and rubble with a massive hole near where the back door had been. No wall stood here, but there was a teetering wall still standing at the house next door, and the operative gave it a wary look and advised her to keep her distance from that side as he helped her cross the site to the others.
There was a section of rough ground running behind the fence at the back of John and Mary's garden, at least the width of a football pitch. The houses had been solidly late Victorian with very large gardens, but at some point a developer must have purchased at least the back half of each garden, presumably with an intention to develop in the street behind. However, since that street possessed an old-fashioned primary school and a long-closed Victorian-era red-brick Methodist chapel which happened to be listed, the development had never happened, which was perhaps just as well. The rough ground was strewn with rubble and glass, but the solid brick buildings beyond seemed unaffected, and luckily there wouldn't have been anyone at the school on a Sunday.
As she joined the other three, Sherlock was looking intently at a piece of land that looked basically the same as any other to Molly. Mary kept glancing anxiously between his face and the land, while Mycroft beckoned a few of his men over with an imperious manner. They began to clear the rubble and splintered bits of fence to one side, clearing a way through.
"Wait!" Sherlock ordered, holding up his hand. He stepped through the gap, treading carefully, the shattered shards of window glass crunching under his shoes. They all watched as he walked back and forth across a small area, peering at the ground. Eventually, he turned to Mycroft.
"Do you have the plans?"
"Not to hand, unfortunately," Mycroft replied softly, his narrowed eyes focused on the land under Sherlock's feet. "I looked at them, of course, when I heard that John had moved in. If I had known they would be significant…but I was already on route when the device exploded. I would say you are on the right track, however."
Sherlock nodded tensely and continued to stare at the ground under his feet as he moved forward again very slowly. Molly noticed that he was focusing his efforts on a very small patch of land.
"Look – what is this?" Mary broke in. "Where's John? Molly said something about a bomb shelter…"
"Yes." Mycroft didn't look at her, still focusing on his brother's careful movements. "It was of interest to me to learn that John had moved into this house, because it belonged to a predecessor of mine before it was turned into flats. He moved here in the 1950s, before that portion of land was sold off, naturally. In his back garden, he built a shelter capable of withstanding a nuclear bomb – at that time, of course, although it wouldn't be sufficient shelter against a modern missile. It was maintained for many years as a private shelter, but fell into disrepair in the 1980s. It was never on the property's official plans, and after the owner died, the new owners were unaware of its existence."
"But John knew about it?" Molly managed to gasp out, her heart beating faster.
Mycroft paused. "I believe John has always had a casual interest in Cold War history, and in the topic of civilian preparedness during the Cold War in particular. However, I have no idea how he would have seen the plans of a private shelter when, as far as I know, my office is the only one who holds the blueprint…"
He let the comment die away meaningfully. Sherlock merely grunted as he continued to pace slowly. His face was strained, and Molly was pretty sure she knew why. The shelter, if it was still accessible, had fallen into disrepair…which meant that there was probably limited ventilation. And the ground was covered in rubble…
"Oh God, John – where are you?" Mary said, desperately, and Molly put a shaking hand on her shoulder in mute comfort.
Even as she did so, she saw Sherlock falter slightly and step back again. He stepped forward and back a couple of times, kicking away the bricks as he did so. Mycroft tensed and leaned forward slightly, his hands gripping his umbrella, as his brother crouched and pushed brushed the soil away with a leather gloved hand. He began to bang at the ground, listening intently.
"Here! It's hollow!" He beckoned to Mycroft's men and they immediately stepped forward and began to clear the patch of ground with shovels.
Mary made as if to step forward but, much to Molly's astonishment, it was Mycroft who stopped her with a firm hand on her arm. "Wait here Mary, please," he said, in an amazingly gentle voice for Mycroft. "They need to step carefully in case the shelter collapses."
Mary complied, but Molly could feel her trembling with suppressed emotion. She squeezed her shoulder comfortingly as she watched Sherlock. He was directing the team with manic energy once more.
"Will he be…?" Mary asked, falteringly.
"I believe he will." Mycroft's voice was as calm and emotionless as ever, but Molly, seeing the tension leaving Sherlock's expression, believed him.
It could only have taken a few minutes, but it felt like hours before Sherlock bent down to clear the edges of a sunken trapdoor. One of the men hooked the handle of his shovel through the hook and pulled the trapdoor back.
Sherlock crouched down and leaned into the hole. "John! John, are you alright?"
"John!" Mary pulled away from Mycroft's restraining hand and ran forward to join Sherlock. Molly followed her, kneeling in the dirt to peer over the edge. She could see a dark sandbagged hole roughly ten foot deep, with an iron ladder running down into it.
"Mary! Are you alright? Sherlock? I'm here. Just a minute." The voice echoed faintly.
Molly gasped at the voice she hadn't expected to hear ever again and clutched at Mary's arm. It was just as well, as the other woman swayed slightly, as if she might either collapse or jump down into the hole. "John! John! Where are you?"
"Here." John's face appeared at the bottom of the hole, and Molly realised that he must be standing in a passage leading to the underground room that Mycroft's predecessor had built to withstand attack. "I've got Mrs Haynes back here – she's a little stressed but OK." His expression changed as he looked up at them. "Ellie…?"
"Is fine," Molly supplied quickly.
"Good." John looked at Mycroft. "Could you send a couple of your blokes down here to give me a hand with Mrs H.? Only, she's a bit on the heavy side and getting her down here was tough enough. Not sure my back's up to the return journey…"
"I heard that…!" countered an elderly but strident female voice.
"Not all that deaf, then," Sherlock murmured, and grinned madly at Molly.
She suddenly sagged, her clenched fists sinking into the dirt, as she laughed, tears of sheer relief running down her cheeks.
