Got My Eye on You
Chapter Seventy Six
The Good Man Part Seven
Greg was munching his way through a take-away pizza slice, savouring the sharp tang of the pepperoni, when his mobile went off. Juggling the slightly greasy fold of pizza dough in one hand, he fished around on the coffee table for his phone. He found it eventually under the sports pages of the Evening Standard.
He had just enough time to swallow as he saw the caller ID. It was Sherlock's old number. Sherlock never rang, he always texted. He knew that John Watson was supposed to be calling by at Baker Street tonight; Greg hoped that nothing would have interfered with their much needed reconciliation. Both men were hurting, and for both their sakes, Greg wanted an end to the distance between them. "Hello?"
He could hear Sherlock's voice in the distance, "Come on, COME ON!" Then, realising that the call had been picked up, Sherlock's firm baritone rattled off like a machine gun- "Lestrade! I'm reporting a crime. Get officers here immediately, secure the scene and keep all these people here so we can catch the perpetrator!" His voice was raised to a slightly higher pitch than normal.
"What's the crime? And where are you?"
"Attempted murder, the park outside St James the Less, off Moreton Street, SW1. It's John. Someone drugged him, abducted him and put him inside a Guy Fawkes bonfire they've just lit."
Greg's brain caught up with the rapid fire facts delivered by Sherlock without a breath. "Watson?! What the hell?"
"Lestrade, don't witter; make the call. Ambulance is already on its way." The line was broken and Greg was left staring in dismay at his phone. He dropped the pizza onto the plate, wiped his hands on his paper napkin and started searching for the right number.
oOo
Later, he learned that the team from the Belgravia Police station on Buckingham Palace Road managed to get to Moreton Street in only four minutes. Bypassing the central control room for 999 calls and getting an officer to phone it in was a smart move by Sherlock. By the time Greg got there the scene was already taped off, and officers had set up some emergency lights and were interviewing the people who had not managed to leave the scene before they arrived. Other officers were using fire extinguishers to put out the burning wood. There was no sign of an ambulance. The officer in charge of the scene said it had left fifteen minutes ago. No, he didn't know who the victim was or what state they were in, but "that bloke does." He pointed over to where Sherlock was standing aloof from everyone, staring at what remained of the burning bonfire.
As Greg came up to him, he caught a whiff of singed wool lingering about the tall figure. The light of the flickering flames seemed to reflect in his eyes, changing them from their usual green grey to gold and orange. Gently, Greg asked him, "Where's John? Is he going to be okay?"
The sound of the DI's voice broke through the younger man's concentration, and he turned to look at the older man. There was a smudge of soot across his cheek. "Taken to the nearest A&E- St Thomas. Smoke inhalation, cuts, bruises. Doesn't look like serious burns. Oh, and drugged- a paralytic of some sort."
Greg took all that in, especially the staccato phrasing, rather than Sherlock's usual fluency. "Why? Who would do that to John? What's going on, Sherlock?"
"That is the question."
Sherlock had that look about him that worried Greg. The consulting detective was assessing things, sifting through evidence, trying to put puzzle pieces together- and not getting anywhere. Over the years, Lestrade had come to recognise the signs- a particular kind of stillness. Usually on a crime scene, Sherlock was in constant motion, swooping from one tiny piece of forensic evidence to another, a whirlwind of analysis and deduction. When he stopped for any length of time, then Greg knew that something was not working. And it was also odd, damned odd, that the man wasn't now prowling the halls of St Thomas, demanding in a strident baritone what was happening to John.
"Look, the locals can handle this crime scene. The lads will get the information- who organised the bonfire night, who built it, and we can check out the local CCTV to see if anything turns up about how John got put into the bonfire. They'll get the evidence to the labs. I'm going to the hospital to check on John, and you're coming with me. When he recovers consciousness, we'll need to talk to him, find out if he knows anything about who did this to him and why."
Sherlock looked away from Greg, back at the last few flames as they died down. "His fiancé went with him. You go; he won't want to talk to me."
Greg realised that John had not yet had the chance to see Sherlock, who had no idea that the doctor's attitude was a bit different now. He watched the younger man's inscrutable face. But, that was suddenly replaced by widened eyes, then a breathy "OH!" Sherlock tilted his head as if something surprising had occurred to him. He whispered, "Mary Morstan."
Lestrade prompted, "Yeah, she's John fiancé. I know. I met her yesterday."
"She's the one who got the message about John. Why her?" He drew breath and then was off. "She was smart enough to know it was a skip code, but she didn't know what it meant. That's interesting in itself, but I'll have to think about that later. She came to me, and I figured out where he was. The person who set this up kept texting her phone all the way here, but he was taunting both of us. One of the texts on her phone actually mentioned me by name. So, either he was watching or he somehow knew we would be together. How did he know that?"
Sherlock started pacing, turning tight circles, talking out loud, "Timing…timing is the issue." His thin fingers steepled under his chin, he was talking to himself. "Were they monitoring our progress? A text told us that we had a 'Stay of execution- two more minutes'. So, they were obviously watching this park and something threw their timing out. Did they want us to find him and to rescue him? Or did they want us to arrive after he'd been killed? Lestrade!" This last word was shouted, as if he was unaware that the DI was standing right next to him.
Sherlock looked about himself as if startled to find where he was. Greg watched his confusion with increasing alarm. The younger man waved at the uniformed police officers taking statements in the corner of the park. "That's what I need your officers to check- exactly the timing- who did what, when. It's crucial. Was this revenge, or a warning? Did the person know I would take the short-cuts I did, so we got here when we did? Or was he assuming that I would follow the roads? If we hadn't taken the bike down the steps and on the pedestrian underpass, we'd never had made it on time. John would be dead."
"Bike?" Greg was confused.
Sherlock snapped back at him, "Yes, bike. What do you not understand about the idea of a motorbike? I commandeered one. Mary rode pillion." He gestured over in the general direction of the corner of the park. In the dark, Greg couldn't see much more than a dark shape on the ground. Sherlock continued, "Not a proper one like your Norton, just a kid's off-roader. Wish it had been; we could have got here faster. But even that one was quicker than taking Mary's car. Did the kidnapper know I would do that, instead of Mary driving? It's crucial to the timing." He resumed pacing, fisting his hair in frustration. "Not enough data. I need more."
Greg wondered how close to a meltdown Sherlock was. In the firelight, the older man had seen that his pupils were not constricted. So, no time for tonight's morphine dose. By personal experience, Greg knew that bouncing a motorbike down a flight of steps was painful*, not to mention having Mary Morstan holding on, banging up against that injured back of his. And Greg could no longer ignore the scent of singed wool that was loitering around Sherlock.
"Did you get burned trying to get John out?"
"What?" The consulting detective looked annoyed at a question he obviously considered a non sequitur.
Greg tried again. "Were you injured yourself? What about your back? The bike and throwing those pieces of wood around, dragging John out of there could have re-opened some wounds?"
Sherlock just shook his head. "I'm fine."
Greg was about to argue with that assessment, when the sound of a mobile phone cut him off. Sherlock fished his out of his pocket, glanced at caller ID and answered. "Is he alright?" Greg watched as a multitude of thoughts seemed to scatter across the younger man's face. Then, he just said, "We're on our way" before breaking the call off.
"John's awake, and Mary says we can go talk to him. Come with me to get his statement. We need to put time and place together." He started to stride away towards the gap in the metal railing fence that surrounded the park. Over his shoulder, he called to Lestrade, "Hurry up!"
oOo
They saw her down the corridor from the waiting area of the Emergency Department. She was looking tense, but when she saw Sherlock and Greg, a big smile erupted and she hurried to meet them.
"He's alright. A few cuts, some second degree burns on exposed bits- a cheek and his hands. He's awake, pretty groggy, but the drug has worn off. Tox screen's been done, but it will be awhile for results. It was most likely ketamine- fast acting but long lasting- we'll know more later. It's probably why he had such a strange reaction when he woke up- a bit of hallucinations. He's probably going to be held overnight to keep an eye on his respiration- with possible smoke inhalation issues or longer lasting side effects of the drug. But, I think he's going to be fine." Mary was calm, professional and in control.
Sherlock looked down at her, as if assessing her performance. Then his brow furrowed. "We need to find out some things about timing, when and where he was abducted, what he might remember about being put in the bonfire. It will help us find the person who did it."
She nodded. "Yes, go talk to him. He's waiting to be admitted. Second set of doors on the right, third curtain."
He looked down the corridor, but hesitated. "You go, Lestrade."
Mary smiled. "Sherlock, he's not up to hitting you again, so you can relax."
He looked at her as if not quite sure how to react. She exchanged bemused glances with Greg and then gently giggled.
"That was a joke, Sherlock. He not only wants to see you now, he was on his way to Baker Street when he was abducted. You'll only have a few minutes tonight, but it should be enough to get what you two need…and what he needs from you, too."
Sherlock looked down the corridor again. Sighing in exasperation, she took him by the hand and led the way. Surprisingly, Greg noticed that he did not flinch from her touch.
*Author's Note. For Greg and Sherlock's experiences sharing a motorcycle ride, see chapters 10, 36-41. Apologies for any rough writing above- having a tough time fighting UK floods; too many sleepless nights manning pumps and giving tea to the sewage tanker drivers who are only just managing to keep raw sewage away from entering our house. To those of you enduring a drought in California, I wish I was with you.
