Things We Lost In The Flames
Chapter 37:Do You Understand That We Will Never Be The Same Again….'
Sherlock Holmes raised his head slowly, his sharp hearing alerted before the others. Looked up and listened.
"Come on. Eyes open."
Magnussen was still cajoling John Watson into playing his little game of life and death. He took half a step back, and laughed openly. Looked across at Sherlock Holmes as if finally ready to include him in the silly game being played.
"It's difficult, isn't it?" he laughed openly this time, genuinely amused, both at his memories of past torment enjoyed and the current discomfort he was creating.
"Janine managed it once. She makes the funniest noises….."
He had included Sherlock Holmes in that jibe in a especial taunt; disparaging the former girlfriend to the former boyfriend, demonstrating knowledge of that link, boasting an additional power of leverage. But mainly knowledge. Always manipulating knowledge into pressure points.
You are a games player, Charles. But playing Janine….well, I was playing the girl as much as you. Just in different ways. Makes us both shits. Except you play to play and to subjugate. I play to learn and to win.
And yet you think I am weak to have cared for Janine. That your taunts about her will upset me, break me? Oh, Charles. You still have no idea who I am or what I will do.
Sexual intimacy with Janine. Sexual intimacy with you. Whatever it takes to win, whatever it takes - I will do. Just wait. Just see.
The heavy thrum of a helicopter carving it's way through air at speed was suddenly loud overhead. The scene was transfixed by a powerful spotlight. The light ripping apart the peaceful rural darkness to also reveal a UK Special Forces basic six man unit making their powerfully efficient way from around the other side of the house and the entrance drive. So those electric gates had been no barrier in the final analysis.
Dark standard utility uniforms, military helmets, ballistic vests, MP53A sub machine gun L91A1 variants as always used in hostage situations, raised and ready to fire.
Both former army captain John Watson, and walking encyclopaedia Sherlock Holmes recognised the weaponry and the calibre of the firepower as well as the strategic brains behind the military intervention immediately. The good guys galloping to the rescue.
But good for who? And who were they there to rescue? Who to take down?
About time! What kept you, Mycroft? No grab squad readied on black alert, then? You mean you called in the troops from a standing start? Ooh, I see. I really did think better of you. Unless you actually did drink that punch?
Mycroft's voice boomed above them.
"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson! Step away from that man! Do it now!"
Mycroft as Deus es machina? Even in the midst of horror, Sherlock almost laughed at the very concept.
Idiot! Imbecile! You think I - we - will obey you, just because you speak, arch enemy of mine? Do you not think we know you too well? That blind obedience is not good for you? Or good for us for that matter? Tut tut, brother!
There was the squawking of walkie talkies, voices declaring observations.
"Unarmed!"
"Confirmed. All targets appear unarmed!"
"Obbo confirms unarmed…."
Mycroft's words of command, spoken through an electronic loudhailer system from the helicopter, could have awoken half of the Cotswolds.
Shut up, Mycroft! The situation is down here. Not up in the sky. Not pie in the sky, not even in the sky with diamonds on the top. Just the problem John and I have down here. How to stop Magnussen. Stop him for good.
Neither John Watson nor Sherlock Holmes responded or moved, despite the instruction.
Go on, Mycroft, have another try. Makes you sound ever so powerful. But I'm not taking any notice, and it doesn't seem as if John is either. But I think Charles is impressed.
Too brave and bloody minded to care. Too used to defying Mycroft to do anything other. Instinctively reluctant to do as they were told. For they had their own agenda, their own end result in mind.
Which was neither military nor firepower, and nothing to do with bullying others into submission. But was all about secrets to be sought, retrieved and destroyed. Not this explosion of consequences. Anything but this.
Both men remained confident in their own minds that no-one would shoot them at this point. This was belt and braces military bluster. The theatrics of force. Typical Mycroft overkill, and a display of power and purpose mainly for Magnussen's benefit.
Charles Augustus Magnussen, cool and amused, crossed the terrace, totally relaxed and in control, moving away from his humiliation of John Watson - which had been mere amusement for a few idle moments while awaiting the arrival of the main attraction - and leant against the wall at the edge of the raised paving. To see better. To enjoy the entertainment of British security forces rushing to do nothing more than make fools of themselves and be sent away again.
Oh, Charles is amused now. He thinks he is in total control of the situation. How interesting. He takes on the British government, and UK Special Forces. And he still thinks he is running the show. Not even taking John and me into consideration now.
Pure egomania. One hundred percent foolhardy. Madness. A level of ego that would even impress other egomaniacs. No hope of change there. No future in it. Your problem, Charles. But mine to solve.
Forces summoned by Mycroft to demonstrate strength. Yet to be sent away by Magnussen. Forces taking away Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, under arrest for attempted treason. And for stealing, and attempting to sell, Mycroft Holmes' top secret laptop computer and it's highly sensitive contents. Oh, the irony!
The Christmas gift may have been planned for, created and bartered as an exchange - secrets of one sort in exchange for secrets of another. But the country's secrets were never on the table, never for sale - despite that planned and shocking CAM News exclusive with front page expose of the treachery of Sherlock Holmes.
The deal that had been agreed was to exchange secrets of government in exchange for the secrets of one individual. Magnussen had laughed at the very idea that one insignificant individual - and a woman at that - should have been considered worth the sacrifice. Any sacrifice at all.
But Sherlock Holmes has displayed untypical sentiment and emotional weakness to pledge that deal. Had appeared pathetically willing to make that sacrifice, and Magnussen, knowing he was on the winning side, has eagerly taken what he thought Sherlock saw as bait, but Magnussen knew was reward, and greedily foresaw all the advantages he could gain from that.
By losing all his personal and governmental secrets to Magnussen, Mycroft Holmes would be under his control now and forever, blackmailed and manipulated to save his reputation, his career and his power base.
Blackmailed to reveal secrets of the men and the machinery upon which the governance of the entire country revolved. A delicious expansion of influence, power and respect for a Danish businessman so often reviled by British society.
And all because the younger brother hated his elder and better. Sibling rivalry was often such a delicious and wonderful tool!
And then of course this control gave the tantalising addition of a true and very different personal power over the younger brother also - Sherlock Holmes. A power that foolish boy did not realise he was handing to Magnussen in his desire to score over his brother.
But this man was an exotic creature of such beauty and sensitivity, whose drive to defeat his brother and protect his friend's wife meant he had presented Magnussen with a gift that would see his own intelligence thwarted and mastered forever.
A fascinating young man of unknown and unspoken skills still to be discovered. And to have all to himself. Held in his hands in more ways than one until he was used up, spent, and finally rejected as obsolete when the novelty of possessing the beautiful boy waned. If it ever did.
Magnussen had his own private mileage to make of that victory, and by calling in Sherlock Holmes' deal, he had thereby called his bluff.
Victory was his, and he knew it. Revelled in it.
I can see you thinking, Charles, and what you are thinking. Enjoy those daydreams. Enjoy what you think is your triumph. Enjoy it while you can - your Christmas treat. It won't last. Not for one minute.
Magnussen experienced a moment of pure joy, stood and waved his arms expansively up towards the helicopter in the sky, across to the troops on the ground, grinning broadly.
"Sherlock! What the hell are you doing?" Mycroft's disembodied voice tried again to exert authority, sound commanding, but was now also on the edge of panic as neither his brother nor his friend took any notice of him, or the troops approaching them.
What am I doing, brother mine? I am gathering my strength and my resolve and my purpose. And I will win. Watch. Me. Win.
Or look away because you daren't watch. Driving a desk has made you soft, Mycroft. Soft when it comes to facing the realities of your decision making. When it all comes down to facing muck and bullets, spilling blood and bone.
Magnussen revelled in the very sight of what was happening. The drama, the melodrama, the sheer effort of it all - from the thrill of the helicopter and the noise, the soldiers and the bright spotlight. Revelled in the sight of a defeated Sherlock Holmes looking across at him, looking lost, and defeated, and with his reputation in tatters.
So Magnussen confidently turned his back to the light and the energy and the noise. Turned towards Sherlock with an amused and totally genuine smile.
Sherlock saw it all. Read his thoughts. Read his ambition and his greed and his ego as easily as if he was reading a book.
"Here we go, Mr Holmes!"
Go where, Charles? To hell? Yes. I will come with you, and shake hands with you there. We will travel together.
Jack Smallwood will be there. Ready to meet you and push you through. I can't get that image of him sitting dead on his bathroom floor out of my head. Dead because of you.
Nick Haig will be there too. Waiting to make sure you enter. He's been waiting there for you for a long time. The good and true professional who first heeded dark whispers about you. Who gathered his evidence, did his job like a true professional. And you killed him for it. Without hard proof, but because of whispers. Just whispers from a part of the press that was not yours. Was that what piqued you the most? That the only man who knew about you was not one of yours?
And because you wanted his grieving widow under your thumb so you could use her to get to me? More misery because of you, Charles.
All your actions have spread ripples of anger and grief and terror. In the hearts of people who are intrinsically good, but who have made a silly mistake at some point in their lives. Like people do: that's the human situation.
But you made silly mistakes too, Charles. Just that no-one ruined your life and your career because of it. Ruining people because you know and because you can is no reason to, Charles. No reason at all. Making people suffer too much for the crime of being simply human and making human mistakes is simply inhuman. You are inhuman.
Inhuman because you feed and encourage other predators like Dean and Mark and Marie Dixon Carr. Lesser sharks like Eric Carlsson. Other allies, like you, too eager to prey on the weak and the innocent and the good.
On Fredrik Sondersun, shot in my house. Of your brothers, carrying the burden of your name. Of Ellie, a humane, life enhancing soul burdened by one youthful indiscretion. Piet Bruhl, alienating his elders. Ari carrying the weight of them all. Because of you.
Mycroft Holmes targeted as your greatest prize. Yes, I do know that. Targeted so that I had to hurt him to save him - and may have to hurt him again before this is over. My parents, innocents I had to drug to keep out of this and save, who will never trust me again because of this. Janine and Maggie and all the others you involved and beat into the ground on your way to the top.
John Watson, too. An innocent bystander who made the mistake of calling himself my friend and of falling in love. Who you have just humiliated horribly. Who should have remained innocent and happy, not dragged into his wife's lying but so understandable deceits. Lies lived to achieve nothing more than a husband, a baby - just ambition for a humdrum, and such an ordinary life.
And you trampled on all these people, Charles. You keep trampling. Because it is your nature. You are a predator. A hunter without pity or compassion. The scorpion from the fable. Killing his rescuer because it was the scorpion's nature, even though it also killed the scorpion, it's own nature it's very downfall. Magnussen's nature.
I must stop you. Elizabeth Smallwood said no-one could stop you and no-one dared try. Except me, But you trampled on me, too, Charles.
Hurt and shamed and abased me. Tore down my reputation, damaged my friends, invaded me, body and soul. Took my body apart. Enjoyed violating me just because you could. And because you know I cannot bear to be touched.
But that does not influence what I am going to do. Not at all. However. What you have done to me demonstrates you will stop at nothing. That you have no compassion or humanity or emotion within you. You are not human.
And I know the bloody difference, Charles! Me of all people. Because I am always being accused of having no compassion or humanity or emotion.
I look at you, and I see and I feel every difference between us. And I know - if no-one else does - that I am not like that! But you are!
Sherlock looked back at Magnussen, controlled that surge of anger, so all that showed on the surface was a gentle frown of thought. Nor the despair and horror Magnussen had been anticipating. Nor the rising fire powering his heart and brain.
"To clarify…" Sherlock shouted above the sound of the helicopter, the beat of the rotor blades and the whirlwind they were causing, whipping the trees, swirling late autumn leaves, pushing their hair back from their faces in a naked minimalist rictus of stretched skin over bone. No softness or disguise now. No pretence.
"The Appledore Vaults only exist in your mind? Nowhere else?"
Magnussen had more important things to consider now. Not the files of one ineffectual woman who had not dared to kill him when she had the chance.
Victory. Control. Acclaim. Expansion of influence and interest. Power. More power. Sherlock Holmes watched all those emotions and responses work their way across the thin pale face before him.
"They're not real," Magnussen shouted back, eyes and mind elsewhere, dismissive. Watching the helicopter, revelling in his joy at the anguish he could see now on Mycroft Holmes' normally impassive face. "They never have been."
The guileless truth of an insignificant answer when facing the pinnacle of power…..Sherlock Holmes heard that truth, heard the words. And recognised it.
"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson! Step away!"
Mycroft's voice again. Stronger now. Even more resolute.
No vaults. All this effort and pain and striving. And yet there are no vaults. No evidence to seek out and destroy.
So how to make everyone safe, now? How to save Mary from being exposed as an assassin? To save John from being destroyed by seeing his wife destroyed? To save the baby from being born in prison? Of losing a mother to prison from birth? Ripped away from it's mother? Even losing both parents?
How to honour the memory of Jack Smallwood? And make things bearable for Elizabeth? To not let Magnussen destroy her life as he had destroyed her husband's? How to honour Nick Haig? Honour the work he had done to ultimately bring Magnussen down and make sure his death had not been in vain?
How to make things better for Fredrick Sonderson - shot? Ellie Sonderson - stressed and regretful? Ari Sonderson - carrying the prospect of shame and careers ended for his entire family and himself? Including even his mother-in-law, who thought she was safe, and bombproof? And therefore clearly was not?
How to give Piet Bruhl peace to be himself? And how to stop the security organisations they were all involved with not to be damaged and weakened by the upheaval Magnussen was plotting?
How to lift the load from Magnussen's brothers? End the threat of destruction of Mycroft Holmes? And by that, the entire structure and security of the British government?
How to stop the breaking of the wheel on which the entire Western world turned? Elizabeth Smallwood had said that - lifetimes ago - and he had not believed her then. He did now. For now he knew the influence and fear Magnussen brought to bear on others - through the force of his personality, the efforts of his staff, through the millions influenced by his world wide web of newspapers, radio and television stations and a complete hand across all media outlets.
All pervading malicious influence from a man who wanted to run the western world by stealth. An egomaniac. Inches from madness. A man without care or compassion for others. Driven by the demand for power and influence. A man already with the ear of the British Prime Minister. From that power base, who and what could he not destroy?
Lady Smallwood had said no-one could stop Magnussen, and no-one would dare. She had come to him and he had tried his best. Got dragged down and damaged in the process.
Yet there was still only him - Sherlock Holmes - to stand against Magnussen and defeat him. Urged on by an unbanked cheque, a memory stick file, a tracking device torn from under his skin and a roaring fire of anger inside him that had grown higher and brighter as time went on.
Janine flicked and sacked: the Dixon Carrs encouraged in their villainy and their cruelty; Fredrick shot; the Smallwoods destroyed.
"He preys on people who are different."
He had told Mycroft that. Earlier that day. It already seemed lifetimes - not hours - ago. But what made Magnussen's victims different? Intelligence? Authority? Common decency? Basic humanity?
Were these basic truths the things he had to defend, then? The simplest tenets of life? And was all that weight on his shoulders alone?
He raised his head and took control of the shaking that had momentarily possessed him. He stepped forward, back under control. Resolute now.
Had discussed this with Piet Bruhl, aeons ago. Always had considered the possibility as the solution.
Can you kill a man who is not human? How can you nullify a man with a perfect memory who forgets nothing? How can a man unlearn what he knows, even if he should want to forget? When the brain is not a fallible thing of grey matter and memory, but a thing of photographs and perfect focus, that forgets nothing?
Like my brain. Carrying that burden of too much knowledge, too much information, an inability to forget. A gift or a curse? Or both at once?
Magnussen laughed up at the helicopter. Windmilled his hands.
"It's fine!" he called into the air, his voice unusually light and amused, positively bubbling with victory. "They're harmless!"
John Watson and Sherlock Holmes - harmless? They looked briefly at each other, shoulder to shoulder now in the fray.
Sherlock Holmes sucked down a deep breath. Harmless? Could he afford to be harmless? Would harmless achieve anything now? Now, when every thought and sound and movement counted for so much?
Watson was transfixed by it, all his attention on Magnussen, the slow train crash of what was unfolding now before his eyes… knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it or change it.
"What do we do, Sherlock?" he asked. A controlled desperation to his voice, yet ever the tough soldier with his back to the wall. "What do we do?"
Sherlock Holmes was looking at him. An expression on his face his best friend could not even begin to read. Did not speak, nor even shake his head.
That kind, honest, earnest face, John Watson. Pained and perplexed. Risking his life.
His wife's life. Both their futures. The future of their unborn child. Just because Charles Augustus Magnussen is a psychopath and a bully.
What must I do for you, John Watson? And for you, Mary Watson, to free you of this tyranny, this burden? Because it all comes down to me.
I made a vow. And I will keep it. I was contracted by Elizabeth Smallwood to stop Magnussen, and I will stop him. Paid off or not. Jack alive or not. I keep my word, as always.
"Nothing."
Charles Augustus Magnussen heard John Watson's words and was thrilled to hear them. Words of defeat - and from a military man, too! He grinned.
"There is nothing to be done," he assured them. "I am not a villain. I am a businessman, acquiring assets. And you happen to be one of them, that's all."
He looked hard at John Watson, saw his fears and indecision. Defeated. Compliant. Hardly worth the contest. A mere player.
So he moved his eyes to the right, looked at Sherlock Holmes instead. The face was pale, those boyish curls whipping around his face at the helicopter rotor blades tore through the air at Appledore.
But that unreadable face did not appear defeated. Deep in thought, watchful, serious. Concentrating on something that was far away from the tumult going on around him. Ignoring the disorientating noise and the firepower pointing at him, the voice of his brother. The scorn of the businessman.
I owe you my life, John Watson. You killed for me before you even knew me. You saved me from….much. I can only return the favour. No decision to be made. No decision at all.
"Sorry!" Magnussen called out, enjoying what he saw - that beautiful face empty in defeat, and his voice was now irresistibly full of mocking sympathy. "No chance for you to be a hero this time, Mr Holmes!"
Emptying a filing cabinet, that's all it is. Throwing stuff on a bonfire to be consumed by flames. Flinging a memory stick onto the back of a fire to crackle and melt and burn. Folders of secrets to be shredded - destroyed to never be seen again. As if they never existed. Never used for blackmail.
Things we will lose in the flames. Villainy under a bonfire and burning the way John Watson had been.
Secrets and lies. Truths and levers. Evidence and incriminations. Destroy the filing cabinet, destroy the file. Destroy the contents of the file. All the same thing.
I must do something. Do it. Do the thing. Cannot let Magnussen get to Mycroft when the helicopter lands; he will take advantage, use CCTV photographs to prove a connection that supports his blackmail. He will publish those treason accusations against John and I. And if John is investigated Mary's secret and highly murderous past will be revealed, and she will be imprisoned.
Torn from her husband. Their baby bearing the stigma of being born in prison. Growing up without one parent - or both. More lives ruined because of my failure if I don't….
Magnussen's control of Mycroft will stretch to include Elizabeth. To Ari and Piet and Fredrick. And the whole bloody mess will start again. Just like he tried to start his blackmail against Jack Smallwood again.
Because Magnussen never lets well alone. And his possibilities are destructive and crippling.
I am out of alternatives. I must do this. No-one else to do this. To master so much misery. This is not theory. This is doing. Objective judgement. Not revenge. Not personal. The greater good. Dear lord. I always knew it would come to this, didn't I?
No foe shall stay his might, though he with giants fight…
For Magnussen, laughter was on the brink of breaking through. But if he started laughing about this huge win he had achieved he might never stop…..so he smiled his victory at Sherlock Holmes instead.
"Oh! Do your research!"
The sudden strong baritone was hard, scathing, resolute.
Who will miss me anyway? Who will care? What is oblivion anyway, but cessation of pain? Who else is perfectly placed to do this? Who else has the resolve, the understanding, the detachment? John Watson? Mycroft? These SAS boys? No. Just me.
My responsibility. My desserts. May my wrongs create no trouble. No trouble. Remember me, but forget my fate…
My need for oblivion.
Anger dead. Pain gone. Rest, finally.
Fortunate to be surrounded by top marksmen who will react on instinct. Clean, quick, professional. I've done the painful lingering in a hospital bed option. Don't recommend. Never doing that again. So - yes. This. Best and only way. Minimal collateral damage. Tidy and efficient for everyone. Even me. Yes. This.
John Watson had his eyes fixed on Magnussen, but Magnussen had his eyes on Sherlock Holmes. Who took two quick firm steps to the side and behind his friend. For protection? Comfort? Alliance?
He stepped close into John for a moment, reached around him. Dipped a hand to take something from John Watson's pocket. John Watson was too absorbed to notice that dip and lift from such a skilled pickpocket as Sherlock Holmes, and Charles Augustus Magnussen was blindsided by position and darkness, and did not even realise anything of importance had just happened.
Sherlock Holmes stepped forward again, drew a breath and planted himself as he had been taught, and was now second nature. Feet at shoulder width, legs braced, drawing himself erect.
Destroy the filing cabinet. Destroy it's contents. Only one way to do that. Burn it. Burn it down. Melt the contents and turn them to ash. Never to be seen again. Never to be used to destroy and damage.
I will burn the heart out of you…
"I'm not a hero," he denied. Yet there was the strength and power of a hero in his voice, in his stance. Not guilt of admission, and certainly not defeat. A voice raised to sound clear against the beat of the helicopter, words perfectly enunciated so they would be understood. "I'm a high functioning sociopath."
Sorry, John, I must do this. The only thing. The only way. Brace yourself. Then walk free. You and Mary.
John Watson was beginning to turn his head, alerted by the incongruous words Moved just in time to see Sherlock Holmes make a clean, super fast, almost casual lift of his right hand with something dark and lethal in it as he put the barrel of John Watson's pilfered handgun to Charles Augustus Magnussen's forehead.
"Merry Christmas!"
The shout was determined, bitter - yet totally resolute. Magnussen was still relaxed, hands in pockets, smiling with a lazy arrogance.
The Sig Sauer barked a single shot and Magnusson - still smiling his way to eternity - was flung backwards like a rag doll, limbs anyhow, flung down onto the terrace, and dropped like a stone.
Oh, Jesus. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…..
Things we lost in the flames.
Even before the Danish businessman hit the ground, Sherlock Holmes had already flung the gun away from himself, and turned to face forwards, hands raised in the air in submission, face impassive. Braced for impact and end.
Walkie talkie sounds, adrenalin fuelled shouts, guns brought to bear. Hesitation on taking reactive action without command.
"Man down!"
"Copy! Man down!"
Words, maxims, rules from his childhood training ran through his mind: George Bradshaw would be proud of his pupil when he found out what he had done.
'Speed is fine, but accuracy is final.' So shoot at point blank range. Done that.
'A good shot has legitimate personal confidence in his own ability. And his decision making." Yes, done that, too.
'It's not always being fast or accurate that counts. It's being willing. Most men aren't willing. They blink an eye or take a breath before they pull the trigger. I won't.' He could remember George Bradshaw telling him that, so many years ago, He had never forgotten. Had never been more willing. So done that, yes.
'Good shooting comes down to three things. Bullet placement, bullet placement and bullet placement.' Yes; placed the single bullet perfectly. Done that.
'Guns are dangerous, Sherlock. You must always be careful around them.'
Never more so, George. That, and knowing what to expect next from other guns in the plural.
A blaze of laser gunsights instantly pinpointed themselves onto his head and centre mass and he looked emotionlessly down at them, registering them somewhere in his brain as the last thing he would ever see.
The roar of the helicopter's engines began to quieten as the helicopter landed .
Anticlimax. Not expected that. How odd.
John Watson raised his hands, shocked, appalled and terrified.
Done it. Now me. Finish it!
"Get back from me, John. Stay right back."
The same resolute voice. The same detached and determined expression.
The SF team swarmed closer.
Expecting to be shot in an immediate, reactive response, braced for it, Sherlock Holmes stood alone within a shaft of blinding light and awaited his execution. Calm and accepting of his fate. Welcoming it.
Get on with it, chaps. He who hesitates is lost!
"Sherlock!" was all John Watson could breathe. He felt as if he had been kicked in the head by a horse. He was certain he would faint. He had seen death before, and often. But on battlefields. He had killed, himself, in the heat of battle. And to save Sherlock Holmes. But this was - something else. A killing in cold blood.
Mycroft's voice through the loudspeaker held anger, the snap of command, an edge of panic.
"Stay fast! Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes! Do not fire!"
"Oh, Christ, Sherlock!" As if the thought had never crossed John Watson's mind until this instant, the thought that Sherlock might be shot dead in reaction, that he might have even been offering himself for that fate. And what that meant.
It was all he could say. He could feel pain between his eyes, his mouth dropped open. He could not feel his feet.
Sherlock Holmes turned towards him a little, just enough to see his friend's face. The light from the helicopter searchlight made him look as if there as a halo behind him. The billowing coat, the swirling scarf, the tall and erect stance, all made him look aloof and Byronic. Mad, bad and dangerous to know. Well, don't we all know that, John Watson reflected? Ain't that the truth?
"GIve my love to Mary," Sherlock Holmes called above the hubbub. "Tell her she's safe now."
John Watson heard the words, reacted with a mixture of anger, relief and pain. Decided in one flash of insight that nothing was worth this cold blooded sacrifice from Sherlock Holmes. Not even Mary….
He remembered his midnight visitor, his strange talk of sacrifice. A black mood, he had said. Just a game. And happy Christmas. John Watson could have kicked himself.
He should have realised. Why did he not realise Sherlock Holmes' intent? When he had told him as much.
"I need to know Mary is worth the sacrifice." That was what he had said. And John Watson had not understood. He understood now.
"Oh, Sherlock. What have you done?"
Whispered words of regret came to them softly through the loudspeaker system of the helicopter before Mycroft Holmes realised he had not switched off the microphone; realised he had revealed he had a heart.
Done what I had to do, Mycroft. What no-on else would do or dare do. So I had to. Save so many people. Me? So what the hell about me? Been in hell. Why return but for this?
John Watson heard the words and felt his soul shrink within him. But Sherlock Holmes reacted not at all.
Until he blinked. There was a glitter on his eyelashes, on his lids. An impassive face, yet with tears in his eyes. Suddenly, ignoring the laser light on him and the raised sub machine guns trained on him, he lifted his head defiantly to look at his brother as the British Government stepped from the helicopter and began to walk towards him.
Sherlock Holmes bowed his head then, and John Watson now saw an expression of horror that was hidden from everyone else. Horror at facing his brother? At the realisation he had killed Magnussen? The anti climax of not having been shot in automatic military reaction? Yes, that was it. The horror of anticlimax, of realising no-one was going to shoot him, that somehow the moment had passed. Because if they were going to shoot, they would surely have done so by now?
Without changing his position, hands still to his head in submission, Sherlock Holmes fell slowly to his knees in a controlled collapse that might have been a silent act of submission or even mere human weakness and reaction to it.
John Watson automatically started to move toward him, but was held on the spot by one sharp, sideways glance. Denying him that need to protect and comfort. Choosing to be implacable and alone. As always.
As ever, when anyone else in the world would have needed and welcomed support, and when anyone in his world would have been happy to give it, Sherlock Holmes turned away from it and rejected it. Comfort, kindness, the most basic humanity.
What had been Charles Augustus Magnussen lay still and cold on the stone. And no-one took the slightest bit of notice. All concentration on the tall man kneeling quiet and so still at the top of the terrace steps, the knees of the expensive suit he wore getting wet, cold and unheeded.
Two squaddies approached warily, slowly mounting the steps, guns ready. One reached forward to push Sherlock down onto his face, while the other moved to the side to haul his hands behind him and apply handcuffs. Standard procedure.
But a single word from Mycroft Holmes stilled them.
Mycroft Holmes, unnaturally erect, walked slowly across the grass as if he did not know where he was putting his feet. Up three of the terrace steps. Halted at the point where he put himself at eye level with his brother kneeling at the top.
"You could have been shot."
The flat repressed anger in the words was pure pain. Only now could John Watson flinch in sympathy.
"Had hoped….."
The voice was deathly calm, so quiet it would not carry, a lift at the end in query.
"Do it now. Tidier for you. Less paperwork. I won't tell anyone if you don't." There was the quirk of a tiny smile, then: ridiculous from someone demanding death.
Mycroft Holmes' face twisted in response. But there were no words.
"Blame all of this - blame anything - everything - on your insane little brother. Who will trouble you no more. If you do it now." Instead of rising into emotion and pain in reaction, the voice speaking became softer, and quieter, even gentle. The rise was not in pitch, but in intensity. "If you love me; do it Mycroft!"
Mycroft Holmes stood and looked at his brother, impassive and silent, for a full ten seconds. As the rest of the world waited. He turned and started to walk away, back down the steps, clicking his fingers in command.
The bright spotlight that had bathed the scene in starkness went out. There was stillness and silence.
"Do it, you bastard! Order it now! For me!"
John Watson had never heard Sherlock Holmes scream a demand or reveal such impotent anger before. He involuntarily started forward again, but was held back by one of the squaddies. The movement attracted Mycroft's attention.
Who turned back to them and offered the same blank manic smile Watson had seen on Sherlock's face too many times before. Concentrated on John Watson alone. Ignored his brother.
"Oh, hello John. Need to take you in too, for debriefing. You know the procedure. Boring essentials. Nothing personal, you understand."
"But Sherlock….?"
"Not your burden any longer, Dr Watson. But thank you for asking. Put him out of your mind."
From the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock Holmes' slump at the words, drop his head, finally defeated. Watson was just looking from one brother to the other when he heard the glass door into Appledore creak on it's hinges behind him. Heard the sound of light running feet.
Was spinning to face and deflect what instinct screamed at him was threat - urgent, dangerous threat, here and now - when a man of medium height with a silver pony tail raced past him across the terrace, brandishing a chair over his head. It should have looked comical.
Watson yelped out a warning. As he did so the squaddies began to spin too, bringing their weapons to bear while Charles Augustus Magnussen's personal assistant rushed Sherlock Holmes - still kneeling with his back exposed and in direct line to the door - with murder in his heart and intent on using the first weapon that came to hand.
"You killed him, you bastard!"
Sherlock Holmes, hands still raised in submission, half turned on his knees to face the onrush, but was incapable of defending himself in that position, and Eric Carlsson slammed the heavy aluminium and leather upholstered chair into his head with appalling force.
There was a distinct crunch, but whether that was the weight of the blow, or the sound of Sherlock's head bouncing on the stone pavers, John Watson was never sure afterwards.
All he knew for certain was that in the fastest of automatic reflexes two sub machine guns had aimed and fired as one, and Carlsson was down and dead in mid stride, his body cannoning down on top of Sherlock Holmes and his blood splatter spraying and reaching as far as Mycroft Holmes' elegant Savile Row suit and his face.
Mycroft froze and resisted a natural temptation to automatically wipe the bright arterial blood from him. For a moment he paused and simply looked at the scene he commanded. A melodramatic theatrical scene certainly, but one from which no-one would rise to their feet and take their bows.
Looked across at John Watson, grey with shock, aghast and face crumpled. The two silent and impassive squaddies with a trickle of fire still dribbling from the muzzles of their MP5A3's.
At Charles Augustus Magnussen lying dead, a little smile still there, face quiet and calm and very pale except for the dark hole drilled through his forehead, a much smaller entry wound than might have been expected.
A wash of dark viscous liquid framed that elegant aquiline head. His stylish dining chair lay disgarded on the slabs as did John Watson's Sig Sauer pistol. The personal assistant was a grotesque tumbled shape stopped instantly when in full flow.
Whilst all that could be seen of Sherlock Holmes were the soles of his long upturned feet in black Lobb Oxfords, the fanned our coat, a single gloved hand outflung and protruding from beneath Carlsson's body.
Parts of the tableau moved after three seconds of observation and assessment.
"Thank you for your input, gentlemen. If we could just check whether the perpetrator at the bottom of this heap is alive or dead….?"
The order was so delicately and calmly couched John Watson had half a mind to throttle this man who could be so unmoved by the sight of death, part of which could actually be his own little brother.
One of the squaddies took three steps forward and obediently dragged the dead thing off Sherlock Holmes' prone body and pushed it away. Turned it dismissively to one side. Put a hand to the pulse point on the side of Sherlock Holmes' neck. For several seconds Watson was sure the world stopped turning.
"Still breathing, sir. Just out cold."
As the squaddie turned the head a mottled graze could be seen across the right side of Sherlock Holmes' face that had not been there before it struck the paving of the terrace. A face as pale and still as a mannequin's.
Mycroft nodded and murmured a polite thank you to the soldier. Finally ran his eyes across Sherlock as if looking at a stranger. Looked down at the bloody things that had been Charles Augustus Magnussen and Eric Carlsson. Finally looked up at John Watson and their eyes met.
"You can react to this, Mycroft. It won't hurt you. Just prove you are human after all." There was no way John Watson could put enough venom or horror into his voice,
"Thank you for your assistance, John," Mycroft intoned with deliberate neutrality. "Give my best wishes to Mrs Watson. Let her decide if she was worth all this."
The reptilian Mycroft smile tugged at his lips and John Watson struggled not to reach over and thump him.
"Oh! And happy Christmas. I doubt I shall see you again in this season to be oh, so very jolly. If you get a chance, before you return to your own home, please inform the parents Sherlock and I have been called away on urgent business on behalf of Her Majesty. I would be most grateful. They are quite used to such changes to our social plans, even at Christmas. There is no need to distress them."
Their eyes clashed, and John Watson was so stunned by the social niceties, he could not speak.
"Easiest, I think, in the circumstances. Don't you?"
"Mycroft, you are a complete…."
"…..Minor dignitary who has a murderer for a brother."
He flickered a signal with one hand and John Watson watched helplessly as the unconscious Sherlock Holmes was hoisted between the two soldiers and dragged towards the helicopter, shoulders slack, feet dragging, head lolling to one side.
His best friend could hardly bear to look.
TO BE CONTINUED…..
Author's Notes:
Deus Es Machina: From the Latin, from a devise in Greek tragedy which translates as 'God in The Machine.' Describes a plot device whereby the solution to a problem arrives out of thin air (heaven) to surprise the audience, solve a plot problem, provide comedy, introduce a new character or bring about a happy ending.
UKSF: United Kingdom Special Forces is a Ministry Of Defence directorate that brings together a number of UK special forces such as the SAS and SBS. Formed in 1987, the UKSF addresses a variety of special tasks, from hostage rescue, technical backup, close protection and counter terrorism.
Hostage release is a speciality of the SAS (Special Air Service) so although this is never clarified in the HLV script, this would be the natural assumption. Such units are often incorrectly referred to as a SWAT team, SWAT (Special Weapons And Tactics) is a uniquely American term and is of police, not military origin and operation.
The sub machine gun most used by the UKSF units is the MP5A3 and several of it's many variants, which differ due to intent of function. The L91A1 model is favoured for hostage situations, being lighter, smaller and more versatile in application than the standard model.
Maxims running through Sherlock's head include To Be A Pilgrim, Dido's Lament, and Psalm 23.