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Sunday afternoon, 15 April 2018 continued

Sherlock glanced at the time: 16.07. Why would John be texting him during an "exhilarating" squash finals match? And where was the punctuation in his texts? John was usually a stickler for punctuation, a throwback to his more formal writing.

Unless there was a problem...

Was he texting for help? Why not text Vatican Cameos? That would have been clearer.

Unless he couldn't… Sherlock deduced the myriad possibilities why a perfectly competent adult would be texting nonsense, aside from being shitfaced, and reduced it to one—John's hands were inaccessible... Why? Immediately, Sherlock imagined John's wrists bound behind his back with his numbed fingers wrapped around his mobile. Good man, he had kept it hidden from his captor. Still, John was disadvantaged by touch-screen technology. With no feel for raised buttons nor a view of the keypad, he'd have to swipe along the QWERTY screen as the algorithm of autocorrect formed the words. Sherlock imagined John aimlessly pressing until his thumb found the send button.

Clutching the sides of his head, Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut to process all relevant threats—past and current—against him that might possibly endanger John, collaterally. Try as he might, none seemed germane, although there was one possible candidate: a drug-dealing petty thief with a penchant for stealing—among other things—girlie magazines from shops and private homes. Tim Whitney was on probation after two-year's rehabilitation and time-served in HMP High Down. During his arrest, Whitney was as high as a kite, but his threat was nothing Sherlock hadn't heard before. "Whot! They got nuffin' on me, y'bastard! When I get out, you watch out!"

All bark, no bite, Sherlock had thought at the time. Had he been wrong?

He went to his laptop and pulled up the last update from the Met. Tim Whitney last checked in two days ago with his probation officer in Surrey. Clean as a whistle, a model citizen, holding down a responsible job the notes had indicated, and "eyes on" Tim Whitney had not detected anything suspicious. He did not really seem the "get-even" type; he was mere talk, but what if…?

The thought remained unfinished. Apprehension that they or he had overlooked the slightest detail—even though John had not accompanied him on that particular venture— focused Sherlock's attention. Had he put his friend in harm's way? As he considered his options for intervening in John's plight, another text pinged, "Dunno we be it", causing Sherlock to recall their phone conversation from several weeks ago, and mostly regret his snappish goodbye.

"Greg will be there…" John had said.

Lestrade! He would ring Lestrade… no! Not ring, text…if they were hostages and Lestrade was in the same situation, a ringing phone would bring attention and do more harm than good. Sherlock knew the text notification on the DI's mobile was a very soft sound and less likely to be noticeable to any captor. And once Sherlock sent an incoming text, Greg could easily hit reply…or better yet, turn his phone on so Sherlock could listen in.

Sherlock texted, "Ring me." Realizing and regretting as he pushed the send, that he was now gambling with the good Detective Inspector's safety, Sherlock bent forward in his armchair with clasped hands resting between his knees, a pose that resembled praying.

While Sherlock hoped for success, he had to wonder what idiot captor would let his hostages keep their mobiles? Many a time he derided the intelligence level of the criminal element. "They have the IQ of toddlers," he had complained to John more than once.

Unfortunately, that described Tim Whitney, not the brightest bulb, certainly. Had it not been Mrs. Hudson's cousin who had had her jewelry stolen by the drug-addled Whitney, Sherlock would not have bothered with the case. His swift intervention had enabled the police to catch Whitney in the act of pawning the goods.

Precious seconds passed while Sherlock awaited a reply, then precious minutes, two precisely, before there was a responding text ping. Scooping up his phone Sherlock read the message, "Hog has to be back" ratcheting Sherlock's apprehension into fear for his friends' well-being.

Thinking hard about John's invitation those weeks before, Sherlock had never bothered about the "guest list" as he was certain no one among John's friends would be anywhere close to intriguing. Could this miscreant have been a part of John's new social group? It would not be hard for Tim Whitney to locate Dr. John Watson at the surgery and befriend the likeable doctor as John was a pushover, at times, for companionship. Had Sherlock attended this ludicrous sports-ritual event of John's, he should have recognized and deterred Whitney immediately. Arrogance, disdain, distaste for sports along with their inebriated fans, and a general impatience with the entire world of idiots fueled this aspect of Sherlock's antisocial tendencies and had made it laughably easy for him to reject John's offer.

What might have happened at John's social event was uncertain, but certainly time was of the essence. How long had his friends been immobilized? Was it worth delaying action and risking his friends' safety because his suspicions were based upon insufficient evidence?

No, but verification to some degree was vital. That his friends might be in danger was not the only problem, how to verify his suspicions was another. Verification in person wasn't the most expedient. It would take him forty minutes on an ordinary April Sunday afternoon to leave London and get to the Watson's suburban home by taxi or public transport or even by borrowing Mrs. Hudson's Aston Martin.

Verification by remote resources would have been best, but there were neither watchful drones nor surveillance equipment he could tap into near or within the Watson's abode. After John had become widowed, Sherlock had broached the topic as a security measure. Not unsurprising, John would have none of it, and Sherlock had respected, somewhat begrudgingly, his friend's wishes. He regretted not having persuaded John to install a listening device for this very purpose.

Time was indeed of the essence. As much as Sherlock preferred the dispassionate approach to think things through, he recognized that there was scarce time for irrefutable verification. And verification in situ was paramount. Short of teleporting to the Watson's flat, Sherlock couldn't possibly be on the scene quickly enough to obtain the information he needed. It was plain. To protect John, Sherlock must ask for help.

He had learnt the hard way that his "protection" was useless if he did not muster all his reasoning skills to maximize in a timely fashion the best possible resources, even if those resources excluded him from the operation. And there was only one person to whom he could turn who could marshal personnel and respond to the scene with more immediacy—Mycroft—and it also meant trusting that those in Mycroft's employ could do the job better than he could do alone. At wit's end and without another moment of hesitation, Sherlock called his brother.

88**88

Mrs. Hudson's Aston Martin purred as Sherlock motored toward the London suburbs, hoping his speeding would not attract bothersome attention from the Road Police. His fingers drummed the drive wheel when they weren't clenched with foreboding. Tuned in to the official communiqué via earphones and still thirty minutes from his destination, he divided his attention between the demands of the road and the discussion of the rescue-operation plans as Mycroft's team assembled. Ordered to approach the premises with extreme caution—there was a toddler among the hostages—the team was currently in position outside the Watson's home waiting for word to move. Until internal surveillance determined the situation—how many captors were involved and the whereabouts of the hostages inside the Watson's flat—they were working with unknowns.

Sherlock had suggested two actions: first that Mycroft request local authorities in Surrey to be discreet with checking the whereabouts of Tim Whitney and second, that Mycroft seek official authorization to access the "hot mic" tool for listening in on John's and Greg's phones. Everyone was standing down until the audio surveillance provided enough crucial intelligence to move forward.

Sherlock understood the protocol and as he adroitly maneuvered the British sports car through traffic and onto the motorways, he repressed any thoughts about being too late.

"Still locating Whitney," Mycroft's level voice was soothing as it was devoid of emotion, "and awaiting confirmation that he went to Bury Hill Fisheries in Dorking—this according to his landlord. We've also got audio now of the Watson's flat, Sherlock. Can you hear it?"

Sherlock wiggled the earbud tighter into his ear canal to ensure he would miss nothing. "Not yet…"

"You should be hearing what we're hearing any moment."

The first crackle of sound in Sherlock's earpiece was sharp and jarring. He flinched from the audio assault but seconds later, the volume and clarity were perfect.

He heard howling male voices, rising and falling sometimes in anguish, sometimes in fury and then sometimes in relieved laughter. These jumbled shouts were farthest from the phones and were mostly indistinguishable, but Sherlock strained and thought he recognized John's and Greg's voices in the mix. In the foreground there was constant heavy breathing, along with gurgling, but the distinct voice made Sherlock freeze. Rosie giggled…then she cooed…then she mumbled an entire nursery rhyme in a sing-song cadence that indicated she was perfectly fine and absorbed in entertaining herself. This was followed by the musical tones of a mobile's buttons being pressed and the three-year-old's voice saying, "Hewo? Hewo? A'body there?" In the background another explosive chorus of men's voices erupted in consternation.

"Sherlock, Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice interrupted in his earpiece. "Can you make this out? Do you understand what's going on? Shall we move in? "

That Mycroft was serious made Sherlock cringe even more. He clenched the drive wheel until his fists were white, saying, "Continue to stand down. I have a theory…" you may not like, he finished silently.

More soft mutterings in Rosie's lilting voice preceded a satisfied exhalation. An instant later, Sherlock's phone pinged with a received text message. The Aston Martin, synchronized to Sherlock's phone, offered to read the message aloud. Dreading it, Sherlock hit play, "Message from John," the sultry car voice said. "Like not is it" and Sherlock groaned under his breath, "Swipe keypads and autocorrect be damned!" He smacked the drive wheel as Rosie giggled playfully in his ear.

"What, Sherlock?" Mycroft demanded sharply also in his ear.

"Hold on," Sherlock advised Mycroft. "Just to be sure, have your men stay close but stand down. I'm twenty minutes out, and while I believe I know the situation, I'd rather listen to a bit more audio to confirm my suspicions."

Two more minutes of listening confirmed the scenario in Sherlock's mind. The marginally-attended three-year-old had got her hands on the smartphones, at least John's and Greg's. Her little fingers had been swiping over the text keypad and composing nonsensical messages, spelled into nominally intelligent phrases by autocorrect. The lack of punctuation should have been a clue! Autocorrect did not punctuate! Whomever else Rosie might have been texting or ringing would be evident when Sherlock substituted her new toys with less interactive ones. It seemed obvious, by the yowls of agony and ecstasy, that the exciting finals match had completely diverted the attention of the big boys in the room. Right under their noses, one clever little girl had used the power of technology to wreak embarrassing havoc.

"Okay, Mycroft," Sherlock swallowed his pride, "The situation is clear. There is no intruder. Whitney's not involved. You may call off your men with my apologies for a false alarm."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft's intonation was unmistakably officious. "Have just received confirmation: Tim Whitney's been located by the local authorities. Lucky man. Fish were biting. He caught his dinner. Alibi checks out." Another icy remark followed, "Fear you've been a bit rash, brother mine."

"When time is of the essence, rash is the risk…," Sherlock conceded ruefully. By the time he had finished explaining the situation to his brother—who self-righteously felt constrained to share the pound-value cost of such a rescue operation to the British government—Sherlock had parked in front of the house, his disposition decidedly cross. "'Caring is not an advantage, indeed,'" he muttered during the short walk to the Watson's flat. He stopped at the wrought-iron gate and texted Molly—as Mrs. Hudson didn't text, "Ring Mrs H. Tell her John and Rosie are fine. Car is safe. Let her explain everything to you." Sherlock descended the front steps and banged on the door with more force than was necessary…or polite.

John opened the door and did a double-take upon seeing his friend, "Ssssher—?" Clearly oblivious to Sherlock's brow furrowed in vexation, John welcomed Sherlock with a broad grin of surprise."Hah! Sherlock!"

"Hey, Sherrr-lock," Greg Lestrade hailed—more than a bit pissed—from the living room where five armchair athletes, mental about the outcome of the finals match, argued in loud voices.

"Well, this is a shock," John swiveled his head toward his guests and back to the peeved man standing at the threshold. "You decided to come after all! Nice."

"Good match, John?" Sherlock muttered sourly.

"Exciting!" John answered, his grin beginning to fade as he became aware of Sherlock's stern countenance, though mistaking its significance. "Too bad, you just missed it. We came in second, though!" Again he offered Sherlock an innocent smile and beckoned. "Come in, come in."

The whiff of beer and cheese and crisps and onions tickled Sherlock's nostrils once inside the door. And then Rosie's delighted shriek pierced the noisy room.

"Unky Ssshurkky!" As fast as her little legs could take her, she came running. In each hand she held a smartphone, gooey with cheese, saliva, and smeared with fingerprints. "Ssshurkky," she exclaimed affectionately and offered them in her uplifted hands to Sherlock as a gift.

"What's this, Rosie?" John bent over to retrieve his and Greg's phones making a disgusted face at their condition. "Have you been playing with these?" The child giggled and toddled off to find an actual toy to entertain her this time.

"Yes, she has," Sherlock snapped. "That's why I'm here! Along with a special-force team to help release the hostages…"

"Huh? Oh MY God!" John's eyes widened in understanding, flicked over to his daughter, and then narrowed as he knitted his brows. "You're kidding, right?"

"You know, John, I don't 'kid,'" he said with decided scorn on the last word.

"There's my phone!" Greg swayed, clamping a hand on John's shoulder and giving Sherlock a lopsided grin. "Gobsmacked to see you here. Really, Sherlock, thought this wasn't your scene. John throws a good party, though," he grinned foolishly.

"Hammered are we, Lestrade?" Sherlock remarked, looking down his nose while one disapproving eyebrow rose.

"No worries. Off tomorrow," Greg assured him with a dismissive wave and re-pocketed his phone, not even noticing it needed to be thoroughly cleaned—probably with steam and antibacterials. He hiccoughed and grinned, "Don't have to be sharp-witted in the morning…"

"How is that different from most days?" Sherlock shot back, although Lestrade had already moved out of earshot.

"Oh, leave him be, Sherlock," John chided in a whisper, glancing at the DI and Rosie. The former was grousing with the guys about the match; the latter was jamming a stuffed toy into a colorful plastic lorry with big red wheels. "Greg's been having a rough few weeks."

"Hmmm," Sherlock followed the DI with discerning eyes. "The brunette forensic officer. It's been on and off. Years ago I told him she wasn't the one. Surprised it lasted this long. He finally found out about the kids in Rio, I assume?" Sherlock inhaled sharply and turned back to John, "Might I add, the last hour was no picnic for me, either."

John looked up at his friend's glower with a scant smile and waited. Sherlock's anger abated and the first glimmer of amusement relaxed his mouth with the promise of a smile.

"Sorry, mate," John shrugged and flicked an abashed grin. "Thought I could manage… Rosie had food and toys and I made sure she stayed close by and out of danger…"

"…but apparently not out of mischief. Your daughter," Sherlock mocked ominously, "is going to be trouble, John." Sherlock gestured toward the trays of leftover food and the assorted alcohol, "Whatever you call this party thing, retaining a childminder for the occasion would have been prudent."

"Are you volunteering?"

At Sherlock's snort, John snickered, "Okay! Lesson learnt!"

Appealing for pardon with chagrined, raised eyebrows, John shrugged in acceptance, "I swear, I won't let this happen again." Then he checked to make sure there was no one standing behind Sherlock, before adding with an impish grin, "If Mycroft's with you, tell him to come in. We've got enough crisps and drinks for another go round."

88**88

8**8

THE END