Part 2: The Raid
St. Bartholomew's Hospital. The morgue. In the bare corridor leading to the dissecting rooms, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade is pacing up and down agitatedly and talking into his phone.
LESTRADE: Yeah, of course, but he didn't pick it up. (A pause while he listens to the reply.) No, I've wasted enough time already, it hardly seems to matter now. (Another pause.) Yeah, alright, Sally. Thanks. See you later.
He ends the call and glances at his watch, probably for the hundredth time in a single morning. At that moment, the double doors at the end of the corridor are thrown open, and Sherlock and John make their entrance, John looking a bit guilty, Sherlock looking almost insultingly cheerful. Lestrade pockets his phone.
LESTRADE (to Sherlock, extremely annoyed): God, you're a diva today. What the hell took you so long?
SHERLOCK: Finding the killers.
LESTRADE: Are you kidding? You haven't even seen the body yet.
SHERLOCK: Oh, right. I knew there was a reason why we came here. Let's go in. (Lestrade doesn't move.) Why are you hanging around in this cosy corridor anyway? Weak stomach, all of a sudden?
LESTRADE (nodding at the closed door of the dissecting room): She kicked me out.
JOHN(with an incredulous laugh): What?
SHERLOCK: You mean she suggested that you might like to go and get yourself a coffee while you wait?
LESTRADE(firmly, with emphasis on every single word): She. kicked. me. out.
The dissecting room. Bright clinical white light. On one of the tables is the body of an obese man, the lower half covered with a sheet. Molly Hooper is hard at work on the upper half, equipped with an apron, safety glasses and nitrile gloves, an electric bone-saw in her hand. She glances up as the door opens to admit Sherlock, John and Lestrade. She still looks upset, but she deliberately composes her face into a welcoming smile for Sherlock and John. Lestrade is being ignored. She switches off the bone-saw and gestures at the body in front of her.
MOLLY (to Sherlock, apologetically): Sorry. I had to get started at some point. (She puts the saw down and holds up a clip-board.) We've got them queuing today. It's almost as bad as during the heatwave in August.
SHERLOCK (generously): Well, go ahead, before they get impatient and start complaining.
Molly smiles and picks up the bone-saw again.
LESTRADE: No, wait, what about the teeth and the finger?
SHERLOCK: Molly's told you all you need to know about that. It's your problem if you don't listen.
LESTRADE: I didn't "not listen", you know. All I said was that it seemed a bit far-fetched that you could tell from someone's teeth that they're Czech, but -
Molly takes off her safety glasses, looking indignant.
MOLLY: - but that Romanian teeth, you could buy. Pointed fangs. Very funny. (She turns to Sherlock and John.) It's not the teeth, it's the fillings. There are three of them, all in the molars, and all very recent. There's hardly any abrasion yet. The material has a distinct bluish-white colour. That means they're done with a type of ultra-quick light curing ceramics that were developed by a Czech firm only last year, and the Czech republic is the only place so far where they're widely used in the -
LESTRADE (under his breath, to John): Do you know what's got into her? She sounds like him!
Sherlock gives Lestrade a very dark look, and theyglare at each other for a moment. Then Sherlock abruptly turns back to Molly. Molly gives a start.
MOLLY(defensively): I – I was at a conference, couple of weeks ago, on dental records in forensics, a- and -
SHERLOCK (not unkindly): Don't babble, Molly. No need. What about the index finger, is that another case of chronic tendinitis of the extensor indicis tendon? Like the one you showed me last year, the one who actually died from it?
JOHN (in a tone of disbelief): Who what?
SHERLOCK: Crossed a road with his eyes on his iPad.
JOHN: Oh.
MOLLY (back in her former tone of confidence): Definitely the same. It was so obvious I could feel it from the outside, before the rigor mortis set in fully. A very common problem with IT people. It's caused by repetitive strain on the tendons of the index finger, from clicking the left mouse button or flicking across a screen for hours on end every day.
LESTRADE (to John, sarcastically): Did you know it was contagious?
JOHN (deliberately obtuse): What, tendinitis? Don't worry, it isn't.
Lestrade rolls his eyes. Sherlock turns on his heel to face him.
SHERLOCK (in a low but very sharp tone): I know you're not happy with me today. Don't take it out on her.
Lestrade grimaces, but doesn't reply. He is beginning to look slightly guilty.
SHERLOCK(to Molly, with another sudden change of tone, a rarely heard warmth in his voice now): Good work, Molly. Thanks a lot.
She smiles at him happily.
A little later, Sherlock, John and Lestrade have relocated to Molly's lab, while Molly has presumably stayed behind at the morgue to take care of her long list of autopsies. Lestrade is on a stool next to a workbench, his elbow propped on the top of the bench and his head in his hand. Sherlock is leaning back in a chair with his feet up on a low filing cabinet. John is on another stool by the window, his back against the radiator for warmth. They all have paper cups of coffee from the hospital canteen in their hands, and Sherlock has apparently just ended his account of what he and John learned this morning about the cyber attacks on the CCTV system. Lestrade makes a low whistling sound.
LESTRADE: OK. Now I see how you knew Molly was right.
SHERLOCK: You should have seen that without my help, you know. Which part of it exactly did you find unconvincing?
LESTRADE (in an appeasing tone): Yeah, I know. I know she knows her business like few others do. (He runs his hand over his face.) I s'pose I just couldn't deal with her trying to stand in for you as well. You alone I can just about bear, but two of you is too much.
SHERLOCK: Now you're not making any sense. There aren't two of me. Besides, I wasn't even there.
Lestrade makes a grunting noise and takes a sip of his coffee.
LESTRADE: Well. To business. So if that young nameless Czech hacker from the video is identical with the body we picked off the A2 last night, where does that leave us, as far as finding the killer or killers are concerned?
SHERLOCK: With the most obvious solution, of course.
LESTRADE: Which is? We know that he had his throat cut on the bridge over the A2 near Falconwood station and then either fell or - more likely, considering the height of the railing - was pushed over, crushing his head on the tarmac. There was blood spattered all over the pavement and the railing, up there on the bridge. Molly thinks it's likely that the cutting of the throat alone killed him instantly, and he never even knew that he took a fall as well. She said it was very efficiently done, carotid artery neatly severed at the first attempt.
SHERLOCK: Fits in with what I assume happened.
LESTRADE: You assume, or you know?
SHERLOCK: I assume.
LESTRADE: You're not usually content with assumptions.
SHERLOCK(slightly irritated): Well, if you want assumptions to become certainties, join John and me on a little trip to the Kentish Town recycling centre tonight, and ask them yourself which of them did it.
LESTRADE: You mean they killed their own accomplice?
SHERLOCK: Of course. Who else? Mycroft said it wasn't his people, and while he is an expert at obscuring truths, there's no reason why he should tell me any outright lies about this. And we know that someone gave that whole plot away to the police. Someone, by the way, who passed by the Deptford Police Station some time late last night, and that place can't be all that far away from the NVR that the cameras on Evelyn Street transmit to. It's not such a big leap from those facts to the assumption that it was our unfortunate guest in the morgue who did it. The youngest, the least experienced, naturally the first to get cold feet. And I don't suppose that a veteran of the Chechen wars, or a fanatic like this Arbo, would hesitate to make short work of a traitor in their midst if they found out.
JOHN: But why? If he'd already given them away, why kill him and leave him lying around for the police to find, and endanger their whole mission? Wouldn't they rather not let it show, take him back to Russia with them, and then get rid of him there, where probably nobody would care?
SHERLOCK: Exactly. It doesn't make sense as an act of retribution. Which means that in all probability, they didn't know he'd already snitched on them. They killed him to prevent him from doing it, not to punish him for having done it. Which is a bit ironic, of course, but people have had their throats cut for much more absurd reasons. And thankfully it means that we'll find the remaining three in Kentish Town tonight, thinking that they still have a chance to complete their work. (He gets to his feet. To Lestrade) So, if you want my advice on how to proceed, you had best bring an impressive number of your own people, and place your own request for the Rambos from the Specialist Firearms Command as well. Unless you want your counter terrorist colleagues to elbow you out of your own case altogether, of course.
LESTRADE(straight-faced): Nobody ever does that with impunity.
Sherlock hesitates for a moment, then grins at him. Lestrade grins back.
Regis Road, Kentish Town, London. Nighttime. A couple of hundred yards into the industrial estate, just past the entrance gates to the UPS depot, the road has been cordoned off with police tape, four uniformed officers standing guard. Beyond the tape, a couple of police cars, both marked and unmarked, two Armed Response Vehicles and two large police vans have been parked in the road. In the open space beyond, a group of seven or eight officers in the black uniforms and full combat gear of the Specialist Firearms Command (also known as the SCO19) – helmets, bullet-proof vests, Heckler & Koch MP5 guns slung over their shoulders - are gathered around DI Lestrade and a colleague of his. This latter one is about ten years younger than Lestrade, of oriental appearance, and almost military in his bearing and manner of speech. He is addressing the SCO19 officers, obviously giving them their instructions, speaking earnestly and with great authority. Lestrade has his hands in the pockets of his jacket and seems content to be listening. It looks very much as if he has indeed been as good as elbowed out of the whole operation, but he doesn't seem to mind. Just behind him, at his shoulder, stands Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan, and next to her, behind the other Detective Inspector, stand two more plain clothes policemen, one about Sally's age, one older, grey haired and moustached. Some more regular uniformed officers are on the fringes of the group, listening as well. When Lestrade's colleague finishes speaking, the armed officers nod their understanding, and their leader signals to them to get going. They swiftly disappear into the darkness, moving in surprising silence considering their heavy boots and equipment. The other Detective Inspector turns to Lestrade and the sergeants, glancing at his watch.
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR: Right. They should be in their places in fifteen minutes. I'll give you a shout.
They nod, and he sets off after the SCO19 officers.
YOUNG SERGEANT (to Lestrade and Sally Donovan): Fancy a coffee?
LESTRADE: Got our own, thanks.
SALLY DONOVAN (simultaneously): Oh, yeah, great.
The sergeant looks slightly puzzled at first, then grins.
YOUNG SERGEANT (to Sally): Alright. Come on.
The two of them walk over to one of the unmarked cars, followed by their older colleague. The group disperses, the uniformed officers returning to their own cars as well. As they all move away, we spot Sherlock and John standing close by, John with his hands behind his back, Sherlock with his hands in the pockets of his coat. Lestrade approaches them.
LESTRADE: Right. Let's get in a van, I'm freezing.
A moment later, the three of them are in the back of a police van, one that has two rows of benches installed along its sides, vis-à-vis. They settle down to wait, Sherlock in a corner, John at his side, Lestrade opposite them. Lestrade puts his radio down on the seat next to him.
SHERLOCK (to Lestrade): Don't tell me there is coffee.
LESTRADE (looking slightly guilty): Look, my own people are used to me bringing guests to the show, but not everyone in the force agrees that that's how it should be done.
JOHN: But this is a joint operation, isn't it?
LESTRADE: Yeah, sort of. But it really is more in line with Jamal's usual work than with mine. I don't mind him heading it. (Under his breath) And taking the blame if it goes wrong.
SHERLOCK: Jamal Massoud, is it?
LESTRADE: Yeah. Counter Terrorism Command. The youngest DI in the force. Have you met him?
SHERLOCK: No. But my brother thinks the world of him and his team.
LESTRADE (without the least hint of jealousy): Justly so.
JOHN: And so does Sally Donovan.
SHERLOCK (with a yawn): No, she just thinks of them as a lesser evil. Besides, they've got coffee.
LESTRADE: It's no coincidence Jamal's here tonight, at any rate. The powers that be at the Yard have been running around like headless chickens all afternoon. We've had some distinguished visitors, obviously, who voiced a polite request for this affair to be taken very seriously.
JOHN: Unlike everything else you've got going?
LESTRADE (annoyed): Exactly. No, really, I've rarely seen Jamal so on edge. He's being kept on his toes by the DCS, and the DCS is being kept on his toes by the Commissioner, and the Commissioner by the Home Secretary, and the Home Secretary – (He glances at Sherlock.)
SHERLOCK: - by my brother. And my brother by the Americans.(He snorts.) What a ballet.
Lestrade shrugs.
LESTRADE: That's the way it works. I don't mind telling you what Jamal said to the SCO19 guys just now.
JOHN: What?
LESTRADE: That he'd been expressly instructed that this wasn't the time to exercise restraint. And I think I can hear the accent he's been told that in.
There is a silence. Lestrade glances at his watch and drums his fingers on his thigh.
LESTRADE: I could do with a smoke. (With another sidelong glance at Sherlock, who is on the verge of a grin) And don't look at me like that. (To John) You know, the single worst thing about him coming back from the dead was that I had to stop smoking again.
John raises his eyebrows.
SHERLOCK: He just hates losing all the time.
JOHN: Don't tell me you're still playing that little game?
SHERLOCK: Of course. I've already ruined his professional reputation, I feel I have a moral obligation to at least save his life.
Lestrade gives him a disapproving look. He glances at his watch again.
SHERLOCK: And you've just done that. Who's keeping you on your toes?
LESTRADE: You, usually. Feels weird when you don't. (He shifts in his seat.) I wonder what's keeping them?
Sherlock looks out of the window into the night and doesn't answer.
JOHN (thoughtfully): You know, I keep thinking about the one the man from the GCHQ called the decent one of the bunch.
SHERLOCK (still looking out, not really listening): Yeah? Why?
JOHN: Because I'm not exactly a friend of oriental dictators, brainwashing institutions and child porn producers, either. But it's weird to think that, for some people, it should be such a small step from that insight to planting car bombs. Not to mention murdering your mates to stop them snitching on you.
Sherlock shrugs.
LESTRADE (pointedly): "The Generous".
JOHN: What?
LESTRADE: Kareem is Arabic for "The Generous". One of the ninety-nine names of Allah, according to Jamal. Though in terms of generosity, that one's got nothing on his Czech colleague. Not to mention the decency everybody seems so ready to credit him with.
John nods.
LESTRADE: Jamal had a couple of interesting thoughts on that group, by the way, and now I've seen the video myself, I think he's right. The presence of the one called Yevgeny is really odd - a Russian ex-military man, a mercenary who's never been interested in anything but money before, in that mask? And this whole plot, I mean the car bomb, is a far cry from what we usually see from those cyber kiddies who style themselves the Robin Hoods of the internet. The amount of logistics, intelligence and funds they'd need to make it happen – and all of it very tangible, not virtual at all…
JOHN: You think that they actually put those masks on to appear more harmless than they really are?
LESTRADE: Yeah, exactly. They may have wanted us to think of them as Robin Hoods, but in fact they're probably more like agents of the King of France, or whoever was the hostile superpower hovering in the background at that time.
John raises his eyebrows again, looking both impressed and a bit unsettled at the implications. Sherlock turns back towards the other two, another grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
SHERLOCK (to Lestrade): And what does that make you? The Sheriff of Nottingham?
LESTRADE (drily): No, that's your brother. I'm just one of those nameless idiots in chain mail who fall off their horses with arrows sticking out of their chests. (Serious again) But what I meant to say is that although this Arbo is made to look like their leader in the video, he being the biggest name in the business, it's probably Yevgeny who really pulls the strings. The other two - Kareem and the Czech – are no more than foot soldiers who just take care of the technical side of things, according to Jamal's theory. Small fry, not big fish.
SHERLOCK: Mycroft thought so, too.
John glances at Sherlock, apparently trying to remember Mycroft ever saying anything of the sort, fails, and gives up.
LESTRADE (to Sherlock): And do you agree?
SHERLOCK (indifferently): I suppose so. For all it's worth.
There is a short silence. All three of them seem deep in thought.
LESTRADE: He's got a proper name now, by the way.
SHERLOCK(looking up sharply): Who, Kareem?
LESTRADE: No, the Czech. He's Pavel Rudnik, 21, an IT student from Prague. Entered the country on his real passport on the seventeenth, on an Easyjet flight to Stansted, checked into a backpacker hostel near St Pancras, checked out again after breakfast on the nineteenth and never surfaced again until early this morning on the A2. The description they gave us at the hostel fits exactly with what we got from the Czech colleagues, and it's our body right enough. We're still waiting for the DNA results, but as far as I'm concerned, it's definitely him, by the description, and by the – erm –
SHERLOCK: - dental record?
LESTRADE (embarrassed): Yeah.
SHERLOCK: I hope you've apologised to Molly Hooper.
Lestrade gives him a dark look, but doesn't reply.
SHERLOCK(lightly): I'll know it if you don't.
JOHN: That's a kind of comfort, anyway.
He has obviously been following his own line of thought.
LESTRADE(puzzled): What is?
JOHN (a little sadly): That he'll be buried under his own name, rather than in that mask.
SHERLOCK (drily): Wouldn't be allowed anyway.
JOHN: What?
SHERLOCK: Not biodegradable.
John and Lestrade exchange a slightly revolted look. At this moment, Lestrade's radio creaks, and he grabs it and climbs out of the van. The detective sergeants are just leaving their car as well. They gather in a small circle again, together with most of the uniformed officers, except those keeping guard where the road has been cordoned off. Sherlock and John follow, this time joining the policemen as a matter of course.
LESTRADE(lowering the radio from his ear): Alright, they've got them covered. Their van was parked too close to the fence to encircle them fully, but Jamal says it should work this way. The recycling centre building will mask our approach. (Glancing around at everyone in turn, including John and Sherlock) Can I rely on everyone to make sure that we won't have any unnecessary collateral damage? Keep well back and let the SCO19 lot finish their work first, please.
SHERLOCK (aping a young child's voice): OK, mummy.
LESTRADE (to Sherlock, sternly): No, you are an amateur when it comes to operating a submachine gun. And you don't argue with one of those, either.
Subdued laughter rises from the ranks of the policemen. Even John can't help grinning. Sherlock scowls. They begin moving down Regis Road, Lestrade and his plain clothes colleagues striding ahead, then the uniformed policemen, and John and Sherlock bringing up the rear.
JOHN (as they walk along, quietly): Sherlock?
SHERLOCK: Mmh?
JOHN: What are we doing here?
SHERLOCK: Our job?
JOHN: What job? The case is solved. Your brother asked you to find them, and you did.
SHERLOCK: Yes, but this is the really fun part, isn't it? (With a knowing grin at his friend) Don't tell me you'd have preferred to miss it.
John gives him a disapproving look, but the way his face lights up with badly suppressed excitement when they turn the corner and see the low recycling centre building in front of them speaks volumes.
A moment later, they have entered the compound and are edging around the low dark building that screens the car-park behind it from the road. At the rear corner of the side of the building, one of the SCO19 officers can be seen crouching on the ground, his gun levelled on something in the car-park. A few paces behind him and close to the wall stands DI Massoud, his radio in his hand. He turns when he hears Lestrade and the others approach, gesturing to them for silence. But at that exact moment, a sudden hoarse shout in Russian can be heard, by the sound of it a warning, and immediately afterwards, the stillness of the night is torn apart by a volley of gunshots, some from a handgun but many more from the submachine guns of the SCO19 marksmen. The one at the corner, however, is still holding his fire. Massoud flattens himself against the wall. Lestrade carefully sidles up to him. The uniformed regulars and the detective sergeants, with deeply ingrained discipline, dutifully hang back, but they're all on tip-toe, craning their necks to see what's going on.
MASSOUD (listening intently to what he hears on his radio and relating it quickly to the others, no longer concerned about silence): One of them's in the transformer station. Must have spotted us, started firing straight away. The two others are still in the van. No fire from that direction.
The gunfire dies down again. The marksman at the corner beckons to the two detective inspectors, signalling to them that it is safe to come closer again. As they peer around the corner, the situation becomes immediately clear. At the back of the building, at the further end of the almost empty car-park, a high fence of vertical steel bars separates the compound from the darkness beyond. Parked close to the fence, parallel to it, is a white minivan with the BT logo on it, its side door open, but nobody to be seen within. To the right of the van, there is the small transformer station. Its door is at right angles to the recycling centre building, so we can't look inside it from our corner. It is obviously at a blind angle for the marksman stationed here, too, though apparently not for the others, two of whom can be seen crouching on the flat roof of the recycling centre building with their guns trained on it. The other marksmen are out of sight from our point of view. The whole scene is very dark, since the armed officers have the lights on their guns and helmets switched off not to present an easy target. They can be seen only in shadowy outline.
LESTRADE (in a low voice, to Massoud): What now?
MASSOUD: Call for surrender.
SHERLOCK: Pointless.
LESTRADE (with a shrug): Good manners.
He turns around fully and frowns, realising only now that Sherlock, and John behind him, have crept up right to where he and Massoud are standing. He opens his mouth to protest, but never gets the chance.
MASSOUD(into his radio): Call for surrender.
At the same moment, another shout in Russian can be heard from the direction of the transformer station.
SHERLOCK (urgently): Yevgeny. Told the others to run.
Before Sherlock has even finished speaking, the man in the transformer station starts firing again, and the marksmen on the roof of the building, as well as some from further away to the left, immediately return the fire, the bullets ricocheting off the walls of the transformer station with shrill whistling noises. There is a shadow of movement in the open door of the van, and a moment later, two pale ovals appear in the almost total darkness, side by side, but the one on the right notably higher up than the other. The as yet unengaged marksman at the near corner can be seen to take careful aim at the figure on the right. John grimaces. Sherlock is biting his lower lip. The marksman fires a single shot. Both masked men drop headlong out of the open door into the even deeper darkness on the ground.
JOHN (under his breath): God.
SHERLOCK (calmly): Can't hit two men with a single shot.
John squints into the darkness ahead. There is definitely the dark lump of a body lying motionless on the ground in front of the van, but it doesn't look big enough for two.
SHERLOCK (in a whisper): Crept under the van, the fox.
The marksman takes aim again, but refrains from firing as he realises that the unmoving body on the ground is blocking his line of fire. He can be heard to mutter a curse, and begins to shift to the right for a better firing line in case he should spot his second target again. Sherlock quickly glances up at the marksmen on the roof. For them, the angle is clearly too steep for their shots to reach under the van. The ones further to the left are being kept busy by Yevgeny in the transformer station. Sherlock puts his hand on John's arm.
SHERLOCK (urgently, no longer bothering to keep his voice down): Come on, John! That one's ours!
And he forges ahead, passes the marksman on the corner with a few long strides, then immediately swerves to the right to give the embattled transformer station a wide berth. John hares after him, whether to stop his friend doing something incredibly stupid or to share the fun is unclear.
LESTRADE (shouting after them): Oi, keep back! Are you mad?
Massoud speaks hectically into his radio, presumably to stop the marksmen firing on Sherlock and John by mistake, then exchanges a look with Lestrade and shakes his head in exasperation.
We follow Sherlock and John as they pass behind the transformer station, running at top speed. They're now in the actual yard of the recycling centre, which is filled with containers for glass and scrap metal and paper and other materials. Sherlock skitters to a halt in an open space, trying to get his bearings. John catches up with him, takes a torchlight from the pocket of his jacket and shines it around. The gunfire from the car-park continues in the background, though less intense now. Straight ahead, between two containers, a part of the high fence marking the rear boundary of the compound can be seen, and at that exact moment, a shadow flits across it from the left – the direction of the car-park – to the right. Sherlock and John exchange a look, then race after it, John pocketing his light again as he runs. As they turn the corner, a long, clear, arrow-straight stretch of ground opens before them all along the fence, and a little further on, the running figure of a man is clearly discernible even in the darkness. When he glances over his shoulder at his pursuers, he can be seen to still wear his Guy Fawkes mask. Sherlock and John set off after their quarry, but John, on his shorter legs, is soon falling behind. He slows down deliberately, and half-pulls his gun out of his pocket as if he is considering taking aim at the fleeing man's legs. But Sherlock, with his coat billowing out behind him, is right in his line of fire anyway.
JOHN (under his breath): Get out of the way, you idiot!
Sherlock simply runs on. John grimaces, fully pockets his gun again and follows. The fence on their left ends, but is seamlessly replaced by a brick wall of equal height. They've crossed almost the whole breadth of the compound now, at the end of which the brick wall turns at a right angle, creating a corner. There is a high, untidy stack of scrap timber tossed helter-skelter into the corner under the wall. The masked man, maybe twenty yards ahead of Sherlock at this point, jumps straight onto the timbers, which move and slide precariously under his weight, and scrambles up to the top of the stack. He reaches up with his hands and starts pulling himself up onto the wall. Sherlock, already on the lower part of the stack, lunges upward to make a grab for the man's feet, but without success. In the blink of an eye, the man is up and over the wall, while Sherlock's greater weight and the momentum of his movement have dislodged the timbers on top even further, setting off a veritable avalanche. Sherlock loses his footing and his balance, slithers backwards and downwards on the rolling timbers and collides violently with John, who has just reached the foot of the stack. John gives a wordless shout of alarm and anger as Sherlock's weight knocks him right to the ground. Sherlock almost comes down on top of his friend, reeling and steadying himself against John as he struggles to stay upright. John, on the ground, gives another yell, this time of pain, and clutches his ankle.
JOHN: Ow! My foot!
Sherlock, firmly on his own feet again by now, grabs him by the arm to pull him up, but John collapses again with a grimace.
SHERLOCK(shouting into his face): For God's sake, John! We're losing him!
John jerks his arm out of Sherlock's grasp.
JOHN (shouting back): Then go ahead, dammit!
Sherlock hesitates for a second, then nods, lets go of John and scrambles up on all fours onto what remains of the timber stack. He can still just reach the top of the wall with his hands, pulls himself up as well and disappears over it.
On the other side of the wall, we see him drop down to the ground. A railway line runs very close to the wall, and in the darkness ahead, the masked man is just visible racing along the tracks. Sherlock gives chase again, and either he is going faster than before, trying to make up for lost time, or the other man is flagging now, or both, but fifty paces further on, the distance between them has already shortened considerably. From round a bend, the enormous headlights of a Thameslink train suddenly loom out of the darkness, and the rumbling noise of the train fills the air. The masked man swerves to the right to avoid the train, crashing through the undergrowth on the bank lining the tracks. Sherlock turns aside at the same point just as the train comes rattling past him, perilously close. On the other side of the bank, yet another industrial yard opens before him, this one entirely empty, fenced in on one side, walled in on the other. The ground is paved with concrete, broken in places, and littered with debris. The masked man is barely ten yards ahead now, making for the metal barrier separating the yard from the road beyond. He stumbles on the uneven paving, catches himself just before he falls, but it loses him vital seconds, and a moment later, Sherlock is on him. He crash-tackles him to the ground, and they are rolling together in a flurry of arms and legs and coat-tails until Sherlock comes out on top. He tries to pin the other man down with his hands on his shoulders, but his opponent is writhing like an eel and fighting like a wildcat to throw him off. They're almost face to face, or rather face to mask, Sherlock breathing heavily, a vein pulsing in the side of his neck, the Guy Fawkes face ghostly pale in the darkness. The masked man's right hand comes up, holding a broken piece of brick that he has clawed from the ground, and he aims a vicious blow at Sherlock's head with it. Sherlock jerks his head aside, and the piece of brick barely grazes the side of his face. He grips the other man's wrist and slams his elbow down hard onto the paving. With a yelp of pain, the masked man drops the brick. Sherlock lets go of his arm, makes a grab for the Guy Fawkes mask and rips it off his opponent's face.
SHERLOCK: Hello, Victor. I thought I knew your voice.
And we cut to -
The same empty yard, a few minutes later. It is quiet and deserted, except for the dark figure of Sherlock lying motionless the ground exactly where we saw him catch up with the masked man earlier. There is the sound of muffled shouting and running footsteps, and a moment later, Lestrade and several of the armed SCO19 officers come trampling through the undergrowth from the direction of the railway line. John is a couple of lengths behind them, limping. The armed officers immediately secure the area, pointing their lights and their guns into every last corner, then spread out, looking for their escaped quarry, most of them making for the barrier separating the yard from the road. Lestrade, and John after him with his torch in his hand again, run straight to Sherlock on the ground. Lestrade reaches him first and turns him over. John drops down on his knees on Sherlock's other side.
JOHN (very tensely): Sherlock?
He shines his light directly into Sherlock's face. It picks out a trail of dark red blood running down the side of his face from a deep gash in his left temple. Sherlock groans and blinks, blinded by the sudden glare. John immediately lowers the light in his hand.
JOHN (under his breath): Thank goodness.
SHERLOCK (stupidly): John?
LESTRADE (to Sherlock, urgently): Where did he go?
SHERLOCK: Who?
LESTRADE: Guy Fawkes. Remember?
SHERLOCK (confused): I had him.
LESTRADE (grimacing): Not for long. Did you see where he went?
SHERLOCK: No... (He struggles into a sitting position. John props him up.) But I heard… (He shakes his head as if to clear his thoughts.) Broken glass under his feet. Mesh wire, creaking under his weight.
Lestrade immediately takes the torch from John, straightens up and points it around the yard. The light picks out a glint of broken glass on the ground, a couple of feet away to their left, and beyond it, the mesh wire fence separating the yard from the next compound.
LESTRADE (calling to the armed officers): This way!
They run towards the fence, and two of the officers immediately sling their guns over their shoulders and start scaling up. Sherlock and John are left alone in the middle of the yard.
SHERLOCK: We should go with them.
JOHN: You don't look like you'll be much use.
Sherlock grimaces in frustration.
JOHN: He gave you quite a dent there. Let me have a look.
SHERLOCK (peevishly): Oh, I'm fine.
He fingers the gash in his temple and looks at his bloody fingertips with detached interest. John pulls a face.
JOHN: Leave it alone. That wants to be cleaned and then taped, if not stitched. Let's get back to the cars. Come on.
He straightens up and holds out his hand to pull Sherlock to his feet. Sherlock gratefully takes it and lets himself be pulled upright. They set out in the direction of the road, taking it slowly.
SHERLOCK (glancing sideways at John as they walk): Why are you limping?
JOHN (exasperated): Because some great oaf stepped right onto my Achilles tendon while trying to disentangle himself from his own overlarge coat.
SHERLOCK (pulling his coat around himself, in an offended tone): It's not overlarge. It fits me perfectly.
John rolls his eyes. They turn a corner, and the flashing blue lights of the waiting police cars can be seen in the distance.
Shortly afterwards, John and Sherlock are sitting side by side on the step of the open side door of one of the police vans, Sherlock with his elbow propped against the jamb of the door and the good side of his head in his hand, still looking slightly befuddled. An ambulance is parked close by, its rear doors open, brightly lit inside. There is a shape of a covered body visible on the stretcher, but nobody attends to it. One of the paramedics stands next to the vehicle, talking to Sally Donovan and the older of Massoud's detective sergeants. Another paramedic – a broad-shouldered, very resolute-looking woman with spiky short hair – approaches the police van where John and Sherlock are sitting. John gets up to make room for her. She nods in acknowledgment, puts the bag with her equipment down where John was sitting and opens it. Sherlock, rather unwillingly, sits up straight to let himself be administered to. Wordlessly, the paramedic puts on fresh gloves, none too gently pushes Sherlock's hair off his face and starts dabbing off the blood and cleaning the wound on his temple. At that moment, the sound of approaching footsteps can be heard – several people, some of them in heavy boots – and Greg Lestrade and the armed officers who have been hunting for the fugitive come striding into view. Sherlock turns his head to look.
PARAMEDIC (stiffly): Can you keep still for a moment, please.
Sherlock scowls at her.
PARAMEDIC (equally annoyed): Just trying to do my job, OK?
SHERLOCK: And you're keeping me from doing mine. Hurry up.
John grimaces unhappily. The armed officers are dispersing to their own cars, taking off their helmets as they go. Lestrade walks up to Sherlock and John. The paramedic turns towards him.
PARAMEDIC(pointing at Sherlock but addressing Lestrade): This one of yours, or one of the bad guys?
LESTRADE: Ours. Why?
PARAMEDIC (holding up her antiseptic spray): Just wondering how much to make it sting.
LESTRADE (glancing disapprovingly at Sherlock): Oh, the whole works, if you like. He hasn't exactly covered himself with glory.
PARAMEDIC: Fine.
She gets back to work, actually turning Sherlock's head back towards her with a hand under his chin. He resigns himself to his fate, at least for the time being.
JOHN(to Lestrade): He got away then?
LESTRADE (in a voice full of frustration): Clean away. (Under his breath) Fucking shit.
SHERLOCK (muttering): Not my fault.
LESTRADE (rounding on Sherlock): Oh, really? I think someone told you not to meddle. And even so, can you believe it? Two men go after a mere boy by the look of him, and the result is, one is limping and one is bleeding and none of them has anything to show for it!
SHERLOCK (equally loudly): And you can go and solve your cases yourself, next time! Ouch!
The paramedic smiles sourly.
JOHN (to Lestrade, in an appeasing tone): But you said you had the other two.
LESTRADE: Yeah. Sort of.
Sally Donovan appears at Lestrade's shoulder. She has evidently overheard the last exchange.
SALLY: Very sort of. The one who got shot is as dead as the proverbial doornail. Bullet in his thigh ruptured the femoral artery, according to the medic. Bled to death before we ever got to him.
LESTRADE: And the other one?
SALLY (with a shrug): Nothing but bumps and bruises, but pretends to speak only Russian. I've requested an interpreter, but they're all busy at the moment. I doubt we'll get one before morning, and by then the third man will be long gone.
LESTRADE: Jamal -?
SALLY: Any amount of Urdu and Arabic, but no Russian. Besides, he's busy on the phone.
She and Lestrade exchange a look of sympathy for their hard-pressed colleague.
JOHN (to Sherlock): Why don't you - ?
Sherlock gives John a disapproving look. The paramedic has now finished cleaning the gash and is taping it closed. In spite of her bad temper, she works very conscientiously and competently.
LESTRADE (to Sherlock, still very much annoyed): Oh, yeah. Try and make yourself useful, for a change?
Sherlock shrugs. They wait in silence for the paramedic to finish her job. When she does and starts packing up her equipment, Sherlock gets up.
JOHN(to the paramedic): Thank you.
She merely wrinkles her nose and leaves in a huff.
Inside the back of the police van that served Lestrade, Sherlock and John as a waiting room earlier, Yevgeny, minus his mask, is sitting in the back corner of one of the benches with his handcuffed hands in his lap. He's a bull of a man with very short hair and bloodshot eyes and a look of supreme unconcern on his face. A uniformed officer sits next to him, keeping guard, then Sally Donovan. On the opposite bench sits Lestrade, Sherlock next to him, then John. Jamal Massoud is nowhere to be seen; he's probably still on the phone, apologising to his superiors for not making a complete success of his mission.
LESTRADE (to Sherlock): OK, ask him if he knows that his comrade is dead. Just so he knows that he can't possibly expect any help from that quarter.
SHERLOCK (with a glance at Yevgeny's face): Ask him yourself. He understands you perfectly.
LESTRADE(to Yevgeny): Right. So?
In response, Yevgeny releases a string of very aggressive-sounding Russian words in Lestrade's direction. Lestrade gives Sherlock a questioning look.
SHERLOCK: He says he thinks your mother had some fun with a dog, and you were the result. (Lestrade's jaw drops.) But I think he's speaking figuratively.
John grins. Lestrade is not amused. Yevgeny fires off more Russian expletives, this time in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock replies, probably in kind, and Yevgeny repeats what he just said, only louder.
LESTRADE (to Sherlock): And now I'm dying to know what he's got to say about your mum.
SHERLOCK: Nothing whatsoever. He merely corrected my grammar.
LESTRADE (to Yevgeny): Now listen, buddy. You'll get one chance now to show a bit of goodwill. If you tell us where to look for the third man of your little troupe, there might be something in it for you. If you don't, your loss.
Yevgeny's lips curl in a sneer, but he remains silent. Sherlock sighs and gets up.
SHERLOCK (to Lestrade, mock-politely): With all due respect, Detective Inspector, that gentleman is wasting your time, and mine. (He suppresses a yawn.) Besides, my head hurts. I want my bed.
Sally Donovan gives a derisive snort. Yevgeny leers and jerks his head in her direction, following it with what sounds like a question to Sherlock. Sherlock glances at Sally, too, turns back to Yevgeny, smiles at him very briefly and then viciously backhands him across the face. Yevgeny's head jerks backwards, bumping against the car window, and he makes a whimpering sound.
SHERLOCK: Don't say that again, ever.
There is a stunned silence from the onlookers.
SALLY (after a moment, to Sherlock): Wow. Is that where I say thank you?
SHERLOCK: Don't bother. It wasn't personal. Come on, John.
Sherlock and John climb out of the van.
A little later, John and Sherlock are walking through the night, making their own way home. John is still limping slightly. Sherlock is staring straight ahead. John glances up at him occasionally.
JOHN (after a while): You alright?
SHERLOCK: Of course.
JOHN (with a shrug): You don't usually whine.
SHERLOCK: It's kind of liberating, at times.
Silence. They walk on.
JOHN: Don't let it get to you.
SHERLOCK: I don't.
JOHN: Yes you do. Or have you suddenly developed a tenderness for Sally Donovan?
Sherlock merely snorts.
JOHN: Listen, they might catch him yet. And even if they don't, you agreed yourself that he was only a foot soldier, not one of the big fish. A pawn, right? No more.
Sherlock stops dead in his tracks and turns towards his friend. He narrows his eyes, and there is suddenly a look of grim determination on his face.
SHERLOCK: He's not a pawn, John.
John frowns. Sherlock seems on the verge of saying more, but changes his mind, turns away and walks on. John follows.