John drank the last bit of water. Now that the danger of being attacked by Charlie was over, he could concentrate on getting out of the bunker. Still... With a sigh John stood up and looked down the open shaft, studying the motionless body for a moment. He knew he would feel guilty if the man had been injured from the fall and it would have been possible to save him. With utmost care John climbed down the ladder. He quickly checked the body and discovered that Charlie indeed had survived with fractures in both legs and a fractured hipbone. For the man's sake he hoped he stayed unconscious until he could be rescued. Otherwise the pain would be excruciating.
John shone left and right with his torch and discovered an adjacent room. With a shrug he decided to take a small detour before climbing back up. That moment a whole set of explosion resounded through the bunker, turning John's world within seconds into a chaos of ear-splitting noise, falling rubble and choking dust.
"Ah, you must be Mr. Holmes." An elegantly dressed man walked towards the small group of people who stood next to the limousine. "My name is Raymond Lindhurst. I'm in charge here. Jolly good that your group left the site early enough for us to get through the demolition without delay."
Sherlock spun round and without his brother's interference he would have slammed his fist in the man's face.
"Think about the number of charges for having caused bodily harm on your record, brother mine," Mycroft said in a restrained tone of voice while barely perceptible changing his stance. "Whereas I have none," the Government official concluded before delivering a powerful straight punch to Lindhurst's face, efficiently breaking the man's nose.
When John came round he was lying in a corner and was covered with dust and pieces of rubble. Something hard was lying underneath his hip, digging into the tender flesh of the injury he had suffered earlier on. He coughed before he began groping around, only to find that he had landed on his torch. The relief John felt upon finding the torch, was quickly replaced by dread because the beam of light showed him the whole extend of damage. Had John not climbed down the open shaft, he would have been dead already. An explosion that had probably destroyed the whole bunker had closed the shaft by dumping a large chunk of concrete right over the opening. Several large pieces of concrete had fallen down and killed Charlie by smashing his skull.
John got up on his knees and managed to stand up. He staggered into the small room he had seen before. It was occupied by a wooden stool, a small table and a box with a few tools. Underneath the ceiling five orange pipes ran from the left to the right, apparently continuing beyond the room.
Touching the side of his head John discovered a swelling, where a piece of rubble had hit him. He felt slightly concussed, his eyesight was not working properly and he was feeling dizzy. Blinking for a moment he almost envied Charlie, for a quick review of the situation only provided the result that he was entombed. Considering the size of the room, John guessed that he had enough air left to survive for maybe another two hours. He sat down on the stool and stared at the dusty tabletop for a few minutes, his brain unwilling to accept the fate of dying from suffocation under a few tons of rubble, most likely never to be found.
John felt tears welling up, because he didn't want to die now and most certainly not like this. He hadn't envisioned himself going down in a blaze of glory but this kind of death was meaningless and therefore beyond bad. He whipped angrily the back of his hand over his eyes. Digging inside the pocket of his jeans he found a tissue and blew his nose before he pulled out his mobile. Of course, there was no service down here. Still, he began typing a message for Sherlock. Maybe it would find its way to him somehow.
Dear Sherlock, it's always a bad idea to leave Baker Street before having a cup of tea and without you to keep me out of trouble.
Well, it was usually Sherlock who got him into trouble in the first place but John was not about to mention that now. He was sorry though that he hadn't taken the time to have a cuppa before he had left to meet Cyrus at Finsbury Station.
A madman called Charlie killed Cyrus and chased me into a bunker facility. I managed to lure him into a trap but the whole bunker collapsed on top of me – not my fault I might say. I'm literally buried alive and I fear I'm going to die down here.
I meant to tell you before, thank you, Sherlock, for have given my life meaning again. The only regret I have is that I'd rather spent more time with you, chasing bad guys through London.
Ta and good-bye, your friend John
John pressed the button to send the message, knowing his mobile would try to send it until the battery ran out of power.
Shoving the mobile into the back pocket of his jeans, John wondered what else he could do when his gaze fell upon the pipes. He climbed onto the table and touched the pipes. To his surprise they felt warm to the touch of his fingers. If those pipes were still used to transport warm water, perhaps for heating, there was a small chance he could alert someone. Choosing a hammer from the tool-box he had discovered before, John climbed onto the table and from there on top of the pipes. It was cramped between the ceiling and the pipes but in a way it was also a bit cosy and the warmth of the pipes under his belly felt good.
For as long as he was conscious, John kept hammering SOS in Morse code ever so often and while he did, he missed the soft ping from his mobile that announced the text he had composed for Sherlock had been sent.
Sorry, dear readers, that you still have to wait for John being rescued but it won't be long now. I promise.