Got My Eye on You Chapter Ninety Two
Pocket Full of Rye (Epilogue)
"It's not your fault, Sherlock."
"Wrong. It was my fault. If I had been quicker to realise that she was the one who laid the trail of clues, I would have taken precautions to keep her out of the investigation."
"That's what I don't get. Why didn't she just go to the Essex police and tell them of her suspicions? Why the elaborate game with the nursery rhyme?"
"She had no proof. She was scared and relying on me to uncover it. But, through my own carelessness, I let her tag along."
Greg grimaced. "Don't remind me. I told you not to do anything crazy."
No reaction.
"Are you alright?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Preceded by a rather world-weary sigh, it was about as uncharacteristic a question as Greg had ever heard out of Sherlock. For a man normally able to deduce what Greg had for breakfast the day before yesterday, for Sherlock to have to ask for clarification about the question was just another sign that he was far from alright. The DI was standing in the middle of the living room of 221b, trying to get some sense out of the younger man, who had folded himself up in his chrome and leather chair. It was odd to see someone so tall become so small that he could fit into it sideways- but it seemed to have happened.
"It means I'm worried."
This was met with a small huff.
"I mean it, Sherlock. This isn't…like you."
"What would be 'like me'?"
Greg ran his hand through his short silver hair. "Don't know- maybe you pacing around this room telling me what an idiot I am, complaining that the press got it all wrong, the police are morons for not being able to prosecute all three hundred and twenty seven cases of domestic slavery that you've uncovered. Why aren't you doing that?"
"I can't be bothered."
"Yeah, that's exactly what I meant. The idea that you can't be bothered is what is so… not you. You are always bothered. You work yourself into an absolute frenzy until you solve the puzzle. And we all have to follow along behind you. And you get annoyed when we can't."
"Go away, Lestrade."
Greg wasn't prepared for this. Over the years, he'd seen Sherlock high, in the midst of withdrawal, angry, or manic with excitement. But he'd never seen the man despondent. No, that was too mild a word. Depressed. That's what it was. Lethargy he could deal with. In the post-case crash, Sherlock often retreated to a sofa for silence- it was his way of re-charging his batteries which had been exhausted by the sensory demands of solving the case.
Greg sat himself down in what he still thought of as John's chair. It was tweed, comfortably rounded and rather old fashioned- as different as possible from the brutally modern chrome and leather that Sherlock preferred. Summed up the two men he knew rather neatly.
He decided to appeal to the man's ego. "The press are going bonkers- this is the second time in a month that you're on the front page. This time, they're calling you The Angel of Mercy, for God's sake. There were forty three girls on board the Morning Linda and the Gemini . And the Crown Prosecution Service is going after hundreds of people who bought those victims over the past year. There's a public fundraising campaign to rescue them, get them legal representation, protect their rights. It's even trending on Twitter in London!"
No reply.
"It doesn't stop there. Interpol has passed the files to seventeen other countries to get the girls who are overseas released. You have an international reputation now. It's big. Right up there with the Pountney Club.* In fact, the Met press office told me this morning that solving this case has earned us more positive press both at home and abroad than any other single case this year. The Home Secretary has made a statement in the House of Commons praising the operation."
No response.
Greg decided to take a different tack. "Donna Foreman's been asking about you. I went to see her in hospital. She's going to be alright, Sherlock. She doesn't regret getting involved." The DI had been shocked by her statement- how much the pair of them had figured out before they set out in the inflatable, the way Sherlock had used the phone, and then what had happened on the launch. She was still on a lot of pain-killers, but he'd taken her statement himself, rather than send someone she didn't know.
The ME seemed remarkably philosophical about the whole experience. "I'm alive. Others died. I count myself lucky. I get to put this behind me. Poor Simon West didn't."
Greg kept replaying the scene in his head, when she and Sherlock had been dragged onto the deck of the launch by Tolhurst and the Filipino guard, both with guns pointed at their hostages. Holmes had his arms and ankles bound, but managed to get himself on his knees as the helicopter pinned the Lady Aileen in its searchlight, up against the side of the Rio Tamara.
The pilot turned the helicopter slightly as the window behind Greg's seat was flung open and the cold pre-dawn air rushed in.
"Sir, I can only get one clear shot, not two."
The voice of the SO19 officer was tinny over Greg's earphones; but he didn't need to hear it well, because he could see the problem. The guard with a machine gun to Sherlock's head was vulnerable, but Foreman was on her feet, held tight by Tolburst with a pistol to her head. He was using her as a shield, between him and the copter, probably knowing that there would be a marksman in the seat behind Greg.
Reluctantly, Lestrade decided. "Can't risk it; we'll let the boats get closer."
The two launches from the Kent and Essex Marine Police then came around wide both the stern and the bow of the Rio Tamara, where they had positioned themselves so they wouldn't be spotted. Two jet skis, each manned by two officers in wetsuits, followed. They were a little slower than the high-powered launches, but they were more manoeuvrable, and took the inside line toward the launch.
The effect on whoever was at the wheel of the Lady Aileen was immediate, as it veered away from the cargo ship's side and tried to sprint back upstream. The guard shoved Sherlock face down on the open aft deck and ran back under cover into the wheelhouse, as Tolhurst pulled the woman back with him into the darkened wheelhouse. The helicopter moved to follow and Greg activated the loudhailer.
"Tolhurst. You cannot escape. Turn the engines off and surrender."
But the Port detective had another ace up his sleeve, and decided to play it. As the copter came over the launch, the Filipino guards dashed out onto the aft deck, picked up the bound form of Sherlock and tossed it over the stern, before the boat accelerated away. Greg was on the loudhailer instantly, shouting instructions to the jetski team: "Hostage overboard! He's bound and can't swim!" The nearest jetski altered course and headed for where the helicopter was hovering, its searchlights down on the water where Sherlock had been thrown in. Moments later, an officer was in the water and searching.
The first time the man had come up empty-handed, and Greg cursed. The man went under again, and agonising seconds crept by. This time when he came up, he was dragging an armful of dark coat, with a still form inside it. The jetski came alongside and took the collar, keeping Sherlock's head above water. The closer of the two launches had peeled away from its pursuit of the Lady Aileen and was headed for the jetski.
One of the hardest things Greg had ever done in his police career came next, when he ordered the pilot to resume its course after the Port Health Authority launch. He had no idea whether Sherlock was breathing or had drowned, but the helicopter had done everything it could to help him survive. It was now needed to recover the second hostage, if at all possible, and to stop the culprits from getting away.
The pilot's voice came over the headphones. "They're heading for Mucky Creek. There's a floating pier there. I'll alert the units in Thurrock." He opened the copter's throttle and caught up with the other police launch that was now following the wake of the Lady Aileen. The second jetski had been left behind as the two launches hit full speed, but it didn't look like the Marine Police boat was closing the gap, so the helicopter accelerated again.
As their searchlight caught the Lady Aileen in its beams, the guard out on the aft deck started firing a machine gun at the helicopter. The pilot turned to the right and the Met firearms officer got his clear shot at last. The bullet hit him in the chest, and the guard spun around, his dying reflex pulling the trigger again on his machine gun. The bullets sprayed everywhere- down into the deck of the ship and then into the wheelhouse, as he fell. Lestrade watched, horrified as glass exploded, shattering the windows from the inside of the launch. Whoever was in there would have been caught in the hail of bullets.
Confirmation came when the Lady Aileen suddenly veered to the left, accelerating crazily before the engine seemed to stutter. By the time the police launch approached, the Lady Aileen was starting to slow down.
It was Donna Foreman who filled in the gaps for Greg. From her hospital bed, she explained that the guard's death throes had sent bullets flying everywhere. Tolhurst had taken the main brunt.
"He must have died instantly, because I felt his arms around me just go slack and then he fell, at the same time as my left arm just exploded- it was so odd to see the blood, and know it was mine, before the pain hit. As I fell, behind me, the second guard was on his knees, blood pouring out of his mouth. I think he was hit in the throat. Sharon was at the wheel, but she too had been shot. I could see blood coming from two places on her back. She fell forward and hit the throttle, and the launch skewed sideways at speed. And then I smelled the fuel- the forward tank must have been hit."
She seemed to run out of breath then. The nurse who was in the room was eyeing the heart monitor with some concern. "Just a few minutes more, please. She needs to rest."
"Just take it slow, Doctor Foreman. I realise this is difficult."
"Sharon was still alive and yelling, just yelling her head off that she wasn't going to let the cause down. She was on her side on the floor by the wheel, and grabbed the emergency kit under the dashboard. I didn't realise what she was doing until the flare went off, and I watched her throw it into the forward lower compartment- that's where the second fuel tank is. Somehow I got to my feet and threw myself out over the stern. I didn't think I would be able to use my arms to swim, because I thought they were still tied, but when I hit the water, I realised that my right hand was free. Between that and my feet, I could kick and keep my head above water as the launch left me behind..."
Greg would remember what happened next for the rest of his life. The flare must have ignited the leaking fuel, and the Lady Aileen's fuel tank exploded. The pilot pulled the copter up violently, to escape the flames that lit up the sky. The police launch was just far enough away to miss being in the backwash of the explosion. Later, the Kent & Essex officers gave him the details, which he couldn't see from their position above the billowing smoke that followed. The explosion had ripped the Lady Aileen in half; the forward section with the fuel tank under it took the brunt of the damage. The aft section just slid under the water, taking the bodies of Tolhurst and the Filipino guards with it. They never found Sharon's body.
Donna was still speaking and it pulled Lestrade's attention back into the hospital room. "After the explosion, I don't remember much until the jetski officer pulled me out of the water. It was so damned cold. And then I was transferred to the launch, and an officer put a tourniquet on my arm. If it hadn't been for him, I would have died. The launch took me to the London Gateway quay and I was transferred to the air ambulance. I was so sure that Sherlock was dead. I kept thinking it was so unfair. He should have been the one to live, not me; he was the one who figured it all out and caught them."
She was very close to tears. "You aren't lying, are you? You aren't telling me he survived just because you think I can't handle him dying and this at the same time?" She looked at the bandages around the stump that started about five inches below her left elbow.
"He's fine. He was conscious when he went in, so had a little bit of time." He didn't tell her how the launch crew had to resuscitate Sherlock. Once they got him breathing again, he was picked up by the second Essex air ambulance. This one had to come from Colchester, but at 150 miles per hour it was the fastest of the four run by the county, so made it in fifteen minutes. By then, the Met copter was headed for the Rio Tamara. UK Border Agency security officers were about to board the vessel, to make arrests and gather evidence. As the helicopter hovered over the cargo ship using the search lights to help the officers catch the fleeing crew members, Sally Donovan came through on the airwave radio. He'd left her behind at Tilbury to organise the search and seizure operations to free the hostages on the Gemini and the Morning Linda, and get the forensic teams from Kent, Essex and the Met to work on the Tilbury Police Station, the Port Health Authority and the Customs House- as well as on the two vessels, once their captives were released.
"Guv? Good news- the operation here has gone without a hitch. We've rescued forty three women and taken eight guards into custody. Arrest warrants are out for the suspects at the Customs House and the Border Agency. Have you found Holmes and Foreman? What's the status on Tolhurst and Gillespie?"
He'd told her about what happened, and that once he could get off the helicopter, he'd be going to the hospital. "It's Kent & Essex's crime scene, not ours. The Border Agency at London Gateway will handle the Rio Tamara, so when you're done with Tilbury, meet me at the hospital."
By the time Sally arrived at Basildon, Donna was in surgery, and Sherlock was awake, sitting up in a bed in the Emergency Department. He'd had a scan which showed it was concussion rather than a fracture, and Greg was trying to talk him into staying at the hospital for a while.
"No."
"Come on, Sherlock. Stay put for a few more hours."
"No. I'm allowed a voluntary discharge and they're bringing me the papers."
"At least wait until she's out of surgery."
"There is no point, Lestrade. A forearm amputation is a simple enough procedure. She will be under general anaesthetic for hours yet. Why would I want to stay?"
Greg had sighed. "If it had been John…"
Sherlock snapped back, "…but it wasn't John. "
Sally Donovan was standing at the foot of the bed, her arms folded. "No, it was just an innocent civilian you dragged into danger this time, a woman who trusted you to help. When are you ever going to learn that people get hurt, they can die, when you do crazy things?"
"Both of you should leave now; I need to get dressed." It was the same flat monotone that had bothered Greg at the start of the case. He watched as Sherlock pulled the nasal cannula off his face, and threw down the sheets and blanket, swinging his feet off the bed.
"Sherlock…"
"Get out." There was an intensity of anger that Greg had rarely seen before in Sherlock.
Sally huffed and said, "I'll wait in the car for you, Guv." She pulled the curtain around the bed, so Sherlock could get dressed.
"We still need a statement."
Sherlock was on his feet and leaning down, rummaging in the bedside locker for his clothes. "Where've they put my clothes?"
"They're still wet, Sherlock. It'll take ages for that coat of yours to dry."
Sherlock walked past Lestrade and poked his head out of the curtain. "Nurse, I'm going to need some of your charity clothes to go home in. I'll take the wet coat home in a bag, but the rest of the clothes you can keep in exchange for what you give me now."
Lestrade heard the nurse reply, "We can keep them here until they're dry; you can pick them up later."
"I won't be coming back."
And he had not returned to the hospital. Lestrade went back the next morning to get Donna's statement, and then went into the office to start the paperwork. That afternoon, he stopped by at 221b to get Sherlock's statement- and found him in this state of mind.
"Go away." The voice from the chair was a bit hoarse.
"Are you getting a cold? The Thames is freezing, you know."
"Why do you always state the blindingly obvious, Lestrade? I was in the water; I know how cold it was."
"I still need your statement."
"I've put it all on the USB on the coffee table. Take it and go."
"If it matters to you at all, Donna said she was happy to have given her right arm if it meant freeing up those women and shutting down a slavery trade."
"If that is supposed to be a joke, it is in very poor taste."
Greg gave him a rueful smile. "Not a joke; she meant it. She has no regrets. She said it's not like she's a surgeon. She can still practice medicine." He decided not to tell Sherlock that Donna said she would leave the Port Health Authority. She could not forgive the Director's willingness to brush her off when she'd first taken her suspicions to him.
The man folded up in the chair across from him did not reply.
"Sherlock, what's going on here?"
"Just go away, Lestrade."
"I'm going to call John."
That made Sherlock unfold himself and lever himself up. "No, you are not." His eyes were blazing with anger.
"Yes, I am. If you won't talk to me, then he might talk some sense into you."
Through clenched teeth, Sherlock repeated, "You will not call John Watson. Not under any circumstances. Not if you ever want to work with me again."
He thought about that threat. Cutting off the Work was probably the nuclear option in Sherlock's list of priorities. If he was willing to consider it, then Greg had to respect his wishes. "I thought you two had made your peace."
"Peace? Yes. But he's not to be involved, or called."
"Why not?" It didn't sound like 'peace' to Greg.
"If you hadn't noticed, he has his own life now."
Greg snorted. "Yeah, but we both know that changed when you came back from the dead."
"No, it didn't. He has a full-time job and a fiancé now. He has a future to protect. I am no longer working with John. I shouldn't be working with anyone. It puts them at risk. Sally is right. I have no right exposing others to risk."
"Sherlock…"
He folded himself back up in the chair. "Not even you, Lestrade. I will share intelligence with you, because you need it to give to the prosecutors. But, that's as far as it will go. Those are my terms. Call me when you have a new case. Until then, leave me alone."
Troubled by almost everything that was implied by those words, Greg left Baker Street.
Author's note: And that's it for a little while. I am already at work on another story arc, but this one won't be a Lestrade centred story. So look out for The Devonshire Squires, appearing in about two weeks. If you don't want to miss it, then follow me as an author.
