(A/N) Scribblez, The Science Of Seduction, and acids-and-bases, thank you very much for reviewing, and thank you to all of you who favorited and alerted. I hope you continue to enjoy.
A Rose on the Grave
Chapter 2: The Ballerina
"She…talked about Rosette."
Sherlock made no response to John's probing comment as the two moved through the lamp-lit streets. Kathleen and Hunter had remained behind at the flat to drink the tea Mrs. Hudson had made. Hunter had said they would follow soon.
"Rosette was a Christopher, too, then?" John asked, finally remembering where he'd heard it before. "She wasn't…just another case…was she?"
"Not entirely," Sherlock said, speaking for the first time since making his promise to Kathleen. "It happened twenty-one years ago. You could say it was my first real case. I was fourteen."
John very nearly stopped in his tracks when the pieces finally came together in his mind. "You saw her die, didn't you?"
"Yes. I killed her," Sherlock said, stoic as ever.
This time, John really did stop dead, just out of sight of Covent Garden.
"You…what?"
Hearing him stop, Sherlock also came to a halt, not turning to look at the doctor as he spoke.
"My inability to discover her kidnappers' intentions in a timely fashion was the direct cause of her death. I killed her, John."
"Sherlock, that's…feeling responsible for someone's death, that's…not the same thing as actually killing someone," John insisted.
"Isn't it, though?" he asked, slowly turning to stare at his friend, his features set into a strange expression John couldn't quite identify.
After what could have been several minutes or hours of this odd staring, John slowly forced himself to move toward his flatmate.
"Sherlock…if your families were old friends…how long had you known her?"
"Until she was murdered…I'd known her my whole life up to that point."
"Oh…are…are you sure it's all right for you to work on this case?" John asked, finally coming to Sherlock's side and resting a hand on his shoulder.
"Absolutely," Sherlock said, shrugging him off and continuing forward. "Why wouldn't it be?"
"Well, you're…kind of close to it," John said, hurrying to catch up with him. Approaching the entrance of the main building, they could already see the police lines that had been set up.
"Don't you know me at all? I'm perfectly capable of separating my personal emotions from the case at hand."
"Sherlock, wait!" John said, seizing the taller man's shoulder when he'd finally caught up with him and forcing him to look at him. He held his gaze for several minutes before asking, "What was in that text?"
Again, the silence stretched between them, becoming all the more unbearable for John as he watched the uncertainty grow in Sherlock's eyes. He was never uncertain…never indecisive.
"If you don't want to tell me, that's fine, but please…don't lie to me."
Sensing the lifeline, Sherlock immediately grabbed hold of it.
"I'm not sure. It's…connected to Rosette, but I can't think why they'd bring it up all these years later."
"And why would someone send you a text concerning Rosette on the very same day your niece is kidnapped?" John prompted as they once again continued their trek to the police line, feeling that his normally brilliant friend was a bit off his game at the moment.
"My thoughts exactly. Ah, Lestrade," he said, noticing the detective inspector when they finally reached the perimeter. "What are you doing here?"
"Crowd control," Lestrade said, sounding more than a little sullen as he allowed them through. "Mycroft's security detail is handling the interrogations…though one would wonder why they'd be permitted, since they've already botched their jobs once this evening."
"Jurisdiction, jurisdiction," Sherlock said in a singsong voice, his putdown decidedly lackluster in comparison with some of his more brilliant moments.
"Head to the escalator. Mycroft's up on the second floor waiting for you."
"Thank you," John said before following after Sherlock's quickly retreating back. They passed several guards on the way to the escalator, but no one else.
"Where's everyone else?" John asked as the pair hopped onto the moving stairway.
"Most likely being held in the reception area. They're not interested in them. They want the people who actually saw her disappear."
Just as Lestrade had said, Mycroft was waiting for them at the top, pacing anxiously.
"Your service detail's off if your wife can get all the way to Baker Street," the younger Holmes couldn't help jibing.
"I let her go. Hunter was protection enough."
"Really? Because the fact that I'm here at all says otherwise."
"Not now, Sherlock," he literally growled, running a hand through his hair. "I let her go to beg you for your help. Whether we like it or not, you are the only one who can find her."
"Where are the witnesses being held?"
"In the manager's office. Follow me; it's a little ways off," Mycroft said, already beginning to stride away. The two flatmates quickly followed.
"Have they learned anything?" Sherlock continued to question.
"I don't know. I decided to wait until you arrived. I'm not much interested in what the rest of them learn. All I know is that when you bring me the ones who did this, I'm going to personally see that they're buried in cement."
The rest of the hike to the manager's office was made in silence. When they finally arrived, they found the door thoroughly surrounded by men in suits. Mycroft spoke a few words to one of them and they were quickly allowed through the line of guards.
"There was a man," Mycroft reported before opening the door. "That seems to be all they're getting from them."
Upon entering the manager's office, the trio was faced with a young woman who couldn't have been much older than Shay. Her blonde hair was cropped close around her head and her green eyes were wide with nerves.
"The vendor, I take it?" Sherlock asked, noting her attire.
"Yes, sir," she said, not quite meeting his eyes.
"So…what happened?" Sherlock asked, taking a seat in front of her.
"Sir, I've told you everything I know," she said, sounding like she might cry.
"I'm not with the police or the secret service. I'm…an independent. I need you to tell me what happened."
"She was…just like any other customer. Miss Holmes bought three ice creams and stepped out of the queue. I saw a man approach her, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He spoke to her for a few minutes and they left together, just sort of…disappeared."
"I don't suppose you got a name?"
"No, I…I couldn't hear."
"What did he look like?"
"Short brown hair, not very tall…a bit pale-looking, nice suit…but that doesn't help much…it could be any man," she said hopelessly, wringing her hands.
Brown hair? Nice suit? It couldn't be. She was right. It could be any man…and yet…somehow he got the sense it was not. There had to be something else…some detail…
"Was there anything else you noticed? Any odd scents or…anything about his voice, maybe?" Sherlock pressed.
"Well…now that you mention it…there was a rather strange scent. I remember smelling chlorine."
"All right. Thank you. Next," he called out dismissively. A suited man entered from the next room, leading a man with long black hair tied back into a neat little ponytail. The agent led the woman out and the new witness took a seat.
"What can I tell you that I haven't told the others?" he asked, his tone slightly condescending.
"More than you might think. Tell me what you saw."
"Miss Holmes and her abductor came down to collect her satchel. All I was thinking at the time was how supremely rude it was for them to be leaving before the performance had concluded. The way Miss Holmes was dressed certainly didn't help either-"
"How did she seem?" Sherlock asked, quickly cutting him off.
"Certainly not like she was being abducted. She looked…blank, I suppose would be the word. She just gave me her ticket, I retrieved the satchel, and she thanked me. The man with her apologized…said she wasn't feeling well and he was taking her home. Then he put an arm around her shoulders and led her out."
"He actually spoke to you? What did he sound like?"
"A little high-pitched, I thought, but that's about it."
"You didn't, perchance, smell chlorine, did you?"
The man's eyebrows knit together briefly, thinking about it. "Well, yes…now that you mention it, there was a rather strong scent of chlorine. Is it important?"
Before Sherlock could say anything, one of the guards entered the room.
"Mr. Holmes?"
"Yes?" Both brothers answered. John rolled his eyes.
"One of the dancers has come forward, says she's seen something."
"Where is she now?" Mycroft asked.
"Just outside, sir."
"All right. Send her in."
The guard did as ordered, leaving to lead a slender woman into the office. She was small, much shorter than even John. She was no longer in costume, wearing a pair of dancer's pants, a rather large overcoat, and no shoes. She was, however, still in makeup. Sherlock guessed it was meant to be some sort of fire motif, with delicate flame patterns stenciled along the sides of her face, and waves of red, orange, and yellow eyeshadow undulating across her lids and brow in blending shades. The makeup had a rather interesting effect when taken together with her hair, which was a particularly violent shade of orange-red that, Sherlock noted, was not a dye job, but her real hair color. The entire ensemble was compounded by the odd little half smile on her face.
"You've got some information for us?" Mycroft asked her.
"Yes."
"Well, out with it."
"I have a message for Sherlock Holmes," she said, remaining collected in the face of Mycroft's irritation.
"How…did you know I was here?" the younger Holmes asked, his eyes narrowing as he sized the woman up.
"You're always there, aren't you," she said. "Always near at hand when disaster strikes."
"Where is Shayla?" he asked as he stood, already starting to see what was happening.
"No, no, no, Sherlock. That's too easy. I'll tell you what I came here to tell you, but only if you follow me."
"Not bloody likely," John said.
"Oh, you'll follow me; you, too, Dr. John Watson. I find that fire can be quite…persuasive," she said, rising up on her toes and proudly drawing open her coat to reveal the explosives strapped to her body, like a bird showing off its plumage.
"What are you? Another stolen voice?" Sherlock asked, though he sincerely doubted it, given her attitude.
"No, Sherlock Holmes. Make no mistake. I am your enemy. Tell your brother to call off his dogs, or we all go up."
"Mycroft?" Sherlock prompted. "Something tells me she's serious."
For a moment, Mycroft looked torn, but he finally moved toward the door, going out to tell the guards to stand down and let them pass. Once the ballerina was satisfied, she slowly began to move backward out of the office. Sherlock followed, knowing he didn't need to say anything. John was right behind him. Slowly, they moved through the circle of guards.
"No one follows," the ballerina warned, continuing to move backward, even after they were long out of sight of the circle of stunned agents.
The woman was clearly a dancer, moving backward with feather light steps, never once stumbling, even as she led them through a veritable labyrinth of corridors.
"Who are you?" Sherlock asked.
"My name is Robin. That's all you'll ever need to know."
"Where are you leading us?" John pressed.
"In good time, Doctor."
"Whom are you working for?" Sherlock picked up the slack.
"You'll see, or…maybe you won't. That's up to you," she said. The halls around them were starting to darken. They were entering the area of the complex reserved for the dancers. "Do you know what we were performing tonight, Mr. Holmes?" she asked.
"Yes. A revival of Stravinsky's Rite of Spring."
"Good. I take it you know the piece well?"
"You take correctly. How is this relevant?"
"Just small talk, I suppose," she said, finally coming to a stop outside a room with several large windows looking in on it: a rehearsal room. The walls were covered with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Without even turning to look, Robin opened the door and slipped inside. Once Sherlock and John had followed her, she ordered, "Close the door."
John did as she asked, making note of the fact that the door locked itself automatically.
"We've done what you've asked. Now what's your message?" Sherlock asked, glancing around without seeming to and noting that the room was empty save for a sound system and the faint outlines of another door in one of the mirrors.
"Did she scream, Sherlock?" Robin asked him. "Did she scream when you killed her father?"
John looked utterly confused, but Sherlock remained composed, not showing the shock he felt. "How could you possibly know about that?"
"Answer the question."
"Yes," he whispered. "She did scream."
"But you can still sleep at night for that murder, can't you? It's her death that still haunts your dreams."
"Stop it," he ordered quietly. It was difficult to see her expression in the dim light, but he thought he could see her smiling, the makeup making her face look all the more twisted.
"How long did she live?"
"You-"
"Answer me," she said, her voice rising in pitch as she shook her coat, reminding him of their peril. "How long did she live…with a bullet in her stomach?"
"Twenty minutes," he answered, focusing his attention on Robin's hair, trying desperately not to remember.
"And did she suffer?"
"She must have," he said, feeling his throat beginning to tighten as the memories started to seep through. "She must have been in…agony."
"Did she cry?"
"No," he answered, briefly managing to snap out of the trance. "She did not. She was brave…even to the last."
Throughout the exchange, John had kept his attention mostly on Sherlock, and he could now see he was starting to tremble. What was this horrible thing in his past that held such power over him?
"That's because she believed in you. She believed you would rescue her…and you failed. Will you also…rescue Shayla Holmes?"
"Leave him alone!" John shouted, whipping out his gun and aiming at the diminutive dancer.
"Heheh. What will you do? Shoot me, Doctor? Even if you can hit me without detonating this little rig of mine, there's another nasty surprise waiting for you. Let us have our fun with your little friend."
"I knew you'd find me. I knew you'd come, Sherlock."
Sherlock couldn't quite manage to keep the shock off his face at the sound of the voice.
"Rosette?" he whispered, his hands starting to shake uncontrollably.
Robin laughed outright at this as she slowly reached into a pocket in the coat, pulling out a phone. "You should see the look on your face. It's a recording. There were cameras there that night. You know what happens now, don't you?"
Sherlock visibly flinched at the next sound to come through the phone: the gunshot…the shot that killed Rosette. He couldn't hold them back anymore. His mental barriers shattered and he was awash in memory: Rosette's shocked face…the hole…the blood…there was blood everywhere…so much blood!
"Stop it!" John hissed, re-aiming his weapon as his eyes shifted from his shell-shocked friend to his tormentor.
"Doctor-"
"Haven't missed a shot yet."
"Don't you want to speak to Shayla?"
John lowered the gun barely a fraction of an inch. "Where is she?"
Rather than answer, Robin pushed several buttons on the phone and it started to ring. After three rings, Shay's voice sounded over the loudspeaker.
"Uncle? Uncle Sherlock? Is that you? Are you there?"
"Shayla?" he murmured, slowly coming to. "Shayla, I'm here. Are you all right?"
"They haven't hurt you, have they?" John asked, covering for his flatmate's moment of weakness.
"I'm fine. I'm not hurt."
"Not yet," Robin murmured ominously.
"Shayla, listen to me. I need you to tell me where are you."
"I – I don't know. We left the square and he blindfolded me. I don't know."
"It's all right," Sherlock said, trying to calm her. "Is there anything else? Can you smell anything? Hear anything? What's the temperature like?"
"It…it's cold, and the sound echoes like…like in a large room."
"Any scents? There must be something," Sherlock pushed.
"I…I don't know…Uncle Sherlock, he…he gave me something…a needle…I can't…focus…"
"No. Fight it, Shayla; stay with me," he urged. "You must stay awake. You need to give me something to go on."
"I…I smell…sandalwood. Uncle, I…I'm sorry-"
"Shay! Can you hear me?" John shouted, trying to keep her awake.
"Dr.…Watson?"
"We're going to find you! We'll save you! No matter where they take you, we'll find you! Sherlock can do it. You know he can!"
"I know…you'll find me. I know-"
Shayla's words were cut off by the sound of her screaming.
"SHAY!" John shouted.
"I warned you, Shayla Holmes. I wa-arned you," a familiar voice sounded over the phone before the connection went dead. Sherlock and John shared a look. They needed no words. They had their answer.
Moriarty.
"Where did he take her? What's he done to her?" Sherlock demanded of Robin.
"Oh, that's not for me to say. I'm to keep you here until they move her to a more secure location."
"Then we'll kill you," Sherlock said callously.
"Can you do it without detonating me? You haven't even got a weapon."
"I don't need a weapon."
"Good. Neither do I. Though, if we're going to fight to the death, we need a more appropriate arena. Don't you think?" she said, pointing her phone at the sound system. The speakers blared to life with a piece Sherlock knew well. The second movement of the Rite of Spring…'The Augurs of Spring'…a violent, thrumming piece of music…nine quick bursts on the strings and two powerful blasts from the brass. It was certainly a fitting piece for what Robin was proposing. Given her height, she didn't look like much of a fighter, but Sherlock knew better. A: she was in Moriarty's employ, and B: he had not forgotten for one moment that she was a dancer…a dancer good enough to perform in the Royal Ballet, no less. No doubt she had reserves of hidden power in that compact body. Her height, however, was rendered almost mute by her next move.
Robin whipped a device out of her coat, then easily shed the rig she was strapped to, tossing it behind her. Then she pointed the device at the floor in front of her and a jet of flame instantly spouted from it. Quickly, she drew a line of fire on the floor between them. The wooden planks caught and immediately began to burn.
"Whoa!" John shouted, jumping back as a blast of heat filled the room. The floor was all wood. It wouldn't take very long for it to go up completely, with the explosives…and they were locked inside.
Sherlock vaguely noted all this in the back of his mind, but most of his attention remained focused on Robin as she moved back and forth on the other side of the wall of fire, looking very much like a tiger on the prowl. If she hadn't looked demonic before, the flames dancing before her fanned her appearance to an even greater height. She wasn't going to come to him. He had to go to her.
"SHERLOCK!" John shouted in fear when the taller man suddenly leaped in the air, hurling himself over the line of flames and landing before Robin with only a few singes to show for it.
"You braved the fire, Mr. Holmes. I like you already," the fiery ballerina declared before springing at him.
Even though he was prepared for it, Robin still knocked him off his feet with her opening move. Delivering a crunching blow to his jaw, she rolled away before he could get a move in. Jumping quickly to his feet, he followed her movement, ready for her when she sprang up. Ducking, he delivered a punch to her stomach, but met with strong muscle, unlike the flab he dealt with in many of his opponents. She grunted slightly, but rolled with the blow, distributing her wait evenly along her side as the force took her to the ground. She recovered quickly, though, rolling to her back and drawing her legs to her chest. Then she somehow managed to spring up, delivering a double kick to his chest.
Sherlock choked as the air left his lungs. Gasping for breath, he smashed against one of the mirrors, hearing it shatter on impact. Still struggling to breathe, he reached behind him and carefully wrapped his hand around a broken shard of glass, waiting for her to come at him again.
As he expected, she charged, but at the very last moment, just as he was moving to strike, she seized his wrist, wrenching it painfully and stabbing his own weapon deep into his shoulder.
As he cried out in pain, he could hear John shouting, but his words didn't really register in his brain. He didn't even look at the wound in his shoulder. His eyes remained locked on the sadistic grin on his opponent's face.
"Clever girl," he said, sounding almost pleased by the defeat.
"You aren't going to get the jump on me in a dance studio," she said. Freed of the cumbersome burden of the explosives, her true prowess of movement was revealed.
However, rather than waste words on her boast, he bent over at the waist and barreled forward, delivering an unexpected head butt to her stomach. The force of the attack sent her flying and she landed hard, unable to distribute her weight across her body to soften the fall. For a moment, it seemed like she might be out, but as Sherlock moved to stand over her, she swung her legs out and kicked his own out from under him. Once again, he landed hard and she was on top of him in minutes. He'd only just caught sight of the fresh glass shard in her hand ready to stab him through the throat when it was shot out of her grip. Sherlock spared a brief glance across the wall of fire to see John with his gun trained on them, giving him a relieved smile. Hissing at the doctor like a wounded animal, Robin quickly rolled away from Sherlock, preparing for her next attack.
John had kept his weapon locked on Robin during the entire battle, just incase he was needed. He didn't think he could pull off another shot like that, though. His vision was starting to get bleary and the smoke inhalation was starting to get to him. Being a former smoker, perhaps Sherlock could handle it longer than he could, but he could already feel himself choking on the acrid air. He also couldn't help but notice that the room was going up faster by the minute…meaning that the growing blaze was getting closer to the explosives all the time.
Sherlock had actually managed to catch Robin's latest blow and the two of them were currently struggling for ground, getting closer to the growing inferno.
"You know what comes after 'The Augurs of Spring', don't you?" she teased. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he took note of her glee.
"'Ritual of Abduction'," he ground out.
"Very good. You know your music."
"It won't happen. I'll see it doesn't happen."
"It already has happened," she said, suddenly releasing Sherlock's hands and completely removing her own force from their grapple.
Sherlock stumbled several feet before regaining his balance, quickly turning to see that Robin had landed on both feet, agile as a cat, having easily vaulted over his head.
"Game over, Mr. Holmes."
"Sherlock!" John coughed. "That coat could go any minute! We need to get out now!"
"Better listen to your partner," Robin said before leaping in the air and spinning, delivering a devastating kick to Sherlock's face. He heard, rather than felt, his nose break as he tumbled over backward, staggering from the blow. "I'll see you again, Sherlock Holmes."
There was blood in his eyes, but the only thing that really registered in his sight was Robin disappearing through the mirror door. He was up in moments, but the door wouldn't open…probably sealed from the other side. Sherlock pounded his fist against the door in a fit of anger.
"Sherlock! Sherlock…please…" he heard John coughing again, only much weaker this time. He looked over just in time to see him collapse.
"JOHN!" he shouted, desperately searching for a way back across…only the wall of fire had become a small pool of fire. He could never hope to cross it in only a leap. Glancing to one side, he saw that the practice bars to his right had already started to burn, but the ones to his left hadn't. Taking a moment to kick the explosives as far from the fire as they would go, he clumsily mounted the bar, barely managing to stay balanced on it. It was flimsy enough already and it could go up any second.
Just as he reached the edge of the fire pool, the bar finally gave, starting to burn. Still dazed and wounded from the fight with Robin, Sherlock went crashing to the floor, unable to stop his right foot from landing just inside the fire's grasp.
Feeling the heat sear his foot to the skin as he yanked himself free, he took the time to stamp out the fire before crawling over to his flatmate.
"John!" he called, shaking him, needing a response…any response.
Coughing, John managed to open his eyes, giving a faint smile when he saw Sherlock.
"Sh-Sherlock…" he rasped. "My…my gun…"
Sherlock's eyes darted from John's face, down to the gun he still loosely held, and up to the window in rapid succession. There were several spidery sections of splintered glass, but John hadn't managed to actually break the window by just smashing the gun against the glass. All in an instant, he saw John's thinking. He hadn't tried to shoot the window out directly for fear that the bullet might ricochet and harm either of them. The room was small enough for such a thing to be a concern.
Just as he was taking up the gun, favoring his left foot as he rose in order to smash the window out, he looked out and saw Hunter running toward the rehearsal room, gun drawn. He could see her shouting, but he couldn't hear what she was saying. Pounding a fist against the unyielding glass, he pointed to the gun he held, then to her.
She seemed to comprehend quick enough, raising her gun to fire. He still couldn't hear her, but he could make out her lips creating the words, 'Get down!'
Sherlock did just that, dropping to the floor and gathering John in his arms in order to shield him. The next moment, he heard the explosion of the firearm overhead and the sound of shattering glass as the stuff rained down on him. Being careful of it as he struggled to rise yet again, he helped John up, beginning to feel the effects of smoke inhalation himself.
"Take him!" he ordered, starting to pass John's barely conscious bulk through the window into Hunter's waiting arms. Much as they didn't get on, tonight was one night he couldn't deny the woman's strength.
"Sherlock…Sherlock…" John called out over and over again as Hunter pulled him through the broken window. "…where…don't…Sherlock!"
Once John was safely through, Sherlock attempted to hoist himself through the window, but his injured wrist and shoulder gave out on him and he began to tumble back into the lake of fire.
Hunter reached out to grab him just in time, supporting his weight and helping him to climb through. His body cried out in protest as the broken glass lacerated his skin in several places. He hissed in pain when his injured foot hit the floor, but he quickly recovered himself.
"Gotta get out…now…explosives," he tried to explain as he struggled to help John stand again.
"Can you even move?" Hunter asked, sizing the badly injured detective up as she moved to help him with John.
"Doesn't matter…have to…now!" he said, hoisting one of John's arms around his shoulders. Hunter did the same and they were off, half-dragging John as they ran down the hall, moving as fast as they could toward the elevator. Sherlock's battered body screamed in agony with each move, but he didn't allow himself the time to feel the pain. He didn't go down until they were inside the elevator and Hunter was furiously jamming her finger against the 'close' button.
"Aren't you supposed to take the stairs in emergencies?" Hunter jibed as the doors slid closed.
"Eight floors," Sherlock said, reaching over and pushing a button on the glowing panel. "That's all we need."
Hunter nodded, realizing, as Sherlock had, that the explosion could very well take out the elevator cables and kill them all anyway, and as they passed through the seventh floor, they heard the explosives detonate, ripping violently through the floors over their heads. The moment the doors opened for them, Hunter and Sherlock dragged John from the elevator, collapsing outside of it just in time for the cables to incinerate and drop the steel coffin from its supports.
Not really taking into account how close they'd all come to dying, Sherlock turned painfully onto his side to see John lying beside him, his eyes open and breathing heavily. The fresh air was already starting to help with the smoke inhalation.
"Are you all right?" he asked, not really thinking as he reached out his injured arm to touch his face.
"I'll live," John whispered, reaching up his own hand to touch Sherlock's, just happy Robin hadn't killed him.
Mindless of his own injuries, Sherlock pulled John into his arms, resting his forehead against his for a moment.
"Don't do that again," he reprimanded him.
"Me?" John rasped, incredulous. "Just look at yourself. You're a great bloody mess."
"Be that as it may, there's still work to be done," Sherlock said as he struggled to sit up, then to stand. "We can take the stairs now, Hunter."
"You really are mad, aren't you? What set of stairs are you going to get down in your condition?" the bodyguard asked.
"Doesn't matter. I need to get outside."
"Why?" Hunter asked. "If I let you out of my sight now, my boss'll kill me."
"You know where she is," John said, the pieces coming together in his head.
"I know where she was. I sincerely doubt she's there now."
"Sherlock, did…did you hear that voice?" John asked, unsteady as he slowly sat up.
"I did. You're not crazy," Sherlock reassured him. "It's him."
"Him?" Hunter questioned, her gaze darting back and forth between the two partners.
"Moriarty," Sherlock answered, beginning to head off in search of the stairs.
"Sherlock, wait!" John protested, finally struggling into a sitting position. "What if there're more of them out there?"
"Aren't there always?" Sherlock joked, his grin still somehow managing to be winning, despite his patchwork of wounds.
"Miss Carson, can you go with him? I don't trust him right now," John said, moving from struggling to sit to struggling to stand. He didn't trust him after that battle…and he especially didn't trust him after the episode before it. He knew they were both in bad need of medical attention, but he couldn't just let Sherlock go off on his own.
"Oh, no, no, no, no. We aren't going to do that. Stay with him, Hunter. He might keel over again any minute."
"Well, clearly it's all of us or nothing," Hunter noted as John finally made it to his feet. "I'll get the boss to send for an ambulance." Just as she was saying this, though, her cell phone rang. When she answered it, the sound of Mycroft's voice echoed rather loudly through the connection.
"Yes, we're all fine, but you might want to have an extra ambulance sent around."
'What's he done now?' the elder Holmes' voice shouted over the phone. Sherlock and John tuned the rest of the conversation out as they came together, leaning on one another for support as the trio moved on to look for the stairs, which turned out to be fairly close to the elevator.
"What happened to your foot?" John asked, noting his charred shoe as they struggled to make their way down the first set of stairs. Thankfully, they weren't too far up now.
"Burned it…trying to get back across."
"Does it hurt?"
"Beyond belief," the detective said casually.
"Good. Can't be worse than second degree, then. If it was worse, you wouldn't be able to feel it anymore."
"Come on, John. I was only on fire for a second."
"Only a second, he says," Hunter said as she put away her phone. "Maybe I should…walk in front of you…incase one of you falls."
"Given the choice, Hunter, I think I'd rather fall than be caught by you."
"That so? So I should have just let you fall back there?"
"I said given the choice. That wasn't exactly a choosing moment."
"Love you, too, prick."
"How long have we got?" John asked.
"Not long. There're ambulances here already. Mr. Holmes called for them the moment the three of you disappeared. He's willing to let us search, but we might have to get past Lestrade. How likely is he to let the two of you go off on your own looking like you do?"
"It's not far, is it?" John asked Sherlock, not sure how far either of them could get.
"No. It's just down in the square, actually."
"Didn't she say they'd left the square, though?"
"She did, but she didn't know where they'd gone after she'd been blindfolded. I think he just led her in a bit of a circle. There's only one place in the area that would have a particularly strong scent of sandalwood."
"That being?"
"The street market. It's closed by now, but the stalls are all still there. It would also explain the echoing she heard. The area's covered, so it would produce a similar type of echo to being in a large room. It is a wide area, just not particularly tall. Also, John, do remind me to kill Robin next time we meet."
"Why?"
"This was my favorite coat, and now it's completely ruined."
The conversation had carried them all the way to the main level. As Hunter had predicted, Lestrade immediately stood in their way when the three of them came staggering toward him.
"What…what happened? We heard the explosion-"
"Had a bit of a disagreement with one of the witnesses," Sherlock said.
"You would be at the center of an explosion, Sherlock," the detective inspector said with a roll of his eyes. When they actually attempted to get past the line, he really did stop them. "Where do you lot think you're going? The ambulance is the other way."
"We're just going for a stroll in the market. Be back shortly," Sherlock said, again attempting to get past Lestrade, who stopped him by placing a hand on his injured shoulder. Sherlock froze, but displayed no signs of pain.
"I don't know if you'd noticed this, but you're sort of covered in blood."
"Am I? I hadn't noticed. Thank you so much for pointing it out."
"He thinks there might be something that can help us find Shay out there," Hunter explained. "Don't worry. If he collapses, I'll drag him back for you."
"No doubt you've wanted to do that for some time now," Sherlock groaned as Lestrade reluctantly let them pass.
The street market wasn't far from the entrance, but even so, Sherlock and John were both staggering even worse by the time they reached it. Moving among the empty stalls, Sherlock followed his nose. By the time he picked up the scent of sandalwood, he could also detect the coppery tang of blood in the air. This proved to be coming from the small pool of blood they found next to Shay's combat boots inside one of the more out of the way stalls.
"That bastard!" Hunter hissed when she saw the blood.
Sherlock said nothing at first. It wasn't like he hadn't been expecting something like this…after the scream. However, before he could properly inspect it, he went down, unable to stand anymore. John went down with him, still struggling to breathe.
When Hunter moved in to try and help them, Sherlock waved her off, pulling out his phone to shed some light on the scene.
"She was stabbed in the left shoulder."
"How?" Hunter asked begrudgingly, knowing he would explain whether she wanted him to or not.
"Notice the bloody handprint a little ways below the puddle. It's a left handprint. She was drugged, though, so she would have been unconscious very shortly after we heard her on the phone. I imagine the kidnappers left the handprint deliberately to reveal what was done."
That would certainly be Moriarty's style.
Moving the phone in a wider arc to make sure he hadn't missed anything, the light caught on more blood a few feet away. Pulling himself away from John, Sherlock crawled over to the anomaly.
"What is it?" John asked as he crawled after him, not wanting him out of his sight.
When Sherlock saw the word written on the cobblestone in Shay's blood, he couldn't help but laugh quietly.
"That's good. We needed to stop by there anyway," he said before collapsing back against John.
"Sherlock? Sherlock?" John called out weakly, barely able to remain upright himself as his friend collapsed into his arms.
The word 'hospital' had been painted onto the dark stone.
XxX
(A/N) Still enjoying? Any thoughts? A few things for this chapter: For anyone not musically minded, I imagine you've heard Stravinksy's Rite of Spring before. Think Fantasia. Also, I have no idea if there's any such think as a handheld flamethrower, but if there is, I feel fairly confident that Moriarty could get a hold of it. And as for that fight, I don't pretend to be a doctor in any way, shape, or form, so I've done my best to describe all injuries, but I still don't know how well I've done. If anyone happens to know better, feel free to enlighten me.
Be sure to tune in next week.