Author's Note: Okay, so I said this was going to be a four part series. I think it may actually turn out to be five or even six. I hope that doesn't irritate anyone too much. Anyway, remember that reviews are love, so let me know what you think and give a shout if you notice any glaringly out of place Americanisms.
Chapter 3
Lestrade was just climbing into his car after re-interviewing a witness in Blandford Square – though why the woman had suddenly felt a burning need to change her story at two in the ruddy morning instead of eight he didn't know – when he got the call. The little screen on his mobile said, "Number Blocked," as he raised it to his ear and hit the Send button. "Lestrade."
"Detective Inspector Lestrade, there has been a break in at 221b Baker St. Armed assailants may be holding the occupants hostage." The caller didn't identify herself, but it was a woman's voice, posh.
"Who is this?" Lestrade asked, shocked.
"Please respond immediately," she said without answering him.
"Why are you calling me? How did you get this number, and why haven't you called 999?" Lestrade demanded, already pulling his car into the sparse traffic along Harewood Avenue.
"Please hurry, detective. We have reason to believe that lives may be in immediate danger." The call disconnected.
"Shit!" Lestrade flicked on his lights and placed a hasty call of his own to the dispatch officer to explain what was happening and where he was going. The call was met with the intelligence that he was the closest officer to the scene and that the CO19 had received similar information and SFOs were being dispatched even as they spoke. None of that alleviated the detective's anxiety in the slightest, and Lestrade floored it, speeding toward Baker St., grateful for the uncharacteristic lack of fog at this time of year.
He pulled the car to a screeching halt in front of Speedy's Sandwich Bar, informed dispatch of his arrival and then hopped out. Barely taking the time to strap on a ballistic vest, he ran straight for the door of 221b Baker St. The front door was not locked, and Lestrade eased it open, his baton fully extended at his side. Slipping through the door, he pulled his torch as well and clicked it on just in time to earn a shriek from Sherlock's landlady, Mrs. Hudson, whom he surprised coming out of the door to her own flat. The poor woman's heart was pounding so hard that Lestrade could feel it through her robe as he backed her up against the wall and placed the hand with the baton gently over her mouth, shushing her. "Mrs. Hudson, calm down," he whispered urgently. He could see it in her eyes the moment the older woman recognized him, and she nodded weakly. "Are you alright?" She nodded again. "Can you keep quiet?" he hissed. When she nodded again, wide-eyed, Lestrade took his hand from her mouth. "Mrs. Hudson, have you seen or heard anything strange this evening?"
"I just saw your lights," she gasped, "and I got out of bed to see what – "
"No one's broken in?"
"No!" she said a bit more loudly, and Lestrade shushed her again.
"I got a call that someone has broken into 221b and your front door was unlocked."
"No, it wasn't," she protested indignantly. "I locked it myself before I went to lie down. I never leave it open, and Sherlock always locks up whenever he leaves in the middle of the night. He knows I'm afraid of burglars and – "
"Mrs. Hudson, I want you to go back in your flat and stay there with the lights off until more help arrives. Can you do that?"
"But – "
"I have to go upstairs and search for intruders. I need you to stay here," he repeated. When she nodded reluctantly, Lestrade backed away, watched her close the door of her flat behind her and then started slowly up the stairs, his torch guiding the way. The door to 221b was closed, the first serious sign he'd seen that something was truly and definitely wrong at Baker St. Sherlock never closed that bloody door. It was almost as if the consulting detective were afraid that he'd miss out on some great puzzle-solving opportunity, that some conundrum would wander by his flat but choose not to come in if it was forced to knock him up. Lestrade tried the door silently, his entire body tensing even more when it proved to be locked. Damn it! If there wasn't an intruder, if this was all just part of some massively inappropriate prank and he interrupted Dr. Watson in the middle of getting off with some bird, Lestrade was going to strangle Sherlock. Stepping back a pace, he gave the door a solid kick right at the lock. It sprang open obediently, the jamb splintering.
"Police! Freeze!" Lestrade cried and he rushed into the room, hoping devoutly that none of the detritus of Sherlock's experiments would trip him up. No one froze at his entry, no one even responded except Sherlock himself, who twitched and moaned on the sofa beside the wall. Giving the space a quick once over and seeing no initial signs of housebreakers, murders, kidnappers or any other form of villain, Lestrade marched over to the sofa and took Sherlock carefully by the shoulders. Wary of the backbrace, and even more wary of an injury severe enough to actually make Sherlock wear the benighted thing, Lestrade shook his consultant tentatively. When this treatment generated nothing more than a groan in response, the detective cursed and shook him a little harder.
"It's the morphine, dear," Mrs. Hudson said from behind him as she switched on the lamp by the door.
Lestrade looked over his shoulder at her, scowling. "I told you stay downstairs." The older woman was standing there with a fire iron clutched in her hands.
She frowned nervously but didn't respond, and Lestrade went back to glaring at the still sleeping Sherlock. "It's the medication, Inspector. Dr. Watson has him on some quite strong pain pills. It's the only way he can sleep, especially with that brace, and Dr. Watson won't let him take it off a day sooner than the surgeon said – "
"Damn it!" Lestrade briefly considered sending her back to her flat, but he hadn't had either the time or the ability to clear the rest of the building. For all he knew there could be someone hiding in 221c or in the attics above 221b… or even somewhere else within 221b. "Stay with him," Lestrade ordered, gesturing at Sherlock, "and this time, do as I say or I'll arrest you for obstruction when this is all over, I swear I will."
Mrs. Hudson bristled in outrage, but she came meekly over to the sofa and perched on the cushions by Sherlock's feet. "What's that?" she asked, nodding toward the coffee table. Lestrade followed her gaze and saw a laptop sitting there open, its screen dark.
"Isn't it Sherlock's?"
She shook her head. "No, and it's not Dr. Watson's either. That one looks quite expensive to me, like the one my grandson Toby got last Christmas."
Lestrade leaned down and carefully tapped the spacebar with just the tip of his fingernail to avoid smudging any potential prints. The monitor immediately came to life, an internet video chat window open on the screen, showing an image of a space he didn't recognize. He frowned at it, but his reaction was nothing to Mrs. Hudson's. "Why, that's Dr. Watson's room!" she gasped. "Why ever would Sherlock have been looking at pictures of – "
"Which way?" Lestrade demanded.
"What?"
"Where's Dr. Watson's room?"
"Through the kitchen and up the stairs," Mrs. Hudson replied, visibly tightening her grip on the fire iron and glancing uneasily at the computer.
"Stay with Sherlock. There may still be someone here. Scream if… well, yell your bloody head off if you need me." He didn't pause for her response, but headed through the kitchen and up the stairs at a run. Based on what he'd seen on the screen, Lestrade didn't think anyone was still in Dr. Watson's room, but he was taking no chances. He swept up the stairs as silently as he could and kicked that door open as well. Empty. The whole damn room was empty, but with clear signs of a struggle. The duvet was hanging half off the bed, and the lamp on the bedside table had been knocked onto its side, the bulb still burning. Clothing and shoes were strewn about the floor. In any other bachelor's bedroom, Lestrade wouldn't have thought twice about such a minor mess, but the rest of the room was immaculately neat. The books on their shelves were dust free and arranged alphabetically. The wardrobe, when he nudged it open, proved to be full of clothing that was carefully sorted by type, weight and color. Good God on a bicycle. How a man that obsessively organized could stand living with Sherlock, the DI couldn't imagine. In fact, this room was the only one in that flat that wasn't overrun with the consulting detective's experiments, gadgets, equipment, and general mess.
More alarming than the mess was the expensive laptop lying on the floor, its screen cracked and dark, and the window standing open on the wall between the bed and the nightstand. The curtains blew inward, a light rain accompanying them and dampening the small carpet on the floorboards by the bed. Lestrade leaned out the window and peered downward, shining his torch into the darkness. There was no fire escape, no ladder, not even a knotted up string of linens. In the alley three floors below, something glinted in the rain, but he couldn't get a decent look at it from up here. The alley behind 221 Baker Street was a narrow one, really more of a walkway between buildings, and the residence directly to the rear of 221 was a mere five feet away, just far enough to allow the windows on both buildings to open without knocking into each other. The window directly opposite John's bedroom window was also open, a light shining from within what appeared to be an otherwise empty room. Focusing the torch on that other window ledge, Lestrade could see deep, fresh gouges in the wood of the window ledge, as if a sharp, heavy object had recently been dragged across it.
No sign of movement.
No sign of the intruders.
No sign of Dr. Watson anywhere.
Fuck!
"Oh! Oh, hel – "
Lestrade spun as he heard a shriek from Mrs. Hudson and quickly hissed a request to know where the hell his backup was into his radio. Then, without waiting for a response, he rocketed back down the stairs, the torch clutched in one hand and the baton held ready in the other. He came up short at the foot of the stair with the barrel of an MP5 pointed directly at his chest. For a moment he simply froze. He had time for one brief thought of, "I'm dead," before his mind looked past the rifle and registered the letters SFO imprinted on the armored chest of the helmeted man standing before him.
"Drop your weapons," the officer ordered, and he dropped them without hesitation. It was best not to argue with a man with a submachine gun. The SFO kicked the baton and torch out of easy reach, as Lestrade started to speak.
"My name is – "
"Detective Inspector Lestrade," another man finished for him, coming into the kitchen. The second man was dressed much like the first save for a patch on his uniform identifying him as Chief Inspector. Just Chief Inspector. The portion of the patch giving his name was missing, and Lestrade's eyes narrowed in puzzlement, but he quickly dismissed the discrepancy in favor of using the resources suddenly presented him. "Come with me," the chief said, gesturing.
Snatching up his equipment, Lestrade followed quickly after him. "Chief, I received a report of a break in here. Now, Dr. John Watson seems to be missing, and – " Lestrade broke off as they walked into a sitting room swarming with SFOs in full riot gear. Ballistic armor, ballistic helmets, equipment vests and weapons clearly visible. One of them was gently lowering a bleating and babbling Mrs. Hudson into Dr. Watson's armchair. Another was squatting next to the sofa, an open medical kit by her side as she shone a penlight back and forth across Sherlock's eyes. The consulting detective flinched, but did not otherwise react. Surely he was far too deeply out, no matter how much pain medication Dr. Watson had given him.
"We're aware of the situation, Inspector. Steps are already being taken."
"Listen to me!" Lestrade demanded. "I think Dr. Watson had been abducted, taken through his bedroom window and into the building behind – "
"Inspector, I assure you, we're on top of this. Sergeant Lewis," the chief barked. "Status report!"
A woman standing by the window turned, a small laptop in her hands. "CCTV footage is still coming in, Sir."
"Speed it up, Sergeant," he ordered. She nodded without once taking her eyes from the laptop and resumed speaking quietly to someone over an earpiece.
The chief spoke into his own com, receiving answers on his earbud from what sounded like more SFOs spread throughout the building. A few of those trickled past the door to the flat, methodically clearing the rest of the building. All of them were visibly armed and expecting trouble.
Lestrade turned and looked back at the sofa. The officer kneeling there – the DI assumed she must be some sort of paramedic as well as a constable – had rolled back the sleeves of both Sherlock's robe and his nightshirt, revealing one pale arm all the way up to his biceps. As he watched, she dropped a cotton ball on the floor beside her, pulled a syringe from her kit, broke off the safety cap, slid the needle into the skin of Sherlock's arm and depressed the plunger.
"Hey, what are you – " Lestrade began, stepping forward hastily, but he'd hardly moved when Sherlock sprang upward with a gasp, his body completely rigid, and not because of the backbrace. The younger man, gulped in air, his eyes wide and staring blindly up at the ceiling, then he rolled abruptly over and began to vomit on the floor.
"What did you give him?" Lestrade asked anxiously, grabbing the constable by the arm. The patch on her sleeve said Stevens. She shook him off, and leaned forward to help support Sherlock as he retched all over the carpet, his body spasming. "What?" Lestrade repeated.
"Naloxone," she said brusquely. "Point seventy-five milligrams."
"Heroin?" Lestrade asked, blanching. He knew Sherlock had once had a drug problem, had in fact been through rehabilitation as a younger man, but so far as the DI knew, his consultant was clean these days. If he'd fallen off the wagon, now of all times…
"Morphine," she corrected, jerking her chin in the direction of a small vial sitting on the edge of the coffee table. "Don't touch it. ERU is already on the way."
Lestrade's eyes widened at the news that the evidence recovery team had already been sent for. "Where was it?" he asked.
"Under the edge of the sofa, and there's an injection mark on his upper arm."
"He was already on pain medication for his back," Lestrade said urgently. "Will he – "
Lestrade jerked back as Sherlock flipped over and swung a fist at the constable. Rather than ducking, Stevens latched onto his arm and tried to restrain him. Weak as he was, though, Sherlock fought dirty, more like a street chav than a genius toff educated in public school. Lestrade jumped forward to help her, a delicate business with both of them trying not to hurt Sherlock while simultaneously trying to keep him from hurting them.
"Sherlock," Lestrade called. "Sherlock!"
At last, the younger man seemed to recognize who was holding him and subsided back onto the sofa, shivering. "John? Where's… where's… John?" he gasped out, shaking the constable off with a trembling hand. "What's happened?"
"You were drugged," Lestrade said, surprised to see Sherlock this rational with the triple dose of drugs in his system. The consultant was shaking, and a sweat had broken out on his flushed face.
"John?" Sherlock demanded heatedly.
"I don't know."
"Mrs. Hudson?"
"I'm alright, love," the landlady said, hurrying over and straightening Sherlock's robes, brushing back his hair and thoroughly getting in the constable's way. Sherlock, to Lestrade's extreme surprise, tolerated this fussing and even leaned against her for a bit. "Oh, dear. Oh, dear," she babbled. "Oh, poor Dr. Watson. Oh, just let me go get something to get all this sick cleaned up."
"Leave it, ma'am," the constable said, exasperated. "It's evidence."
"Evidence! But how – "
"Sir!" Lestrade turned at the exclamation from the SFO by the window, Sergeant Lewis. "Sir, we've got them. ARV's ready to roll, second unit already on the way."
"Let's go people!" the chief called. "Stevens, Davies, stay with Mr. Holmes and Mrs. Hudson. The rest of you, move out." When Lestrade started to follow after them, the chief turned to him and said, "Not you, Lestrade. You're to remain here and take control of the scene. ERU is on its way."
"I'm MIT. Housebreaking and abduction are outside my jurisdiction," Lestrade insisted, though this wasn't entirely true. Exceptions had been made in the past, but he was damned if he was going to stay behind when Dr. Watson needed help.
"I know who you are, and this abduction is directly related to one of your open cases, Detective Inspector. I haven't the time to explain now."
"I'm coming with you," Lestrade insisted. "Your other people can maintain the integrity of the scene."
"I'm ordering you to – "
"He goes!" Sherlock yelled, and they both turned to see the younger man sitting up shakily on the sofa. Constable Stevens was in the process of giving him a second injection, presumably more Naloxone, but Sherlock ignored her with supreme indifference as she poked at his arm. "Lestrade, get John back."
Lestrade and the chief stared at Sherlock in equal surprise for an instant, then the DI looked back at the chief to see that the man's jaw was clenched in annoyance. The man's gaze grew abstracted for a moment, and he said, speaking into his com, "This is Bronze. Go ahead." The chief's eyes widened and his gaze sharpened on Sherlock before flicking decisively to Lestrade. To the DI's disbelief, the chief then nodded and said, "Fine. You're coming then."
Lestrade didn't question the man's change of heart, he just nodded once at Sherlock, holding that intense gray-eyed gaze for a moment, and then raced down the stairs and out of the building after the SFOs. They all ran down to the street where two cars, including Lestrade's, and an unmarked van were waiting in the growing downpour. The chief gestured for Lestrade to climb into the van. Once inside, one of sergeants, Williams, handed Lestrade a helmet, which he put on, and then passed him a sidearm, a Glock 17. "I'm not authorized," Lestrade protested automatically.
"You passed the training seven years ago," the sergeant replied with a shrug, unnerving the DI with this Sherlockian display of seeming omniscience.
"Yes, but I handed my authorization back in after the de Menezes incident."
"It's been reissued."
"By whom?" Lestrade demanded, as appalled by this casual change in his status as he was by the pistol itself. His fingers tightened reflexively around the grip. He didn't want this, damn it. Not anymore. Not ever again.
The sergeant just raised an eyebrow and pulled the visor down on her helmet. Lestrade sat in silence as the van surged along the A40. "What's the situation?" Lestrade asked Sergeant Williams, reluctant to interrupt the chief, who was busy speaking with someone over his com.
"The suspect vehicle was spotted approaching the M40. Other ARVs are en route. CCTV footage indicates there may have been an accident."
"Any sign of a hostage?"
"Unknown?"
"Any idea who the suspect is?"
"If we knew that for certain – "
"It's Moriarty," the chief said, breaking into their conversation suddenly. "And whatever he's up to, he's botched it this time because the van they took Dr. Watson away in is lying on its side in the middle of the bloody M40. It was struck broadside by a lorry."